Moving Target (37 page)

“Right.”

“The plural of codex is codices.”

“Yes.”

“I think I already knew that. Just like index, whose plural used to be indices but now is indexes. Think the same thing will happen to codex?”

“Only if people start using it as a synonym for ‘book.’ “

“I don’t see that happening. Most people aren’t even sure what synonym means.”

He laughed.

She kept talking. It was how she organized disorganized facts in her mind. Picky was used to it. He ignored her. Erik was more fun. He seemed to enjoy her.

“Chrysography is writing with gold ink,” she said, sorting through the jumble of new terms in her mind. “Glair is the binding medium. Actual powdered metallic gold gives gold ink its color. There was something else . . .” She frowned. “Oh, yes. Glair is made from egg whites. Yuck. Who do you suppose first figured out that it was that sticky?”

“The mother of the first kid who dropped an egg and glued his pet mouse to the floor with it.”

Serena snickered. “
Hexateuch
and
incunable
are real words. The former means the first six books of the Old Testament. The latter means any book printed before 1501. Primer is another name for the Book of Hours, taken from the Hour of Prime, which was the first hour in the daily cycle of devotion. Since most people learned to read—if they learned to read at all—from the Book of Hours, today we call early teaching books primers.”

“All that and beautiful, too. Awesome.”

“Ha ha,” she said without emphasis. “Insular Celtic means something different to everyone.”

Erik laughed. “Only if you’re talking about time periods. That’s why I usually add ‘early twelfth century’ to the description. It’s a shorthand way of saying a Romanesque period manuscript in Insular Celtic style.”

“So Erik the Learned was an anachronism?”

“Maybe. And maybe the complex yet exuberant Celtic style spoke to his soul more than the classical Romanesque style. Whatever, it was a choice he made, not a necessity. He wasn’t an ignorant man. He knew what was happening over on the Continent. Perhaps he even fought in one of the Crusades. Certainly he had friends or allies who had fought the Saracen.”

“How do you know?”

“The Book of the Learned names one of Erik’s allies as Dominic le Sabre, called the Sword. He was a Norman knight who received his fiefdom in England as a reward for outstanding service in the Crusades.”

“Generous of the king.”

“Up to a point. The king of England was one shrewd bastard. He gave his ‘Sword’—the nickname described a hell of a fighter and a leader of men—land and marriage in the borderlands, where the Saxons were still reluctant to bow to the English king. In one swoop the king got rid of a brilliant Norman warrior-leader, put a powerful ally in place on the enemy lines, and smacked the uppity Saxons right in the face.”

Serena thought of the elegant, lovingly made pages her grandmother had left to her. “Somehow it doesn’t seem possible that such beautiful, intricate art came from a time of political backstabbing. Front-stabbing, too. Did I mention outright war?”

Erik glanced up in time to catch her swift frown. “Monasteries with high walls and secular castles with palisades and moats existed for a reason. If it wasn’t war, it was bandits or ambitious neighbors. In those days, the force of arms brought more peace than the confessional. The Borderlands, the Disputed Lands, the Scottish Marches, the Lowlands . . . by whatever name, the north of England and the south of Scotland have seen more than their share of bloodshed.” He shrugged. “Blood was probably the first ink.”

“Cheerful thought.”

“Realistic.”

Serena didn’t argue. She had seen the way he casually looked around the crowd every few minutes. The way he was doing now. “Find it?” she asked tightly.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re looking for.”

He caught a glimpse of Heller’s broad face and short, pale hair. “Yeah. I found it.”

“Who is it?”

“No one you want to know.”

Idly Erik thought about letting Heller follow him to some quiet place where they wouldn’t be interrupted by well-meaning bystanders. Then he discarded the idea. Heller wouldn’t know anything more about the mysterious employer than Wallace had. Less, probably. Wallace called the shots in that partnership.

“Looks like Bert isn’t here,” Serena said.

Erik stopped watching Heller out of the corner of his eye and looked at Bert’s empty booth.

“If you’re looking for Mr. Lars’s private showing,” said a slim young man in the next booth, “it’s across the hall in the Silver Room. Don’t worry about being late. He’s not a stickler for formality.”

