The Anubis Gates (30 page)

After a few moments he bit his lip impatiently, dipped a pen in an inkwell, crossed out a whole section of figures and began laboriously re-working them. “Shouldn’t trust a ka to do high-level mathematics,” he muttered. “Lucky I even plotted the Kensington one accurately… “

His face went blank when he arrived at an answer, though, for the fresh calculations were identical to the ones he’d crossed out. He hadn’t made an error—there really had been only one gap open that evening. The September first gap had not been one of the infrequent twinned ones.

So where,
he wondered,
did they come from?
And the answer came to him so quickly that he grimaced with self-disgust at not having thought of it sooner.

Certainly, the people in the coaches had jumped from one gate to another—but why had he assumed that the two gates had to exist at the same time?

Doyle’s crew of sorcerers had come to September first, 1810, from a gate in another time.

And if they can do that trick,
thought Romany excitedly,
then so can we. Fikee, your sacrifice may not have been in vain after all! Ra and Osiris, what could we—what couldn’t we do? Jump back and prevent the British from taking Cairo… Or further back, and undermine England so that by this century it isn’t a nation of any consequence! And to think, all Doyle’s party did with this power was come to hear a poet give a speech. We’ll use it more… purposefully,
he thought as a rare wolfish grin slowly split his face.

But,
he thought as he reached out and drew closer the Candle of Far Speaking,
this is too big a thing to keep to myself.
He lit it with the flame of the oil lamp on the table, and the lamp’s teardrop-shaped flame fluttered and seemed to recoil, when the little spherical fire bloomed at the tip of the magical candle’s wick.

To the minimal, insect-reflex extent that he was able to be glad about anything, the smiling young man was glad that Doctor Romany’s domination of him had not only removed his perceptibly burdensome free will, but also made an abstraction of physical discomfort. He was distantly aware of hunger, and cramped pains in his feet, and, much more distantly, of a voice that seemed to be howling in horror in the deepest cellar of his mind, but the fire of his consciousness had been doused with water so that the resulting steam could power some unimaginable engine; the few coals that still glowed could feel nothing but an anesthetized kind of satisfaction that the engine seemed to be working well.

Like a coachman instructed to ride around and around a certain block until his fare, ready at last, shall emerge from a house and hail him, the smiling young man began again at the top of the memorized page: “Good morning, my good man,” he said. “I am Lord Byron. May I buy you a pint of something?” The ever-smiling young man didn’t really hear the man’s answer—it seemed muffled, as if spoken on the other side of a partition—but some part of his brain, or perhaps the engine, recognized it as calling for reply number three: “I certainly am, my friend—sixth baron Byron of Rochdale; I inherited the title in 1798, when I was ten years old. If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm should be in a place like this, drinking with common laborers, well, it’s because I think it’s the common laborers that are this country, not the lords and royalty. I say—” There was the usual interruption that called for reply number one: “Innkeeper! A pint of whatever this gentleman will drink!” The young man’s hand, like a precision machine, fished a coin from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it onto the nearest level surface, and then his mouth picked up the number three response exactly where it had left off: “—to hell with these men who are supposed to govern us just because of the womb they happened to issue from! I say the King, and you, and me, are none of us better than the others, and it’s not right that some eat off silver and never work a day in their lives, while others just as good work backbreakingly hard every day and hardly taste real meat once in a week! The Americans rid themselves of that kind of artificial society, and the French tried to, and I say that we—”

He realized that the man he’d been reciting to was gone. When had he left? No matter—another would be along presently. He sat back, his blank smile returning to his face like something dead floating to the surface of a pond.

After a time he became aware that someone else had sat down next to him, and he started up again. “Good morning, my good man. I am Lord Byron. May I buy you a pint of something?”

He was answered with one of the sentences he had been warned he might get, and with an unfocussed uneasiness he responded with reply number eight: “Yes, my friend, I was travelling abroad until recently. I had to come home due to an illness, a brain fever, which still clouds my mind at times. Please excuse the uncertainty this infirmity plagues me with—do we know each other?”

