Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (62 page)

What remains to him?
Faethor answered.
In the skilful use of powers—those very powers he desires to steal from you—he believes you are his match. So he must first conquer you physically. What I would do if I were him? Murder you, and then by use of necromancy rip your Knowledge right out of your screaming guts!

Your…
“art”? Harry answered.
Thibor’s? Dragosani’s? But Janos doesn’t have it.

He has this other thing, this ancient, alien magic. He can reduce you to ashes, call you up from your chemical essence, torture you until you are a ruin, incapable of defending yourself—and then enter your mind. And so take what he wants.

Hearing that, Harry no longer felt so strong. Also, the slivovitz had been more potent than he thought and he’d taken quite a lot of it. Suddenly he knew the sensation of giddiness, an unaccustomed alcoholic buoyancy, and at the same time felt the weight of a blanket tossed across his legs and lower body. It was cool under the trees and someone was seeing to his welfare, for now at least. He opened his eyes a crack and saw his Gypsy “friend” standing there, looking down at him. The man nodded and smiled, and walked away.

Treacherously clever, these dogs,
Faethor commented.

Ah!
Harry answered.
But they’ve been well instructed …

Though Harry felt he should have no real requirement for sleep, still he let himself drowse. For two or three days now there had been this weariness on him, as if he were convalescing after some minor virus infection or other, maybe a bug he’d picked up in the Greek islands. But a strange ailment at best, which made him feel strong on the one hand and wearied him on the other! Perhaps it was a change in the water, the air, all the mental activity he’d been engaging in, including his deadspeak, so recently returned to him. It could be any of these things. Or … perhaps it was something else.

Even as he let himself drift, and as he began to dream a strange dream—of a world of swamps and mountains, and aeries carved of stone and bone and cartilage—so Möbius came visiting:

Harry? Are you all right, my boy?

Certainly,
he answered.
Iwas merely resting. Whatever strength I can muster … it could be I shall need it. The battle draws nigh, old friend.

Möbius was puzzled.
You use strange terms of expression. And you don’t quite, well,
feel
the same.

As Harry’s dream of Starside faded, so Möbius’s dead-speak made more of an impression.
What?
he said.
Did you say something? Terms of expression? I don’t feel the same?

That’s better!
said Möbius, with a sigh of relief.
Why, for a moment there I thought I was talking to some entirely different person!

Between dream and waking, Harry narrowed his eyes.
Perhaps you were,
he said.

He sought Faethor in his mind and wrapped him in a blanket of solitude. And:
There,
he said. And to Möbius:
Ican hold him there while we talk.

Some strange tenant?

Aye, and greatly unloved and unwanted. But for now I’ve covered his rat-hole. I much prefer my privacy. So what is it you’ve come to tell me, August?

That we’re almost there!
the other answered at once.
The code is breaking down, Harry, revealing itself. We’ll soon have the answer. I came to bring you hope. And to ask you to hold off from your contest just a little while longer, so that we—

—Too late for that,
Harry broke in.
It’s now or never. Tonight I go up against him.

Again the other was puzzled.
Why, you seem almost eager for it!

He took what was mine, challenged me, offended me greatly,
Harry answered.
He would burn me to ashes, raise me up, torture me for my secrets—even invade the Möbius Continuum! And that is not his territory.

Indeed it is not! It belongs to no one. It simply is …
Möbius’s deadspeak voice was dreamy again, which caused Harry to concentrate and consolidate within his own personality.

“It simply is”?
he repeated to Möbius, mystified.
But of course it is! What do you mean, it is?

It thinks … everything,
Möbius answered.
Therefore it
is …
everything!
But something had been triggered in him. He was fading, drifting, returning to a dimension of pure Number.

And Harry made no attempt to retain him but simply let him go …

XVI: Man to Man, Face to Face

 “
H
ARRY!”
S
OMEONE GAVE HIS SHOULDER AN URGENT SHAKE.
“Harry, wake up!”

