[Sandusky, Ohio. October 29, 1866]

Karsten shook the rain from his coat and sat down at the counter. He put a few nickels on the counter, and tossed a dollar on the back of the bartender's hand as she attempted to collect it. When she gave him a quizzical look, he smiled winningly at her and passed the paper that had been delivered by a dead man. "I received this note with this address, ma'am. I'm supposed to meet an 'Emma Posat' here? Is she waiting or am I early?"

"She's in town," the bartender smiled back. He had the impression of a moth faking at being a butterfly, but he wasn't sure where he got that impression. Her striking blue eyes were almost luminescent in the gloom, and her curled blonde tresses were cut short in a practical bob favored by the extremely fashionable and few others. "You can wait at that table in the corner. Some of your party has arrived already." She slid a rum across the counter into his hand.

Karsten thanked the woman and took his drink, stalking to the indicated table. There were two men sitting at the table; one was a rail-thin gentleman with sunburnt skin and a fragile pair of bifocal glasses perched on his nose wearing a wrinkled suit. The other was a squat, thickset workman with a deeper, gentler tan and a respectable pair of mutton chops, wearing thickly layered khakis designed for labor. The thin one spoke to his companion in the tones of Massachusetts upper crust, and received a Northern English accent in return.

Karsten's vision blurred lightly, and he braced himself like a drunk on a nearby rail. When he was in charge of his faculties, he fancied he saw a badger speaking to a sandhill crane. Shaking his head until the impression had left him, he continued on his path.

Karsten stood by the table until they noticed him. "My name is Karsten Yeager. You're here for Emma Posat?"

"Uh... yes," the thin one spoke first, "I am Aaron Dupont, archaeologist and Fellow with the Smithsonian. This is Beckham Palmer, our shovel man."

"Dig Site Captain," Beckham corrected, and reached to shake Karsten's hand. Karsten gripped his hand back and was not surprised to find himself squeezing an iron clamp.

Karsten held his hand out and had to consciously avoid crushing the thin bones in Dupont's hand. He noted the callouses; Dupont wasn't a stranger to at least some digging. "Mind if I sit?" he asked, and waited politely for a nod before dragging a third chair over to sit at the end.

"That coat's seen better days," Dupont noted, eyeing Karsten's fringed service coat. He'd removed all of the rank insignias after the war, but he'd replaced the shiny brass buttons with small black marble ones when he became an irregular. It was recognizable as a Union coat, but it was clearly decommissioned. 

"So have I," Karsten laughed, and the two nervously chuckled. 

"Did you come by it honestly?" Palmer asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"It was issued to me," Karsten confirmed, "I didn't loot it. I just kept it because it's a good coat and I don't like waste."

The two visibly relaxed. "That's all right then," Palmer answered, tipping a beer in Karsten's direction before taking a long pull.

"What about you?" Karsten asked Dupont. "You're a pair of archaeologists. You know what this is about?"

Dupont mumbled something that sounded like 'politics' before actually answering, "I don't know. Given what I do know, I suspect we're about to go on some wild goose chase. Are you yourself a scientist of some kind?"

Karsten chuckled. "I consider myself a military philosopher," he answered.

Palmer wrinkled his nose, "What's that mean?"

"It means I was enlisted, and too far down the ranks to sweat over logistics." They shared his laugh and he gave a true answer, "I have no idea why I'm here. Perhaps someone had heard of my... latest career and thinks I can walk them through some dangerous location? I'm not good for much else, really."

"Don't sell yourself short," Palmer assured him, "I'm sure you have a purpose here that isn't just killing."

"Security," Karsten corrected. "Just like you're more than just a shovel man, 'Dig Captain.' With two antiquarians like yourself on this trip I'd say we're going to do some digging, so my job is likely more keeping you safe than going after any enemy."