“Thanks,” Erik said.

“What are we going to do now?” Serena asked under her breath.

“Go to Bert’s party.”

“We weren’t invited.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Buyers are always invited to Bert’s parties.”

“Then why is it in a private room?”

“You’ll see.”

E
rik gave one of his Rarities Unlimited business cards to the rumpled gatekeeper at the door of the Silver Room. Thirty seconds later, Bert appeared in the doorway, smiling like a crocodile. He was a tall, thin man with wispy blond hair, a raw silk shirt and jeans, a scholar’s stoop, and the sensibilities of an exporn producer. He greeted Erik like an old friend or a person with something to sell—warm handshake and a manly punch in the shoulder.

Bert had been a Hollywood producer in another life. At least, that’s what he told people who cared enough to ask. It was the truth, after a fashion. He had indeed produced movies. Some of them even had dialogue.

Much to his wealthy family’s relief, he had turned to a more reputable means of expressing himself: he began collecting medieval artifacts. He had quickly moved from arms and armor to more portable items. Jewelry of various kinds and value, with a particular Celtic specialty, had been his passion for a few years. Then he had settled upon illuminated pages. Not entire manuscripts, just pages. As he had said more than once, you can only look at one page at a time anyway.

“Hey, boy, where ya been keeping yourself?” Bert asked. “Long time no see. Come in, come in. If I’d known you were in town, I’d have sent an invitation by courier.” Without waiting for a response, he gave Serena the thorough twice-over look of a man who knew all the uses of power, ambition, and the casting couch. “Is this your Tush du Jour?”

Serena managed a thin smile. Men like Bert were the reason she had spent the last four years as a born-again virgin. The only difference between him and some of the men who had cured her of the opposite sex was the calculation in his pale blue eyes.

Erik started to introduce her, but she cut him off.

“Don’t bother,” she said easily. “Tushes and horses’ butts don’t need to exchange names.”

Bert’s smile changed into rough laughter. “Watch it, boy. Those smart ones will be collecting alimony before you see forty.”

“The smart ones don’t get married,” she said with a glittering smile. “Use ’em and lose ’em.”

“Wish I’d met you before you grew teeth,” Bert said, and his smile looked genuine.

“She was born with them,” Erik said. “Trust me.”

“Never figured you for the dominatrix type.”

“Neither did I,” Erik said. “Life is full of surprises. The best of them carry black velvet whips.”

Serena gave him a sideways look that promised retribution. His smile said that he was looking forward to it and had a few ideas of his own.

“Man, you’re twisted. I like that,” Bert said, drawing them farther into the room. “The goodies are along the far wall. You and Trixie want a drink?”

Erik almost choked as he made the connection between dominatrix and Trixie. He heard something close to a snicker from Serena’s direction before she coughed.

“Thanks,” he said, swallowing hard against laughter. “We’re fine for now.”

“Great. Let me know what you need. It’s yours.” With that, Bert went back to working the small crowd in the room.

“Bert’s one of a kind,” Erik said blandly.

“Thank you, God,” Serena retorted. “How long do you think it took him to perfect his act?”

“Sometimes I think it isn’t an act.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Don’t worry, Trixie. I’ll take care of you.”

“Blow me,” she said succinctly.

“That, too.”

Before she could say anything, he took her arm and headed for the far wall. He didn’t know all the players, but he could often tell their home geography at a glance. People from the East Coast wore leather shoes with slacks and open-necked shirts. The local males wore jeans, running shoes, three-hundred-dollar shirts, and two-thousand-dollar sport jackets. Two of the women—local, no doubt—were dressed like sex trophies. The other two women looked like overworked faculty wives at an upscale college. None of the trophies were interested in the pages. The women in dark dresses, sensible pumps, and pearls were very interested in what lay beneath the glass cases.

So was Erik. Followed by Serena, he did a quick circuit of the offerings. Occasionally he pulled out his hand-sized communications unit, entered notes, or queried the databases at Rarities.

