Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (61 page)

Harry leaned far out of his window to watch the caravan hearse out of sight around a bend in the dusty road. “It was nice meeting you,” he said. “And if I’d known you were a king, be sure my approach would have been more respectful.”

Harry—
the other’s deadspeak thoughts drifted back to the Necroscope, and he sensed that they were a little troubled now,—
you seem to me to be a very rare person: good, compassionate and wise in your own right, for all that you are young. And you say that you have recognized an older wisdom in me. Very well, so now I would ask you to accept some sensible advice from a wise old Traveller king. Go anywhere else but where you are going. Do anything else but that which you have set out to do!

Harry was puzzled, and not a little worried. Gypsies have strange talents, and the dead—even the recently dead—are not without theirs. How then a dead Gypsy king? “Are you telling my fortune? It’s a long time since I crossed a Traveller’s palm with silver.”

The other vseized upon that:
With silver, aye! My palms shall never know its feel again — but be sure my eyes are weighted with it! No, cross
yourself
with silver, Harry, cross yourself!

Now Harry wasn’t merely puzzled but suspicious, too. What did this dead old man know? What could he possibly know, and what was he trying to say? Harry’s thoughts weren’t shielded; the Gypsy king picked them up and answered:

I
have said too much already. Some would consider me a traitor. Well, let them think it. For you are right: I’m old and I’m dead, and so can afford one last indulgence. But you have been kind, and death has put me beyond forfeiture.

“Your warning is an ominous thing,” said Harry. But there was no answer. Only a small cloud of dust, settling, showed where the caravans had passed from sight.

“My route is set!” Harry called after. “That is the way I must go!”

A sigh drifted back. Only a sigh.

“Thanks anyway,” Harry answered sigh for sigh, and felt his shoulders sag a little. “And goodbye.”

And he sensed the slow, sad shake of the other’s head …

At 11:00
A.M.
Harry booked out of the Hotel Sarkad in Mezobereny and waited by the side of the road for his taxi. He carried only his holdall, which in fact held very little: his sleeping-bag, a small-scale map of the district in a side-pocket, and a packet of sandwiches made up for him by the hotel proprietor’s daughter.

The sun was very hot and seemed intensified by the old boneshaker’s dusty windows; it burned Harry’s wrists where it fell on them, causing a sensation which he could only liken to prickly heat. At his first opportunity, in a village named Bekes, he called a brief halt to purchase a straw summer hat with a wide brim.

From Mezobereny to his drop-off point close to the Romanian border was about twenty kilometres. Before letting his driver go he checked with him that in fact his map was accurate, and that the border crossing point lay only two or three kilometres ahead at a place called Gyula.

“Gyula, yes,” said the taxi driver, pointing vaguely down the road. And again: “Gyula. You will see them both, from the hill—the border, and Gyula.” Harry watched him turn his cab around and drive off, then hoisted his holdall to one shoulder and set off on foot. He could have taken the taxi closer to the border, but hadn’t wanted to be seen arriving in that fashion. A man on foot is less noticeable on a country road.

And “country” was what it was. Forests, green fields, crops, hedgerows, grazing animals: it seemed good land. But up ahead, across the border: there lay Transylvania’s central massif. Not so darkly foreboding as the Meridional!, perhaps, but mountains awesome and threatening enough in their own right. Where the road crossed the crest of low, undulating hills, Harry could see the grey-blue peaks and domes maybe twenty-five miles away. They clung to the horizon, a sprawl of hazy crags obscured by distance and low-lying cloud. His destination.

And from that same vantage point he could also see the border post, its red- and white-striped barrier reaching out across the road from a timber, almost Austrian-styled chalet. Borders hadn’t much bothered Harry, not when he had the use of the Möbius Continuum, but now they bothered him considerably. He knew that there was no way he was going to get past this one, not on the road, at least. But his uncomplicated plan had taken that into account. Now that he knew exactly where he was on the map (and the precise lie of the border), he would simply continue to act the tourist, spending the day quietly in some small village or hamlet. There he’d study his map until he knew the area intimately, and choose himself a safe route across into Romania. He knew the Securitatea were keen to keep Romanians in, but couldn’t see that there’d be much to-do made about keeping foreigners out! After all, who but a madman would want to break in? Harry Keogh, that was who.

