by Mike Ashley
She took the opportunity to grasp his heavily-muscled arm and point through the window. “See – there – a causeway leads down from this tower to the cliff.” She glanced at him sharply. “Do you see it?”
“Ah – yes – I had not, but now I do. Yes, a causeway.”
Standing behind him, she smiled a little to herself. “I will remove the barrier,” she said.
He straightened his helm on his head. “For Lormyr and Eloarde and only those do I embark upon this adventure.”
She moved towards the wall and raised the window. He did not look at her as he strode down the causeway into the multicolored mist.
As she watched him disappear, she smiled to herself. How easy it was to beguile the strongest man by pretending to go his way! He might add lands to his Empire, but he might find their populations unwilling to accept Eloarde as their Empress. In fact, if Aubec did his work well, then he would be creating more of a threat to Lormyr than ever Kaneloon had been.
Yet she admired him, she was attracted to him, perhaps, because he was not so accessible, a little more than she had been to that earlier hero who had claimed Aubec’s own land from Chaos barely two hundred years before. Oh, he had been a man! But he, like most before him, had needed no other persuasion than the allurement of her body.
Earl Aubec’s weakness had lain in his strength, she thought. By now he had vanished into the heaving mists.
She felt a trifle sad that this time the execution of the task given her by the Lords of Law had not brought her the usual pleasure.
Yet perhaps, she thought, she felt a more subtle pleasure in his steadfastness and the means she had used to convince him.
For centuries had the Lords of Law entrusted her with Kaneloon and its secrets. But the progress was slow, for there were few heroes who could survive Kaneloon’s dangers – few who could defeat self-created perils.
Yet, she decided with a slight smile on her lips, the task had its various rewards. She moved into another chamber to prepare for the transition of the castle to the new edge of the world.
Robert Weinberg
Robert Weinberg (b. 1946) has one of the largest collections of old pulp magazines in the world, which makes me very envious. He first made his name as a bookdealer and collector – he also has a phenomenal collection of original pulp art – but he began to sell short fiction as far back as 1969. Those who remember the old magazine Worlds of If, with its feature for new writers, may recall that Weinberg was a treasured “If first” in the May 1969 issue. He also compiled several books of reference, including the indispensable A Biographical Dictionary of Science Fiction and Fantasy Artists (1988), plus several anthologies before his first novels appeared. These included the series of occult mysteries that began with The Devil’s Auction (1988). Out of that grew a number of short stories featuring the occult detective Sidney Taine. In the following, Taine is on the trail of the Holy Grail.
“I WANT YOU TO locate,” said the man in dark glasses, his voice intent, “the Holy Grail.”
Not exactly sure how to reply, Sidney Taine, known throughout Chicago as the “New Age detective,” stretched back in his chair and stared across the desk at his client. The speaker was a short, stocky man, impeccably dressed in a grey pin-stripe suit and charcoal tie. His sharp, almost angular features appeared cut from solid rock. A full black beard covered most of his jaw.
Heavy dark eyebrows flowed together above his glasses, giving his features a sinister turn. His wide nose jutted out from the center of his face like the sharp beak of some massive bird of prey. He looked and sounded like a man accustomed to getting his own way.
Ashmedai was the name he used, not indicating whether it was first or last or both. His smooth, confident motions entering Taine’s office made it quite clear that the eyes behind the black lenses were not those of a blind man. What secret those glasses actually hid, the detective was not sure he wanted to learn. According to ancient Hebrew tradition, Ashmedai reigned as king of demons.
“I’m not King Arthur,” said Taine slowly, measuring his reply. “Nor am I a member of the Round Table.”
“I dislike fairy tales,” replied the bearded man, a slight smile crossing his lips. “The Grail I seek is real, not folklore. And, it is presently lost somewhere in Chicago.”
“In Chicago?” repeated Taine, rising from behind the desk. He felt uncomfortable staring at those dark lenses. Ashmedai’s face remained a mystery. Taine firmly believed that the eyes reflected a man’s soul. Ashmedai kept his hidden for a reason. The detective looked out the windows of his office onto Lake Michigan. He was a tall, muscular man, built like a linebacker on a football team, his every move reflecting the dangerous grace of a stalking cat. Clients who spoke in riddles annoyed him. Dark, threatening clouds hovered over the placid waters. Jagged streaks of lightning flared in the late afternoon sky, reflecting the disquiet Taine felt addressing Ashmedai.
