by Tim Powers
“Sorry, Brendan. It’s an Upmann, vintage 1983. I stole a box of them from Darrow when I left.”
“Oh.” Doyle walked to the door and stepped outside onto the pavement. The moon was up, and the shadows of racing clouds swept along the street and the housefronts like furtive ghosts in a hurry to get to the river. An old man was hunching along over the gutter in the middle of the street, and as Doyle watched he stooped and picked up a tattered cigar butt.
Doyle walked up to him. “Here,” he said, holding out his own lit cigar. “Never mind that trash. Have an Upmann butt.”
The old man looked up at him wrathfully. “Up mah what?”
Too weary to explain, Doyle hurried away.
* * *
Wealthy enough now to indulge himself, Doyle took a room at the Hospitable Squires in Pancras Lane, for all the sources agreed that this was where William Ashbless stayed during the first couple of weeks after his arrival in London; and though he was surprised to learn that the landlord had never heard of Ashbless, nor ever rented a room to a tall, burly blond man, with or without a beard, the matter of Ashbless’ absence was a good deal less urgent to Doyle now that he was in on the deal with Benner.
He spent the next three days simply relaxing. His cough didn’t seem to be getting any worse—if anything, it was receding—and the fever he’d been living with for two weeks had evidently been purged from him by Kusiak’s spicy fish chowder and beer. For fear of Horrabin’s people, or Darrow’s, he didn’t stray far from his inn, but there was a narrow balcony outside his window from which, he discovered, he could climb up shingled eaves to the roof of the building; and on a flat surface between two chimney pots he found a chair, its wood whitened and split by decades of London weather. Here he sat in the long twilights, looking down across the descending terraces of Fish and Thames streets to the misted river, its boats tacking down the tide with an appearance of unhurried serenity; he would have tobacco and a tinderbox lying on the wide brick collar of the chimney pot at his left, and a bucket of cool beer on the roof below his right hand, and alternately puffing on his pipe and taking sips from his ceramic cup, he would look out across the almost Byzantine tangle of rooftops and towers and columns of smoke, all dominated by the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral way out across the city to his right, and he considered, with the comfortable detachment of one from whom a decision is not immediately required, simply not meeting Benner, and instead living out his life in this half-century that was to be characterized by Napoleon, Wellington, Goethe and Byron.
The three-day rest was marred by only one distasteful event. On Thursday morning as Doyle was returning home from a bookseller’s in Cheapside, a shockingly deformed old man hunched and flapped up to Doyle, seeming to propel himself as much by the swimming motions of his driftwood hands as by the use of his feet. The bald head that stuck out from the collection of ancient clothing like a mushroom growing on a compost heap had at one time suffered a tremendous injury, for the nose, the left eye and the left half of the jaw were gone, replaced by deeply guttered, knotted scar tissue. When the old wreck stopped in front of Doyle, Doyle had already dug into his pocket and produced a shilling.
But the creature was not begging. “You, sir,” the old man cackled, “look like a man who’d like to go home. And I think,” he winked his eye, “your home lies in a direction we couldn’t point our finger at, hey?”
Doyle looked around in a sudden panic, but didn’t see anyone who seemed to be confederates of this ruinous person. Perhaps he was just one of the ubiquitous street lunatics, whose line of gibberish chanced to have a seeming reference to Doyle’s situation. He probably meant Heaven or something. “What do you mean?” Doyle asked cautiously.
“Heh heh! Do you think maybe that Doctor Romany is the only one that knows where the gates of Anubis will open, and when? Think again, Ben! I know ‘em, and there’s one I could take you to today, Jay.” He giggled—an appalling sound, like marbles rolling down metal stairs. “It’s just across the river. Want to see?”
Doyle was bewildered. Could this man truly know the location of a gap? He certainly knew about them, at least. And the gaps are supposed to be frequent around now; it’s not unlikely that there’d be one open on the Surrey-side. God, what if I could get home today! It would mean ditching Benner… but that bastard has no claims on my loyalty. And if this is a trap of Horrabin’s or Darrow’s, it’s needlessly roundabout.