The pages in the Silver Room were a revelation to Serena, who thought of illuminated manuscripts as proper, even prissy, manuscripts dealing with man’s spiritual aspirations. But like everything else human, illuminated manuscripts came in more than one flavor. Bert collected the flavors that most shocked the twenty-first century’s still fundamentally Puritan view of bodily functions, including but not restricted to sex.

Serena bent down and looked into a case with horrified fascination. The creatures in the margins were grotesque, their genitals exaggerated, and their actions graphically perverse.

“I’m afraid to ask, but—“ she began.

“What are they doing?” Erik cut in, smiling.

“No! I already know way too much about that. I was just wondering what the text was like.”

“It’s a fragment of the Gospel according to Mark.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“The decoration?”

“Decoration,” she said neutrally. “Now there’s a word I wouldn’t have thought of to describe demon proctology.”

He laughed and looked back down at the page in question. “Maybe he’s just taking his buddy’s temperature.”

“Maybe my name is Trixie.”

Shaking his head, he gave up teasing her. “When these manuscripts were created, hell was very real. It was the home of all sin, all that was grotesque, all that was forbidden to man by God, and all of it was described in detail within the Bible itself. Unfortunately, many of the people associated with the manuscripts, from scribes to secular owners and more than a few priests, simply weren’t literate. They got their inoculation against hell from the marginalia and decorations, with grotesques meant to scare man back to the path of righteousness by showing what would happen to you in hell.”

Serena looked around the room at the people staring into the cases. “They don’t look worried.”

“They aren’t. Different culture entirely. They’re buying historical curiosities or adding to private or scholarly collections centered around perversity as seen through the ages.”

Serena bent over another case and tried to see its contents in a seminary library. She was still trying when Bert came back.

“See anything you like?” he asked her.

Erik answered, “Not yet. We were hoping you had come across another of those fifteenth-century miniatures of the type you sold to the House of Warrick when you first started out in business. Palimpsest, remember? Gorgeous miniature on top and twelfth-century writing underneath.”

Bert’s smile hardened. “I don’t do stuff like that anymore.”

“Too bad. That’s all I’m interested in these days. Who did you buy it from? Maybe they have some more or know where I can find some. I’ll be glad to guarantee you a finder’s fee.”

“You lost me.”

“I’m talking about the miniature that you sold to the House of Warrick fifteen years ago,” Erik said with an easy smile. “That kind of palimpsest is my new passion. I’m prepared to pay very well to support it. Why shouldn’t you get some of the benefit?”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember who sold it to me.”

Erik didn’t believe him. “Why don’t you think about it some more? Give it a chance. It seems like the memory of your first big sale would stick with you. Could you check your records?”

“Sorry. I only keep five years’ worth of records or I’d be buried in paper.”

Erik looked at Bert’s pale eyes and wondered why he was lying. “Too bad. You could make a lot of money on this. If you remember anything, call me.”

Bert hesitated. “How much?”

“Depends on how good the lead is. Five thousand, minimum.”

A flicker of surprise showed on Bert’s face. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. While you’re at it, think about ten thousand, tax free.”

Bert looked like he was doing his thinking right now. “You got it on you?”

“What do you think?”

“How long will it take you to get it?”

“A few hours,” Erik said.

“You know where my house is?”

“I can find it.”

“Be there at nine tonight. Small bills only. Nonsequential.”

“I can be there sooner than nine.”

Bert smiled. It wasn’t nice to see. “Forget it. I need the time.”

“For what? A brain scan?”

Bert’s laugh wasn’t any nicer than his smile had been. “Anything that’s worth ten to you might be worth more to other people. So bring some extra cash, pal. I just love auctions. Gives me a big hard-on every time.”

D
espite the cozy honey tones of the Retreat’s large suite, Niall’s blue eyes didn’t look welcoming. Neither did the gun he checked with a few quick, efficient motions. Satisfied that it was good to go, he shoved the gun into his shoulder holster.

“Look,” Erik said for the fifth time, “you don’t have to go with—”

“Are you deaf?” Niall interrupted impatiently. “I’m bloody well not. I heard you loud and clear. Now you hear this, Fuzzy boy. Anytime you’re carrying thirty thousand in cash, you get company. Especially with a slimy item like Bert. That man’s biography would gag a skunk.”