The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich Read Free Book Online Page B

long-lost empires, crudely heavy, dated to gods as old as Egypt’s. The accumulated wealth throbbed with time. And there the treasury ended, except for a final solid door. I wondered which Zoroastrian prize Elizabeth wanted me to examine.
    But she was fitting a key in the last lock. “The treasury stores both items of antiquity and those used for ceremonial occasions,” Elizabeth explained. “It has bullion to ballast our currency, valuables to trade for weapons, and jewels to dazzle queens. This is the fruit of conquest, gifts, and taxation from a million estates and businesses.”
    “A Prussian told us your country is an ocean of soil.”
    “Von Bonin?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then these are the shells upon that ocean’s beach. But that’s not what I want to show you. This last room is where objects are taken preparatory for use, so that they can be removed without organizers snooping on the rest of the treasures. Come see what that Prussian, a dog sent to fetch by his masters, most covets.” She unlocked the final door, its thick wood banded by iron. The entry squealed as if rarely opened.
    The chamber beyond was almost bare.
    The exception was an oval stone table that occupied the room’s center like an altar. It looked like a mummification slab from Egypt, or a tabernacle for the Grail. On top lay two medieval broad swords, dark and plain except for gilded hilts. There was no cloth, no case, and no decoration. The brick dome was blank overhead. The only light was from my lantern.
    “Go ahead, take a look.”
    I examined the weapons. Their steel was pitted and their edges nicked. They were clearly antique, but not particularly decorative. The swords seemed of little value compared to the hoard we’d just passed through. I glanced around. The gloomy brick walls were plain and impenetrable. The temperature was frigid.
    “These look like prisoners in a cell,” I said. “Or quarantined, as if diseased. Why are they alone?”
    “To await removal,” Elizabeth said. “If icons are the window into the soul of Russia, these represent Poland. My friend Adam Czartoryski calls them the most precious relics of his nation. Yet he dare not go near, lest he confirm his sympathies and give ammunition to his enemies. For the same reason I didn’t bring your husband here, and instead made up a story about silly women studying ancient jewelry. There’s an advantage to being female; Karlinsky has promised to be quiet about my visits because he believes them frivolous. I told him the tsar fears me a profligate spender constantly searching for new inspirations, which merely confirmed prejudices the colonel already had. Such secrecy might last just long enough.”
    “Long enough for what?” The cell was very oppressive, making me think of the prison nearby.
    “For your husband to liberate these.”
    When you accept charity such as an apartment and servant, payment must always come due. My heart began to thump. “Tsarina?”
    “You may call me Elizabeth, Astiza, because we must be the closest of friends. Partners. Sisters. What you see here are the Grunwald Swords, the soul of Poland. In 1410, at Grunwald Field, the grand master of Germany’s Teutonic Knights sent these swords as a challenge to King Vladislaus II of Poland. The Poles won the ensuring battle, helped by early artillery serviced by Chinese monks. The Poles kept the swords as spoils of victory, using them in coronation ceremonies ever since. The Germans have smarted from the defeat for the same four centuries. When Poland was partitioned in 1794, Catherine the Great took the swords to Russia. And now Russia, seeking an ally that happens to loathe Poland, has promised the swords to Prussia in return for partnership against Napoleon. Von Bonin is here to collect them.”
    “He has only one hand and one eye.”
    “He’s deadly with that prosthesis. I’ve heard that when he duels—which is often—he proposes that his opponent fight with one arm tied and one eye