Free The Serpent's Shadow by Mercedes Lackey Page B

the laudanum every night.
    He was toying with the notion of having his men try their hands at making articles of modern use in the ancient fashion. Umbrella stands, perhaps? Writing-desk accessories? Articles for a lady’s dressing table? That might be exactly the right direction to go in; a lady would never use an artifact on her dressing table when she never knew what it originally contained, but she could surround herself with alabaster hair receivers, faience cologne bottles, carved unguent jars and powder boxes from his works, happy in the knowledge that she was the first and only user, with no long-dead Egyptian princess coming to stare back at her with long, slanted eyes in her vanity mirror.
    As he lifted vases and ushabtis from their packing crates, he marveled, as he always did, at the craftsmanship. These men took real pride in their work, and it showed. The alabaster of a replica oil lamp glowed in the light from his lantern, so thin was the stone of the lotus blossoms on their curving stems. And the tender expression on a goddess meant to protect one corner of a sarcophagus brought an answering smile to his lips; a sad smile, for he knew what the original had looked like, and who it had been for—and that all four of the sheltering goddesses had borne the lovely face of the dead Pharaoh’s grief-stricken wife.
    Oh, poor little Anksenamun, no more than a girl, and not only weighed down with grief but in fear for your own life. Wonder whatever became of you? Did you just fade away in mourning? Did you fly to safety somewhere? Or did you die at the hands of ambition and greed? Well, you died, sooner or later, a thousand years and more ago. May your gods keep you and your Tut together forever.
    Beautiful. And all of it free from the taint of the tomb, of the faint miasma of the rage of an impotent former owner. He often wondered how anyone could bear to have genuine artifacts anywhere near where they lived and slept.
    I certainly couldn’t. I’d wake up with terrors three times a night.
    The scent of Egypt and warmth came up from the excelsior along with the artworks: dust and heat; incense mingled with dung; a hint of lotus. By the time he finished with his inventory, for once finding nothing missing, broken, used as a container to smuggle opium or hashish, or otherwise amiss, he was tired and the ache in his knee gnawed at the edges of his temper. He was glad enough to replace the last figure in its bed of excelsior and close the lid on the packing case. A cozy coal fire was sounding better by the moment.
    Roast beef and ‘taters, and good mushy peas. That’s what will get me warmed inside and out. Bit of trifle, or pudding, or maybe treacle tart.
    â€œNight, Cap‘n,” the night watchman saluted from his stool beside the door, as Peter left the warehouse. Peter hadn’t been “Captain” Scott for a good six years and more, but the grizzled and weather-beaten night watchman had been one of his old hands, and habits died hard.
    â€œGood night, Jeremiah,” he replied, with a return salute. “Fog by morning.”
    â€œAnd hard luck to them on the water,” Jeremiah said with sympathy. “Or off it. Keep an eye to your back on your way home. Fog’s a blessin’ t’ them as is no better’n they should be, so mind ye take care.”
    â€œThat I will,” Peter assured him, and limped out onto the dock, listening to the water lick at the wooden pilings. But something in the sound of the water stopped him, just beyond the night watchman’s line of sight. He listened again. Someone swam, gently and quietly, just beneath the pier. Just beneath him, following where he went, sending up a thin, telltale touch of magic to alert him, thin as fog, insubstantial, tasting of water weeds, a gleaming, furtive, and fugitive ribbon of palest green.
    And he stifled a groan . Not tonight Not a messenger tonight Oh, bloody hell .
    He walked to the