The Emperor's Tomb

TWENTY-NINE

NI AND PAU WEN FLED THE MUSEUM GARDEN, CROSSED THE rear drive and the graveled parking lot, and sought refuge in the shadows of the buildings of the next block over. The gunfire had stopped and Ni expected to hear sirens approaching. Surely someone had called the police.

“Should we not leave?” he asked Pau.

“We must see what happens.”

He stared back at the museum and caught a bright flash from the third-floor windows.

“It’s on fire,” he said.

Beams of light split the blackness as the museum’s third floor erupted into flames.

“This could be a problem, on a multitude of layers,” Pau said, his eyes locked on the destruction.

Ni didn’t want to hear that. “Care to explain?”

“Let us hope my brother can succeed. And quickly.”

CASSIOPEIA’S BONES AND MUSCLES TIGHTENED AS SHE REELED from the unexpected blast of heat. Her eyes burned from the burst of light the flames had generated. Spots dotted her vision and she struggled to see what lay before and behind her.

The corridor was burning.

Malone was somewhere at its far end, beyond the Chinese room. No sense being subtle now.

“Cotton,” she called out.

No reply, and his silence was as intolerable as the heat.

To her left dropped the main staircase, fronted by a narrow landing. The corridor’s wood flooring, oak from centuries ago, burned with vigor, and the wall plaster was about to join the party.

She needed to leave.

But not without Cotton.

She knew there was another way down, the staircase she’d used to climb, but flames blocked any path in that direction. She still held the lamp and the gun and decided to see if perhaps Cotton had made his way forward, through the connected rooms on the hallway’s opposite side.

No sign of the three men.

She turned and spotted the source of the problem. Two metal canisters overturned on the floor, both aflame.

She came to the end of the hall, where a marble balustrade opened to the main staircase that right-angled downward toward the second floor. No more corridor extended past where the stairs began, and she confronted a stone wall. Carefully she peered out and saw no movement in the fire’s glow. Something cracked behind her, then crashed and she saw the hall’s ceiling give way, the old house quickly surrendering. Perhaps the three men had fled? No need to hang around, except that they would want the lamp. But they could wait outside and confront her there.

The stairway began five meters away.

She dashed forward.

As she reached the end of the balustrade and started to turn for the stairs, something slammed shoulder-first into the back of her knees. Arms wrapped her legs. She fell forward, smashing into the marble wall.

A man had tackled her.

She thrashed her legs, twisting her body, banging the gun into his head. He was wiry and strong, but she managed to fling him away, sending herself sliding.

The lamp and gun flew from her grasp.

A kick sent her weapon flying toward the balustrade, where it disappeared between thick spindles over the side.

She sprang to her feet.

Her attacker was dressed in black, his face hooded by a wool mask. He was maybe thirty pounds heavier. She lunged, jamming her shoulder into his chest, ramming him back into the wall.

MALONE HEARD CASSIOPEIA CALL HIS NAME BUT CHOSE NOT TO reply. He’d spotted three forms rushing through the darkness, all headed toward the main staircase. He’d managed to creep closer, through rooms that opened one into another, careful with his approach among the warm mass of dark shapes. Smoke gathered, which made both breathing and seeing difficult.

He heard fighting and saw something slide across the burning floor, into the flames. He raced to the doorway and spotted the object. Small. A foot long and half that tall.

A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with wings.

The lamp?

He reached down to retrieve it but his fingers reeled back. Its bronze exterior was hot. He used his shoe and slid it away from the burning floorboards into the room where he stood, three walls of which had now joined the blaze.

He needed to leave.

He glanced out into the corridor, toward the top of the staircase, and saw Cassiopeia and a man clad in black.

Fighting.

NI WATCHED THE DRIES VAN EGMOND MUSEUM BURN. THE top two floors were now on fire, flames roaring through the roof, licking the night. Windows shattered from heat and pressure, spewing glass into the garden.

“The Chinese were much better glass producers,” Pau said. “Much higher quality than anything Europe produced.”

Ni wondered about the history lesson, considering what they were witnessing.

“Did you know that at the terra-cotta warrior pit, we discovered that the weapons the figures carried—their swords and knives, which emerged from the ground sharp, shiny, and untarnished—were made of materials that actually prevented rust. We ultimately discovered that it was a copper–tin alloy combined with eleven other metals such as cobalt, nickel, chrome, and magnesium. Can you imagine? Over two millennia ago and our ancestors understood how to protect metal.”

“And we slaughtered ourselves,” Ni said, “with that technology.”

Pau’s gaze stayed on the fire. “You’re not much for violence, are you?”

“It never achieves long-range goals.”

“An effective state employs seven punishments to three rewards. A weak state employs five punishments to five rewards. That is a proven fact.”

“If a person’s life has no value, then the society that shapes that life has no value. How could anyone believe otherwise?”

“Empires, by nature, are repressive.”

“Aren’t you concerned that people may be dying in that fire? Your man one of them.”

“He must protect himself, that is his duty.”

“And you bear no responsibility?”

“Of course. I bear the burden of his failure.”

He could not, and would not, ever allow himself to have so little regard for other people’s lives. Ordering men to their deaths should never be taken lightly. Though he did not know the man inside, he cared about his safety.

All leaders should feel that way.

Shouldn’t they?

“You are an odd man,” he said to Pau Wen.

“That I am. But isn’t it fortuitous that you met me.”