"Astute," noted a voice behind him. It wasn't exactly a feminine voice, but it certainly came from a woman. Karsten turned and was faced with a woman, her mouth full of shark fangs and her blue eyes black in their sockets. Blue veins traced glowingly along her snow-white flesh, and even when she moved there was no noise. Karsten closed his eyes, breathed and counted to six before opening his eyes again and seeing a normal human woman, pale enough to be potentially nocturnal though still within human tones. Her eyes were the same blue as the bartender's, though her hair was jet black. She carried a mahogany trumpet case and wore a corseted blouse and trousers, immodest and extremely modern, especially for the area. As she walked, there was the click of hobnails and a brief glance down confirmed that she wore a pair of Austrian infantry boots that matched the nationality of her light accent. She dragged another chair and sat down with offputting precision. "We are here to accompany these men on a series of digs. Some of the places for these digs are... not so nice."

"Emma Posat, I presume?" ventured Karsten, though something seemed off about that. Looking at her, there was a pang of familiarity. 

"No, she is my... employer. I am Romy Havek."

Something clicked for Karsten and he made a surprised noise in his throat, "Oh wait... I recognize you! You were a nurse with Willech's boys, weren't you?"

She smiled thinly, "No, I was not in this country when you were fighting. I only came after. I have... cousins you might have seen. The family resemblance runs strongly."

Disappointed, Karsten slipped into silence and began drinking his rum.

"So... is it just the four of us? Can we expect Madame Posat soon, then?"

"Yes, she will be along shortly. Other than that, it's not mine to say."

Dupont stared at the woman. He had chalked up the resemblance to coincidence but to mirror so closely what Secretary Baird's aide had said made it undeniable. "Do you have a cousin that works as an aide to Secretary Baird, of the Smithsonian?"

Romy shrugged, noncommitally. "We don't all know each other," she notably dodged.

While Karsten had caught the dodge, Dupont was satisfied and chalked the whole incident up to synchronicity.

"So," Palmer rumbled after another pull on his beer. "Tell us about yourself. What is it that you do?"

"Whatever needs done," she answered. "However it needs done."

"So it'll be you fetching lunches for the workmen? You should probably know that I've got an allergy to shellfish. In case we go to Portugal."

"That is... not likely," Romy answered, though to whether to his question or his statement none could tell. 

"Do you know where we're going then?" Karsten asked, eagerly. "Can't be anywhere in Sandusky worth digging, this is just the meetup, right?"

"This is just the meetup," she confirmed, "We will be following a trail that starts in Saxony."

"Saxony?" Palmer asked, agape. "Isn't there a war going on with all the Germans over there?"

"That ended in August," Romy answered. "There are still bands of deserters, the displaced, looters and broken men wandering the area however, and... other things that may have a more focused interest in our plans. The extra security could help with all of that."

"So going to a war-torn locale to plunder hidden treasures?" Dupont remarked, with disgust.

"We do it all the time," Palmer noted, "Would you rather those treasures be dug up by some half-illiterate warlord? Better to preserve the history and put it in a museum in a stable country."

"Still seems a bit like theft to me," Yeager broke in.

"That's because you're a half-illiterate warlord," Palmer noted with a sly grin. "No offense."

Karsten thought long and hard about whether he'd like to be offended. He had a brief fancy regarding the likely contours of Beckham's skull but shook the image away. He decided against being offended and laughed instead along with Palmer. He rather liked the blunt dig master. His skull was likely too round on top anyway.

Now Dupont, that man's skull probably had a proper point to the top, with a high and forward forehead and wide cheekbones that whispered of distant Iroquois and French relations.

He casually looked at the stoic Ms. Havek and had to fight down rising panic as he once again saw her glowing blue veins and inhuman predatory nature. Blinking this away, he instead imagined her skull; almost too symmetrical to be real, with high and noble cheekbones and a strong jaw that somehow tapered into an unlikely delicate chin. Her teeth were too perfect, and the orbits of her eyes were a mirror image. She almost didn't look real, and his imagination drifted from her skull to her face being possibly a beautifully crafted waxen mask behind which lurked some insectoid thing. The effect hurt his head so he turned back to his drink and began washing these thoughts away.