The Necroscope came instantly awake, almost like stepping through a Möbius door from one existence to another, from dream to waking. He saw the Gypsy he had spoken to and shared food with, whose blanket lay across his legs. And his first thought was:
How does he know my name?
Following which he relaxed. Of course he would know his name. Janos had told it to him. He would have told all of his thralls and human servants and other minion creatures the name of his greatest enemy.

“What is it?” Harry sat up.

“You’ve slept an hour,” the other answered. “We’ll soon be moving on. I’m taking my blanket. Also, there is something you should see.”

“Oh?”

The Gypsy nodded. His eyes were keen now, dark and sharp. “Do you have a friend who searches for you?”

“What? A friend, here?” Was it possible Darcy Clarke or one of the others had followed him here from Rhodes? Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“An enemy, then, who follows on behind? In a car?”

Harry stood up. “You’ve seen such a one? Show me.”

“Follow me,” said the other. “But keep low.”

He moved at a lope through the trees to a hedgerow. Harry followed him and was aware of the other Gypsies scattered here and there throughout the encampment. Each of them to a man was silent but tense in the dappled green shade of the trees. Their belongings were all packed away. They were ready to move.

“There,” said Harry’s guide. He stood aside to let the Necroscope peer through the bushes.

On the other side of the road a man sat at the wheel of an old beetle Volkswagen, looking at the entrance to the encampment. Harry didn’t know him, but … he
knew
him. Now that his attention had been focussed on him, he remembered. He’d been on the plane, this man. And … in Mezobereny? Possibly. That cigarette holder was a dead giveaway. Likewise his generally snaky, effeminate style. And now Harry remembered, too, that earlier brush with the Securitatea in Romania. Had this man been their contact in Rhodes? An agent, perhaps, for the USSR’s E-Branch?

He glanced at the Gypsy beside him and said, “An enemy—possibly.” But then he saw the knife ready in the other’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The other smiled, without humour. The Szgany don’t much care for silent watchers.”

But Harry wondered: had the knife been for him, if he’d tried to make a run for it? A threat, to bring him to heel? “What now?” he said.

“Watch,” said the other.

A Gypsy girl in a bright dress and a shawl crossed the road to the car, and Nikolai Zharov sat up straighter at the wheel. She showed him a basket filled with trinkets, knick-knacks, and spoke to him. But he shook his head. Then he showed her some paper money and in turn spoke to her, questioningly. She took the money, nodded eagerly, pointed through the forest. Zharov frowned, questioned her again. She became more insistent, stamped her foot, pointed again in the direction of Gyula, along the forest road.

Finally Zharov scowled, nodded, started up his car. He drove off in a cloud of dust. Harry turned to the Gypsy and said: “He was an enemy, then. And the girl has sent him off on a wild goose chase?”

“Yes. Now we’ll be on our way.”

“We?” Harry continued to stare at him.

The man sheathed his knife. “We Travellers,” he answered. “Who else? If you had been awake you could have eaten with us. But—” he shrugged,”—we saved you a little soup.”

Another man approached with a bowl and wooden spoon, which he offered to Harry.

Harry looked at it.

Don’t!
said a deadspeak voice in his head, that of the dead Gypsy king.

Poison?
Harry answered.
Your people are trying to kill me?

No, they desire you to be still for an hour or two. Only drink this, and you will be still!

And sick?

No. Perhaps a mild soreness in the head—which a drink of clean water will drive away. But if you drink the soup … then all is lost. Across the border you’ll go, and up into the ageless hills and craggy mountains—which, as you know, belong to the Old Ferenczy!

But Harry only smiled and grunted his satisfaction.
So be it,
he said, and drank the soup …

Nikolai Zharov drove as far as Gyula and midway into the town, then finally paid attention to a small niggling voice in the back of his mind: the one that was telling him, more insistently with each passing moment, that he was a fool! Finally he turned his car around and drove furiously back the way he’d come. If Keogh had gone to Gyula he could check it later. But meanwhile, if the Gypsy girl had been lying …

The Traveller camp was empty—as though the Gypsies had never been there. Zharov cursed, turned left onto the main road and gunned his engine. And up ahead he saw the first of the caravans passing leisurely through the border checkpoint.

