Ptolemy's Gate (46 page)

The mercenary spoke first. “I have come to take you back,” he said. “The demon wishes to have you alive.”

Nathaniel said nothing. He didn't move. He was trying to think of a strategy, but his brain was stiff with fear; every thought moved with the creaking sluggishness of ice.

“I believe several of the prospective hosts have been killed,” the mercenary went on. “Nouda is keen to save as many young bodies as he can. Well? Or would you prefer a more honorable death? I can oblige.”

“We don't”—Nathaniel's voice was thick; his tongue felt too large for his mouth—“we don't
have
to fight at all.”

A rumbling laugh. “
Fight?
That implies some parity between us.”

“I have one slave left at my command,” Nathaniel lied. “Think quickly, before he strikes. We can still work together against the enemy. It is in your interests too, you must see that; I will pay you well from the nation's treasury. I shall give you gold uncounted! I can make you a lord, give you lands, territories, whatever your black heart desires. Only you must fight alongside me. Here—in these vaults—are weapons we can use—”

For answer the mercenary spat upon the chamber floor. “I want no lands or titles! My sect forbids such fripperies. Gold—yes! But
that
the demons will give me, if I serve them. And—Do not speak! I know your argument! So
what
if Nouda destroys all London—or all Europe, for that matter? He can burn the world for all I care! I have no faith in empires, ministers, or kings. Let chaos come! I shall flourish. So, what is your answer? Will you die here?”

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. “My answer comes behind you on tiptoed feet. Kill him, Belazael! Strike him down!”

As he shouted, he pointed back up the stairs. The mercenary ducked, whirled around in readiness, saw the stairs empty. Breathing a curse, he spun again, a silver disc now cupped in his hand, only to glimpse Nathaniel also turning, heading up the passage, into the vaults. His arm moved; the disc was gone—

Nathaniel had twisted and tried to run in a single desperate movement. He lost his balance, tripped on a flagstone's edge and fell—

The silver disc flashed through the air, struck the wall above Nathaniel's falling head, ricocheted against the opposite side of the passage, and clattered to the floor.

Nathaniel landed on hands and knees; he scrambled to his feet and, scooping up the silver disc, ran on. He snatched a glance behind him.

In the distance the mercenary strode across the chamber floor toward the passage, his face heavy with irritation. He went unhurriedly; about his boots hung pulsing lights and smudges. His first step was three times an ordinary man's; with his second he was right at Nathaniel's back. He raised his knife. Nathaniel cried out, lurched to one side—

From the stonework of the passage a gray shadow emerged, silent as smoke. A coiling limb entwined itself around the mercenary's waist; an arm looped upon his throat. The man's head jerked back. He raised his knife, slashed out. The shadow moaned, but clung on tighter. A sickly blue radiance emerged from the shadow and enveloped the mercenary; he coughed and spat. Other shadows drifted from the walls and floor, wound themselves around the boots and trousers, grasped the flapping cloak. The mercenary slashed left and right; he tapped a heel—the seven-league boots took wing. In a single step he was away along the corridor, halting at a junction far ahead. But the blue glow hung about his head, the shadows clung to him like leeches, and still more came hurrying from the stones.

Nathaniel leaned against the wall for support. It was the
boots
, of course: their aura had triggered the trap as soon as the mercenary entered the corridor. The shadows had immediately set upon their owner. Trouble was, it was a magical attack, and—as he knew from bitter experience—the mercenary's resilience to magic was huge.

But their intervention had given him respite. The treasure vault was somewhere up ahead, past where the mercenary thrashed and struggled. There was no help for it. Clutching the silver disc gingerly (the edges were very sharp), Nathaniel stole along the corridor, past numerous doors, and side turnings, nearer and nearer to the junction.

By now, so many of the shadows had poured themselves upon his enemy that Nathaniel could scarcely make him out. He was hidden amid a pile of writhing bodies. Their weight alone had forced him to his knees; occasionally his face, purple behind the beard and the choking radiance, came in sight. He seemed half throttled, but his knife still flashed about him. Curls of melting essence littered the floor like wood shavings.

It's silver too
, Nathaniel thought.
The knife—they can't withstand it. Sooner or later he'll be free.

