"Annja, you must do the honor," he said.

This was it. As usual when on the verge of what she felt to be a fortuitous historical discovery, Annja grew intensely calm and almost zen. Now was no time for frantic excitement. The joy came in careful exploration of what was once only a mystery or legend.

She bent to look down. There was was something inside the hollow hilt of the seventeenth-century rapier. something inside the hollow hilt of the seventeenth-century rapier.

"Careful," Ascher coached.

"It's a rolled paper. Do you have a-?" Bent-tip tweezers slapped onto her palm before she could finish the request. "Thanks."

She knew the slightest jolt could damage the centuries-old paper. If she tugged too hard or clasped the tweezers too tightly, she risked tearing the parchment.

Annja drew in a breath through her nose, and went for it. A roll, about four inches long and tightly coiled, slid out easily.

Ascher redirected an overhead lamp to focus on the roll that she set before the rapier blade. The roll wobbled, then stopped. The twosome exhaled in unison.

"Do you think it is?" she whispered.

"The map!" Ascher said. "To the real treasure."

"Yes," she answered, surprise softening to agreement. A relieved exhale unraveled the tightness in her core she hadn't been aware of until now.

"Rumor tells the map will lead to a treasure," Ascher whispered. "A treasure the queen wanted d'Artagnan to have in thanks for all he had done to serve France and its king."

"Right. But it wasn't for chasing after missing diamonds for her collar, as Dumas wrote," Annja said. "Though there may have been a morsel of truth to that."

"That was pure fiction! There is no historical record of the diamond studs," Ascher said.

"Yes, but never say never, eh? It is alluded that the treasure might have been a collection of jewels the queen had received over the years from her lovers," Annja replied.

"Evidence she wished to be rid of, for some might have placed her to having an affair with Mazarin."

"And what better way to do that than give them away. This sword was a gift for heroic deeds such as defeating the Spanish at Lille while the king marched his troops to help, or heading the vanguard at La Roch.e.l.le, while the king dallied at Fontenay."

"Yes!" Ascher's excitement vibrated between them, bouncing against Annja's chest and throat. "Let's have a look."

"We can't yet," she said, poking the map with the tip of the tweezers. It was rolled so tightly, that she could not think to unroll it and risk it crumbling to flakes. "We'll need..."

"Humidity. We can relax the parchment by steaming it. I'll boil some water."

"We should wait," Annja said.

A panicky look deflated Ascher's joy. "Why?"

"We need a good six to eight hours for the humidification process."

"I know-I've done it before. Ah, you are tired? You can rest while I begin."

She ran a hand over her scalp, wishing for a good solid eight hours of sleep. Heck, she'd take four. The sun had yet to rise. She should be sleeping. Normal people were sleeping right now. Couldn't she manage one day as one of them?

But to be truthful, normal wasn't interesting to Annja.

Ascher possessed unbounded energy. But she did not trust him with the process on his own. There were many things that could go wrong if he did not have the proper equipment. One could not simply boil water and steam the roll open. A humidity chamber had to be created and the parchment had to be protected from droplets with a sheet of Gore-Tex.

"Maybe if I had some coffee," she muttered.

"I can do that. Be right back."

THE PHONE RANG in the kitchen and Ascher picked it up on the first tone. He barely said, "h.e.l.lo," when the voice on the other end began to berate.

"You know the new kidney is not completely developed. You risk your very life by refusing to hand over the sword today."

"You got the sword, I just-"

"I know my swords, Vallois. This is sixteenth century," Lambert said.

"Perhaps the queen gifted her musketeer with a family heirloom?"

"It does not ingratiate you to me to lie. You have the real thing?"

"Yes," Ascher gasped, hating himself, but seeing no other option.

"I'll send a man round to retrieve it. Again. Will you cooperate and hand it over?"

"Of course." Now that they'd discovered the map within, he had no need for d'Artagnan's rapier. Annja would be disappointed but he had no choice. "Give me an hour to get rid of the woman."

"Who is she?"

Ascher tightened his jaw. He hadn't intended to get Annja involved like this. He'd merely wanted a worm to dangle before her to get her to come to him. Things going as they were, he highly doubted he'd have the time to romance her as originally planned.

"Just a friend. A fellow archaeologist. She doesn't know what's going on. And I'll be sure she is gone."

"You had better, Vallois. That map is too valuable to risk losing."

The phone clicked off and Ascher stood there clinging to the receiver. The constant ache high on the left side of his torso would not allow him to forget he was playing with his very life.

And yet, what Lambert had said: That map is too valuable.... That map is too valuable....

This was the first time he'd heard anything about the map from Lambert. Ascher had always a.s.sumed he knew only about the sword and was perhaps a zealous collector.

But if he expected to find a map, that meant Lambert was on a much bigger treasure hunt.

"Time for a change of plan," Ascher muttered.

7.

Seventeenth century "He refuses to talk about this, and I find that most disagreeable. It is as if he hides something."

King Louis XIV paced the drawing room before the damask chaise that had just arrived from Venice. The wooden crates used to pack it sat in shambles on the floor. Discarded in billowing piles, soft Venetian cloth once wrapped about the chaise dotted the floor in turquoise blobs.