At the bottom of the hill was a T-junction where a third-class road (or half-metalled track, at least) cut north through dense woodland. And less than a mile through the woods … that must be Gyula. Harry could see hazy blue smoke rising from the chimneys in the near-distance, and the gleaming, bulbous domes of what were possibly churches. It looked a quiet enough place and should suit his purpose ideally.

But as he reached the bottom of the slope and turned left into the woods, he heard again that half-familiar jingle and saw in the shade of the trees those same Gypsy caravans which had passed under his window earlier in the day. They had not been here long and the Travellers were still setting up camp. One of the men, wearing black boots, leather trousers and a russet shirt, with a black-spotted bandana on his brow to trap and control his long, shiny black locks, was perched on a leaning fence chewing a blade of grass. Smiling and nodding as Harry drew level, he said:

“Ho, stranger! You walk alone. Why not sit a while and take a drink, to cut the dust from your throat?” He held up a long, slim bottle of slivovitz. “The
slivas
were sharp the year they brewed this one!”

Harry began to shake his head, then thought:
why not?
He could just as easily study his map sat under a tree as anywhere else. And draw less attention to himself, at that. “That’s very kind of you,” he answered, following up immediately with: “Why, you speak my language!”

The other grinned. “Many languages. A little of most of them. We’re Travellers, what would you expect?”

Harry walked into the camp with him. “How did you know I was English?”

“Because you weren’t Hungarian! And because the Germans don’t much come here anymore. Also, if you were French there would be two or three of you, in shorts, on bicycles. Anyway, I didn’t know. And if you hadn’t answered me, why, I still wouldn’t, not for sure! But … you
look
English.”

Harry looked at the caravans with their ornate, curiously carved sigils, their painted and varnished woodwork. The various symbols were so stylized they seemed to flow into and become one with the fancy scrolls of the general decoration, almost as if they’d been deliberately concealed in the design. And looking closer—but yet maintaining an attitude of casual observation—he saw that he was right and they had been so concealed.

His interest in this regard centred on the funeral vehicle, which stood a little apart from the rest. Two women in mourning black sat side by side on its steps, their heads on their bosoms, arms hanging slackly by their sides. “A dead king,” said Harry … and out of the corner of his eye watched his new friend give a start. Things began to piece themselves together in his mind, like bits of a puzzle forming up into a picture.

“How did you know?”

Harry shrugged. “Under all the flowers and garlic, that’s a good rich caravan and fit for a Traveller king. It carries his coffin, right?”

Two of them,” said the other, regarding Harry in a new, perhaps slightly more cautious light.

“Oh?”

“The other one is for his wife. She’s the thin one on the steps there. Her heart is broken. She doesn’t think she’ll survive him very long.”

They sat down on the humped roots of a vast tree, where Harry got out his sandwiches. He wasn’t hungry but wanted to offer them to his Gypsy “friend”, in return for the good plum brandy. And: “Where will you bury them?” he eventually asked.

The other nodded eastward casually enough, but Harry felt his dark eyes on him. “Oh, under the mountains.”

“I saw a border post up there. Will they let you through?”

The Gypsy smiled in a wrinkling of tanned skin, and a gold tooth flashed in the sun striking through the trees. “This has been our route since long before there were border posts, or even signposts! Do you think they would want to stop a funeral? What, and risk calling down the curse of the Gypsies on themselves?”

Harry smiled and nodded. “The old Gypsy curse ploy works well for you, eh?”

But the other wasn’t smiling at all. “It works!” he said, quite simply.

