The Anubis Gates

“Let’s get out of here,” Doyle repeated, beginning to shiver.

They walked away, past the burning tent by the tree from which Doyle had broken a limb—only, he realized dazedly, a few minutes ago by local time—and then they set off across the grass beyond, and the streaks of their shadows in front of them were gradually absorbed by the darkness as they left the fire farther and farther behind.

* * *

The creature in the dark grass found it easier to crawl than walk through the field, for it could grab weed stalks and pull itself along and only use its feet for kicking off from the ground every now and then to keep itself from settling to the earth; if anyone had been watching, the thing would have looked like some agile crustacean skimming across the sea floor.

Well, thought the thing that had once been indistinguishable from a man, there’s the last score settled, the long circle closed, and the man who ruined me is off on his way to be killed by me. I saw the yags extinguished, so I know he’s gone. The thing chuckled like dry leaves rattling in the wind. Half an hour ago, it thought, I was afraid he might somehow evade his death, and now he’s been dead a hundred and twenty-six years.

It heard voices and the swishing of feet through the grass behind it and to its right, so it ceased all motion, turning over and over as it lost speed until it rocked to a halt against a bush, its arms and legs pointed upward.

“But if my friends will let us stay with them,” a man was saying impatiently, “and I tell you again they’d be glad to, then why not?”

Why I believe it’s that young lord, thought the thing in the grass. We were going to have him do something for us. That’s right, and he was a ka—the original was in Greece. What was his name? And he was to have killed the king. Plots and schemes, half-wit dreams.

“Well,” answered someone else dubiously, “they think you’re out of the country. How would you explain your presence here?”

There was something about the second voice that profoundly upset the crawler, and it sat up so quickly that it left the ground and hovered for a few moments like a nearly worn out helium balloon, and when it touched down again it kicked strongly and flew twenty feet into the air so as to be able to see.

Two men were walking across the field away from the burning tents, and the slowly descending creature stared in horror at the taller of them. Yes, very tall, it thought, and—Isis!—a full mane and beard that seem to be blond! But by what damnable aid did he get out of that inn? And back to now? Who is this man Doyle?

It began flailing and swimming to get back to the ground quicker, for it had to follow him. If there was any spark of purpose left in the deteriorated ka that had once been Doctor Romany, it was to see, finally, Doyle dead.

* * *

The induced fever was breaking, and Doctor Romanelli stared angrily at his placidly sleeping patient. Damn you, Romany, he thought, let me know how it proceeds. This fever story won’t hold up much longer—I’m going to have to either kill him or let him recover.

The doctor laid his palm on Lord Byron’s forehead, and swore softly, for it felt cool. The sleeper shifted, and Romanelli tiptoed hastily out of the room. Sleep on, my lord, he thought; for a little while longer—at least until I hear from my incompetent duplicate. He strode into the disordered room he was using for a workshop, looked hopefully at the lit but inert Candle of Far Speaking, then sighed and let his gaze drift out the open window to where the sun was sinking over the hills beyond Missolonghi. The broad Gulf of Patras was already in shadow, and several fishing boats were plying for home, their triangular sails bellying in the evening breeze.

A sputtering from the table made him whirl and stare at the candle, which had begun to glow more brightly. “Romany!” he called into the flame. “Do you succeed?”

The candle flame was silent, and though it was glowing more brightly every second, it had not taken on the spherical shape.

“Romany!” the wizard repeated, louder now, not caring if he woke Byron. “Shall I kill him now?”

There was no reply. Suddenly the almost blindingly bright candle bent in the middle, like a beckoning finger —Doctor Romanelli grunted in surprise—then it split softly open in the middle and spilled a steaming flood of wax out onto the table top. As the candle folded down to a sizzling puddle Romanelli saw that the whole snaky length of the wick was glowing yellow-white.

Damn me, he thought, that means Romany’s candle is at this very moment burning up. His tent must have caught fire. Could he have lost control of the yags? Yes, that must be it— they got too excited, and burned down his camp. There’s no way they’ll be ready to burn London tomorrow, then; they’ll be sated and sluggish for weeks. Romany, you blundering, damned… forgery!

He waited until the wick stopped glowing and the puddle of wax had begun to scum over as it cooled, and then he went to the closet and unbuckled a trunk and carefully lifted out of it another candle. He unwrapped it, lifted the frosted glass hood of the room’s lantern to touch it alight, and in a few moments the new candle’s wick bloomed with the magical round flame.

“Master!” Romanelli barked into it.

“Yes, Romany,” answered the Master’s groaning voice at once. “Are the yags agreeable? Is the toy sufficiently—”

“Damn it, this is Romanelli. Something’s gone wrong at the London end. My candle just melted when I tried to contact him—you understand? His candle has burned up somehow. I think he must have lost control of the yags. I don’t know whether to kill Byron or not.”

“Roman-Romanelli? Burned up? Killed? What?”

Romanelli repeated his news several times, until the Master had finally grasped the situation.

“No,” the Master said. “No, don’t kill Byron. The plan may still be salvageable. Go to London and find out what’s happened.”

“But it will take me at least a month to get to England,” Romanelli protested, “and by then—”

“No,” the Master interrupted. “Don’t travel—go there instantly. Be there tonight.”

The last glowing sliver of the sun winked out behind the Patras hills, and there were no more boats out on the gulf. After a pause, “Tonight?” Romanelli echoed in a hoarse whisper. “I… I can’t afford that kind of thing. Magic like that… if I’m to be expected to function at my best when I get there… “

“Will it kill you?” grated the Master’s voice out of the flame.

Sweat stood out on Romanelli’s forehead. “You know it won’t,” he said, “quite.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

* * *

The little man walking along Leadenhall Street moved with a brash confidence that didn’t suit his appearance, for in the light from occasional windows and doorways that he passed, his clothes looked slept in, and his face, though bright-eyed and tightly grinning, was haggardly lined, and one ear was completely gone.

Many shops had closed for the night, but the new Depilatory Parlor was still spilling light across the cobblestones from its open doors, and the grinning little man entered and strode up to the long counter. There was a bell to ring for service, and he rang it as rapidly as if someone had promised him a shilling for each ping he could produce before being forcibly stopped.

A clerk hurried up on the other side of the counter, eyeing the little man carefully. “You want to stop playing with that?” he said loudly.