It was all here, as she had been certain it would be: the mother lode of micaceous pottery. It had been her father’s pet project: over the course of thirty years, he had mapped each rare sherd, traced hypothetical trade routes, searched for the source. Because the number of discovered fragments was so small, he had theorized that this pottery was the single most prized possession of the Anasazi people, and that it was stored in a central, most likely religious, place. Eventually, after mapping the distribution points of all known sherds, he had come to believe its location would be somewhere back in the labyrinthine canyons. Briefly, he had entertained dreams of finding the source himself. But he had grown old and sick. Then, when word of Nora and her father’s letter reached him, hope had sprung anew. Instantly, he realized that Quivira, if it existed, might be the source of the fabulous pottery. It was speculative, of course—much too speculative for a man of his position to publish, or even broadcast. But it was enough to launch an expedition, with his daughter on the team.
Sloane knew she was supposed to have discussed the matter privately, with Nora, if they ever found the city. But, of course, there was no way she would have cued Nora into the great discovery that lay ahead. Nora already had more than her share of the glory. How many times, on the trail to Quivira, had the thought wormed its way bitterly into Sloane’s heart: there she was, taking orders from a second-tier, untenured academic, when by rights she should be the one in command. In the end it would be Nora, and by extension Sloane’s father, who would get all the credit: just another example of her father’s thoughtlessness, his lack of faith in her.
Well, things would be different now. If Nora hadn’t been so selfish, so stubbornly dictatorial, it wouldn’t have had to end this way. But as fate would have it, the discovery would be hers. She was now the leader of the expedition. Hers would be the name forever linked with the discovery of the fabulous pottery. Everyone else—Black, Nora, her father especially—would be subordinate.
Slowly, she came back to the present. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bonarotti, cloaked in silent disappointment, shambling on stiff legs toward the hole he had helped cut. In another moment, he had climbed onto the banco and vanished out into the cavern.
Her eyes swivelled away, over the almost unbelievable abundance of pottery, to a large hole in the floor she had not noticed before. It seemed, inexplicably, to have been freshly dug. But that made no sense: who else but themselves could have been inside this kiva in the last seven hundred years? And who would single-mindedly dig out a few pounds of dust, while ignoring one of the richest troves in all North American history?
But her jubilation was too intense to ponder this for long. Excitedly, she turned toward Black: poor Aaron Black, who had let his own boyish lust for golden treasure blind the mature archaeologist within. She had not tried to correct him, of course: no need to dampen his enthusiasm, when his support had been so important. Besides, once the initial disappointment and embarrassment was past, he would surely realize how infinitely more important the real find was.
What she saw of Black, in the murk of the kiva, shocked her. He looks terrible, she thought. The man’s flesh seemed to have shrunk on his frame. Two red, wet eyes stared hollowly out of a face caked in pale dust that was turning to mud on his sweating skin. In those eyes, she saw a brief, terrifying vision of Peter Holroyd, paralyzed with fear and illness, in the chamber near the royal burial.
Black’s mouth had gone slack, and as he stepped toward her he seemed to stagger. He took another step, reached into a bowl, and took out a necklace of micaceous beads, shimmering golden in the torchlight.
“Pottery,” he said woodenly.
“Yes, Aaron—pottery,” Sloane replied. “Isn’t it fabulous? The black-on-yellow micaceous that has eluded archaeologists for a hundred years.”
He looked down at the necklace, blinking, unseeing. Then, slowly, he lifted it, placing it around her neck with trembling hands.
“Gold,” he croaked. “I wanted to give you gold.”
It took Sloane a moment to comprehend. She watched him try to step forward, teetering in place.
“Aaron,” she said urgently. “Don’t you see? This is worth more than gold. Much more. These pots tell—”
She broke off abruptly. Black’s face was screwed up, his hands pressed to his temples. Sloane took an involuntary step back. As she watched, his legs began to tremble and he sank against the inner kiva wall, sliding down until he was resting on the stone banco.
“Aaron, you’re sick,” she said, a sense of panic displacing her feelings of triumph. This can’t be happening, she thought. Not now.
Black did not respond. He tried to steady himself with outstretched arms, scattering several pots in the process.
Sloane stepped forward with sudden resolution, grasping one of his hands. “Aaron, listen. I’m going down to the medical tent. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She climbed quickly up through the ragged hole and out of the kiva. Then, shaking the dust from her legs, she half walked, half ran, out of the cave, through the Crawlspace and into the silent city.
59
KNEELING BESIDE SMITHBACK, NORA stuffed a flashlight retrieved from the drysacks into her pocket and helped the journalist swallow a small cup of steaming bouillon. Just outside the tent, the portable propane stove ticked and sputtered as it cooled. Taking the empty cup from his hands, she helped him back onto the sleeping bag, stretched a woolen blanket over him, and made sure he was comfortable. She had replaced his soaked shirt and pants with dry ones, and his shock seemed to be passing. But with rain still drumming on the tent, moving him remained pointless. What he needed most, she felt, was some sleep. She glanced at the field wristwatch that had been strapped around the head tentpole. It was after nine o’clock. And yet, inexplicably, nobody had returned to camp.
Her mind turned back to the flash flood. The storm that produced it must have been enormous, awe-inspiring. It seemed inexplicable that anyone standing atop the plateau could have missed it . . .
She rose quickly. Smithback looked up at her with a weak smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You get some sleep,” she replied. “I’m going up to the ruin.”
He nodded, but his eyes were already closing. Grasping the flashlight, she slipped out of the tent into the darkness. Switching it on, she followed the cylinder of light toward the base of the rope ladder. Her bruised body ached, and she was as tired as she ever remembered feeling. A part of her half anticipated, half dreaded, what she might find in the ruined city. But Smithback had been cared for, and leaving the valley was now impossible. As expedition leader, she had no choice but to enter Quivira, to learn for herself exactly what was going on.