“You are aware of the theory,” said Taine, “that claims the Holy Grail is not the Cup of the Last Supper. That instead, it is the container that held the burial wrappings of Christ. Which, the same scholars who advocate this position, identify as the Shroud of Turin.”
Ashmedai shrugged. “I’ve read The Shroud and the Grail by Noel Currer-Briggs. He raises some interesting points. But, much of his book is filled with idle speculation. Too often, he manipulates the translations of early legends to fit his hypothesis. Worse, he shows no understanding of the true purpose behind Joseph of Arimathaea’s actions during and after the Crucifixion.”
“Which is?” asked Taine, when Ashmedai hesitated. The stranger spoke with convincing authority about the most mysterious of all occult traditions.
“Currer-Briggs dismissed as utter nonsense the legend that Joseph used the Grail to catch drops of Jesus’ blood from the wound made in his side by the Spear of Vengeance,” replied Ashmedai. “He let his modern sensibilities overcome his scholarly curiosity. Instead of searching for the reason behind Joseph’s actions, the author shrugged off the entire episode as tasteless and revolting. Seeking another explanation for the stories linking the Grail and Christ’s blood, Currer-Briggs fastened on the blood-stained burial wrappings used by Joseph and Nicodemus. The container containing those linens, marked with the same blood, he concluded was the true Grail. Extending his theory, he then identified the wrappings as the Shroud of Turin.”
Ashmedai chuckled. “A wonderful mental exercise, but absolute nonsense. Joseph of Arimathaea knew exactly what he was doing when he caught the Savior’s blood in the Grail. For all of his facts, Currer-Briggs refused to acknowledge the reality of the occult.”
Taine inhaled sharply, suddenly understanding what Ashmedai meant. “Black magic relies on blood,” said the detective. “The blood of Christ . . .”
“Would work wonders,” concluded Ashmedai. “Especially when linked with Seth’s Chalice.”
Taine’s eyes narrowed. Few people knew of the existence of that fabled Cup. The detective had learned of it only after years of studying the darkest secrets of the supernatural. Again, he wondered exactly who was Ashmedai? And what were his sources of information?
“According to The Lost Apocrypha,” said Taine, “when Seth, the third son of Adam and Eve, traveled to the Garden of Eden he was given a chalice by the Lord as a sign that God had not deserted humanity.”
“I’m glad to see your reputation is well deserved,” said Ashmedai. “It’s hard to believe a mere detective would know of such things.”
“I’m not an ordinary detective,” said Taine.
“If you were, I wouldn’t be here,” replied Ashmedai, chuckling softly. “A talisman of incalculable power, the Cup passed down through the ages, from generation to generation, held by only the greatest of mages. Until it was given as a gift to Jesus by one of his disciples. And became known ever after as the Holy Grail.”
“Which you claim is now in Chicago?” said Taine, a hint of skepticism creeping into his voice.
“I know it is,�
� said Ashmedai. The bearded man reached inside his jacket pocket. His hand emerged with a wad of money, held tightly together by a rubber band. Casually, he dropped the cash on Taine’s desk.
“I’ll pay you $5,000 to find the Chalice. It belongs to me and I want it back. No questions. If you need more money, just let me know.”
Taine looked down at the cash, then up at Ashmedai. Down and up again, not saying a word.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Ashmedai. “It’s honest money. Over the years, I’ve invested in a number of long-term securities. They pay a handsome return. Money serves me merely as a means to an end.”
Still, Taine made no move to pick up the package. Though he was not above bending the law for his clients when necessary, he held himself to a strict code of ethics which he refused to compromise. The notion of dealing in stolen religious artifacts crossed over that boundary.
“I need a few more details before I’ll take the case,” said Taine. “You state the Grail belongs to you. What’s your claim to it? And how was it stolen?”