This unpleasant knowledge spurred him on. He reached the junction; keeping the disc raised and his back to the wall, he rounded it, watching the combatants the whole time. Even as he did so, one shadow fell away, cut clean in two by a single blow. Nathaniel lingered no longer; he didn't have much time.

Down the corridor, dead straight into the earth. There at the end: the steel door with the little grille—the entrance to the treasure vault.

Nathaniel reached it at a run. He looked back the way he had come. Distant scuffles, gasps, unearthly moans.
Forget the mercenary now.
What was he to do?

He inspected the door. It was ordinary enough: the hatch with the viewing grille, a simple handle, no other marks or indentations. Might it contain a trap? It was possible; then again, the clerk had not mentioned one. A Pestilence guarded the treasures inside, he knew that much, but how was this triggered? Perhaps simply opening the door would set it going….

Nathaniel's hand hovered over the handle. Should he?

He looked back over his shoulder. It was no good, he
had
to get the Staff. He was dead otherwise. He grasped the handle, turned, and pulled—

Nothing happened. The door remained fast.

Nathaniel cursed and let go. Locked somehow … He racked his brains. There seemed no obvious keyhole. Some magical hex-lock? If so, he'd never find the Charm.

A foolish thought struck him. He turned the handle again. This time he
pushed.

Ah. The door swung open. Nathaniel let it swing. He held his breath….

No Pestilence bubbled forth. Automatic lights, perhaps from some captive imp imprisoned in the ceiling of the treasure vault, switched on. Everything was as he had seen it two days before: the plinth of marble in the center, piled high with treasures; the otherwise empty room; the wide ring of olive-green floor tiles all around the plinth, stretching almost to the door.

Nathaniel rubbed his chin. In all probability, if he stepped upon those green floor tiles, the Pestilence would rise up, and in seconds he would perish horribly. The idea was unappealing. But how could he bypass it? The ring of tiles was far too wide to jump, he had no means of climbing above them, and he could not fly….

Indecision gripped him. He could not go back—the situation was too desperate, and Kitty was relying on him to succeed. But to enter the room was death. He had no means of defense; no Shield or Charm….

His eyes fixed upon an object lying in the center of the distant plinth. A jade stone set in a delicate oval of pressed gold; it hung by a chain from a wooden stand. The Amulet of Samarkand … Nathaniel knew very well what it could do. He had seen it repel the power of the demon Ramuthra; it could cope with a little Pestilence all right. What if he
ran
as hard as he could … ?

He bit his lip. No—the distance to the plinth was much too great. He'd
never
be able to get to the Amulet before—

It was not a
sound
that alerted him; the corridor behind his back was utterly silent. But an intuition, a sudden sharp foreboding that sent prickles along his spine, made him turn. The sight along the corridor knotted his stomach, made his knees weaken.

With knife and fist, the mercenary had succeeded in dislodging all but one of the shadows; fragments of the others lay flopping on the floor around him. New shadows were still emerging from the stonework—one of them fired a blue pulse at the mercenary that knocked him momentarily against the wall, but he did not falter. Ignoring the shadow on his back that sought to throttle him, the mercenary stooped and kicked off first one boot, then the other. They struck the stones, lay on their side.

The mercenary stepped away from the boots; instantly the shadows' interest in him receded. They flitted about the boots, sniffing and prodding with long fingers. The shadow on his back was distracted, it loosened its grip. A shrug of the back, a swing of the silver knife—where was the shadow now? Two pieces clawing for each other on the floor.

As Nathaniel watched, the mercenary set off up the corridor toward him. He came implacably, but slowly; his cape was tattered, he walked in his socks. The ferocity of the shadows' assault seemed to have weakened him—his face was mauve with exertion; he limped, and coughed with each step.

Nathaniel stood in the doorway, half in, half out of the treasure room. His head made frantic movements—side to side, green tiles to mercenary. He was sick with panic; he had nothing to decide but the method of his death.

He steeled himself. One way, death
was
inevitable. The expression on the mercenary's face promised him pain. As for the other way …

The cool glint of the Amulet shone on the plinth across the room, beckoning him over. It was so
far
… but the Pestilence would at least be quick.

Nathaniel made his decision. He walked out of the door, away from the treasure room, toward the oncoming mercenary.

The blue eyes bored into him. The man smiled. The knife rose.

