Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

It was nine kilometers northwest of the city. One of the old stops from the days when caravans filled with tourists ran out of Wetland.

Mattie Clendennon lived in a palace. High stone walls, spires at each of the four corners. Arched entrance, up a flight of broad stairs, everything guarded by sculptures of people in antique dress. Enormous windows. Angled skylights. Flags and parapets.

There was a large interior courtyard filled with more statuary, shrubs, and trees. A fountain threw spray across the walkway. The only sign of decay was a dust-filled pool in a portico on the eastern side of the building.

I debated landing in the courtyard, thought better of it, and set down in front of the main entrance. I used my link to say hello, but got no response.

I got out, pulled my jacket tight against a cold wind, and stood admiring the building for several moments. The town officially claimed that the various ancient outposts surrounding Wetland were authentic, in the sense that this was how Nineveh and Hierakonopolis and Mycenae had actually looked, and felt, in their glory days.

Nimrud, according to my notebook, had been part of the Assyrian Empire.

The truth was that the only thing I knew about Assyrians was the line from Byron.

I went up the front steps (cut at the actual dimensions from the original, according to the claims), walked beneath the arch, and stopped before a pair of ornately carved wooden doors. They were big, maybe twice my height. Iron rings were inset at about eye level. I pulled on one.

“Who’s there, please?” Female voice. Not an AI, I decided.

“Chase Kolpath. I was looking for Mattie Clendennon.”

“What about? I don’t know you, Kolpath.”

“You’re Ms. Clendennon?”

“Who else would I be?”

A grump. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me for a few minutes about Margaret Wescott.”

Long pause. “Margaret’s gone a long time. What could there possibly be to talk about?”

The wooden doors remained shut. Hunting cats were carved into them. And guys with war helmets and shields. And lots of pointed beards. Everybody had one. “Might I come inside?”

“I’m not alone,” she warned.

“That’s fine. I mean you no harm, Ms. Clendennon.”

“You’re too young to have known her.”

“That’s so. I did not know her. But I’m doing some research about her.”

“Are you a journalist?”

“I’m an antiquarian.”

“Really? That seems an odd way to make a living.”

“It’s been a challenge.”

Another long pause. One of the doors clicked and swung out. “Thank you,” I said.

“Come straight ahead until you reach the rear of the passageway. Then turn left and go through the curtains.”

I crossed a stone floor into a shadowy chamber. The walls were covered with cuneiform, and stone cylinders mounted around the room depicted kings accepting tribute, archers stationed atop towers that looked exactly like the ones surrounding the palace, warriors going head-to-head with axes, shining beings handing tablets down from the sky. Weapons racks, filled with axes, spears, and arrows, ran along two sides of the chamber. Shields were stored near the entrance.

Following her directions, I passed through another door into a broad passageway, took an elevator up to the fourth level, and turned left into a waiting room. I heard footsteps clicking on the stone, and Mattie Clendennon joined me. Her pictures didn’t do her justice. I’d expected a feeble, half-deranged old woman. But Mattie was ramrod straight. She radiated energy and strolled across that stone floor like a cat. She was tall, imperious, with gray-green eyes and thin, intense features. A smile played about her lips.

“Welcome, Chase Kolpath,” she said. “I don’t get many visitors.”

She wore sand-colored clothes and a trooper hat, the sort of thing you might have wanted if you were going out to do some excavations. Somehow this eighty-year-old woman did not look at all absurd in the outfit.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Clendennon,” I said.

She shifted her gaze to the engravings that surrounded us. “This is where they found the Gilgamesh Epic,” she said.

“Really?” I tried to sound impressed, thinking that the woman was out of her head.

She read my reaction. “Well, of course, not literally. This is a replica of the palace at Khorsabad. Which is where George Smith found the tablets.”

She led the way down a long corridor. The stone gave way to satin curtains, thick carpets, and lush furniture. We turned into a room furnished with modern chairs and a sofa. Curtains were drawn across two windows, softening the sunlight. “Sit down, Kolpath,” she said. “And tell me what brings you to Sargon’s home.”

“This is a magnificent place,” I said. “How do you come to be living here?”

One silver brow arched. “A mixed compliment? Is there a problem?”

“No,” I said. “It just seems a bit unusual.”

“Where better?” She studied me, making up her mind whether I was friend or whatever, and came down on my side of things. “Would you like a drink?”

She mixed us a couple of black bennies while I drew one of the curtains aside and looked out the window. Wetland, which should have been on the horizon, was missing. In its place I saw a city with minarets and towers. “Baghdad,” she said, “in its glory days.”

It was a projection. “It’s lovely,” I said.

“You should see it at night, when it lights up.” She handed me my drink. “I decided I didn’t like life on Rimway very much. So I’ve gone back to a better time.”

I looked around the room, with its climate control and its synthetic walls and its VR capability.

She laughed. “That doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I get the best of both worlds here.

Baghdad is romantic, but needs to be kept at a distance.”

I sampled the black benny and complimented her on it.

“It’s my favorite.” She started to sit but changed her mind. “Here, Kolpath, let me show you something.” We walked back out into the passageway, made a couple of turns, passed through several rooms, and came into an enormous chamber. Just enough sunlight filtered into it to cut through the gloom. It was filled with clay pots and more stone cylinders. All were engraved. “Each group tells a story,” she said.

“Over there, the deeds of Sennacherib. To your right, the glories of Esarhaddon.

There-” She produced a lamp, turned it on, and directed the beam onto a podium.

“The Crystal Throne itself.”

It glittered brilliantly in the lamplight.

“What’s the Crystal Throne?”

“Sargon, my dear. My, they did neglect your education, didn’t they?”

“Sometimes I think so.”

She laughed, a pleasant sound like tinkling ice cubes. “You’re a security officer of sorts, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Of sorts. Actually, the AI handles the security.” She smiled. “Just in case you had any ideas.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said. “I’ve no use for a crystal throne.”

We returned to the sitting room, where she produced another round of drinks. “Now,” she said, “what is this about Margaret that brings you to the palace?”

“She was a close friend of yours, wasn’t she?”

“Margaret Wescott.” She looked around the room, as if trying to locate something.

“Yes. I never knew anyone else like her.”

“In what way?”

“She was a marvelous woman. She cared about things. You got her for a friend, you knew she’d always be there if you needed her.”

“How about Adam? How well did you know him?”

She thought it over. “Adam was okay. He was like most men. A bit slow. Selfabsorbed. I don’t think he ever appreciated what he had. In her, I mean.”