Free The Other Tree by D. K. Mok Page A

was definitely going to have told you by then.”
    Luke put his hands in his pockets, his gaze skimming across the wide sandstone street, the buildings painted in a molten afternoon glow. A light breeze floated through from the bay, carrying the smell of salted fish and sea spray. “Really,” was all Luke said.
    “Do you like underdog stories?” asked Chris with a hopeful smile.
    Luke realised why he’d felt the urge to hide under his desk the day she’d come by. Hers wasn’t the kind of madness you saw from miles away, involving public nudity and running down the street with other people’s undergarments on your head. It was the kind of madness that made someone stand alone in front of a hostile legion, wielding a banner that read “And your mother, too!” It was the kind of madness that made you believe pride, hope, and love could win against wealth, power, and hard weaponry. It was the kind of madness that got people killed.
    If you weren’t careful around such people, it could be infectious.
    “Well, I bribed some centurions and got mistaken for a homeless man,” said Luke. “How did you go?”
    “It’s that linty trenchcoat you wear.”
    “It’s a long jacket. And it’s wool.”
    Chris looked at the coat sceptically—it looked vaguely like a wild ancestor of the domesticated cardigan.
    “I think I have a lead,” said Chris. “The Sumerian tablet was donated to St Basilissa’s in 1748 by Ferdinand Abbaci, a Garden of Eden nut.”
    “There seem to be a lot of those,” said Luke.
    “They say he was a local shipping merchant, spent a fortune trying to locate Eden. Died an impoverished recluse. The ruins of his mausoleum and chapel are supposed to be somewhere just outside the city.”
    “Lyon’s Crossing,” murmured Luke. “I think I know where to find it.”
    * * *
    The door to the hotel suite opened a crack and Emir slipped inside, closing the door silently. He turned around and stopped dead.
    The room was a mess.
    The contents of bags were scrunched and scattered, and pieces of disassembled equipment had been strewn about the floor.
    “Man! Where have you been?” said Stace from the midst of the disaster zone, clutching his head. “You know I can never get stuff to fit back in the bags!”
    “Sorry,” said Emir, quickly scooping up stray objects and folding equipment back down to size. “I had some stuff to do.”
    “Docker wants us ready yesterday, and you know how snotty he gets—”
    “I know.” Emir slid something which resembled a rocket launcher into a stylish tote.
    Stace studied Emir for a moment, watching the introspection oozing from his colleague.
    “Don’t brood, mate,” said Stace. “Is it a girl? A guy? Bad boscaiola?”
    Emir slotted assorted knives into a concealed rack, lowering it into a suitcase and replacing the false bottom.
    “Do you wonder, about SinaCorp?” asked Emir. “I mean, all this great equipment, but the casualties are still so high…”
    “That’s why the pay is so frickin’ amazing. Danger money, man. Wanna see a picture of my fiancée?”
    “No!” said Emir quickly. “You just…keep packing.”
    The door swung open, and both Emir and Stace had their guns drawn by the time Roman strode into the room, tossing her equipment onto the bed. Bale and Docker followed close behind her.
    Docker’s gaze scanned the tidy room.
    “All ready,” said Emir, zipping up what appeared to be a golf caddy made from Kevlar.
    “There’ll be a slight delay,” said Docker, looking at Emir. He turned to the others. “Await further instructions.”
    * * *
    They had been forced to park the car when the dirt road became just dirt. A horse and carriage could have negotiated this way once, but the path had since been reclaimed by fallen trees and rising saplings. On the drive over here, Chris had brought Luke up to speed with a “SinaCorp is Evil” lecture, complete with illustrations, henchman nicknames, and, in Stace’s case, a printout of his