Owl and the Tiger Thieves Page 22

  He took his eyes off the dirt road and held mine for a brief moment before I glanced away.

  He was right, and it didn’t matter. If there was a chance of getting Rynn out, I needed to try—and fast.

  Ten minutes later of silence interrupted only by the jeep’s engine and the odd bang as we dipped into a pothole, we reached the location the GPS had guided us to. Though the light was fading fast below the horizon of dull gold sand, I could make out the first sandstone pillars peeking out over sand dunes in the distance as we crested over a hill. They were the only parts of the old Timbuktu temples that hadn’t been claimed by the sands.

  The sun had set by the time Artemis pulled the jeep to a stop in front of the temple, only the stars and a crescent moon for light.

  I hopped out and opened my cat’s carrier. “Time to get to work, Captain.” He mewed as he crept out, nose held high in the air. Once he deemed the place relatively safe from predators and vampires, he stuck his nose to the sand in search of prey, preferably of the small and fuzzy variety.

  “Chances are you’ll have to settle for the scaly and six-legged varieties,” I told him. He ignored me and began to dig.

  I grabbed my tool bag out of the back of the jeep, then surveyed the four massive pillars peeking out of the sands. Now . . . where to begin?

  I heard Artemis get out of the jeep behind me. “Where the hell is it?” he asked.

  “See those four pillars?” I said, and started to hike towards them through the loose sand. “That’s the top.” I heard Artemis swear.

  I had really been hoping there would be an access shaft in the temple ceiling, preferably not too far under the surface of the sand. With Rynn on my tail and the possibility that Mr. Kurosawa’s opponents were watching me, organizing a dig team hadn’t struck me as the wisest or safest course of action. I’d be winging it—and hoping that the temple hadn’t already been looted.

  Mali hadn’t been the picture of stability over the past few years—or decades—which meant that doing archaeology and preserving historical sites hadn’t been on anyone’s radar, here or elsewhere in the country. It’s all well and good for the world’s archaeological community to claim a site is protected; it’s another to enforce that protection, especially when there are hostile militias, bullets, and grenades flying. Not even the IAA was willing to throw talent away by making its graduate students dig in land mine–infested dirt.

  Which meant that just about all of the archaeological sites in Mali had been reclaimed by either the jungle or the sands . . . or blown up . . . or pulled down . . .

  “You knew it was like this?” Artemis demanded, the buckles and hardware on his boots jingling as he chased me. “And you couldn’t have told me before?”

  There were four pillars. If the renditions of the temple hadn’t been lost to ancient scribe telephone, there was a good bet I’d find an entrance near the northernmost post. “Well, it was on a need-to-know basis,” I told him. All the old diagrams had indicated that under the four pillars there should be closed compartments, built to be safe from sandstorms and hopefully the assault of time as well. If the inside hadn’t collapsed under the weight of the sand, and if I could get us in, we still had another problem, which had more to do with the temple’s isolation on the outskirts of Timbuktu. “And that’s the least of your worries,” I told him.

  “If I’m not supposed to worry about the place being half buried in sand, please tell me what I should be worried about.” Artemis kicked the sand, sending it flying to drive home his point.

  “That places on the outskirts of half-abandoned towns tend to be inhabited—by supernaturals I’d rather not get to know or people I’d really rather not get to know.”

  Now, which way the hell was north? I stood in the center of the four pillars and began to turn, staring at the constellations above me. Wow, were there ever a lot of stars up there; they made it harder to find north, not easier. I mean, usually the only ones you could even make out were the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt, maybe Cassiopeia if you were away from the glare of city lights.

  “Smell anything?”

  Artemis shook his head. “Not a damn thing. Goblins, maybe. They like these deserted haunts. Makes them feel civilized in a way caves never do.”