The bartender busied by and refilled all drinks with impeccable timing, favored them all with a smile and a few platitudes, and then was off again. Karsten began contemplating his drink, looking at each of his companions' drinks in turn before turning back to his own. 

"So," Dupont asked Havek, "Is this all? Just the four of us? And our mysterious backer, of course..."

"No," she answered him, "There is one more. A cartographer."

A few minutes of light conversation later, a small voice cut into their conversation, "Hello? Party for Madame Posat?"

Romy turned to the newcomer with a smile. "There you are! I was growing worried. Everyone, this is Inola Gibson, our cartographer."

Dupont looked Inola up and down and cocked his head at Karsten for a few beats. "Is she... qualified?"

"I am," Inola answered. "I was tutored in Paris by several masters of both cartography and fine art."

"They took you despite..." Dupont looked around, helplessly.

"Despite my complexion?" Inola asked. Her voice and visage were pure innocence. 

"She's a Melungeon," Karsten broke in, still staring into his rum. "Heavy Cherokee, I think. Family probably has some plantation ties that they leveraged for a loan to send her away while the war was on."

Inola's composure slipped before she regained it. "Yes, that is true. How did you know that?"

"Name, your ah... 'complexion' as you put it. I knew a man who was party to burning the Gibson Plantation, found the place overgrown and abandoned. He found it unsettling for some reason. Also raised a little posse of Gibsons in West Virginia to root out a band of particularly rough deserters. Lot of those had to be cleaned up towards the end of the war. I liked asking Gibsons because they had money, which meant that they had good rifles and were better fed. Stronger. Doesn't take much to put things together."

He finally glanced her way. She had a sweet face, like a little doll with a heavy tan. Thick tresses were gathered in a chocolate colored brocaded bun in the back of her head, and she wore a tweed longoat puffed out by a petticoat. He fancied a delicate and expertly painted porcelain doll standing where she stood, but the eyes were active and sharp. The gleam of intelligence cut through his thoughts and he was just seeing her again, albeit she looked as though she'd be much more at home among stacks of scrolls and books in some multicultural library somewhere. When he was satisfied, he looked back at his glass and with a bit of hesitation took another sip.

"That's wonderful," Dupont beamed, apparently over his trepidation. "Sit, I'm sure the bartender will be by shortly." As if on cue, a glass of sweet red wine was in front of Gibson and a chair was pulled up for her, and everyone's drink was refreshed. 

Only Karsten didn't drink his. He looked around at the other patrons. A man at the next table grinned like a stiffened corpse, his eyes holes of pure darkness as he leered at them. Two rough looking men jabbered in dockside Maine accents. A little boy lounged on a barstool, watching them out of the corner of his eye and pretending to eat a hot biscuit. Karsten tried counting again, but this time the visions didn't falter. He supposed he'd need sleep soon.

"What do you think our new benefactor might be doing right now?" Beckham asked, "I'm eager to know what this is all about."

"She's close," Havek promised, cryptically.

"She's tending bar," Karsten answered.

Romy's face became an emotionless mask, confirming his suspicion. "How," she asked, carefully, "Did you come to that conclusion?"

"I spent a month here and there in South Carolina. Wilmington area. Place is for pirates, mostly, but they didn't mind taking a Bushwhacker's money when he was in town recovering from injuries. Got a taste for this drink. Hard to come by up here, and I didn't pay nearly enough for it, much less for refills. I also didn't order it. Said not a word, but it's my favorite drink. I'm guessing everyone got their favorites." The table nodded, hesitantly. "That's what I thought. I haven't seen anyone order anything but everyone's real happy with what they got. Our benefactor knows us. Been watching us, I'd guess."

"That seems paranoid," Romy noted.

"No, what's paranoid is that I can't shake the feeling that our drinks are poisoned." 

Palmer held a mouthful of beer as if deciding whether to spit it out. He opted to swallow it, but placed the mug on the table to be neglected. The others had similar reactions.