Harry looked around, accepted the bottle again and took a good long pull at it. He was aware that others of the Gypsy menfolk were watching him, but covertly, while ostensibly they made camp. He sensed the tension in them, and found himself in two minds. It seemed to Harry that he’d discovered a way across the border. Indeed, he believed the Gypsies would gladly
take
him across; more than gladly, and whether he wanted to go with them or not!

The odd thing was that he didn’t feel any animosity towards this man, these people, who he now felt reasonably sure were here partly out of coincidence but more specifically to entrap him. He didn’t feel afraid of them at all; in fact he felt less afraid generally than at almost any time he could remember in his entire life! His problem was simply this: should he casually, even passively accept their entrapment, or should he try to walk out of the camp? Should he make allusion to the situation, make his suspicions known, or simply continue to play the innocent? In short, would it be better to “go quietly”, or should he make a fuss and get roughed up for his trouble?

Of one thing he was certain: Janos wanted him alive, man to man, face to face—which meant that the last thing the Szgany would do would be to hurt him. Perhaps now that Harry was on the hook, it were better if he simply lay still and let the monster reel him in. Part of the way, anyway.

…
When he yawns his great jaws at you, go in through them, for he’s softer on the inside …

Did I think that?
Harry used his deadspeak,
or was it you again, Faethor?

Perhaps it was both of us, a
gurgling voice answered from deep within.

Harry nodded, if only to himself.
So it was you. Very well, we’ll play it your way.

Good! Believe me, you—we?
—
have the game well in hand.

“Do you think I might rest here a while?” Harry asked the traveller where they sat under the trees. “It’s peaceful here and I might just sit and look at my map, and plan the rest of my trip.” He took a last mouthful of slivovitz.

“Why not?” said the other. “You can be sure no harm will come to you … here.”

Harry stretched out, lay his head on his holdall, looked at his map. Halmagiu was maybe, oh, sixty miles away? The sun was just beyond its zenith, the hour a little after noon. If the Travellers set off again at 2:00
P.M.
(and if they kept up a steady six miles to the hour) they might just make it to Halmagiu by midnight. And Harry with them. He couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how they would go about it, but felt fairly sure they’d find a way to get him through the checkpoint. Just as sure as he’d seen that sigil of a red-eyed bat launching itself from the rim of its urn, painted into the woodwork of the king’s funeral caravan.

He closed his eyes and, looking inwards, directed his deadspeak thoughts at Faethor.
Ithink I frightened Janos off—when I threatened to enter his mind, I mean.

It was bold of you,
the other answered at once.
A clever bluff. But you were in error, and fortunate indeed that it worked.

I was only following your instructions!
Harry protested.

Then obviously I had not made myself plain,
said Faethor.
Imeant simply that
your
mind is your castle, and that if he tried to invade it you must look to understanding his reasons, must
look
into his mind and try to fathom its workings. I did not mean, literally, that you should step inside! It would in any case be impossible. You’re no telepath, Harry.

Oh, I knew that well enough,
Harry admitted,
but Janos himself wasn’t so sure. He’s seen some strange things in my mind, after all. Not least your presence there. And if you were advising me, then obviously he would need to step wary. The last thing he would want—the last thing
anyone
would want, including myself—is you in his mind. Still, I suppose you’re right and it was bluff. But I felt… strong! I felt I was playing a strong hand.

You are strong,
Faethor answered.
But remember, you had the additional strength of the girl and Layard. You were using their amplified talents.

I know,
said Harry,
but it felt even stronger than that. It could of course have been your influence, but I don’t think so. I felt that it was all mine. And I believe that if I had been a true telepath, then I would have gone in. If only to try and do to Janos what he did to Trevor Jordan.

He sensed Faethor’s approval.
Bravo! But don’t run before you can walk, my son …
And before Harry could answer:
Will you go with the Szgany, the filthy Zirra?

In through his jaws?
Harry answered.
Yes, I think so. If I can’t get into his mind, then I’ll get into his “body”, as it were, and maybe blunt a few of his teeth a little along the way. But answer me this:

If I have frightened him off from any sort of mental seduction or invasion, what will he do next? What would you do, if you were him?