  I scanned the area. Goblins were a possibility. Goblin tribes were relatively common on the African continent. They were always nasty and difficult, and rarely could you barter with them. There were a lot of vampires in North Africa as well—and mummies and medusas and ghosts. I racked my brain to come up with anything else that might have decided to take up residence in a Malian temple on the edge of the desert. Genies? Trolls? They were rarer, but trolls were attracted to well-traveled routes. Highway underpasses and canals were some of their favorites, but they wouldn’t stick their big noses up at an ancient trade route, even if it was all but abandoned . . .

  Ah! There was north. I made my way to the northernmost pillar and began to clear the sand away from its base.

  I didn’t need to clear everything away; I only needed to reach the base. “A place at the edge of the world, buried in the sand—that was what da Vinci said,” I reminded Artemis.

  Luckily for me, the temple had been built tall, and the pillars had partially protected it from being buried completely. After fifteen minutes of digging, I reached stone. A few minutes later Captain was the one who located the air shaft opening—it was tight, but if I sucked in and squirmed . . .

  “Do you hear that?”

  I glanced over at Artemis, who was leaning against a pillar, ripping pages out of a gossip rag he’d produced from somewhere.

  I tilted my head and listened. Sure enough, I picked out the rumble of an engine, punctuated by backfire.

  Artemis flattened himself to the sand and began crawling towards one of the shallow dunes. I followed his lead. Headlights flooded the site as a school bus—the same one, I wagered, we’d taken from the airport—came to a stop beside one of the other ruined buildings. Its headlights missed our jeep.

  What was it doing out here?

  My question was answered as the door of the bus opened and people streamed out, flashlights in hand. They were far enough away that I couldn’t make out their faces, but it had to be the same UN workers and doctors we’d headed into town with.

  “What the hell do you suppose they’re doing here?” Artemis asked.

  I shook my head as I watched them begin to fan out, waving their flashlight beams like deranged airport runway workers. “I ran into one of them in the hotel. She said they were going on a night city tour.”

  “An awful long way from the city.”

  And nothing to see except terrified nocturnal wildlife. A few laughs and excited shouts and yelps carried our way, along with comments on the stars . . . regardless of the strange nature of the so-called city tour, their good mood had carried all the way out here.

  I decided I didn’t have time to figure out why they were out in the desert—not now. I grabbed my bag and started to shimmy back towards the air shaft. “Watch them,” I whispered to Artemis. “And see if you can keep us hidden from them.”

  “Just get the pendants, and get the hell out. I don’t like the smell of the desert anymore,” he whispered after me.

  A shiver coursed through me. I chalked it up to the descending night and tied off my rope to a rock outside the shaft.

  “Ready to take a short walk down a deep, dark dungeon?” I asked Captain, holding my backpack open. He chirped and dived in. I zipped him up, shouldered him onto my back, then checked the rope one last time. For good measure I shone the flashlight through the narrow shaft, searching for anything arachnid and poisonous in nature that might have gotten in there.

  Deep breath, Owl. I counted to three and, flashlight clenched in my teeth, shimmied through the hole and began to rappel down.

  As I descended, I flicked my flashlight beam around the shaft. It was well constructed, a vent covered in graffiti, ancient versions of “Mike was here,” “L
orna loves Jack,” and “Security in this place sucks.” We aren’t the first civilization to love damaging goods or to revel in a sardonic sense of humor.

  It also meant that others had climbed this shaft successfully.

  Ground loomed below me, patches of stone peeking through the sand that had settled. I cleared the shaft and ran my light along the chamber I was now in. For a priests’ temple, it wasn’t particularly ornate. A few cracks ran through frescoes that had been painted and carved into the walls for decoration, but the place looked as though it had been built for function, not as a monument.

  The floors as well, at least the parts I could see through the sand, showed the same conservatism. They were the kinds of floors that had been meant to be used every day—by the priests and patrons of the Temple of the Shifting Faces.

  I dropped the last three feet to the floor, Captain grumbling in my backpack at the hard landing. Reckless? Nope—it made no sense to booby-trap a floor people used daily. A loyal penitent or priest might set it off by accident.

