by P. B. Kerr
“You mean the story in the Thousand and One Nights?” said John.
“Yes. Literally translated, these Chinese words mean ‘open sesame.’”
“Please don’t say them,” said Groanin.
But even as the butler spoke, Nimrod had pronounced the words in such a way as befits a magical word of command. “Kai Shen,” he said loudly.
Immediately, a hidden door in the brick wall rumbled open to reveal a long dark passageway. “The footprints go in here,” he announced, shining his flashlight inside. “And seem to lead in a westerly direction for quite a distance.”
“I’ll bet the tunnel goes all the way to the Emperor Qin’s burial mound,” said John, looking at the map in his guidebook. “It’s about half a mile to the west of where we are now, on the other side of the River Wei.”
Finlay read a little more. “For some reason, the burial mound remains unexcavated,” he said. “There’s also another exhibition hall over pit number four that’s unfinished. I wonder why it’s unfinished.”
“With eight thousand warriors already dotted about the place, they probably figured they had enough,” said Groanin.
“Yes, I wonder why, too,” admitted Nimrod, ignoring Groanin’s explanation. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Something scared them off, perhaps,” suggested Finlay.
“I can’t imagine what on earth could scare people who are prepared to eat dogs and rats,” observed Groanin.
“Perhaps something not on earth,” remarked Finlay. “But underneath it.”
“We certainly won’t find out by staying here,” said Nimrod.
“Surely you’re not going in there on your own?” said Groanin.
“Of course not, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You’re coming with me.”
“It could be a trap.”
“True. And so, John and Finlay, you had better wait for us back at the Most Wonderful Hotel in Xian. Just in case something happens.” He tossed the little box holding the skeleton key up to Finlay, who caught it and slipped it into his pocket. “You might need the key to get back in here.”
“Do I have to?” protested Finlay/John. “Wait out here, I mean.”
“Not that anything will happen, of course,” Nimrod added quickly, for Groanin’s benefit. “It would be a foolish creature that ever imagined it could best a djinn in a fight.”
“Then why do you want me along, sir?” said Groanin.
“You’re my butler, man,” said Nimrod. “An English gentleman doesn’t like to go anywhere without a butler.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Stop moaning, Groanin, and get down here,” insisted Nimrod.
“Very well, sir. If you insist.” Groanin climbed over the barrier and slithered down the side of the pit. Covered in dust, he arrived on the floor still on his backside, but stood up without another complaint and tried to brush himself off. “Shall I lead the way, sir?” he said, glancing into the passage.
“No, Groanin, I’d better go first,” said Nimrod. “Just in case.”
Finlay/John watched the two men enter the passage until the stone door rumbled shut behind them. They remained there for several minutes.
“Do you really want to go back to the hotel?” Finlay asked John.
“Nope,” he said. “I think we should wait a couple more minutes and then follow. Just to keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t get into any trouble.”
Finlay/John climbed over the barrier and down into the damp-smelling pit, keeping a close eye on the warriors in case one of them came alive and started behaving aggressively, like the warrior devil back at the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum in New York.
“Groanin’s right,” said Finlay. “This place is the pits.”
John wasn’t listening because, of course, being inside Finlay’s body, he knew what Finlay was going to say before Finlay actually said it.
You’re right, thought Finlay. From now on we should just exchange thoughts.
Did you hear something? thought John.
You know I did, thought Finlay, switching off the flashlight. Someone’s coming.
Finlay/John crouched down behind one of the figures as the lights in the hall came on and an American’s footsteps echoed on the gantry above them. They knew he was an American because the author of the footsteps was also making a call on his cell phone.
“Dad, it’s me, Rudyard,” said a loud but youthful voice. “You know how Nimrod and those other dumb clowns got away from my typhoon? Well, they’re here at the exhibition hall in Xian. And guess what? All of them just walked straight into the trap we set for them. That’s right. They went inside the ‘open sesame’ tunnel. Just like you said they would. Yeah.” He laughed an unpleasant sort of laugh. “Like rats in a trap. Boy, are they in for some surprises when they get to the silver lake. I am so looking forward to seeing their faces when they realize how this place works.”
John peeped out from behind a terra-cotta warrior and caught a glimpse of a pale-faced, red-haired boy about fifteen years old, wearing a dark, Chinese-style suit and dark glasses. He’d only seen the youth once before, at the Djinnversoctoannular Tournament, the previous December in New York’s Algonquin Hotel. But it was hardly a face he would have forgotten. The young man on the cell phone was a djinn, an Ifrit, and a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Philippa had easily bested him in her first game and, predictably, he had been a sore and foulmouthed loser. It was Rudyard Teer, one of the many sons of Iblis.
“So how’s Operation Magic Square coming along, Dad? … It is? … Cool. That Dybbuk kid is so dumb … I know he’s your son, too, Dad. But you have to admit, he’s a schmuck…. All right, all right, if you say so. He’s my half brother, okay. More like half-witted, if you ask me. Listen, Dad, forget that. I’ve got the latest Keyfitz numbers for you.”
What’s a Keyfitz number? thought Finlay.
