Jack McDevitt: Eternity Road

“They’re lovely,” she said.

“Thank you.”

The Molka book, on the stand, was most accessible. The craftsmanship” was marvelous: leather binding, vellum of the highest order, exquisite calligraphy, fine inks, golden flourishes in strategic locations, brilliant illustrations.

They must be quite valuable. “

“They are.” His brown eyes focused on her. “I’m going to sell them.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, yes. I have no way to protect them. When Father was here, it was one thing. But now, I’d have to hire a guard. No, they don’t really mean much to me, Chaka. I’d rather have the money.”

“I see.” She ran her fingers lightly over the binding.

“A pleasant sensation, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you.” He opened a cabinet drawer and removed a package. She guessed by its dimensions and weight it contained a fifth book. He set it down on a table and stood aside. “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it or not, but you made a considerable impression on my father.”

That’s hard to believe, Flojian. He never really knew me.”

“He remembered. He left instructions that this was to be given to you.” The package was wrapped in black leather and held shut by a pair of straps. Chaka released the buckles, and caught her breath.

Gold leaf, red leather binding, fine parchment, although somewhat yellowed with age. This is for me?”

“It’s Mark Twain,” said Flojian. “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”

She lifted the cover and stared at the title page. “Mark Twain’s books are lost,” she said.

“Well.” He laughed. “Not all of them. Not anymore.”

There were illustrations of knights on horseback and castle walls and beautiful women in flowing gowns. And a picture of a man fashioning a pistol.

The language was antiquated.

“Where did it come from?”

That’s a question I wish I could answer. It was as much a surprise to me as it is to you.” He pursed his lips. “It’s somewhat worn, as you can see. But this is the way it was put into my hands.” Chaka was overwhelmed. “I can’t take this,” she said. “I think you have to,” said Flojian. “It’s in his will. Be careful of it, though. I suspect it will command a substantial price.”

“I would think so.”

“I can make some suggestions with regard to getting full value for it, Chaka.”

She closed the book and refastened the case. “Oh, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t sell it. But thank you anyway.”

Raney was waiting for her on Sundown Road. He was tall, congenial, with dark eyes and a gentleness that one seldom found in younger men. He was occasionally dull, but that was not necessarily a bad thing in a man. She wore his bracelet on her ankle. “How did it go?” he asked as she rode up. The Mark Twain was secured in her saddlebag. Raney didn’t seem to have noticed it. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said, accepting his kiss and returning an embrace that surprised him and almost knocked him off his horse. Raney was a garment maker. He was skilled, well paid, and enjoyed the affection and respect of his customers and the owner of the shop in which he worked. The shop was prosperous, the owner feeble, and, as nature took its course, Raney could expect to have few concerns about his future.

He nodded toward the pillar of smoke rising into the sky. “I was surprised that you’d go.”

“Why?”

“The man’s responsible for Ann’s death.”

“That’s nonsense,” she said. “Ann took his chances when he went. There aren’t any guarantees upcountry. You should know that.”

It was a fine sunny day, unseasonably warm. They rode slowly toward River Road, where they would turn north. “He came back,” said Raney. “The man in charge of the expedition is the only survivor.” He shook his head. “It it were me, I’d have stayed out there.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But what would be the point?”

The river sparkled below them. They talked about trivialities and after a while turned off the road and cantered upslope to Chaka’s villa, which stood atop the ridge. Her grandfather had built it, and it had passed to her remaining brother, Sauk, who’d granted it to her in exchange for her agreement to rear her two sisters. Now, Lyra was grown and gone, and Carin expected to marry in the spring.

Raney was staring at her. “You okay?” he asked, “You look kind of funny.”

“I’m fine.” She smiled as they rode through a hedge onto the grounds. “I have something to show you.”

He carried the bag into the house and she opened it. When he saw the book, he frowned. “What is it?”

“Mark Twain. One of the lost books.”

“He’s a Roadmaker writer.”

“Yes.”

“Where’d it come from?”

“It’s an inheritance, Raney. Karik left it to me.”

“Funny thing to do for a stranger. Why?”

She thought she caught a suspicious note in his voice. I don’t know.”

“How much do you think it’s worth?”

“A lot. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to sell it.”

“You’re not?” He gazed at an open page. “What do you want with it?”

What was that supposed to mean? “Raney, this is Mark Twain.”

He shook his head. “It’s your book, love. But I’d unload it at the first opportunity.”

The Illyrians knew the world was round, though some among the lower classes were skeptical. They knew that infections were caused by tiny creatures they could not see, that the pattern of days and nights resulted from the movement of the world and not of the sun, that the Mississippi rose in a land of gigantic ruins and emptied into a gulf whose waters ran untroubled to the horizon. They were aware that thunderstorms were caused by natural processes and not by supernatural beings, although, since no one could explain how this was so, that view was becoming progressively tenuous with each generation.

They knew that a civilization of major dimensions had occupied the land before them. How extensive those dimensions had been was a matter for speculation: The Illyrians and their fellow dwellers in the Mississippi Valley did not travel far beyond League outposts. They were still few in number; population pressures would not, for may years, drive them into a dangerous and hard wilderness. Furthermore, river navigation was limited: They could not move upstream easily without powered vessels; and travel downstream was hampered in some places and blocked altogether in others by collapsed bridges and other debris.

A metropolis had once existed at the river’s mouth, where the Mississippi drained into the Southern Sea. How this had been possible, given the fact that the entire area was swampland, no one knew. Silas and a few others suspected that the swamp was a relatively recent phenomenon and had not existed in Roadmaker times. But the ruin was there nonetheless. And, like Memphis, it had burned.

Six years after Rank’s unhappy expedition, the Illyrians

had joined the other four river valley cities to form the Mississippi League, one of whose express purposes was to gain direct access to the sea. It was an enterprise still in its planning phases.

The League’s acknowledged center of learning was the Imperium, a onetime royal academy located in Illyria. It derived its name from its imperial founders and patrons and from its location in the west wing of the old palace. (The “empire” had consisted of Illyria, a half-dozen outlying settlements, and a lot of optimism.) It was one of the few institutions to survive intact the seven years of civil war and revolution that separated the murder of the last emperor, Benikat V (“Bloody Beni”), from the Declaration of Rights and the founding of the Republic.