  I’d dropped into a small antechamber with rounded corners that tapered in at the ceiling, forming a dome with the shaft in the center. Each wall held a recessed statue, four in total: a young woman, a child, a young man, an elderly person. Both the child and the elderly person were androgynous enough that I couldn’t tell whether they were meant to be male or female; ancient gods still watching over their chamber.

  This would have been a reception room, where the priests had met people of moderate means. The poor would have been met outside or not at all, and the rich would have had a much more opulent chamber, I wagered, with furniture. Wouldn’t want the big spenders to be uncomfortable while they petitioned their gods to cleave their enemies’ heads off.

  Now, if I were a Tiger Thieves pendant, where would I be?

  I turned a slow circle as I surveyed the antechamber for a hint.

  I found what I was looking for on the domed ceiling.

  Above me were murals, four in total, one for each face of the room. They depicted animals: a lion, a camel, an elephant, and—a tiger.

  I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when the gift horse is a clue that falls straight into my lap.

  Underneath each of the statues was a doorway. The tiger was above the woman, which I passed under as I entered a hallway that ended in a door that had long since rotted away. I brushed my hands against the stone markings on the wall. They were not as detailed as the murals or statues, quick pictures of sticklike men carved into the edges. Decorations, maybe? Or a warning.

  I shone my flashlight beam through the pieces of dried wood and metal. Beyond was another room, smaller than the last and with a lower ceiling but with the same smooth corners and domed shape. As I looked around the room, I noticed more of the stick people, depicted this time in a variety of scenes: dancing, trading, barbecuing, traveling by caravan. What were they trying to say?

  I sensed more riddles about exactly who the temple was supposed to be supplicating . . . more than I would have liked, anyway.

  “What do you think, Captain?”

  All he did was sniff against the mesh of the bag then mew softly. Well, if Captain didn’t think there were monsters and I couldn’t find any traps . . . I stepped inside.

  Regardless of how certain I was that no disasters would befall us, still I let out a breath when only the sound of my feet echoed around the small chamber.

  On one side of the chamber was a stone altar. I made my way quickly to it. There was no bowl, no artifacts, just the smooth polished surface—and a set of pictorial instructions of a man sticking his hands into the wall. Sure enough, above the altar were two holes carved into the stone.

  I consulted the images again. “Okay, stick your hands in and what? Say the magic words, and loot appears?”

  Maybe it was lever based.

  I shone my flashlight inside. The stone chambers were large enough to accommodate a large man’s fists. Their walls were smooth, but darkness blocked out the end, or maybe the holes just went on that far. I didn’t see any levers—maybe there had been ropes or wood that had decayed or broken? Regardless, I wouldn’t know until I stuck my hand in.

  Which was about the last thing I was going to do—not until I found the lever system . . .

  I searched the walls with my flashlight and found more of the same at eye level—murals of stick people sticking their hands into the holes, people dancing in joyous circles around them, raising their hands to the heavens under beams of sunlight, others enjoying a banquet. It was like Disneyland subconsciously advertising the mouse toys. “Stick your hands in the holes! It’s awesome! Good things happen!”

  Yeah, and when you have to shout out praises that much . . . especially considering that not a damn one of the drawings hinted at what qualified as “awesome.”

  I angled my flashlight up to get a better look around. It reflected off something metallic.

  It was an old dish lying on a recessed shelf. One that had probably been used to collect blood from sacrificial animals as the smooth metal would have been easy to clean afterwards. Hmmm . . . I ran my sleeve over the dusty metal. It still retained its polish, so much so that I could see my face in a blurred, vague, imperfect reflection.

  I’m not one for movie tricks, but this one was worth a shot.

  I leaned the plate against the stone altar and angled it up. Then I played with the flashlight beam until it hit the metallic dish at the right angle.

  The temple antechamber filled with a soft light; I wouldn’t want to light my place with it, but it worked for the task at hand. More images lined the walls all the way to the ceiling, also extolling the praises of sticking your hands in the holes, but with no more explanation. Then I spotted it: the image of a tiger, stripes and all, at the head of one of the banquet tables.