“Suspicious, Mr. Taine?” asked Ashmedai, a touch of amusement in his voice. “I assure you, my right to the Chalice is more legitimate than most.”
The bearded man hesitated, as if considering what to say next. “Details of what happened to the Cup after the Crucifixion are shrouded in mystery. Arthurian legend has Joseph traveling to England, taking the Grail with him. Several occult references place the Chalice in the hands of Simon the Magician. I’ve even read an account of the vessel surfacing in the court of Charles the Great, Charlemagne.” Ashmedai shook his head, almost in dismay. “No one really knows the truth. Though I suspect it is much less colorful than any of those fables.
“The Grail and Joseph of Arimathaea disappeared shortly after Christ’s burial. They vanished into the murkiness of ancient history. In time, both became enshrined in legend. In 1907, archaeologists at a dig outside of Damascus, Syria, uncovered a spectacular silver chalice, decorated in great detail with images of the Last Supper. Comparison to like pieces dated the Cup as belonging to the 5th century AD.
“After making discreet financial arrangements with certain government officials, the discoverers of the Chalice of Damascus offered it for sale to the highest bidder. A Syrian antique dealer, acting as agent for an American millionaire, bought the rarity for $700,000. Like hundreds of other pieces, it disappeared into the reclusive publisher’s vast California estate.”
“The Chalice of Damascus and the Holy Grail . . .?” began Taine.
“Were one and the same,” finished Ashmedai. “Some enterprising smith concealed Seth’s Cup beneath a sheath of finely crafted metal, both protecting and concealing the relic. The truth emerged only after exhaustive scientific testing performed at the millionaire’s estate. Hidden under a silver lining was the Cup of the Last Supper. I tried for decades, without success, to purchase the Grail. The new owner refused to let it go. The more I offered, the more obstinate he became. After his death, his estate maintained the same position. Finally, this year, facing a huge tax increase and declining revenues due to unwise investments, they relented. It cost me a king’s ransom, but the Grail belonged to me.”
“Only to be stolen,” said Taine.
“I never even saw the Cup,” said Ashmedai bitterly. “Last night, two security guards flew in to O’Hare Airport, with the Grail in their possession. They departed the terminal shortly after nine in the evening, in a hired limo, bound for my estate in northern Illinois. That was the last anyone saw of them.”
“The police?” asked Taine.
“They’re waiting for a ransom note,” said Ashmedai. “The fools are treating the disappearance as an art theft.”
“And you don’t?”
“The Grail is the most coveted magical talisman in the world,” replied Ashmedai. “I thought no one other than myself knew its location. Obviously, I believed wrong. Someone stole the Chalice and intends using it for his own ends. What that purpose might be, I have no idea. But, knowing the power inherent in the Grail, I shudder at the thought.”
Taine nodded. There was no mistaking the worry in Ashmedai’s voice. Still, he had his doubts about the man. “And your plans for the Grail?”
“If I thought to use the Chalice for evil intent, I would have stolen it years ago,” said Ashmedai. “Instead, I waited, biding my time, and acquired the treasure honestly. My intent was never criminal.” He paused. “My collection of occult rarities is the greatest in the world. I am assembling it for a purpose that need not concern you. The Grail belongs there, well-guarded and protected, away from the schemes of little men.” His voice grew icy cold. “I am not a man easily crossed, Mr. Taine. Whoever stole the Grail will pay – pay severely.”
Taine considered that Ashmedai seemed not to care about the fate of the two bodyguards. All the bearded man wanted was the Grail. Nothing else mattered.
“I have a few ideas,” said Taine, dropping back into his chair. “Some people to call.” He slid a pad of paper and a pen across the desk. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
“Call me day or night,” said Ashmedai, scribbling a phone number on the paper. He passed it over to Taine. “Let me know the instant you locate the Cup. I’ll come at once.”
“If it can be found,” said Taine, “I’ll find it.”
“So I have heard,” said Ashmedai. “That is why I hired you. Good luck.”
Somehow, Taine had a feeling he’d need it.