Nathaniel spun on his heels and sprinted back toward the door. He ignored the snarl of rage behind him, focused only straight ahead. It was crucial to pick up speed, hit the green tiles at maximum velocity….

An explosion of pain in his shoulder; he cried out like an animal, stumbled, but ran on. Through the door, into the room; green tiles stretched out ahead—

Limping footsteps right behind. A muttered cough.

The tiles' edge. He sprang, leaped through the air as far as he could—

Landed. Ran on.

All about him, the hiss of a thousand serpents; yellow-green vapor rose from the tiles.

Ahead was the plinth; treasures gleamed upon it. Gladstone's Staff, a jeweled glove, an ancient violin, stained with blood; goblets, swords, caskets, and tapestries. Nathaniel's eyes were fixed on the Amulet of Samarkand, juddering and jerking with the impact of each stride.

Green vapor covered everything in a sallow veil. Nathaniel felt his skin sting—the stinging intensified, became a sudden desperate pain. He smelled a burning—

A cough behind him. Something brushed his back.

The plinth. His hand reached out, snatched up the necklace; tore it from its stand. He jumped, twisted, fell sprawling upon the plinth, sent jewels and wonders scattering, rolled across, dropped to the tiles on the other side. His eyes burned; he screwed them shut. His skin was afire; at a distance he heard a voice give a scream of agony—it was his own.

Blindly he pulled the necklace over his neck, felt the Amulet of Samarkand brush against his chest—

The pain was gone. His skin still burned, but it was a residual stinging, not an escalating torment, save in his shoulder, where it throbbed with sick intensity. He heard a whispering, opened one eye—saw the vapor coiling all about him, swirling, seeking out his flesh, but being drawn inexorably around and down, into the jade stone at the center of the Amulet.

Nathaniel raised his head from where he lay. He could see the ceiling, the side of the plinth beside him, the vapor that filled the room. The view beyond was hidden.

So where—?

A cough. Just behind the plinth.

Nathaniel moved; not fast, but as fast as he could. The pain in his shoulder prevented him putting weight on his right arm. With the left he levered himself into a crouching position, then slowly rose.

On the other side of the plinth the mercenary was standing, surrounded by the billowing cloud of yellow-green vapor. He still held the knife; his eyes were fixed on Nathaniel. But he leaned heavily on the plinth top, and coughed with every breath.

Slowly he drew himself up. Slowly he started to walk around the plinth to Nathaniel.

Nathaniel backed away.

The bearded man moved with the utmost care, as if his limbs pained him. He ignored the boiling Pestilence, which ate away his cloak, which bit into his black clothes, into the thick black socks upon his limping feet. He stepped away from the plinth.

Nathaniel's back bumped against the wall at the far end of the chamber. He could go no farther. His hands were empty. He had dropped the silver disc somewhere as he ran. There was no defense now.

The Pestilence swirled ever darker around the oncoming form. Nathaniel saw a grimace flicker across the mercenary's face, perhaps of doubt or pain. Was his resilience waning? It had already been forced to cope with the shadows' long assault, and now the Pestilence beat against it too…. Had the skin changed color? Was it perhaps a little yellowed, a little blotchy … ?

The remorseless steps continued; the pale blue eyes pierced him.

Nathaniel pressed back against the stones. Instinctively his hand closed around the Amulet; the metal was cold to the touch.

The cloud of Pestilence gave a sudden flurry, billowed around the mercenary like a cloak. It was as if it had suddenly found a puncture, a weakness in his armor. It swirled like a storm of hornets enveloping a foe, stinging, stinging. The mercenary kept walking. The skin on his face cracked like old paper. The flesh below fell inward, as if being sucked dry. Color drained from the jet-black beard. The pale blue eyes stayed fixed upon Nathaniel with consuming hatred.

Closer, closer. The hand that held the knife was shriveled, nothing but a knot of bones beneath a rind of skin. Now the beard was gray, now it was white; cheekbones protruded through the hair like jags of slate. To Nathaniel, it seemed the mercenary smiled. The smile broadened, displayed impossible extents of teeth…. The skin on the face fell away entirely, to leave a gleaming skull with clipped white beard and pale blue eyes, which gave a burst of brightness and suddenly went out.