Forbidden City. Alex Archer

Assyrians knew them as the Ishkuzai. The Greek historian Herodotus of Halicarnassus described them as a tribe called the Kimmerioi, which was expelled by the Ishkuzai. The Kimmerioi were also known as Cimmerians, Gimirru in the histories left by the Assyrians.” Annja smiled. “Some people think Robert E. Howard borrowed the Cimmerian culture for his hero, Conan the Barbarian.”

      Huangfu shook his head. “I don’t know those names. My ancestors were Chinese.” The words came sharply, edged with barely concealed rebuke.

      Evidently Huangfu was, if not somewhat prejudicial, somewhat race conscious. Annja was aware that a number of Asian cultures looked down on each other. Regionalism divided civilization as surely as skin color, religion, and wealth.

      “I didn’t mean to infer that they weren’t,” she said.

      For just a moment Annja wished she’d passed on the offer to act as guide for Huangfu. She’d spoken the truth when she’d said she regularly got offers to investigate all sorts of esoterica people thought might end up as an episode of Chasing History’s Monsters.

      If it hadn’t been for the Scythian art, she’d have passed on this. Looking for dead ancestors didn’t make her Top Ten List.

      “The Scythian people traded with the Chinese beginning in the eighth century,” Annja went on. “Probably before that. But archaeologists and historians have been able to track the gold trade to that time period. All I was suggesting was that the design you found in your ancestor’s journals might be older than you think it is.”

      Huangfu nodded, mollified to a degree. “Ah, I see. You think helping me find my ancestor might give you more information about the Scythian people.”

      “I hope so. It would be a coup if I do. I hope I don’t sound insensitive.”

      “Nonsense. I’m here for a man I’ve never met. If it weren’t for my grandfather, I might not be here at all. Are these people you hope to discover more about important?”

      The grade went down for a while and became a minefield of broken rock and low brush. “There is a lot we don’t know about the Scythians. Located as they were in Central Asia, trading with China, Greece, what is now Eastern Europe, Pakistan and Kazakhstan—probably other nations, as well—there’s a wealth of history that archaeologists, historians, and linguists are missing.”

      Annja took another GPS reading, then corrected their course. She’d confirmed the directions she’d gotten over the Internet with the local Ranger station and with the people in Georgetown, which was a small town only a few miles to the west.

      “What do you hope to find?” Huangfu asked.

      “The same thing that you do. Some proof that your ancestor was—” Annja stopped herself from saying murdered in Volcanoville just in time “—here.”

      Annja followed a small stream through the fringe of the Eldorado National Forest. According to her map, they weren’t far from Otter Creek. Paymaster Mine Road was supposed to be only a short distance ahead.

      Tall pines mixed with assorted fir trees. All of them filled the air with strong scents. Sunlight painted narrow slits on the ground. Powdered snow covered patches of the ground. Squirrels and birds met the spring’s challenge, foraging for food in the trees, as well as on the ground.

      “He is here.” Huangfu’s face looked cold and solemn. “I intend to bring my ancestor’s bones home, if I am able, and see him properly laid to rest. It is my grandfather’s wish to gather all of our family that we may find.”

      Scanning through the forest, Annja found the trail she thought they wanted. The trail rose again with the land.

      Everything is uphill out here, she thought.

      The park rangers she’d talked to over breakfast in Georgetown had assured Annja the path she planned to trace was an arduous one. Only hikers, horses and bicycles were allowed into the protected areas.

      The muddy land was sloughing away under the melting snow. Rainfall for days had turned the ground soft in places. They’d have struggled on bikes and Huangfu had said he wasn’t a horseman so Annja had elected to walk to the location.

      “Are we close?” Huangfu asked.

      “I believe so. Another mile or so should put us there.” Annja kept walking.

      V OLCANOVILLE WAS ONE of the hundreds of towns and mining camps that had sprung up in California after James W. Marshall, an employee of John Sutter’s lumber mill, discovered gold flecks in the tail race in January of 1848. By the end of that year, word had spread and hundreds of thousands of people from around the world had flocked to the most recent member of the United States.

      The mining camps and towns had risen up like dandelions, springing full-born almost overnight, then dying in the same quick fashion when the gold ran out or was never found. Hell Roaring Diggings, Whiskey Flat, Loafer’s Hollow, and others had each left behind something of a history in the area. But separating the true stories from those that had been embroidered later, or from the lies they’d been mixed with from the beginning, was almost impossible. As with any history, murder, betrayal, success and failure were all part of the tapestry.

      Huangfu gazed at the ramshackle buildings that stood under a thick canopy of trees. Many of the trees showed signs of repeated lightning strikes. Broken limbs, shattered trunks, and places bare of bark were scattered around the site.

      Not exactly a place to inspire hope, Annja thought as she turned to Huangfu. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

      The man offered her a faint smile. “That’s good. Because at the moment it looks impossible.”

      “If we were just going off the journal you found, maybe it would be. Fortunately the California Historical Society, as well as dozens of other branches and genealogists in the area, collected stories, journals, and newspapers.”

      “I trust your expertise in this matter.” Huangfu smiled. “That’s why I hoped you would help me.”

      Annja slid out of her backpack and placed it beside the nearest building. The wind picked up and caused the branches to rattle against the roof. No trace of paint remained on the weathered boards. It was possible the exterior of the building had never been painted.

      Working quickly, she paced off the dimensions of the buildings. Most of them appeared to have been constructed roughly the same. She guessed that the building she was searching for would be similar. When she finished, she returned to the backpack.

      Huangfu didn’t say a word.

      Crouching, her back against the building, she took a bound journal from the backpack, as well as two energy bars, offering one of them to Huangfu. The man took the snack and crouched beside her.

      “What’s that?” He pointed at the book.

      “A journal I made for the search we’re going to conduct here.”

      The journal contained hand-drawn maps Annja had created from topographical surveys she’d found of the Volcanoville area, as well as ones she’d found in newspapers and letters collected in the historical societies she’d visited. Tabs separated sections on known facts, rumors, and stories she’d gleaned from her research. All of the notes were handwritten, and she’d made the sketches, as well.

      “You have maps?” Huangfu sounded doubtful.

      “I made them, based on geological surveys of the area, as well as stories I found. The forest and the stream, they’re there in the right places. The map of the town is purely guesswork.”

      “I thought you’d arrived in Georgetown only this morning.”

      “I did.” Annja smiled at him. “The Internet is a wonderful tool.”

      “You do this for all of your projects?”

      “When I can. I like to have an idea of what I’m getting into before I arrive. Usually time at dig sites is limited. You have