All the Colors of Time (27 page)

Rhys studied the two slabs for a moment. “What do you see?”

Tzia hesitated, her neck frill rippling with thought, then
said, “I’m not certain. But I don’t see slaves or victims. Where are their
manacles? And notice that they seem to be wearing the same basic
clothing…uniforms, one might say—that their so-called guards are wearing.”

Rhys nodded. “Except for the crested helmets and staffs.”

Tzia’s head rose and fell. “Not only that, but those staffs
look like dreadfully ineffective weapons. More like … ceremonial objects,
symbols of power or rank.”

“How does Professor Burton explain the anomaly?”

“There’s no anomaly to explain,” said Burton’s voice from
the scaffold ladder.

Tzia jumped guiltily, her sagittal frill flattening, and
moved to put Rhys and Yoshi between herself and the older archaeologist. Burton
pulled himself up onto the platform, his face a furious red.

“Tzia’s mistake is that she has read the symbolic as literal.
She tends to view archaeological evidence in the same way many people read
mythology or scripture. How many different literal interpretations of the
Revelation of Saint John existed before hindsight rendered interpretation
irrelevant? No, we must read this as we would read any religious script. To do
otherwise would be to stumble into lazy and simplistic thinking. This is the
symbolic record of a primitive people. If you want to see the meaning of the
group, look to the representative figure.” He rapped Ets-eket’s stone kilt with
the tips of his fingers. “Here is your warrior-king, armed with spear and
scepter. Here is your man-god, wearing the crown of lordship. I’d appreciate
it, Tzia, if you would leave the search for archaeological truth to those uniquely
qualified to perform it—those with the human quality of imagination.”

Neck frill rigid, sagittal frill completely collapsed, Tzia
dipped her head in a gesture of defeat. Appalled, Yoshi glanced at Rhys. For
the second time that morning, his face and hair matched.

“Professor Burton,” he began, but the older man cut him off
with a gesture.

“Come, Rhys. They’ve made another find in the Chapel.” He
had gone over the edge of the scaffolding before anyone could react to the
news.

Rhys glanced apologetically at Tzia. “I’m very sorry. I … I
thought your commentary was perfectly reasonable.”

Tzia offered a thin-lipped Xthni smile. “Thank you. But you
should not let Professor Burton hear you say that. He … does not like my
unlaundered ideas.”

Rhys frowned and opened his mouth—possibly to ask what she
meant—but Burton interrupted from below. “I say, Llewellyn! Are you coming or
not?”

He gave Tzia another apologetic look and hurried down the
ladder.

“What did you mean,” asked Yoshi, as they watched the two
men disappear beneath the arching gate, “unlaundered ideas?”

Tzia uttered a sigh that needed no translation. “When first
we saw what this relief depicted, it was yet early in the dig. I did not then
know it was wise to … advance my theories through Professor Deer-Walks-Here.
Now, I am more careful.”

“Surely Professor Burton respects your skills, otherwise he
wouldn’t have included you on his team.”

Tzia’s laugh was a thin trill of sound. “He respects Nyami.
For his dig, Nyami he must have. I, Nyami must have. So, to get Nyami, he must
take me.”

Yoshi caught up with the others in the large rear room of
the Chapel. Rick sidled up to her, a puzzled expression on his face. “You all
right? You look like the bluebird of doom.”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened up on that scaffold? Rhys looks like he
ripped his favorite kilt, and Burton’s all red in the face.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Yoshi murmured. “What’d they
find?”

“Looks like their first real treasure trove.”

It did indeed. The abundant coinage was rectangular and cut
from some relatively soft stone. The diggers had found it in a deposit in the
far corner of the room, where Rhys and Burton were already hunkered down
between laser grid lines. Next to them, the three diggers assigned to the room
stood and beamed. A fourth worker recorded everything with a holocam.

Burton’s pale eyes were exultant as he held two of the coins
up for the camera. “As you can see each one is embossed with the image of
Ets-eket on one side and a sacrificial altar on the other. Further evidence of
his pervasive force in this society.”

“Looks almost like jade,” murmured Rhys, turning a piece
over in his hands. He ran an exploratory finger over the sculpted surface,
noting the neatly cut hole in the center of Ets-eket’s headdress.