After a long pause during which the still-smiling young man was aware of a vicarious sort of worry in himself, the man answered in the negative, and so with relief he went on. “If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm should be in a place like this, drinking with common—”

The newcomer interrupted the recital with a question that, frighteningly, was not muffled: “How are you coming with Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?” the stranger asked. “Oh, sorry, it’s Childe Buron’s Pilgrimage at this point, isn’t it? Ah—’Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth, who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight… ‘ How does it go from there?”

For some reason these sentences hit the young man like a splash of ice water, and as they forced his hearing into clarity they did the same for his sight; his surroundings leaped from a congeries of comfortable blurs into awful focus, and for the first time in four days he saw a face clearly.

And the face of the man who had spoken to him was one that would attract attention—perched on impressively broad shoulders and a rope-muscled neck, and framed by a thick golden mane and beard, it was haggard, lined and mad-eyed as if with fabulous and harrowing secrets.

The no longer smiling young man knew that he’d been briefed on what to do in this situation—”If things become close up, and louder,” Romany had repeatedly told him, “and you lose the veil of protection my guidance give you, return to the camp here instantly, before the people in the streets tear you to bits like a crippled dog in a ratting pit… “—But this bearded man’s words had triggered something else, something more important than Romany’s command. Byron could hear himself speaking: “‘But spent his days in riot most uncouth, and vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of night.’” A swarm of astringent memories seemed to be loosed by these somehow very familiar phrases, and they stung like circulation returning to a suddenly unconstricted limb; he remembered being aboard the brig Spider with Fletcher and Hobhouse … the Albanians at Tepaleen with their white kilts and gold-trimmed capes, their belts bristling with ornate pistols and daggers… the dry yellow hills and deep blue sky of the Morea… and something about a fever, and… a doctor? His brain shut down with an almost audible slam on that line of recollection, but his voice continued, “‘Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, sore given to revel and ungodly glee; he cheered the bad and did the good affright… ‘”

A hand seemed to squeeze his throat shut, and he knew it was Doctor Romany. In his head he heard the bald-headed doctor’s order: “Return to the camp here instantly.”

He stood up, darting bewildered glances around at the other drinkers in the low-ceilinged taproom, and then, muttering apologies, limped across to the door and out onto the street.

Doyle leaped to his feet, but his new height made him dizzy and he grabbed the table for support. My God, he thought as he took a deep breath and then reeled off in pursuit of the young man, it really is Byron—he knew Childe Harold, which no one in England will see for two years. But what’s wrong with him? And what’s wrong with history? How can he be here?

He lurched to the door and hung onto the wooden frame as he stepped down to the pavement. He could see Byron’s curly-topped head bobbing through the crowd to his right, and he followed unsteadily, wishing he could make this admittedly superior body work as gracefully as Benner had.

The people in the street seemed eager to get out of the way of the lurching, mad-eyed, lion-headed giant, and he caught up with Byron at the next tavern; grabbing his elbow, he steered him forcefully inside. “Beer for me and my friend,” he said carefully to the barmaid who was blinking up at him. Damn this cut-up tongue, he thought. He marched the ineffectually resisting young man to a table and sat him down, then leaned over him with one hand gripping the back of the chair so that his muscled arm barred any escape. “Now then,” Doyle rumbled sternly, “what’s the matter with you? Aren’t you curious about how I happened to know those lines?”

“I—I have an illness, a brain fever,” said Byron nervously, his smile seeming imbecilic when coupled with his evident anxiety. “I… must go, please, I… have an illness—” The words seemed to be jerked out of him one at a time, as if they’d been knotted along a piece of string that Doyle was pulling out of his throat.

Abruptly Doyle realized where he’d seen this mindless smile before—on the faces of the cultists who he used to see begging for change in airports and out in front of all-night restaurants.
I’ll be damned,
he thought—
Byron acts like he’s been programmed.

“What do you think of this weather we’re having?” Doyle asked him.

“Please, I’ve got to go. My illness—”

“What day is it?”

“—a brain fever, which still clouds my mind at times—”

“What’s your name?”

