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 . . .”

A few clicks of the mouse later, the image in question filled Karna’s screen. He studied the photo for several minutes before saying, “Do you see the seam I’m talking about? The one that looks like a series of eight dashes?”

“Yes,” said Pete.

“And the full seam opposite that?”

“Got it.”

“Forget that one. It’s a decoy. Unless I miss my guess, the dashed seam is a combination lock, of sorts.”

“The gaps are almost paper-thin,” said Wendy. “How can-”

“Two millimeters, I would say. You’ll need a shim, of sorts; a thin but strong type of metal or alloy. Inside each of those dashes will be a brass or bronze flange, each with three vertical depression settings: up, middle, and fully down.”

“Hold on,” Wendy said. “I’m doing the math . . . That’s over sixty-five hundred possible combinations.”

“Not overly daunting,” Pete said. “With enough patience, and time, you could eventually pick it.”

Karna said, “True, if not for one fact: you only get one crack at it. Enter the wrong combination, and the internal mechanism locks itself.”

“That does complicate things.”

“We’ve not yet begun to unravel the complications, my boy. Once past the combination, the real challenge begins.”

“How?” Wendy said. “What?”

“Have you ever heard of a Chinese puzzle box?”

“Yes.”

“Think of what you have before you as the mother of all Chinese puzzle boxes. As it so happens, I believe I have the combination to the initial locking mechanism. Shall we get started . . . ?”

Three hours later Sam and Remi, now awake, refreshed, and armed with cups of tea, joined Karna before his laptop just in time to hear Pete exclaim through the iChat window, “Got it!” On-screen, he and Wendy were leaning over the worktable, the Sentinel box between them. It was brightly illuminated by an overhead halogen lamp.

Another iChat screen popped up on the screen, this one displaying Selma’s face: “Got what?”

“It’s a Chinese puzzle box,” replied Wendy. “Once we got past the combination, a narrow panel popped open. Inside were three tiny wooden switches. Following Jack’s directions, we flipped one. Another panel opened, then more switches, and so on . . . How many moves now, Jack?”

“Sixty-four. One more to go. If we’ve done our job, it’ll open. If not, we may lose the contents forever.”

“Explain that,” Sam said.

“Oh, goodness, I didn’t mention the booby trap, did I? So sorry.”

“Mention it now,” Remi said.

“If the box contains a disk, it will be suspended in the middle of the primary compartment. Set into the sides of that compartment will be glass vials filled with corrosive liquid. If your last move is the wrong one or you try to force the compartment open . . .” Karna made a hissing sound. “You get an unidentifiable lump of gold.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” said Selma, “but I don’t think there’s a disk in there.”

“Why?” asked Pete.

“Odds. Sam and Remi stumble upon the only Sentinel box ever found and it just happens to contain the one genuine disk in the bunch?”

Karna said, “But they didn’t ‘stumble’ upon it, did they? They were following in the footsteps of Lewis King-a man who had spent at least eleven years chasing the Theurang. Whatever his motives, I doubt he was on a goose chase that day at Chobar Gorge. It appears he never found the Sentinel’s burial chamber, but I suspect he wasn’t there for an empty box.”

Selma considered this. “Logical,” was all she said.

“One way to find out,” Sam said. “Who’s going to do the honors? Pete . . . Wendy?”

Pete said, “I’m nothing if not chivalrous. Go ahead, Wendy.”

Wendy took a deep breath, reached into the box, and flipped the appropriate switch. An inch-wide rectangular hatch slid open beside her fingers.

Karna said softly, “Now gently slide your pinkie finger up along the inside of the box until you feel a square button.”

Wendy did so. “Okay, got it.”

“Slide that button . . . let me see . . . slide it to the right-no, left! Slide it to the left.”

“Left,” Wendy repeated. “Are you sure?”

Karna hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly. “Yes, left.”

“Here I go.”

Through the laptop’s speaker Sam and Remi heard a wooden snick.

Wendy cried, “The top’s open!”

“Now carefully lift the lid straight upward. If it’s there, the disk will be suspended from the underside.”

Moving with exaggerated slowness, Wendy began lifting the lid an inch at a time. “It’s got some heft to it.”

“Don’t let it swing,” Karna whispered. “A little more . . .”

Pete rasped, “I can see a cord hanging down. Looks like catgut or something similar.”

Wendy kept lifting.

The halogen light reflected off something solid, a curved edge, a glint of gold.

“Be ready, Peter,” said Karna.

Wendy lifted the lid the rest of the way. The remainder of the cord rose from the box. Dangling at its end: the prize, a four-inch-wide golden disk.

With latex-gloved hands, Pete reached out. Wendy lowered the disk into his palms, and he transferred it to a foam-lined tray on the table.

The group let out a collective breath.

“Now comes the hard part,” Karna said.

“What?” Wendy said with exasperation. “That wasn’t the hard part?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. Now we must ascertain whether we do in fact have the genuine article.”

VLORE, ALBANIA

The Fiat’s dashboard clock clicked over to nine a.m. just as Sam and Remi passed the welcome sign for Vlore. Albania’s second-largest city, of a hundred thousand souls, sat nestled on a bay on the west coast, overlooking the Adriatic with its back to the mountains.

And with any luck, Sam and Remi hoped, Vlore was still home to one of the Sentinel disks.

An hour after Wendy and Pete had extracted the Theurang disk from the box and set about determining its provenance with Karna, Selma’s face reappeared in an iChat window on Karna’s laptop’s screen.

In her characteristically curt manner she said, “Jack, your research methods are impeccable. Sam, Remi, I think his theory about the two priests holds water. Whether we can find them and the other two disks is another matter.”