The Anubis Gates

The damn fool, Doyle thought. I told him pistols wouldn’t daunt the likes of Romany.

He took two steps toward the flame-silhouetted tents, then stopped. What exactly do you hope to do here? he asked himself. Rescue Byron, if he’s still alive? The police are the ones for that. Make some kind of deal with Doctor Romany? Oh, right; sure, it would be useful to learn the location of the 1814 gap that Darrow’s employees will jump back to 1983 through, so that I could be there and run up and grab one of them by the hand an instant before the gap closed—but if Romany thought I knew anything he wanted, he’d just seize me, not bargain with me.

Doyle rolled his shoulders back and gripped his hands together hard, feeling the flexed muscles strain against the fabric of his shirt. Though this time, he thought with cautious satisfaction, he might not find me quite so easy to overpower. I wonder how Dog-Face Joe is doing with my old body. I guess he’s not one to worry about going bald, at least.

He could feel the vertigo coming on again, so he shook his head sharply, took several breaths of the chilly night air and strode forward through the grass. I’ll just sneak around and reconnoiter, he told himself. Snoop. I needn’t even get close to the tents. A thought struck him and he paused. Then he grinned deprecatingly and kept walking, but a moment later he stopped again. Why not? he asked himself. Enough insne things are proving to be true for it to be worth a try. He sat down in the grass, pulled his right boot off and, with Dog-Face Joe’s—or possibly Benner’s—pocketknife he hacked a hole through the stitching of the back seam. Then he pulled down his stocking, fished the length of clock chain out of his pocket, tied one end of it around his bare ankle and put the boot back on. With the blade of the knife it wasn’t difficult to draw the trailing end of the chain out through the hole so that the end of it dangled a foot and a half from his heel. He stood up and continued walking toward the tents.

* * *

The yags brightened and leaned over south, toward the tents. “Look at the confused man,” chimed one. “Coming here without knowing what he wants.”

“Or even who he is,” added another with lively interest. Doctor Romany glanced to the south, where he could dimly see Wilbur and Richard harnessing a horse to a wagon. It can’t be either of them the yags are reading, he thought. It must be the Byron ka, his head full of contradictory memories and instructions, radiating confusion. If his emotions continue to excite the yags, I’ll have Wilbur knock him out—or even kill him; he’s of no use anymore.

Doyle could feel the bright flickering intrusions in his mind, like the hands and eyes of frisky children who, finding the library door unlocked, dart inside to feel the bindings and gape at the dust jackets.

He shook his head again, trying to clear it. What was I doing now? he thought. Oh, of course—scouting the camp to see where the fine toy is… no! Byron and Romany. Why, he wondered uneasily, did I think of a toy just then? A wonderful intricate toy with little men and horses running cleverly down little paths… his heart was pounding with excitement, and he wanted to shoot huge fireballs glaring out across the dark fields…

“Yaaah!” came a weird, roaring shout from ahead of him, and at the same time the flames beyond the tents flared up.

Distantly he heard a more normal voice yelling, “Richard! Hurry up with that!”

Whatever’s going on over there, Doyle thought, it’s certainly holding everyone’s attention. He hurried forward, hunched over and keeping a broad tent between himself and the fires, and in a few moments he was crouched behind the tent, pleased to see that he was not panting at all.

The fluttering aliennesses brushed his mind again, and he heard a wild, roaring voice say, “His new body runs better!”

My God, Doyle thought, his palms suddenly damp, something over there is reading my mind!

“Never mind him!” shouted the voice that Doyle now realized differed from the roaring ones in that it was human. “He’s tied up! If you want the toy you’ve got to calm down!”

“Shoes is no fun at all,” sang another of the inhuman voices.

I’ve got to get out of here, Doyle thought, standing up straight and turning back toward the road.

“Richard!” called the voice Doyle now suspected was Doctor Romany’s. “Tell Wilbur to stay with the—with Byron, and be ready to kill him when I give the word.”

Doyle hesitated. I don’t owe him anything, he thought. Well, he did buy me lunch and give me a couple of his sovereigns … But hell, they were Romany’s to begin with… Still, he didn’t have to help me… But I did warn him not to come back here… Oh, he’ll be all right—he doesn’t die until 1824… in the history I remember, that is—of course in that history Byron wasn’t in London in 1810… Oh well, I guess I can at least keep an eye on things.

A lush old horse chestnut tree stood a few yards to his right, serving as a mooring for several of the tent ropes, and he quickly tiptoed over behind it. Looking up, he saw a branch that seemed likely to support him, and he leaped and caught it.

The chain that trailed from his right heel was suddenly swinging free in the air, and not touching the ground.

“He is disappeared.’” exclaimed one of the yags, its voice screechy with astonishment.

* * *

“Wilbur!” yelled Romany. “Is Byron still there, and conscious?”

“Avo, rya!”

Then what, Romany wondered, is the yag talking about? Could there have been a stranger hanging about? If so, I guess he’s gone. Richard had cringingly drawn the wagon up beside the village Bavarois, and now stepped down from the driver’s bench and approached the toy.

“Can you lift that into the wagon by yourself?” barked Romany tensely.

“I d-don’t think so, rya,” Richard quavered, keeping his eyes averted from the restless fire giants.

“We’ve got to get them out of the camp at once. Wilbur! Kill Byron and come here!”

Richard winced. He’d killed several men during the course of his life, but it had each time been a desperate, hot-blooded and roughly equal contest, and only the reflection that he’d have been killed himself if he’d held back had sustained him during the subsequent hours of horrified trembling and nausea; this cold throat-cutting of a bound man was not only beyond his capacity to perform, but even, he realized unhappily, beyond his capacity to stand by and observe.

“Wait, Wilbur!” he yelled, and when Romany turned wrathfully toward him he deliberately reached out and shoved the master switch of the village Bavarois into the on position—and then broke it off.

As soon as he’d heard Doctor Romany order Wilbur to kill Byron, Doyle had crawled out along a nearly horizontal branch, hoping to be able to see this Wilbur and pitch something down at him, but he had not yet learned to allow for the greater weight of his new body—the branch, which would only have flexed under his old body’s weight, bowed, gave a groan that went up the scale to a screech, and then with a rapid fire burst of cracks and snappings, tore right off the trunk.

The heavy limb and its rider plunged through the top of the tent below, demolishing what had served as the gypsies’ kitchen; kettles, spoons, pots and pans added a wild percussive clatter to the ripping and crashing and the ground-shaking thump, and then very quickly the billowed out, slowly settling tent fabric was illuminated from within by fire.

Doyle rolled off the collapsing tent onto his hands and knees on the grass. The tall fires beyond the tents were billowing and roaring like a gasoline dump going up, and he decided he must have been imagining things when, while still in the tree, he’d thought the flames were shaped like men.