Swordsman's Legacy. Alex Archer
He offered to carry the sword inside. Determined not to let it out of her sight, Annja walked past him. For some reason she felt an attachment to the thing, though it hadn’t even been her dig.
Because you’ve wondered and obsessed over it for years—that is why, she told herself.
And what would she do if it was authentic? It wasn’t her find. Nor Ascher’s. According to French find laws, all artifacts belonged either to the living relatives—if the artifact could be verified as to owner—or then to the city of provenance, and finally to France itself.
Standing in the dark foyer, Annja clung to the weapon as she looked about. A low ceiling lamp switched on, illuminating the immediate area, but fading out into a dark hallway. Dark stained oak coated the foyer from floor to ceiling and gave off a musty odor Annja associated with the stacks of old libraries.
There were a few swords displayed point down from ornate hangers on the wall opposite the door. Nothing Annja immediately recognized to century or country of origin.
What caught her eye were the acoustic guitars of every design hung high on the walls. Art deco glass lamps focused spotlights on an ivory-inlaid fret board or the shiny gold tuning pegs on a small instrument that resembled a ukulele more than guitar.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“No, but I appreciate.” Ascher strummed his thumb across the strings of one specimen. “Mid-nineteenth century. A real Spanish guitar once played by Paco de Lucena, famed flamenco artist from Granada, and not to be confused with the contemporary Paco de Lucia. You like music, Annja?”
“Of course. I never travel without my iPod.” She dangled her backpack from three fingers. “Usually use it as background when I’m researching. I’ve some Sabicas on my playlists.”
“Ah, an aficionado. Sabicas is real flamenco puro. ”
“I’m not even close to being an expert. I just like guitar music,” she said.
Her eyes trailed lazily away from the guitars and across the tiled floor, which resembled the rusted color of dried clay from Spain. In her backpack were her laptop, iPod, digital camera, her ever present notebook and a clean pair of shorts and T-shirt, not to mention bra and underwear. A change of clothing felt necessary, but trying. She found it impossible to stop a yawn.
“You can stay the night,” Ascher offered as he led her left into a small room. “Or what remains of it.”
A fieldstone hearth and shelves of books lined the walls of the small yet cozy den. Brown leather furniture sat as if it had been built with the house, so regal, yet aged and in need of repair. A ragged-edged map hung over the hearth. France, post-Revolution, for the names of the monuments were all changed, such as the Temple of Reason instead of Notre-Dame.
All the room needed was a lazy mastiff lounging on the bearskin rug before a crackling fire to complete the look.
“I’m tired,” she said. “But I don’t feel like sleep.”
“You stole a nap in the car.”
So he’d noticed.
“Much needed, I’m sure, after your certain brilliant actions against those men with guns,” Ascher said.
“Certain brilliant actions?”
He shrugged. “Treville told d’Artagnan such actions were a requirement—”
“To become a musketeer.”
And despite her exhaustion, Annja smiled. Now she remembered what had attracted her to Ascher in the first place, and why she had enjoyed his cyber company so much. They shared common interests, such as sporting and adventure, and archaeology. And a love for Dumas’s famous story.
Resisting full collapse, Annja sat on the edge of a comfy leather ottoman. Carefully laying the sword across her lap, she then burrowed into her backpack for the cool rectangle of her digital camera. “Let’s take a closer look at the sword, okay?”
Pushing aside some books and magazines, Ascher cleared a marble table against the wall opposite the hearth. “I will lay out some clean paper and find us some gloves.”
He produced a large sheet of butcher’s paper from a drawer under the table, which he laid over the white marble. A box of disposable latex gloves was produced from a cabinet on the connecting wall. Annja realized that an archaeologist, even if only part-time, would have all the essentials.
“So why only part-time?” she asked, still clinging to the ancient, dirty velvet bag as Ascher smoothed out the crisp paper.
“What? You mean the digging? It is no more than a hobby.”
“Treasure hunter,” she teased.
“Call me what you will. But you knew before coming here my experience and education.”
“Yes, too bad you left out the part about consorting with thugs.”
“Annja.” He dug out a few surgical gloves and leaned against the table. “My real passion is teaching.”
“Fencing.” He had a little shop in Sens, but lately, struggled to make the rent. How then, could he afford this mansion? Perhaps more than the exterior was crumbling, she thought.
“Fencing is a romantic sport, oui? ”
“Yes, but it also emulates armed manslaughter.”
“Touché! Ah, but the children. They are so agile and quick to learn. It is a delight to watch them develop their skills.”
She was surprised to hear the enthusiasm in the man’s voice. It was something he’d never mentioned during their online chats. “You teach full-time?”
“I’m down to three days a week. The rent—ah, it is of no import. I have to be free, you know?” He gestured with excited fingers as he smoothed out the paper, yet took moments to punctuate his speech like an air typist. With a wince, he clutched his side, but recovered as quickly. “I live to experience adventure. Jump off of buildings. Trek across mountains. Swim in the Amazon.”
Annja lifted a brow. “I’ve had a few adventures myself.”
“I like that about you, Annja. That time on Chasing History’s Monsters that you pursued the blue flash down the hillside?”
“Not planned, I assure you.” She recalled an episode on the blue flames, which, according to Bram Stoker’s Dracula, were places where buried treasure could be found, but only on Saint George’s Eve. Legend called them flames from all the dragons Saint George sent to Hell. Annja had decided it was the oxidation of hydrogen phosphide and methane gas, though she hadn’t ventured anywhere near a swamp where that should normally occur. “But it did make for good viewing. My producer held the clip for ratings week.”
“You were on Letterman that week, as well. You should flirt more with the man.”
Annja bowed her head and tried to force up another yawn. Why couldn’t she summon one when it was needed?
“You are a very sexy woman, Annja,” Ascher said.
“Yes, well.” The compliment felt great. She didn’t hear things like that often enough. “Right now I’m feeling far from it. Tired, dirty and close to falling asleep on my feet.”
“So! You want to let go of that, or must I pry it from your iron grip?”
“Hmm? Oh. Sure.” She set the sword bag on the paper with a crisp crinkle, and rubbed her hands together. “Hand me some gloves. And focus that light, will you?”
“Your wish is my command, mon amour. ”
“Watch it, Gascon. Just stick to the business at hand. All right?”
“Of course. Gloves. And light.”
Snapping the latex gloves onto her hands released the smell of powder.