“But,” he said, “who are you? And what will you get out of showing me the way home?”
“Me? I’m just an old man who happens to know something about magic. As to why I want to do you this service,” he giggled again, “it might be that I’m not exactly a friend of Doctor Romany’s, mightn’t it? A case could be made for it being Romany I have to thank for this.” He waved at the destroyed side of his face. “So. Interested? Want to come see the gate that will—or has, or is—taking you home?”
Lightheadedly Doyle said, “Yes.”
“Come on, then.” Doyle’s devastated guide set off energetically down the pavement, again seeming to swim as much as walk, and Doyle started to follow but halted when he noticed something. Dry leaves were clustered in waves along the pavement, and when the old man trod on them they didn’t crackle.
He turned his awful face back toward Doyle when he noticed he had stopped. “Hasten, Jason,” he said.
Doyle shrugged, resisted a sudden impulse to cross himself, and followed. They crossed the river by Blackfriars Bridge, neither of them saying much, though the old man seemed to be as pleased as a child on Christmas morning who, now that everybody is home from Mass, is finally allowed to go into the room where the presents are. He led Doyle down Great Surrey Street and then to the left down one of the narrower streets and finally to a high brick wall that completely enclosed one fairly large lot. There was a stout-looking door in the wall, and with a grin and a horrible raising of both eyebrows, the old man held up a brass key.
“The key to the Kingdom,” he said.
Doyle hung back. “This gate today just happens to be behind a door you’ve got a key to?”
“I’ve known… for quite a while!… what was here,” the old man said, almost solemnly. “And I bought this lot, for I knew you’d be coming.”
“So what is it?” Doyle asked nervously. “A long-term gap, is that what you’re saying? But it’s no good to me until it ends.”
“It’ll be a gate when you get to it, Doyle, there’s no doubt on that score.”
“You make it sound like I’m to die in there.”
“You won’t die today,” said his guide. “Nor any day to come.”
The old man was turning the key in the lock, and Doyle stepped back, but looked on uneasily. “You think not, huh?”
“I know not.” The door was unlocked, and the old man pushed it open.
Whatever Doyle had expected to see, it was not the grassy lot visible through the doorway, with the weak September sunlight shining on the weather-rounded lumps of masonry broken long ago. The old man had scuttled inside, and was picking his way over the green hillocks; Doyle gathered his nerve, clenched his fists and leaped through the doorway.
Aside from the old man and himself and the remains of ancient walls thrusting up through the grass, the walled-in lot was completely empty. The old man was blinking his one eye at him, surprised by the suddenness of Doyle’s entrance. “Close the door,” he said finally, and returned his attention to whatever he’d been grubbing at in the dirt.
Doyle closed the door without letting it lock and strode over to his peculiar guide. “Where’s the gate?” he asked impatiently.
“Look at these bones.” The old man had pulled a piece of canvas away from a pile of very old-looking bones, some of them blackened as if by fire. “Here’s a skull,” he said, holding up a battered ivory sphere on which the cheek and jaw bones clung tenuously.
“My God,” said Doyle, a little repelled, “who cares? Where’s the goddamn gate?”
“I bough
t this place many years ago,” said the old man reminiscently, speaking to the skull, “just so I could show you these bones.”
Doyle let his breath out in a long hiss. “There is no gate here, is there?” he said wearily.
The old man looked up at him, and if his scarred face bore any expression, it was unreadable. “You’ll find a gate here. I hope you’re as eager to pass through it then as you are now. Do you want to take this skull with you?”
Just a street lunatic after all, Doyle thought, with some knowledge of the magical hierarchy in London. “No, thank you.” He turned and plodded away over the unmowed grass.
“Look for me again under different circumstances!” called the old man.
* * *
When, promptly at noon on Saturday, Steerforth Benner strode in through the open doorway of Jonathen’s Coffee House, Doyle saw him and waved, and pointed at the empty chair on the other side of the table at which he’d been sitting for half an hour. Benner’s boot heels rapped on the wood floor as he crossed the room, pulled out the chair and sat down. He stared at Doyle with a belligerence that seemed to be masking uncertainty. “Were you early, Doyle, or did I misremember the hour of our appointment?”
