The Anubis Gates (31 page)

“Listen,” he said, “you’ve got some high-octane memories to retrieve, and we can’t do it here. I’ve got a room a few streets away—inherited it, sort of—and the people that live there aren’t inclined to be nosy. Let’s go there.”

Still dazed, Byron got to his feet. “Very well, I suppose, Mr … ?”

Doyle started to answer, then sighed. “Oh hell. I guess you can call me William Ashbless. For now. But I’m damned if I’ll stay William Ashbless for the whole ride. All right?”

Byron shrugged bewilderedly. “That’s fine with me.” Doyle had to remind him to pay for the beers, and during the brief walk to the lodging house Byron kept craning his neck at the buildings and the crowds of busy people. “I really am in England again,” he muttered. His dark eyebrows lowered in a frown that he wore for the rest of the walk.

When they’d reached the shabby building and picked their way up the stairs—which several families seemed to consider their personal chamber, swearing at the two young men and jealously hiding bits of horrible food as they climbed past—and reached the room that had once been Dog-Face Joe’s, and when they’d filled two cups from the coffee pot that was still warm over the coals in the fireplace, Byron fixed on Doyle his first alert glance of the day.

“What’s today’s date, Mr. Ashbless?”

“Let’s see… the twenty-sixth.” Byron’s expression didn’t change, so after taking a cautious sip of the coffee, he added,

“Of September.”

“That’s not possible,” Byron stated. “I was in Greece… I remember being in Greece on Saturday the, uh, twenty-second.” He shifted on his chair and bent down to pull off his shoes. “Damn, these shoes hurt,” he began, then picked one of them up and stared at it. “Where on earth did I get these? Not only are they too small, they’re about a century out of fashion. Red heels, of all things, and these buckles—! And how in God’s name could I ever have put on this coat?” He dropped the shoe and said, in a voice so tightly controlled that Doyle knew he was scared, “Please tell me the true date, Mr. Ashbless, and as much as you know of what has happened to me since I left Greece. I gather I’ve been ill. But why am I not with my friends, or my mother?”

“It is the twenty-sixth of September,” Doyle said carefully, “and all I know about your recent actions is that for the past couple of days you’ve been buying drinks for half the population of London. But I know who can tell you what’s been happening.”

“Then let’s go to him immediately. I can’t bear this—”

“He’s here. It’s you. No, listen—you were recalling verbatim conversations a few minutes ago. Do it again, and listen to yourself. Let’s see… try ‘Avo, rya.’ Remember hearing that, in a different voice.”

“Avo, rya,” said Byron, and the alertness fell out of his expression. “‘Avo, rya. He’s very kushto with it. Handled guns before, it’s clear. That’s good, Wilbur. Though he won’t need much skill—he should be only a few feet away from him when he’ll use it. Does he seem to be able to draw it with sufficient speed? I’d like to just have it in his pocket, but I’m afraid even a lord might have to submit to a search before entering the royal presence. Oh, avo, rya, the little holster under his arm gives him no problem. You should see him—it’s in his hand quick as a snake. And he’s shooting with no hesitation? It’s got to be automatic. Avo, the dummy is all shot to bits, he’s done it so often—’”

Byron leaped out of the chair. “Good God, man,” he exclaimed in his own voice, “I was to go kill King George! What abomination is this? I was a puppet, sleep-walking, taking these diabolical instructions as… docilely as a maid would agree to serve dinner! By God, I’ll get satisfaction for this… atrocious affront! Matthews or Davies will convey my challenge to… to …” He slammed his right fist into his left palm and then pointed at Doyle. “I think you know who.”

Doyle nodded. “I think I do. But don’t go off half-cocked here. You may as well inventory what you know before you rush into it. Tell you what—try ‘Yes, Horrabin,’ in the same voice that was asking the questions in that last conversation. Do you get anything from that?”