I have no idea, admitted John silently.
“We’re up to ninety billion souls accounted for and dealt with,” said Rudyard Teer. “That’s right. Ninety billion absorbed by your warrior devils. Isn’t it incredible? We’re only six billion short of completely clearing out the whole lousy spirit world ahead of the operation…. Dad? Dad, your signal’s breaking up. Did I hear you right? You don’t want me to bother with those other six billion souls? … Okay, Dad. Whatever you say. And you’re right. Six billion is just too few to get in the way of what we’re planning. Okay, Dad. Call you tomorrow. Bye.”
Still laughing, Rudyard Teer walked back along the gangway. Seconds later, the lights in the exhibition hall went out, and the terra-cotta warriors and the boy hiding behind one of these were plunged back into darkness.
What was all that about? thought Finlay.
I’m still thinking about it, replied John.
We have to warn Nimrod, said Finlay.
If we follow him through that door, won’t we just be walking into the same trap? asked John.
Good point.
Look, Nimrod is a very powerful djinn, said John. And Groanin has an extra-powerful arm. We have to assume that they can look after themselves, but if they can’t, we’re not likely to be able to help him. I mean, I have no djinn power. And you’re just a normal mundane kid.
Can’t argue with any of that, admitted Finlay.
If Rudyard Teer thinks we’re in the same boat as Nimrod and Groanin, and we’re not, that gives us a possible advantage, said John. Which we might just throw away by going through the open sesame door like they did. I think our best bet is to go back to the hotel and wait there and hope that Philippa is able to solve Cardinal Marrone’s mystery in the painting back in Venice, and that she’s able to find that golden tablet of command. The way I see it, if we’re to go after Nimrod and Groanin, we ought to have something in our arsenal that can dig them out of any spot they might get themselves into. Marco Polo’s golden tablet is the one thing that can do that.
What if she doesn’t? asked Finlay. What if Philippa can’t solve t
he mystery in that painting?
If anyone can solve that puzzle, it’s her, said John. My twin sister has a brain in her head the size of a basketball. Especially since she spent that time being groomed as the next Blue Djinn. But I dunno what happens next if she doesn’t crack it. I really don’t. From the sound of what that jerk Rudyard Teer was saying just now, I guess Philippa’s solving the mystery in that painting might just be a matter of life and death. In fact, it could be more important than that.
CHAPTER 26
A WILD-GOOSE CHASE
At the Gallerie dell’ Accademia in Venice, Philippa sat alone in front of the painting of the Doge’s golden palace. The four peasants who were examining the foundation stone of the palace on which appeared the apparently nonsensical Roman numeral equation looked every bit as puzzled as Philippa felt herself to be. She bent her brain one way and then the other, certain that the answer to the problem lay in solving the insoluble XI + I = X. Which being insoluble, wasn’t going to be easy. How could eleven plus one ever equal ten? It didn’t make sense. Of course, that was the whole point. If it had made sense, it wouldn’t have been a mystery. She spent a whole day just looking at the picture and thinking about it.
Philippa was alone in the Gallerie because she had told Marco Polo to stay at the hotel to stop him from distracting her. Having tasted Italian ice cream — the recipe for which he claimed to have brought from China at the end of the thirteenth century — Marco had kept on telling her just how much better it was than Chinese ice cream. Frankly, Philippa wasn’t in the least surprised by that news. She was quite fond of Italian ice cream herself. Marco was also enthusiastic about pasta, coffee, Bellini cocktails, and, of course, the women of Venice, who are among the most beautiful in all of Italy. He did not, however, think very much of television. “It would be better,” he had declared, “if it wasn’t always the same thing on TV. This boy wizard, Jonathan Tarot, really irritates me.”
Philippa wasn’t inclined to disagree with him there, either.
A couple of times Sister Cristina turned up at the Gallerie and asked how Philippa was getting on. She even brought Philippa a book about the Cardinal Marrone mystery written by a man called Michel Bustinadité, and this was an easy way for her to make a note of the numbers that were painted along the bottom of the picture:
3376 619 77345 35007 32135 3704 0705
3751 1704 539076 535509 335 06 07734
Philippa wondered if these might be a code, like the dancing snakes she and John and Dybbuk had encountered in the picture that had taken them on their adventure to Kathmandu and Lucknow; as a result, she spent several hours trying to find the most common letters that might break the rest of the code. Using this method, she ended up with a message that started with “ee,” and since the only word she could think of beginning with two e’s was “eel,” she hardly thought that this method of unlocking what the numbers meant promised to be very enlightening. There are no eels in Venice.
Weary from her extended brain work, Philippa lay down on the bench, which, being long and upholstered with leather, was very comfortable — more like a bed, in fact; after a while, she went to sleep.
She woke up with a pain in her neck. Her head had slipped off the bench while she was asleep and when she opened her eyes everything was upside down. Somehow the picture made better sense that way, which made her think she must still be half asleep and, shaking her head clear of sleep, Philippa sat up. It was a minute or two before it dawned on her that looking at the painting upside down was just about the only way she hadn’t looked at it.