There was more. Further digging unearthed what appeared to
be a calendar. It had four rows of nine squares each; most squares embossed
with one of three symbols—the tower with what appeared to be a flame dancing
atop it, a rectangle that looked like a wagon with spoked wheels, and a second
rectangle which may have represented an altar, as Burton suggested, or anything
else that was rectangular in shape. At the top of the stone slab was one of the
ubiquitous carvings of Ets-eket. The symbols appeared in regular alternating
order, except for the last three squares of each row, which contained circles.

Burton was thrilled with the discovery. “To find a religious
calendar of this type is extraordinary luck. This will tell us much more about
the nature of the religion practiced here.”

oOo

The day continued to go well for the archaeologists. By
evening, the team working in the quartet of pits along the southern wall
reported that the detritus was exceptionally full of humus, and animal bones
abounded. Outside of these areas, bone finds were limited to partial skeletons
or the carcasses of local vermin. The character of the bones was also of
interest; most of them had been broken, many had even had the marrow removed,
and a great many more showed definite gnaw marks and cuts. Meanwhile, the team
in Temple One turned up an incredible variety of ceramic—pieces of plates,
bowls, ewers, and cups from the plain to the ornate.

“I think we’ve found the banquet hall of an Etsatat Henry
the VIII,” joked one of the diggers.

The evening meal was taken in an air of celebration.
Everyone, Rhys included, basked in the glow of discovery. As the glow faded and
exhaustion from the busy, discovery-filled day took over, Rhys excused himself
and went to the Finds tent. Yoshi was already there, poring over coins and
calendar in the steady glow of the camp lights in the empty room. Rhys sat down
opposite her at a sorting table, watching her make notes in her field journal.
Eventually, he began a lazy examination of the calendar.

“Rhys?”

He raised his head. Yoshi had laid five coins in a row
before her and was studying them intently. A sixth stone rectangle was in her
hand. “Do you agree with Dr. Burton about these markers? That they were coins
paid in tribute to Ets-eket?”

“Markers?” Rhys repeated, rubbing his eyes. “Dare I suppose
your use of that term means you don’t agree with him?”

Yoshi shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “No
sir, I don’t believe I do. Look.” She pushed her journal toward him. An
enhanced image of one of the coins was displayed in its flat hologrid. “This is
the first marker in this set. The back of it. See the scroll design under the
little building?”

“The little building? Not a sacrificial altar?”

“Well, it looks more like a building to me.” There was a
definite note of defensiveness in that. “Frankly, I think it looks more like a
… a transport shuttle than it does a sacrificial altar.”

Rhys smiled crookedly. “Whatever. Aye, I see the scroll
work.”

Yoshi brought up a second image on the journal. “This is the
second marker. Same area.”

Rhys concentrated on the play of looping lines below the
squat, raised rectangle Burton had dubbed an altar. His brow furrowed of its
own accord before he realized what he was frowning at.

“It’s different,” Yoshi prompted. “A different pattern than
the first. And here’s the third . . .”

That scroll, too, was slightly different than either of the
others. Rhys rubbed a finger over his lower lip. “Well, they are hand-carved.
Could be minor variations.”

“Some of them aren’t so minor. There’s a second set with the
tower on the back. The scroll work on those is also unique to each piece,
almost like a signature. But look . . .” She adjusted the
display so it showed the flip side of the coin. “Here’s marker number one … and
number two … and number three. And here’s one from a tower set. The effigies of
Ets-eket are identical. Any variation could be accounted for by wear—it’s
fairly soft material, almost like, oh, soapstone.”

Rhys picked up the journal and examined it closely, rotating
the image on its display. The flame of fascination kindled in his weary brain.

“They are identical. These aren’t hand carved, they’re …
pressed.
Good God, look! Here’s a mold
mark!” He ran his finger along one edge of the 3-D image.

“That’s another thing,” said Yoshi, her eyes gleaming, “they’re
not stone. But they’re not synthetic either. They’re … smelted composites.
Maybe that’s what the tower was used for.”

“Or this could be a hoax.”

