Chapter 9: THE CARNARVON CONNECTION
Four days of organized chaos transformed the townhouse study.
Steinberg had requisitioned every flat surface for his papers—the desk, the side tables, two card tables dragged up from the parlor, and finally the floor itself. Maps covered the walls, connected by lengths of string in colors I couldn't decipher. Notes in German and English littered every available space, cross-referenced against my father's journals in a system only Steinberg seemed to understand.
"The pattern is clear." He stabbed a finger at a map of Europe, where red pins clustered around major cities. "They are not hunting randomly. The Ahnenerbe—or what will become the Ahnenerbe—has specific targets. Objects documented in occult literature, mentioned in medieval manuscripts, referenced in expedition reports." His finger moved to London. "This is their next priority."
Sam leaned over the map, his expression thoughtful. "London's a problem. We have no contacts there, no operational infrastructure. Any move we make would be blind."
"Perhaps not entirely blind." Steinberg pulled a folder from the chaos on his desk. "Lord Carnarvon. Howard Carter's patron during the Tutankhamun excavation."
"Died in 1923," I said. "The curse, supposedly."
"Infection from a mosquito bite, more likely. But his collection—that is what interests us." Steinberg spread documents across the map. "Carnarvon kept items from the tomb. Quietly, without official documentation. His family has been liquidating the collection since his death." He tapped a shipping manifest. "Two weeks ago, they sold a ceremonial dagger to an anonymous buyer. The shipping documents indicate Hamburg as the destination."
Hamburg. Germany.
"The Ahnenerbe." Sam's voice was flat.
"Almost certainly. The description matches references in their target lists." Steinberg's finger traced across the manifest. "Bronze blade, gold inlay, hieroglyphs along the handle. Classified as 'non-functional' by standard archaeology." He paused. "But German sources describe it as 'metaphysically active.' Capable of cutting through 'barriers between states of being.'"
I thought of the scarab in the basement—how it had killed Chen with light, how its glow responded to human proximity. "Barriers between states of being" could mean anything. Or everything.
"Where is it now?"
"A warehouse in London. Consolidated Shipping, Whitechapel District. Scheduled for transport on December first." Steinberg checked his notes. "Eight days."
Eight days. Not much time to plan an operation in a foreign country with no local assets. But longer than we'd had for the Chen situation, and we'd managed that. Barely.
"Can we intercept it?"
"Three options." Sam had been studying the shipping routes while Steinberg talked. "London warehouse—best chance, but requires local operatives we don't have. The ship during transit—complicated, dangerous, probably impossible on short notice. Hamburg docks—suicide."
"London, then."
"With what support?" Sam's expression didn't change, but his tone carried doubt. "Neither of us knows the city. We don't speak British bureaucracy. We have no credentials that would open doors."
The problem was real. In the five days since waking in this body, I'd operated exclusively in New York—territory I understood, resources I could access. London was foreign ground. Different laws, different social structures, different leverage points.
But the artifact was there. And if we didn't move, it would end up in German hands.
"We need contacts," I said. "Academic connections, maybe. People my father corresponded with who might remember the name."
Steinberg was already flipping through papers. "Caldwell senior exchanged letters with several British scholars. Oxford primarily, some Cambridge." He extracted a sheet. "Dr. Aldous Wright, Medieval Studies. Sir Reginald Howe, Museum Administration." His finger stopped. "And Marcus Webb, Antiquities."
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Webb. Marcus Webb.
In my previous life—David Webb's life—I'd never traced my family history thoroughly. But Webb wasn't a common surname in British academic circles. The coincidence was too sharp to ignore.
"Webb," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Do we have contact information?"
"British Museum, Department of Middle Eastern Antiquities." Steinberg glanced up. "You know him?"
"My father mentioned him." The lie came easier than it should have. "Said he was reliable. Trustworthy on sensitive matters."
Sam gave me a look—the evaluating one that said he'd noticed something but wasn't sure what. I filed it away. Explanations could wait.
"Can we reach him in eight days?"
"Telegraph." Henderson appeared in the doorway, tea service in hand. "International cables arrive within hours. If you require urgent communication with London, I can arrange it."
The butler's expression was carefully neutral. Too neutral. He'd been listening—not just now, but across the past four days. Hearing names and places and plans that made no sense to someone outside this room.
"Henderson." I stood, facing him directly. "You've heard most of this conversation. Probably pieces of others as well."
"I would never presume to eavesdrop, sir."
"But you have anyway."
Silence. The tea service trembled slightly in his hands.
"The household has changed significantly since your return from hospital," Henderson said finally. "Strange visitors at odd hours. Unusual projects in the basement. Conversations about artifacts and German threats and operations in foreign countries." He set the tea service down with careful precision. "I served your father for twenty-three years, sir. I know when a house has secrets."
"And?"
"And I would like to know whether those secrets are worth keeping."
It wasn't a threat. The butler's voice held no edge of blackmail or leverage. Just a straightforward question from a man who'd watched the Caldwell family for two decades and wasn't sure what was happening to it now.
I looked at Sam. At Steinberg. At the chaos of papers and maps that documented humanity's most dangerous treasures.
"Sam. Doctor. Give us the room."
They left without argument—Sam's hand brushing my shoulder briefly as he passed, a gesture of support I hadn't earned yet. The door closed behind them.
"Sit down, Henderson."
The butler hesitated, then took a chair across from me. His posture remained rigid—decades of training didn't unwind easily—but something in his expression had softened. Waiting.
"My father collected more than investments," I began. "He collected objects. Artifacts that didn't fit normal categories. Things that moved when they shouldn't, glowed when logic said they couldn't, killed people who handled them incorrectly."