Though still frowning, Byron sat down again. “Yes, Horrabin.” Again his face went blank. “‘Yes, Horrabin, I’d have that one killed too. This has got to run like clockwork, and it’s conceivable he may know enough to obstruct it at some point. Better to err on the side of excessive thoroughness, eh? Incidentally, is the Antaeus Brotherhood still actually in existence? I mean, do they meet and all? If so, I say we destroy them too. They were evidently quite a thorn in our side at one time. A hundred years ago they might have been, your Worship, but it’s nothing but an old men’s club these days. I’ve heard the old stories, and it certainly sounds as if they were formidable once; they’re relics now, though, and obliterating them would only call possibly harmful attention to their history. That’s a point… very well, but post some of your people at wherever it is that these old men congregate—Off Bedford Street, your Worship, rooms above a confectioner’s—and have them report back here if they see any … oh, never mind. I’m firing at shadows. Why don’t you take his lordship here outside and run him through his lines again.’ “

Focus and intensity returned into Byron’s eyes and he clicked his tongue impatiently. “This is worthless, Ashbless. I get nothing but incomprehensible dialogues, and I still can’t recall one detail of how I got from Greece to here. I do remember being taught the route back to this man’s camp, though, and I’ll return, sure enough—but I’ll bring a set of duelling pistols.” He stood up lithely and padded to the window—which Doyle still half-feared would recommence its contortions—and stood with his arms crossed, staring vengefully out across the roof-tops.

Doyle shook his head in exasperation. “This man isn’t a gentleman, my lord. He’d probably accept your challenge and then signal one of his men to blow your brains out from behind.”

Byron turned and squinted at him. “Who is he? I can’t recall hearing a name applied to him. What does he look like?”

Doyle raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Why don’t you just remember? Hear the voice: “Yes, Horrabin, I’d have that one killed too.’ But don’t just hear it—see it, too.”

Byron closed his eyes, and almost immediately said wonderingly, “I’m in a tent all full of Egyptian antiquities, and the most hideous clown in the world is sitting on top of a birdcage. He’s talking to a bald-headed old—good heavens, it’s my Greek doctor, Romanelli!”

“Romany,” Doyle corrected him. “He’s Greek?”

“It’s Romanelli. Well, no, I expect he’s Italian; but he’s the doctor that was treating me when I was in Patras. How is it that I didn’t recognize him until now? I wonder if he and I came back here together… but why should Romanelli want the king killed? And why bring me all the way back from Patras to do it?” He sat down again and stared hard, even belligerently, at Doyle. “No joking now, fellow—I need to know the true date.”

“It’s one of the few things I’m sure of,” said Doyle evenly. “Today is Wednesday the twenty-sixth of September, 1810. And you say you were in Greece only four days ago?”

“Damn me,” whispered Byron, sitting back, “I think you’re serious! And do you know, my recollections of lying sick in Patras don’t seem more than a week old. Yes, I was in Patras Saturday last, and so was this Romanelli villain.” He grinned. “Ah, there’s sorcery in this, Ashbless! Not even… cannons, arranged in a relay system across the continent, could have got me from there to here in time to have been buying drinks for people in London yesterday. Julius Obsequens wrote about such things in his book of prodigies. Romanelli evidently has command of aerial spirits!”

This is getting murky,
thought Doyle. “Maybe,” he said cautiously. “But if Romanelli was your doctor out there, then he’s—well he’s probably still there. Because this Doctor Romany, who’s apparently a twin of him, has been here all along.”

“Twins, is it? Well, I’m going to get the full account from the London twin—at gunpoint, if necessary.” He stood up purposefully, then glanced down at his clothes and stockinged feet. “Damn! I can’t challenge a man while I’m dressed so. I’ll stop first at a haberdasher’s.”

“You’re going to threaten a sorcerer with pistols?” Doyle inquired sarcastically. “His… aerial spirits will drop a bucket over your head so you can’t see to aim. I say we pay a visit to this Antaeus Brotherhood first—if they were once a threat to Romany and his people, they may still know some effective defenses against them, mightn’t they?”

Byron snapped his fingers impatiently. “I suppose you’re right. We, you say? You have matters to settle with him yourself?”

“There’s something I need to learn from him,” said Doyle, standing up, “that he won’t… willingly… tell me.”

“Very well. Why don’t we investigate this Antaeus Brotherhood while my boots and clothes are being prepared. Antaeus, eh? I daresay they all walk around barefoot on dirt floors.”

This reminded Doyle of something, but before he could track it down Byron had struggled back into his despised shoes and opened the door.

“You are coming?”

“Oh, sure,” Doyle said, picking up Benner’s coat.
But remember that remark about bare feet and dirt floors,
he told himself.
That reminds me of something that seems important.