Yoshi shook her head. “I dated some of these myself. They’re
anywhere from four thousand-five hundred to five thousand years old. The
Etsatat evidently had some low-level technology even then. I suppose they’d
have to, they moved those building blocks of theirs from a quarry ten klicks
away. There’s something else, too. These ‘wear marks’ of Dr. Burton’s?” She
pointed out the feature in the journal image with the end of a tiny scraping
tool. “I don’t think they’re wear marks. They’re too … regular. I think these
markers were intentionally scored. I also think they were worn or carried on a
thong of some sort. Look how the holes are worn at the top edge.”

Rhys took the coin she offered him and peered at the top
edge of it. She was right, it did seem to be scored, if randomly. And the hole
in Ets-eket’s headdress was indeed elongated toward the top. He picked up a
second marker. This one bore the same scratches along the top edge, but unlike
those on the first coin, they continued down one side edge as well. A third
specimen had score marks almost all the way around it. Something tickled the
back of Rhys’s mind.

“Record keeping,” he murmured. “Not coins, but punch cards?”

“I don’t know, sir. But that would make sense, taken in
context with the calendar. Maybe the scores represent days.” She nodded to the
stone tablet that lay between Rhys’s forearms.

He glanced at her sharply, then turned his eyes to the
calendar. “If you don’t stop calling me ‘sir,’ I’m going to have to cast a
spell on you.” His right hand gave an absent tug on the thong of the Pa-Kai
spirit bag that hung, always, around his neck. “And don’t think I can’t. It’s
well within my shamanistic abilities.”

Yoshi blushed and fell silent.

Rhys was fingering the series of representations on the flat
hunk of carved rock. “Okay, we know these things: Etsat’s rotation is
thirty-one-point-two hours. The modern Etsatat week is divided into nine days
and the month is four weeks long; intercalary days are added once a year at new
year.” He ran his finger down one side of the tablet. “I’d say that we’re
looking at basically the same calendar here.”

Yoshi nodded. “The calendar—if that’s what it is—seems to
show one Etsat month.”

“So,” Rhys continued, “Burton thinks the altar represents
worship days, the tower and flame represent sacrificial days, and the wagons,
days when tribute is collected.”

Yoshi raised dark eyes to his face. “Three sacrifice days,
three tribute days and three worship days in every week? Doesn’t that seem . . .”
The word hung, uncertain, on her lips, then she dropped her eyes.

“Excessive?”

She shrugged one slender shoulder and Rhys knew that had not
been what she had been going to say.

“There is the matter of the tribute train depicted on the
gate.”

The other shoulder shrugged. “And the dancing slaves?”

Rhys was momentarily speechless. In the three years he’d
known her he had never heard Yoshi use that sarcastic tone of voice. “You
really don’t like Professor Burton, do you?”

She was toying with the end of the blue-black braid that
fell across one shoulder. “Is it necessary that I do?”

“It … It distresses me that you don’t. Drew Burton is an
important person in my life. Why don’t you like him?”

The braid’s thong loosened under Yoshi’s nervous fingers. “I
suppose … he … reminds me of … Uncle Kenji.”

Rhys listened for a moment to the antiphonal tag team of
night insects, using that sparse cover to regroup. “Yoshi Umeki, I don’t
believe you’ve ever lied to me before in your life.”

Her hands jerked, the thong disappeared and her unbound hair
washed about her shoulders in a black tide. The look she gave him was both
tragic and defiant. “I’m not lying! You remember Uncle Kenji. Father’s eldest
brother. An odious man—”

“I remember him. What particular odious trait of Uncle Kenji’s
comes to mind in this case?”

The insect chorus swelled into the pause. “He was a
xenophobe.”

Stunned, Rhys murmured, “Actually, he was a bigot. Your
father’s word for it, I believe.”

He got up and went to the ever-ready coffee carafe to pour
over-strong coffee into a blue metal cup. He didn’t return to the table,
instead moving to stare out into a stygian forest night that was interrupted
only briefly by the golden glow of camp lights.

Funny, how some clichés of dig life were allowed to
perpetuate themselves regardless of technology’s advance. Dr. Burton’s camp was
like a slightly off-kilter reproduction of its ancestors—industrial strength
coffee in enameled metal cups, camp lights that flickered as if a fuel-powered
generator drove them and not the photon core of a time-altered spacecraft. Rhys
sipped the coffee; it was comfortingly bitter.