Doyle caught the eye of a waiter and pointed at his coffee cup and then at Benner; the waiter nodded as he tapped up the three steps to the main floor. “I was early, Benner. You did say noon.” He looked more closely at his table mate—Benner’s eyes seemed to be a bit out of focus. “You all right? You look… hung over or something.”
Benner looked at him suspiciously. “Hung over, you say?”
“Right. Out late drinking last night, were you?”
“Ah! Yes.” The waiter arrived with his cup of steaming coffee, and Benner hastily ordered two kidney pies. “No better remedy for the effects of overindulgence than a bit of food, eh?”
“Sure,” said Doyle unenthusiastically. “You know, we’re both going to have some readjustment to do when we get back—you’ve not only picked up an accent, you’re using archaic phrasing, too.”
Benner laughed, but it seemed forced. “Well, of course. It’s been my intention to seem… indigenous to this ancient period.”
“I think you’re overdoing it, but never mind. Have you got it all set up?”
“Oh yes, yes of course, no problem at all.”
Doyle reflected that Benner must be very hungry, for he kept looking around impatiently for the waiter. “The girl will do it?” Doyle asked.
“Certes the girl will do it, she’ll do it splendid. Where in hell is that man with our pies?”
“Screw the goddamn pies,” said Doyle impatiently. “What’s the story? Has there been a hitch? How come you’re acting so strangely?”
“No no, no hitch,” said Benner. “I’m just hungry.”
“So when do I go see Darrow?” Doyle asked. “Today? Tomorrow?”
“Not so soon, must give it a few days. Ah, here are our pies! Thank you. Fall to, Doyle, don’t want to let it get cold.”
“You have mine,” said Doyle, who had never been able to stand the thought of eating kidneys. “So why do we have to wait a few days? Have you lost the hairy man?”
“You eat your damned pie. I ordered it for you.”
Doyle rolled his eyes impatiently. “Stop trying to change the subject. Why the wait?”
“Darrow’s going to be out of town until, uh, Tuesday night. Would you rather have some soup?”
“Not anything, thank you,” said Doyle very distinctly. “So let’s say I go see him Wednesday morning?”
“Yes. Oh, and also I was concerned about a man who seems to be following me. I can’t imagine who he is—a short man with a black beard. I think I eluded him when I came here, but I’d like to be certain. Would you go look outside and see if he’s hanging about? If he is, I don’t want him to know I’m aware of him.”
Doyle sighed, but got up and walked to the door and, stepping out onto the pavement, looked up and down the sunlit expanse of Threadneedle Street. The street was crowded, but Doyle, ducking and pardon me-ing and standing on tiptoe, couldn’t see any short, black-bearded man. Someone was hoarsely screaming up the street to his right, and heads were craning in that direction, but Doyle wasn’t interested in finding out what the commotion was about. He went back inside and returned to the table.
“I didn’t see him.” Doyle sat down. Benner was stirring a cup of tea that hadn’t been there when Doyle went out. “How long has he been following you? And where did you first notice him?”
“Well…” Benner sipped the tea noisily. “Damn, they serve fine tea here. Try some.” He held the cup toward Doyle.
The yelling outside was getting louder and more general, and Doyle had to lean forward to be heard. “No, thank you. Will you answer me?”
“Yes, I’ll answer. But first, please try some. It’s really very good. I’m beginning to think you fancy yourself above eating or drinking with me.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Benner.” Doyle took the cup and tilted it impatiently to his lips, and just as he opened his mouth for a sip Benner reached out and lifted the bottom of the cup, so that Doyle got a real solid gulp. He only just managed to keep from choking on it. “Damn you,” he sputtered when he’d swallowed it, “are you crazy?”
“I simply wanted you to get a good draught of it,” Benner said happily. “Isn’t it savory?”
Doyle smacked his puckered lips. The stuff had been bitterly spicy and thick with leaves and, like a red wine with a lot of tannin, so dry that it made his teeth feel raspy. “It’s horrible,” he told Benner, and then a disquieting thought struck him. “You son of a bitch, let me see you drink some.”