Seven hours later, the detective wearily pushed open the door to the Spiderweb Lounge on Chicago’s northwest side. None of his usual sources had provided a clue to the missing relic. Nor had his own investigations at the airport turned up anything the least bit useful. Much as Taine disliked the notion, the only remaining option was to enter the Spiderweb. And deal with its owner, Sal “The Spider” Albanese.
According to crime insiders, Albanese’s nickname came from his involvement in every sort of illegal activity in Chicago. Stolen property, guns, prostitution, drugs, and murder were all part of his everyday business. Like a giant spider, the crime boss spun his deadly web across the Windy City.
Others assumed that the moniker derived from Albanese’s appearance. An immensely fat man who favored dark clothing, the elderly gangster bore an uncanny resemblance to a gigantic arachnid. Sal’s unwavering gaze and jet-black eyes did nothing to dispel that image.
Only a select group knew of Albanese’s youthful encounter with the outer darkness. They had actually seen the incredible scars across the fat man’s back and understood the full significance of the title, “The Spider.” Sidney Taine, occult investigator, was one such man.
While not an admirer of the gangster, Taine belonged to a certain occult fraternity that included Albanese as well. Which was why he was admitted to the crime chief’s office without any hassle.
“Taine,” grunted Albanese, waving one huge hand at the detective. In his other, the Spider held a foot-long meatball sandwich. Albanese was always eating, feeding his bloated three-hundred-pound body. “Long time no see. Join me for a late snack?”
“No thanks,” replied Taine, nodding to Tony Bracco and Leo Scaglia, Albanese’s ever-present bodyguards. Tony, short but built like a fireplug, crinkled his eyes in recognition. Leo, tall and thin, who handled a knife with the skill of a surgeon, grinned and nodded. He worked out at the same gym as Taine, and he and the detective had boxed more than a few rounds in the sparring ring.
Albanese made short work of the sandwich. Reaching for the tray on his desk, he guzzled down a stein filled with beer, then raised a second meatball hero to his lips. The mobster ate three or four sandwiches at a time.
They chatted for a few minutes, discussing the Bulls, the Bears and the Cubs. Albanese followed all sports closely. Making book helped pay the bills. Finally, the gangster got down to business.
“Whatcha here for?” asked Albanese, biting deep into his third sandwich. Carefully, he wiped little drops of meat sauce off his shirt.
“From your call I take it this ain’t no social call. You working for the Brotherhood?”
“Not tonight,” said Taine. “I’m investigating a robbery. My client is willing to pay quite a bundle for the return of some stolen property. No questions asked. With your contacts, I thought you might be able to help.”
“Always glad to help a frien’,” said Albanese, taking another bite. “Whatcha missing?”
“A silver cup,” said Taine. “A religious artifact known as the Chalice of Damascus.”
Sal Albanese froze in mid-bite, his jaws gaping wide open. Seconds passed, and then, very carefully, he put his sandwich down on the desk. “Too messy,” he declared, not very convincingly.
“About the Chalice . . .?” said Taine.
“Don’t know nothing about no chalice,” declared Albanese curtly. “None of my people had anything to do with robbing relics, Taine. That ain’t my style.”
The big gangster sounded angry. Black eyes glared at Taine defiantly, as if challenging the detective to say otherwise. However, behind the bluster, Taine sensed something else. Fear.
“Are you positive . . .?” Taine tried one more time.
“You doubting my word, Taine?” asked Albanese, his huge hands clenching into fists. “I don’t like being called a liar.”
“No offense, Sal,” said Taine. It made no sense to antagonize the crime boss without good reason. “I just assumed that with all your connections you would have all the details about this theft.”
“I ain’t heard,” said Albanese, unconvincingly. “Now clear out, Taine. I got business to discuss with the boys. Don’t got any more time for idle chit-chat.”
Taine turned to leave. In the corner of an eye, he caught a furtive gesture made by Leo Scaglia. The tall bodyguard, half-turned so that only Taine could see the signal, moved one hand as if to indicate, “later.” The detective dipped his head acknowledgingly, then departed.
An hour later, back at his office, Taine picked up his phone on the first ring. Scaglia, his voice muffled and barely distinguishable, was on the other end.