He arrived in a skidding of tyres, jumped from the car and ran headlong into the one-room, chalet-style building. The border policeman behind his elevated desk picked up his peaked, flat-topped hat and rammed it on his head. He glared at Zharov and the Russian glared back. Beyond the dusty, fly-specked windows, the last caravan was just passing under the raised pole.

“What?” the Russian yelled. “Are you some kind of madman? What are you, Hungarian or Romanian?”

The other was young, big-bellied, red-faced. A Transylvanian village peasant, he had joined the Securitatea because it had seemed easier than farming. Not much money in it, but at least he could do a bit of bullying now and then. He quite liked bullying, but he wasn’t keen on being bullied.

“Who are you?” he scowled, his piggy eyes startled.

“Clown!” Zharov raged. “Those Gypsies—do they simply come and go? Isn’t this supposed to be a checkpoint? Does President Ceausescu know that these riff-raff pass across his borders without so much as a by your leave? Get off your fat backside; follow me; a spy is hiding in those caravans!”

The border policeman’s expression had changed. For all he knew (and despite the other’s harsh foreign accent), Zharov might well be some high-ranking Securitatea official; certainly he acted like one. But what was all this about spies? Flushing an even brighter red, he hurried out from behind his desk, did up a loose button on his sweat-stained blue uniform shirt, nervously fingered the two-day-old stubble on his chin. Zharov led him out of the shack, got back into his car and hurled the passenger-side door open. “In!” he snapped.

Cramming himself into the small seat, the confused man blusteringly protested: “But the Travellers aren’t a problem. No one ever troubles them. Why, they’ve been coming this way for years! They are taking one of their own to bury him. And it can’t be right to interfere with a funeral.”

“Lunatic!” Zharov put his foot down hard, skidded dangerously close to the rearmost caravan and began to overtake the column. “Did you even look to see if they might be up to something? No, of course not! I tell you they have a British spy with them called Harry Keogh. He’s a wanted man in both the USSR and Romania. Well, and now he’s in your country and therefore under your jurisdiction. This could well be a feather in your cap—but only if you follow my instructions to the letter.”

“Yes, I see that,” the other mumbled, though in fact he saw very little.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“What? Up here? What would I shoot, squirrels?”

Zharov growled and stamped on his brakes, skidding the car sideways in front of the first horse-drawn caravan. The column at once slowed and began to concertina, and as the dust settled Zharov and the blustering border policeman got out of the car.

The KGB man pointed at the covered caravans, where scowling Gypsies were even now climbing down onto the road. “Search them,” he ordered.

“But what’s to search?” said the other, still mystified. “They’re caravans. A seat at the front, a door at the back, one room in between. A glance will suffice.”

“Any space which would conceal a man, that’s what you search!” Zharov snapped.

“But … what does he look like?” the other threw up his hands.

“Fool!” Zharov shouted. “Ask what he
doesn’t
look like! He doesn’t look like a fucking Gypsy!”

The mood of the Travellers was ugly and getting worse as the Russian and his Securitatea aide moved down the line of caravans, yanking open their doors and looking inside. As they approached the last in line, the funeral vehicle, so a group of the Szgany put themselves in their way.

Zharov snatched out his automatic and waved it at them. “Out of the way. If you interfere I won’t hesitate to use this. This is a matter of security, and grave consequences may ensue. Now open this door.”

The Gypsy who had spoken to Harry Keogh stepped forward. “This was our king. We go to bury him. You may not go into this caravan.”

Zharov stuck the gun up under his jaw. “Open up now,” he snarled, “or they’ll be burying two of you!”

The door was opened; Zharov saw two coffins lying side by side on low trestles where they had been secured to the floor; he climbed the steps and went in. The border policeman and Gypsy spokesman went with him. He pointed to the left-hand coffin, said: “That one … open it.”