The young man blinked. “Lord Byron, sixth baron of Rochdale. May I buy you a pint of something?”

Doyle sat down in the other chair. “Yes, thanks,” he said. “Here comes the girl with it now.”

Byron took a gold coin from his pocket and paid for the beers, though he didn’t touch his. “If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm—”

“‘For he through sin’s long labyrinth had run,’” interrupted Doyle, “‘nor made atonement when he did amiss—’ Who wrote that?”

Again Byron’s smile disappeared, and he pushed his chair back, but Doyle stood up and blocked his exit again.

“Who wrote that?” he repeated.

“Uh…” Sweat broke out on Byron’s pale brow, and when he finally answered, it was in a whisper. “I… I did…”

“When?”

“Last year. In Tepaleen.”

“How long have you been in England?”

“I don’t—four days? I think I’ve been sick… “

“How did you get here?”

“How did I… “

Doyle nodded his shaggy head. “Get here. On a ship? What ship? Overland?”

“Oh! Oh, of course, I came back…” Byron frowned. “I can’t recall.”

“You can’t? Doesn’t that seem peculiar to you, that you don’t know that? And how do you think I knew those verses of yours?” I wish I had Ted Patrick here, he thought.

“You’ve read my poetry?” said Byron, his weird smile returning. “You gratify me. But it all seems childish to me now; now I am pursuing the poetry of action, the well-placed sword rather than the well-chosen word. My goal is to strike the blow that shall sever the—”

“Stop it, “said Doyle.

“—chains that restrict us from—”

“Stop it. Look, I don’t have lots of time, and my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders either, but your presence here—I need to know what you’re doing here, I need to know… oh, hell, lots of things…” Doyle’s voice was becoming a distracted whisper as he picked up his beer mug. “Whether this is the real 1810 or some fake one… “

Byron stared at him for a moment, then reached uncertainly for the other mug and brought it halfway to his mouth. “He told me not to drink,” he said.

“To hell with him,” muttered Doyle, wiping foam from his bushy moustache. “You going to let him tell you when you can have a drink?”

“To… to hell with him,” agreed Byron, though speaking with some difficulty. He took a long, deep sip, and when he lowered the mug his eyes seemed more focussed. “To hell with him.”

“Who is he?” asked Doyle.

“Who?”

“Damn it, the man who has programmed—sorry, harnessed, blinkered and saddled you?” Byron frowned in puzzlement, the new clarity in his eyes fading, so Doyle said quickly, “‘Good morning, my good man. I am Lord Byron. May I buy you a pint of something? If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm should be in a place like this’—who said all that?”

“I did.”

“But who said it to you, who made you memorize it? Those aren’t your words, are they? Try to remember who said all that to you.”

“I don’t—”

“Close your eyes. Now hear those words, but in a different voice. What’s the voice like?”

Byron obediently shut his eyes, and after a long pause, said, “Deeper. An old man.”

“What else is he saying?”

“‘My lord,’” and Byron’s voice even went an octave deeper as he quoted it, “‘these statements and replies should be sufficient to get you through these two days. But if things become close up, and louder, and you lose the veil of protection my guidance gives you, return to the camp here instantly, before the people in the streets tear you to bits like a crippled dog in a ratting pit. Now Richard will drive you to town in the wagon, and he’ll pick you up at six o’clock this evening at the corner of Fish and Bread streets. Here’s Richard now. Come in. Ready to go? Avo, rya. Rya, that toy the foreign chal brought—let’s start it up, my monkey would like to see it move. We’ll talk about that later, if you please, Richard. Right now take milord here to town.’” Byron opened his eyes wonderingly. “And then,” he added, in his own voice again, “I was in a wagon.”

Doyle kept his face impassive, but his mind was racing.
God help us, it’s Romany again,
he realized.
What in hell is the man up to here? What can he hope to gain by brainwashing Lord Byron and turning him loose to make semi-treasonous speeches? He’s certainly making the man visible—all I had to do to find him today was follow the rumors of the lunatic lord who’s buying everybody drinks. Is he responsible for Byron being in England now? Anyway, I’ve got to hang onto this poor devil.