Cardinal Mazarin found the chaise most comfortable, though Louis complained it was overstuffed. If any were overstuffed, Mazarin thought, it was the French. Italian craftsmanship was exquisite.

"I insist we have Fouquet investigated," Louis declared. "Why do you shake your head, Eminence?"

"Forgive me, Your Highness. Any valued a.s.set gone missing is a grievous thing. I do not wish to discount the gravity of this dilemma. But these were the queen's jewels. Perhaps she has a perfectly rational reason for moving them from the usual storage place."

"You think she still has them? She had better."

"Have you spoken to her? Asked her? Expressed your concerns?"

Louis shrugged, reverting to a childish wallow. "Might you speak to her in my stead?"

Mazarin nodded, finding the room was only getter warmer. Why the king persisted upon this small detail astounded him. The king had his own cache of jewels. Was not his mother allowed the same? Some privacy to her belongings?

Well, the cardinal knew the answer to that one. All correspondence with Anne was written in code for the very reason that nothing in this court was ever secret. Nothing.

Though he had managed to hide their affair for the short time it had occurred. Cheers to Anne for finding a sensible means to be rid of the jewels. They could be traced back to an Italian jeweler. He'd not been thinking properly at the time. His heart had been in the fore.

"I will, Your Highness," the cardinal said.

Present day LEAVING THE TIGHTLY ROLLED parchment on the table and placing the pommel to one side so it wouldn't accidentally roll to the floor, Annja then slipped off the latex gloves with a snap and wandered out to find the kitchen.

Exhaustion clung to her shoulders and pressed upon her temples. She needed more than a short nap in a car. But elation could carry her a bit longer. More than a few times in her life she'd uncovered artifacts or legends that had been thought only myth. She'd never lose the giddy feeling each time that happened.

It really existed. A piece of fiction come to life.

The citrus scent of Earl Grey tea seasoned the air as she found her way into the dimly lit kitchen designed with masculine black marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.

"I didn't know Frenchmen drank tea," she commented as she slid onto a chrome stool and propped her elbows on the counter.

Ascher shot upright from his bent position over an open drawer. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry, didn't mean to surprise you. Did someone call? I thought I heard a phone ring."

"Wrong number."

"Ah. Pretty early for a crank call. What time is it?"

"Three a.m."

She started to calculate how long she had been awake, almost twenty-four hours, then stopped.

"So." Ascher set out a teacup. The delicate white porcelain looked frail against the masculine black countertop. "D'Artagnan's sword, or rather, rapier. We've done it."

"You've done it. I was the one skeptical about the Chalon site," Annja said.

"Yes. You are right. It was all my doing." Pleased with his triumph, Ascher's shoulders straightened and his c.o.c.ky smile reappeared.

Annja could claim nothing more than observing the entire operation, though she had chased after the bad guys-and let them get away with an artifact.

"You encounter men with guns a lot on your digs? You seem pretty blase about the fact any one of us could have been killed," she said.

Only then did she remember the abrasion on her shoulder. She fingered the rough skin absently.

"No, it is not often men with guns try to take away my dig finds. Maybe someone saw my post online?"

"You didn't post about the Chalon site publicly. So how did the men who took your kidney find you?"

"Listen, Annja, I don't know them. They were likely pot-hunters. You know they are rampant, stalking dig sites and stealing the artifacts for their own gain. I once worked a site in Ireland where two of the hired hands were just that. They played along like students until we uncovered a cache of silver beads and plating. They slipped out at night with the booty."

"Speaking of booty. What about the treasure?" she prompted. "If we find that?"

"I've a small fencing salle salle in dire need of fixing up. You are hurt?" he prompted at sight of her touching her shoulder. in dire need of fixing up. You are hurt?" he prompted at sight of her touching her shoulder.

"Just a burn. A bullet skimmed my flesh. Didn't even bleed." She brushed over her shoulder. A red abrasion marked it. Such luck.

"A fencing studio?" she wondered. "You intend to keep the rewards for yourself? What about the found-treasure laws? And if there's family?"

"There are no descendants to Charles Castelmore's line," he said.

"How do you know there are no relatives? His brother's children?" Annja asked.

"You claim to be an authority on the musketeer's history, and yet, you are not aware of the family tree?"

"There was a family tree published in a book mid-twentieth century-"

"Yes, and why do you not believe it, eh?" Holding up one finger in a sign to remain patient, Ascher then left Annja in the kitchen. She heard him walk down the hallway, and contemplated following him, but the sight of the teapot redirected her intentions.

Pouring a cup, she sipped as Ascher reappeared with a small, dusty gray book, sans cover jacket.

"I have that volume," she said as she tilted her head to read the spine. "D'Artagnan: The Ultimate Musketeer, "D'Artagnan: The Ultimate Musketeer, by Hall and Sanders. Published in the sixties." by Hall and Sanders. Published in the sixties."

"Have you read it?" he asked.

"Of course. It's the one with the family tree on the end papers. You collect books printed in English?"

"If it's about d'Artagnan I do." Ascher laid the book on the counter before her. He opened the front cover. The olive-green end papers featured a family tree of the Batz-Castelmore line.

Annja nodded. "I've seen it. It is incomplete."