Whipping off her jacket, Philippa made a sort of cushion out of it, and laid it on the floor, next to the wall. With her back to the picture, she knelt down, placed the crown of her head on the makeshift cushion, and then kicked her legs high into the air, into a headstand. Philippa hoped she might avoid the scrutiny of one of the museum attendants long enough to make the upside-down discovery she now felt was imminent.
“Eureka!” she whispered as her head filled with blood and a sudden understanding of the Roman numeral equation. “I’ve found it.” And she had found it, too. Upside down, the equation XI + I = X looked like X = I + IX. This, of course, made perfect sense since ten does equal one plus nine. This meant that the picture was only supposed to make sense as a message when it was upside down. This surely meant the numbers along the bottom of the picture were also supposed to be read upside down.
Excited, she dropped to the floor, found the sheet of paper upon which she had carefully copied out these numbers from the painting, and turned it around so that the bottom was now at the top. And, after a moment or two, she saw that what the artist had done was basically just the same stupid, infantile trick that John had once shown her using a pocket calculator: how when you keyed the number 07734 and then turned it upside down, you got the word “hello.”
Cardinal Marrone’s hidden message was longer and less obviously meaningful.
The message read as follows:
HELLO. GO SEE BOSSES GLOBES. HOLI ISLE.
SOLO HOLE. SEIZE LOOSE SHELL. BIG GLEE.
Of course, reading the message was one thing. Understanding what it meant was quite another. These words were clearly directions of some kind. And very likely something involving the Duke’s palace. But it was clear to Philippa that she was going to need an older brain than hers to work out some of the references. She decided to return to St. Mark’s and enlist the help of Sister Cristina.
Scattering a flock of pigeons in her haste to be across St. Mark’s Square, Philippa saw that the line outside the palace was the biggest she had seen and seemed to stretch right down to the Grand Canal. She patted herself on the back that she’d had the good sense to see the palace already. Which was when it started to dawn on her that maybe some of the message wasn’t so hard to understand after all. What else were the Doges or dukes of Venice than the bosses of Venice? And didn’t the palace have two of the largest globes Philippa had ever seen?
Hello, the cardinal seemed to be saying, this is the place to start. Where better to begin a search for a magical treasure than in an ancient map room?
Changing course halfway across the square, Philippa made for the line outside the palace; an hour later, she found herself running up the stairs and through the palace to the map room where she remembered the two globes being on display.
These were considerably larger than any globes she had ever seen before. Each of them was as tall as an upright piano, about as wide as a car, and the color of old leather. Possibly they were very valuable. Certainly they were very old.
Philippa walked around the globes like a sculptor surveying his subject, and wondering why even in a palace anyone had ever needed two enormous globes. Made in the eighteenth century, the two globes, which stood next to each other on a marble floor, were protected by a small metal fence that was supposed to stop people from touching them. This was exactly what Philippa wanted to do. How else was she to find the Holi Isle? There was another problem, too. Being not much taller than the equator on the globes, how was she ever going to search the two northern hemispheres?
For the moment, she confined her search to the two southern hemispheres. Getting as close to the globes as she dared, she crept around them looking for — she didn’t know what exactly. Yet, at the same time, she presumed Cardinal Marrone would have left some indication on one of the globes as to where the holy isle was to be found.
When her search of the southern hemispheres was complete, she considered returning to the hotel and getting Marco Polo so that she might sit upon his shoulders, and then rejected the idea. Marco was much too old to manage something like that. Besides, the palace would be closing soon. There was no time to go back to the hotel and then have to wait in line again. What she needed was a set of steps …
Even as this last thought entered Philippa’s head, a man who was at least as tall as a set of steps entered the map room. He was black and good-looking and wore a New York Giants T-shirt that made her th
ink he might be some kind of football player, and an American, to boot. She followed him around the room for a moment, noted that his guidebook to the palace was in English, and then made her move.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “You from the States?”
“New York,” said the man. “Just like it says on the shirt.” He smiled. “Where are you from, honey?”
“New York. I was wondering if you could do me a small favor.”
“Anything for a fellow New Yorker.”
“I need to see on top of those globes,” she said. “Only I’m too short. Could you maybe lift me up? On your shoulders?”
The man grinned. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He dropped down to his knees. “Climb aboard. By the way, the name’s John Nevada.”
Even Philippa had heard of John Nevada.
“The football player?”
“Yes.”
“Pleased to meet you, John. My name is Philippa Gaunt.”
Philippa clambered onto Nevada’s shoulders and then uttered a quiet squeal as he stood up again, carrying her to a height of more than seven feet from which it was easy to see the tops of the two globes.
“I’m not too heavy for you, I hope.”
“Heck, no.” Nevada walked slowly around the globes. “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she admitted. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
“This isn’t a trick, I hope,” said Nevada.
“No, no. I’m perfectly serious. I have to write about these globes, you see. For a school paper. But it’s a little hard to study them when you can only see half of them.” She added plausibly, “I just wanted to see how accurate eighteenth-century mapmaking actually was.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “How accurate is it?”
“Europe looks pretty much the same.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking ever since I got here.”
