The Anubis Gates

I sure hope, he thought, that Benner knows what he’s doing. I hope he knows what kind of fire he’s playing with. Doyle put down his cup and let his gaze wander to his left.

And where is he now, Doyle wondered uneasily, and has the fur begun to whisker out like grime on the new body yet, and has he started looking for another one to take?

* * *

On the weathered stone doorstep of a little whitewashed house roughly two thousand miles southeast of Doyle’s roof-top eyrie, a bald-headed old man sat stolidly smoking a long clay-bowled pipe and staring down the slope of dusty yellow grass at the pebbled beach and the water. The warm, dry wind was from the west, coming in with long ripples across the otherwise smooth Gulf of Patras, and in the occasional moments of its abatement he could sometimes hear the quiet clatter of sheep’s bells among the foothills of the Morea behind him.

For the third time during that long afternoon the boy Nicolo ran out of the house, this time actually kicking the doctor’s arm so that he nearly dropped his pipe. And the boy didn’t even apologize. The doctor smiled coldly up at the unhappy boy, promising himself that one more piece of rudeness from this Greek catamite would result in an ugly, painful and prolonged death for his beloved “padrone.”

“Doctor,” gasped Nicolo. “Come now! The padrone, he rolls on the bed and speaks to people who are not in the room! I think he will die!”

He won’t die until I let him, thought the doctor. He looked at the sky—the sun was well down the western side of the cloudless Grecian sky, and he decided that he could proceed now; not that it really mattered anymore at which hour of the day he did it—but old dead laws hang on as superstitions, and just as he wouldn’t dream of pronouncing the name of Set on the twenty-fourth day of the month Pharmuthi, or willingly see a mouse on the twelfth of Tybi, he could not bring himself to perform a work of black magic while Ra the sungod was overhead, and might see.

“Very well,” said the doctor, laying aside his pipe and getting laboriously to his feet. “I’ll go see him.”

“I will come also,” declared Nicolo.

“No. I must be alone with him.”

“I will come also.”

The ridiculous boy had placed his right hand on the hilt of the curved dagger he always carried in his red sash, and the doctor almost laughed. “If you insist. But you will have to leave when I treat him.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said the doctor, knowing that this excuse would sit well with the boy—though it would have set milord anglais, inside, scrabbling for his pistols—”medicine is magic, and the presence of a third soul in the room might change the healing sorceries into malevolent ones.”

The boy looked sulky, but muttered, “Very well.”

“Come along, then.”

They walked into the house and down the hallway to the doorless room at the end, and although the stone walls had kept the inside air cool, the young man lying on the narrow iron bed was drenched with sweat, and his curly black hair was plastered to his forehead. As Nicolo had reported, he was tossing fretfully, and though his eyes were closed he was frowning and muttering.

“You must leave now,” the doctor told the boy.

Nicolo went to the doorway, but paused, mistrustfully eyeing the odd collection of things—a lancet and bowl, colored liquids in little glass bottles, a metal loop with a wooden bead halfway along it—on the bedside table. “One thing before I go,” he said. “Many of the people you have treated for this fever have died. Monday the Englishman George Watson slipped through your fingers. The padrone,” he waved at the man on the bed, “says you are more of a periculo, a danger, than the fever itself. And so I will tell you this—if he too should be one of your many failures, you will follow him into death on the same day. Capeesh?”

Amusement was struggling with annoyance on the doctor’s craggy and eroded face. “Leave us, Nicolo.”

“Have a care, Doctor Romanelli,” said Nicolo, then turned and strode away down the hall.

The doctor dipped a cup into the basin of water that stood on the table and took a few pinches of powder-dry crushed herbs from a pouch at his belt, sifted them into the cup and stirred it with a forefinger. Then he slipped one arm under the delirious man’s shoulders, lifted him to a half-sitting position and put the cup to his still muttering lips.

“Drink up, my lord,” he said softly, tilting the cup. The man in the bed drank it reflexively, though he frowned, and when Doctor Romanelli took the empty cup away the man coughed and shook his head like a cat with a noseful of something it doesn’t like. “Yes, it’s bitter, isn’t it, my lord? I had to down a cup of it myself eight years ago, and I still remember the taste.”

The doctor stood up and moved quickly to the table, for time counted now. Romanelli struck sparks to a little pile of tinder in a dish, got a flame, and held his special candle in it until the wick wore a corona of round flame, then he wedged it back into its holder and stared earnestly at it. The flame didn’t trail upward as a normal candle’s would have done, but radiated evenly in all directions so that it was a sphere, like a little yellow sun, and it cast heat waves down as well as up, making the hieroglyphic figures on the candle shaft seem to shift and jitter like race horses waiting in the starting gate.

Now if only his ka in London was doing his part correctly!

He spoke into the flame. “Romany?”

A tiny voice answered. “Ready here. The tub of paut is fresh and warmed to the right temperature.”

“Well, I would hope so. The way is paved for him?”

“Yes. The request for an audience with King George was acknowledged and approved earlier this week.”

“All right. Let’s line up this channel.”

Romanelli turned to the metal loop, which was firmly moored to a block of hard wood, and with a little metal wand he struck it. It produced a long, pure note, which was answered a moment later by a note out of the flame.

The answering note was higher, so he slid the wooden bead an inch farther up the loop and struck again; the sounds were similar now, and for a moment the ball of flame seemed to disappear, though it glowed again when the notes diminished away.

“I believe we have it,” he said tensely. “Again now.”

The two notes, one struck in London and one in Greece, rang out again, very nearly identical—the flame turned to a dim, churning grayness—and as the struck metal was still singing he gingerly touched the bead, moving it a hairbreadth further. The notes were now identical, and where the flame had been was now a hole in the air, through which he could see a tiny section of a dusty floor. As the double ringing faded away to silence the peculiar sphere of flame reappeared.

“Got it,” said Romanelli excitedly. “I could see through clearly. Strike again when I tell you, and I will send him through.”

He picked up the lancet and a dish, and turning to the unconscious man in the bed he lifted a limp hand, sliced a finger with the blade and caught the quick drops of blood in the dish. When he’d got a couple of spoonfuls he dropped the hand and the scalpel and faced the candle again.

“Now!” he said, and struck the loop with the wand. Once more the note was answered, and as the candle flame again became a hole he dropped the wand, dipped his fingers into the dish of blood and flicked a dozen red drops through.

“Arrived?” he asked, his fingers poised ready to try it again.

“Yes,” answered the voice from the other side as the ringing faded out and the flame waxed bright. “Four drops, right in the tub.”

“Excellent. I’ll let him die as soon as I hear it’s succeeded.” Romanelli leaned forward and blew the candle out.

He sat back and stared reflectively at the unquiet sleeper on the bed. Finding this young man had been a stroke of luck. He was perfect for their purposes—a peer of the British realm, but with a background of obscurity and near poverty, and—perhaps because of his lameness—shy and introverted, with few friends. And during his