nt to be rude.”
“I’m not offended. I know how it sounds. And you’re right to be skeptical. I myself spent the first year after I found the diary trying to debunk it, with no success. Here’s what I propose: I will turn over my research notes to this Selma of yours. If she can disprove my theory, so be it. If not, then . . .”
“Balkans, here we come,” Remi said.
From his living quarters, Karna retrieved his laptop, an Apple MacBook Pro with a seventeen-inch screen, which he placed on the coffee table before them. He connected one end of an Ethernet cable to the laptop’s port and the other to a wall jack leading up to what Sam and Remi guessed was Karna’s satellite dish.
Soon, Selma’s face appeared in the iChat window. Standing behind her, looking over each shoulder, were Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden, and, behind them, the workspace in the Fargos’ San Diego home. Predictably, Selma was in her uniform of the day: horn-rimmed glasses on a neck chain and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
Accommodating a three-second satellite transmission delay, Remi made the introductions, then brought Selma and the others up to speed. As was her way, Selma asked no questions during Remi’s report, and was silent for a full minute afterward as she mentally collated the information.
“Interesting,” was all she said.
“That’s it?” Sam asked.
“Well, I assume you’ve already told Mr. Karna, in your own diplomatic way, how far-fetched this sounds.”
At this, Jack Karna chuckled. “They did indeed, Ms. Wondrash.”
“Selma.”
“Jack, then.”
“Do you have your research material digitized?”
“Of course.”
Selma gave Karna a link to the office’s server, then said, “Upload it there, and I’ll start working through it. In the meantime, I’ll turn the chest over to Pete and Wendy. The three of you can see about opening it.”
It took twenty minutes to upload all of Karna’s research notes. Once done, and after badgering Sam and Remi into having a nap in his guest room, Karna, Pete, and Wendy went to work on the box. Karna first asked to see enhanced pictures of the chest, including a close-up of the engraved characters.
He peered at them on his laptop screen, tilting his head first one way, then the other, until muttering something under his breath. He stood up suddenly, marched down the hallway, and returned a minute later with a tiny book bound in red-dyed textile. This he flipped through for several more minutes before calling, “Aha! Just as I thought: the characters are a derivation of Lowa and yet another royal dialect. The inscription is meant to be read vertically, from right to left. Roughly translated, it says:
“Through fulfillment, prosperity
“Through resistance, anguish . . .”
Wendy said, “I think I read that in a self-help book once.”
“I have no doubt,” Karna said, “but in this case it’s intended as a warning—a curse. I suspect these characters were inscribed on each of the Sentinels’ boxes.”
Pete said, “In short, ‘Take this to its destination, and you’ll find happiness; interfere with or impede that, and you’re screwed.’”
“Impressive, young man,” said Karna. “Not the words I would use, of course, but you arrested the gist of the message.”
“Would this have been intended for the Sentinels?” Wendy asked.
“No, I don’t think so. It was designed for the enemy or anyone who came into possession through illicit means.”
“But if the dialect is that obscure, who aside from Mustang royalty would have been able to understand the warning?”
“That’s beside the point. The curse stands, ignorance be damned.”
“Harsh,” said Pete.
“Let’s take a closer look at this box, shall we? In one of Remi’s pictures, I noticed the tiniest of seams along a bottom edge of the box.”
“We noticed that too,” Wendy replied. “Hold on, we’ve got a close-up . . .”