  Bingo. Now all I had to do was figure out a way to get it without finding out what wonders the altar held.

  Something in the metal dish caught my attention. I stared at my reflection. There was something strange about it—something blue.

  I shook my head—or tried to, but the muscles resisted.

  Just stare into the dish, everything will be okay.

  The image began to clear. It wasn’t me who stared back but Rynn. The scent of sandalwood flooded the room.

  Pain exploded in my hand, sharp and piercing. The sandalwood-scented grip on my brain faded, and pain replaced it. I cried out and wrenched my gaze off the dish. Captain held on to my hand, blood running down his mouth where he’d bit me. As soon as he saw I was watching, he bleated and let go.

  More pain flooded my hand. “Mother of God! What the hell was that?” I held my hand, wrapping it in my sleeve, trying to stem the blood flow.

  Rynn was getting more powerful.

  Captain jostled in the bag, chirping at me. “You said it, buddy,” I told him. No more mirrors if I could help it—and it was high time to get what I had come for and go. Maybe I could pry the altar top off? If I hit it hard enough with a hammer, it would break.

  I crouched down to retrieve a hammer from my bag. A cascade of rocks echoing from farther back in the temple stopped me.

  Shit. I aimed my flashlight beam towards the entrance of the chamber but didn’t see anyone or anything. Animals if I was lucky, goblins if I wasn’t. I stared at the two holes placed conspicuously above the altar.

  There it was again, the sound of pebbles ricocheting against stone. This time Captain rustled in his bag and chirped.

  My alternatives were rapidly disappearing. I swore again, let Captain out of my backpack, and stuck my flashlight back between my teeth. I readied my hands above the altar, once again reading the instructions. I wasn’t leaving without the pendant. I so hoped this wasn’t the ancients’ version of trolling . . .

  I closed my eyes and shoved both my hands in. Nothing happened. No knives, no roars. All I felt was smooth sides. Well, that was anticlimactic. Wait. Both hands found the grooves at the same time. My fingers fit
inside them easily. Something moved; stone scraped against stone as hidden gears moved. I pressed down harder and found more grooves.

  Slowly but surely the top of the altar began to slide open.

  “Stick your hands in, and we’ll give you loot.” Damn, I could use more treasure troves like this.

  Underneath, nestled in a simple stone box, was the next Tiger Thief amulet, its gold lines glinting under my flashlight beam.

  Bingo.

  Time to grab the loot and go. Shit.

  I tried to pull my hands out, but the wall held them in place. Whereas the holes had been large enough to easily slip my hands through before, the space had tightened, closing in around them. I heard the faint grind of gears and felt stone turning, tightening even more.

  Shit. I tried to free myself again, this time bracing my leg against the wall for leverage. More gears churned, and the cold stone blocks clamped down on my wrists like a vise. What I had thought was a smooth stone cylinder was made up of hundreds of small mobile pieces controlled by gears. And they showed no sign of stopping.

  I renewed my efforts as the stone pinched painfully against the bones in my wrists.

  Then I saw the picture that had been painted underneath the altar’s lid, the colors still fresh, protected from the elements. Lying underneath the pendant was the final picture of the instructions: a man with two stumps where his hands had been, holding his arms up to the sky, a box of treasure at his feet.

  Asshole trolls of the ancient world . . .

  I reached with my leg and tried to knock the pendant out of the open altar with the toe of my boot. It only reached the edge, not enough to touch the pendant inside. The stone was shrinking around my fingers too, holding them hostage. And it didn’t stop at snug. I yelped as the grinding of the ancient gears continued and pieces of stone dug into my hand.

  Behind me my cat growled.

  “Captain! Time to earn your kibble!” I shouted. There had to be a release, otherwise the priests wouldn’t have been able to reset the trap. My eyes fell on the altar. How much did I want to bet that shutting the altar would stop the trap? “The pendant!” I shouted at my cat.