Benner cupped a hand to his ear. “I beg your pardon?
There seems to be—”
“Drink some right now!” Doyle was almost shouting to be heard over the racket that was now just outside.
“Do you suppose I want to poison you? Hah! Watch.” To Doyle’s considerable relief Benner drained the cup with no hesitation. “You’re no connoisseur of tea, Doyle, that’s evident.”
“I guess not. What in hell do you suppose is going on outside? But tell me about this bearded—”
There were some panicky yells in the room behind Doyle, by the front door, and before he could turn around there was an explosive crash and roaring metallic splash as the front window burst inward. The street altercation doubled in volume. As Doyle whirled out of his chair and onto his feet he was peripherally aware of Benner coolly leaping up and drawing a small flintlock pistol from under his coat.
“My God,” someone was screaming, “kill it, I think it’s going for the kitchen!”
Doyle could see a frantically churning crowd on the street side of the room, and sticks from shattered chairs were being swung as clubs, but for the first tense several seconds he couldn’t see who or what was at the center of it; then a waiter was flung tumbling through the air to bowl down half a dozen people, and Doyle saw, in the small central clearing of the riot, a squat ape with fur the color of a red setter. Though shorter than most of its opponents, it managed by sheer, gibbering ferocity to burst through the hole left by the catapulted waiter, and in two bounds it had covered half the distance to Doyle and Benner’s table. In the instant before Benner’s gun cracked at his ear Doyle had time to notice that the ape’s fur was matted with blood in a number of places, and that it seemed to be bleeding more profusely through the mouth.
Doyle felt the concussion of the air slap at his cheek and saw blood jump from the ape’s chest as the slug hammered it right back off its feet. Its shoulders struck the floor ten feet behind where it had last been, and for one moment before its limp, rattling collapse the creature was nearly standing on its head.
In the instant of ringing silence that followed, Benner seized Doyle’s arm above the elbow and marched him quickly into the kitchen and through the back door into a very narrow, shadowed alley.
“Go,” Benner said. “This alley connects with Cornhill.”<
br />
“Wait a minute!” Doyle nearly tripped over an old broken cartwheel that had somehow eluded all the scrap scavengers. “That was one of Dog-F—I mean, the hairy man’s cast-offs! Why did it come—”
“It doesn’t matter. Now will you—”
“But it means he’s in a new body now! Don’t you understand—”
“I understand it better than you do, Doyle, believe me. Everything’s under control and I’ll explain later.”
“But—oh, okay. Hey, wait! Damn it, when will I meet you again? You said what, Tuesday?”
“Tuesday’s fine,” said Benner impatiently. “Trot!”
“Where on Tuesday?”
“Don’t worry about that—I’ll find you. Oh, what the devil. Tuesday right here at ten in the morning, does that make you feel better?”
“Okay. But could you loan me some more money? I don’t—”
“Oh aye, aye, mustn’t have you starving yourself. Here. I don’t know how much is there, but it’s bountiful. Now go, will you?”
* * *
The gray-haired waiter had swept the dustpan full of glass bits, and with the napkin he’d tied in a turban-like bandage around his head he looked like some sort of Grand Vizier looking about for a sultan to present a heap of randomly cut diamonds to. “I’m sorry, son, but things were too excited just then for me to really take notes, yes?” He dumped the panful of glass into the trash barrel and stooped to sweep up another load.
“But he was heading for two men at a table?”
The waiter sighed. “Heading for them or more likely just making a break in their direction.”
“And can you remember anything else about the man who shot him?”
“Just what I said, tall and blond. And the guy with him was short and dark and skinny and sick-looking. Now be off home, eh?”
There seemed nothing more to be learned here, so Jacky thanked the man and slouched disconsolately out onto the cobbles of Exchange Alley, where several men were gingerly loading into a wagon the red-pelted corpse of Kenny whatever-his-name-had-been, vacated a week ago by Kenny but only today by Dog-Face Joe.