"Not your drinks," Havek grumbled, barely audible. It wasn't long after that that the other patrons started to collapse to the floor, writhing helplessly. Only the boy was untouched, and the bartender glared at him. He hesitated, looked at the writhing victims, and dropped his biscuit before bolting through the door with extraordinary speed.

When she was satisfied, the bartender stepped around the counter and picked her way through the slowly stiffening forms of her other guests. When she was close enough to address them, she smiled brightly. "I am Emma Posat."

"Karsten had guessed," Romy informed her. "Just as you predicted."

She beamed even brighter. "Even better! Don't worry, we can talk freely. These little spies and saboteurs will not be a problem."

"This is like talking to a damn Pinkerton," Karsten groaned.

Posat looked confused, "I was under the impression that the Pinkertons were regarded as a joke these days."

"The ballooners always overestimated the enemy numbers, and their presidential protection is obviously lacking. But the questioners and deep intelligence knew how to get answers out of even the most loyal son of Dixie. They could put things together that most people wouldn't think twice about even if looking. Those Pinkertons spoke in riddles and played power games like this."

Posat nodded, giving Romy a cryptic look. Some sort of understanding passed between the two. Emma moved on, "As you have been told, you are here to depart on an expedition to the center of the German Confederation. That is not how the expedition will end, however. I believe that there are clues to be found and followed that will lead to a great discovery. I expect a minimum of six sites, perhaps more, before it is over. You should find an indication of the location of the next within the dig site itself."

"Your aide informed us that there might be other interests looking for the same thing? How violent are they? Who are they?" Karsten asked, crossing his legs for a long lecture.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Posat smiled. "Suffice to say that there is more here than the historical sigificance, and many things in the world may resent our work."

"You'll be coming with us?" Palmer asked, with perhaps too much eagerness.

"No. I must make special arrangements for my own travel, as I have... medical needs. For you, I have chartered a cross-atlantic journey on the steamship USS Wright." You should be arriving in four weeks after you set foot on that ship. From there, you will meet my man Chattig, who will have the necessary paperwork for your dig."

"What's this all about?" Dupont asked undiplomatically. "You say it's important but you haven't actually said what it is..."

Emma leaned towards the group dramatically. "Have you ever heard of Atlantis?"

Dupont laughed out loud. "There was a Congressman last year that spent the better part of the year bothering Secretary Baird for 'hiding evidence' of Plato's lost continent. You've fallen for that?"

Posat flashed him a smile and the mirth drained from him. He couldn't place it, but something in her eyes had terrified him despite the perfectly dazzling grin. She continued, "Donnelly has a hint of it, but he knows nothing. 'Atlantis' was only one city, and is of little interest to me in its watery grave. I am looking for the sepulchre of a magi. A magi from before the position was ceremonial. The proverbial wizard under the mountain. One of my contacts found a spear many years ago that I believe is the key to finding this sepulchre."

"Merlin?" Dupont asked, just as incredulous.

"Older. Much older. I believe that the keys to the magi's tomb were buried separately by his acolytes. Finding their graves will lead you to the magi himself."

"And one of these graves is in Germany? Older than we believe the species is?"

"Yes."

It was Palmer that answered, this time, "That's all well and good. Let's talk practicality. How are we getting there? I've got a team of reliable men I'd like to take with me. Is there room on your boat?"

"There should be. Tell your men to meeet you in New York, where the steamship is waiting for you. Your equipment should already be on board when you arrive. You should be there inside of two weeks. After that, a month at sea and you'll put to port in Hamburg where more carts will be waiting for you. It's all been arranged."

"So we can expect a smooth journey?" Karsten asked, eyeing the prone and still forms of the other bar goers. 

"No. You can expect possible attacks. They will think that you have the spear and they will want it. They will also seek to turn you against me, and against the work. Trust no-one that you do not know."

"Pinkerton," Karsten grumbled, and finally downed his rum.