Derelict

What Can Mere Mortals Do?

Chapter Three

With Wyatt and Rison hustling off to unload the wagon, Elgee spent a few moments gloating about his victory over the Raman trader. He couldn't begin to imagine why the talk around Cairo painted them as duplicitous and conniving. Trading away a worthless old crate that had been languishing in the vault for centuries in return for one thousand pounds of crystals was so easy and so lucrative it ought to be illegal.

Well, technically it was illegal but he allowed himself a rare smile anyway. Amazing, he thought. That crate's been gathering dust for centuries--it was clear his father had not opened it--and suddenly it was worth untold riches! He folded his arms across his chest and paced the shop, pausing at each window and gazing out but not really seeing anything. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back and his hair--what little remained--plastered itself to his head like it had been painted on.

Somehow that trader knew. He knew everything. Boss pushed it away, knowing if he continued to dwell on it he would move from curiosity to worry, then from worry to fear. And it shouldn't bother him. I knew it was coming. I knew one day that door would open and someone would be coming for that crate. But he always thought it would be in the future, somewhere down the line.

For the thousandth time, the contents of the crate and the import behind the dire warnings left by his father nagged at him. Why couldn't you just tell me what was in it? Why the mystery? It was frustrating, even after all these years to realize his father had never once discussed the crate, or even the existence of the safe. Only after his death when the bloodsucking lawyer handed him a sealed envelope did Elgee realize all was not as it seemed down in Cairo. The note and its message plagued him for years, curiosity eating away like a cancer.

You remember the old code I taught you as a child? It was his father's handwriting but it wasn't really a question. The day will come when you discover its use and when you do, you will discover your birthright. Resist with all your might the urge to open it or disturb the contents. What is inside will bring certain death.

Disgust filled him, as it did every time he thought of the note and its cryptic warning. What kind of a father leaves a box of death as a birthright for his son? Why not gold? Or better yet, a trove of crystals, certainly worth far more than gold. The message continued, provoking even greater irritation. A man will come, he will know of the crate and you will give it to him.

In the five long years since the death of his father, the crate tormented him. With the words and symbols void of meaning, it had nagged at him like a rash he could never scratch. Birthright! He did his best to push the thought of the useless crate to the back of his mind, to forget about it and move on. Useless until today, that is. But why was the Raman trader was so willing to part with untold riches for old tech that had been languishing for centuries? If he knew the words, why now? The trader could have claimed the crate during any of the previous five trading seasons since he had inherited the shop. It just didn't add up.

But oh, the crystals! And one thousand pounds of them, enough for a thousand lifetimes of luxury and excess. The thought of his pending riches chased away any concern about this deal and he allowed himself to wallow in a gilded fantasy of life back in Chicago. People would puzzle over his newfound wealth, of course. His life would be filled beautiful things, fine food and clothes, and women. Women who had previously been too highborn and proud to consider a dalliance with someone so beneath their station but would now flock to him like pigs at the slop. Men who had never paid him enough attention, who snubbed him or worse, shook their heads in mock pity when he passed by; these same men would now welcome him with open arms. They'd pat him on the back and speak to him as though he were a long lost friend, all the while seeking ways to finagle as much of his horde as they could. Eventually, they would begin to wonder how he came into such riches, and then the whispering would start. Soon, the whispers would evolve into demands, those demands into accusations. They would believe he had been conducting unauthorized trade and soon the Guild would become involved.