"The Cairo acquisition." Henderson's voice was quiet. "I remember the shipment. 1924. He kept it in the basement, in that metal bin."
"You knew."
"I suspected. Your father was not a foolish man. He wouldn't have hidden something so carefully unless it was dangerous." The butler's hands folded in his lap. "I never asked. It wasn't my place."
"I'm asking now. Can I trust you?"
The question hung between us. Everything depended on his answer—not just this conversation, but the foundation we were trying to build. An organization couldn't function with uncertain loyalties at its core.
"I served the Caldwell family through your grandfather's illness, your father's obsessions, and your—" He paused delicately. "—youthful difficulties. I've seen this household at its worst. I've kept its secrets when keeping them mattered."
"This is different."
"Yes." Henderson met my eyes directly. "This involves artifacts that kill people. Germans hunting ancient weapons. Plans for operations in foreign countries." He drew a breath. "But the principle remains. I serve this house. Whatever you're building, I will support it—or I will leave today and speak of it to no one."
The System flickered.
[LOYALTY ASSESSMENT: HENDERSON]
[RELIABILITY: HIGH]
[DISCRETION: CONFIRMED]
[RECOMMENDATION: RECRUIT AS SUPPORT PERSONNEL]
"You're not leaving." I stood and extended my hand. "You're joining. Officially. The Caldwell Foundation is becoming something larger—an organization dedicated to finding dangerous artifacts before they fall into wrong hands. We need people we can trust."
Henderson rose slowly. His handshake was firm despite his age.
"The Antiquity Defense Guild," he said. "I heard Dr. Steinberg propose the name yesterday."
"You heard that too?"
"Difficult to avoid, sir, when the study door remains open during conversations." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "But I approve. It sounds properly serious."
The name. I'd been wrestling with it for days, rejecting options, waiting for something that felt right. Steinberg's suggestion had stuck—protective without being aggressive, official without being governmental.
"Then that's what we are." I moved toward the door. "The Antiquity Defense Guild. First order of business: contact this Marcus Webb at the British Museum. See if my father's name carries any weight."
Henderson was already moving toward the telephone.
"I'll arrange the telegram immediately, sir. International cables require specific formatting, but I believe I can manage."
"You've done this before?"
"Your father had occasional need for rapid overseas communication." The ghost of a smile returned. "Usually regarding acquisitions he preferred to keep private."
Some things ran in families, apparently. Even families you'd inherited rather than born into.
I returned to the study, where Sam and Steinberg waited. The maps still covered the walls, the papers still carpeted every surface, but something had shifted. We were four now, not three. A foundation becoming a structure.
"Henderson is with us," I announced.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "The butler?"
"The butler who's been with this family for twenty-three years and knows how to keep secrets." I pulled a chair up to Steinberg's chaos of documents. "He's sending a telegram to our potential British contact. In the meantime, Doctor—tell me everything you know about this dagger."
Steinberg spread his hands across the relevant papers.
"The Carnarvon Dagger. Named for its owner, not its origin. Actually Egyptian, approximately three thousand years old, recovered from a secondary chamber in Tutankhamun's tomb." His finger traced hieroglyphs copied onto a notepad. "The inscriptions reference Anubis—god of the dead, guide to the underworld. Standard funerary associations."
"But not standard in practice."
"No. German sources describe it as 'capable of cutting barriers between states of being.'" Steinberg's expression darkened. "In practical terms, that could mean several things. Cutting through protective wards. Opening passages to—somewhere else. Or simply killing in ways conventional weapons cannot."
"Like the scarab."
"Similar principle. Different application." He pulled a sketch from his papers—a blade, curved like a khopesh, with symbols running along its length. "The scarab channels energy destructively. The dagger appears designed for precision. Targeted cutting rather than broad damage."
I studied the sketch. Three thousand years old, created for purposes I couldn't begin to imagine, now sitting in a London warehouse waiting to be shipped to people who wanted to weaponize it.
"What would the Germans do with it?"
"Experiment. Test its limits. Find ways to mass-produce its effects, if such a thing is possible." Steinberg's voice carried the weight of experience. "They believe ancient power can be harnessed for modern war. They're not entirely wrong."
Eight days. One artifact. No local contacts and minimal operational experience.
But we had resources. We had knowledge. And now we had the beginnings of something larger—a team capable of growing into what this mission required.
The System pulsed.
[ORGANIZATION REGISTERED: ANTIQUITY DEFENSE GUILD]
[FOUNDING MEMBERS: 4]
[FIRST MISSION: PENDING]
[PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 42%]
Forty-two percent. Better odds than I'd had walking into that hotel room.
"Alright," I said. "Let's plan this properly. Sam—operational requirements. Steinberg—everything you know about the artifact and the warehouse. Henderson—when that telegram response comes through, I want to know immediately."
The study buzzed with activity. Maps marked, routes traced, contingencies planned.
The Antiquity Defense Guild had its first mission.
Now we just had to survive it.
Author's Note / Support the Story
Your Reviews and Power Stones help the story grow! They are the best way to support the series and help new readers find us.
Want to read ahead? Get instant access to more chapters by supporting me on Patreon. Choose your tier to skip the wait:
⚔️ Noble ($7): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public.
👑 Royal ($11): Read 17 chapters ahead of the public.
🏛️ Emperor ($17): Read 24 chapters ahead of the public.
Weekly Updates: New chapters are added every week. See the pinned "Schedule" post on Patreon for the full update calendar.
👉 Join here: patreon.com/Kingdom1Building