The sweat drops were rolling like miniature crystal snails down Doctor Romany’s bald temples, and his concentration was shattered by physical exhaustion, but he resolved to try once more to contact the Master in Cairo.
The trouble,
he realized,
was that the ether was for once too receptive, and within probably ten miles the beam of his message became a cone that widened out and extended its energy in lateral spread rather than motion forward toward the candle that was always burning in the Master’s chamber; and then the message shuddered to a halt, and rebounded back to Romany’s candle, producing the loud, warped echoes that infuriated Doctor Romany and terrified the gypsies.

Again he held the lamp flame to the black curl of candle wick, and because this was the twelfth attempt, he could feel the energy drain out of him at the instant the round flame appeared.

“Master,” he rasped into it. “Can you hear me? This is the Romanelli ka in England. It is urgent that I speak to you. I have news that may cause you to want to abort the present enterprise. I—”

“Gorble geermee?” His own voice, distorted and slowed, came back at him so loudly that he jerked away from the candle. “Diw a Rubberbelly kadingle. Idda zurjee…” Abruptly the idiot echo faded out, leaving only a sound like distant wind, waxing and waning as if heard through a flapping curtain. Romanelli leaned forward again. This wasn’t the sharpening that indicated successful contact, but at least it was something different. “Master?” he said hopefully.

Without becoming a voice or seeming to be anything more than the sound of vast emptiness, the distant sussuration began to form words. “Kes ku sekher ser sat,” the void whispered, “tuk kemhu a pet… “

The peculiar flame went out when the candle, propelled by Romany’s fist, thumped into the side of the tent. He stood up and, sweating and trembling and bobbing unevenly, strode out of the tent. “Richard!” he yelled angrily. “Damn it, where are you? Get your—”

“Acai, rya,” said the gypsy, hastening up to him. Doctor Romany glanced around. The sun was low in the west, throwing long shadows across the darkening heath, and was doubtless too concerned with its imminent entry into the Tuaut, and its boat trip through the twelve hours of the night, to glance back at what might be transpiring in this field. The rack of wood was laid out on the grass, looking like a twenty-foot section of a bridge, and the sharp aromatic fumes of brandy were so pungent on the evening breeze that he knew his threats had worked, and that the gypsies had used the entire keg to douse the wood and hadn’t saved any for drinking. “When did you splash it on?” he asked.

“Only a minute or so ago, rya,” answered Richard. “We were drawing lots to see who’d go fetch you.”

“Very well.” Romany rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply, trying to thrust out of his mind the whisper he’d heard. “Bring me the brazier of coals and the lancet,” he said finally. “And we’ll have a try at summoning these fire elementals.”

“Avo.” Richard hurried away, audibly muttering garlic, and Romany again turned toward the sun, which was now poised on the edge of entering the darkness, and while his guard was down the words he’d heard came rushing back to him:
Kes ku setcher ser sat, tuk kemhu a pet… Your bones will fall upon the earth, and you will not see the heavens…

He heard Richard’s feet swishing through the long grass behind him, and he shrugged fatalistically and began prodding his left arm with the claw fingers of his right hand, trying to find a good bountiful vein.

I hope they’ll settle for ka blood,
he thought.

The elderly man in the threadbare dressing gown lowered his white brows and widened his eyes in an almost ape-like expression of astonished disapproval when Doyle ventured to refill his tiny glass from the decanter of mediocre sherry, even though he’d only nodded and smiled and said, “Help yourself, my lord,” when Byron had refilled his for the second time.

“Ah, hmm, what were we discussing, before… ?” the man quavered. “Yes, aside from… ah… fellowship, yes, promoting the… quiet joys of sensible company, our main purpose is to prevent the… pollution of good old honest British stock by… inferior strains.” One trembling hand shook an incautiously large mound of snuff onto a lumpy knuckle of the opposite hand and then the old man snorted the powder up a nostril and seemed, to Doyle at least, almost to die of the resulting sneezing fit.

Byron made a silent snarl of exasperation and bolted his sherry.

“Mercy! I—
kooshwah!
—I beg your pardon, my lord.” The old man dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.

Doyle leaned forward and rumbled impatiently, “And just how do you go about preventing this, as you call it, pollution, Mr. Moss?” He glanced around at the dusty curtains, tapestries, paintings and books that insulated the rooms of the Antaeus Brotherhood from the fresh autumn breeze outside. The smells of candle wax, Scottish snuff and deteriorating leather book bindings and upholstery was beginning to make him feel ill.