Gary Gygax - Dangerous Journeys 1 - Anubis Murders

by Gary Gygax

  The Magister sat down. "Then I can only accept your graciousness, Highness. I will ask a few more questions . . ."

  "Do so by all means," Llewyn urged.

  "Which of the other four kings have full knowledge of this affair?"

  The heir to the throne of Lyonnesse made a little sign, and the Behon responded to the wizard-priest's query. "Each of the crowned heads of Avillonia is similarly protected from dangers as is King Glydel, Magister Inhetep. The steward for young King Finn is handling the matter in Galway. The Laird Campbell is likewise standing betwixt this fiend calling himself the Master of Jackals and King Malcome of Cala-donia. In Cymru I have spoken personally to Archmage Trigg, who is the chief advisor to King Owen, and he has assured me that the whole is well in hand. Only King Dennis of Albion is directly involved." The chief judge of Lyonnesse paused and looked at Inhetep, silently awaiting his further questions.

  The Egyptian switched subjects. "What of this wheel?"

  "The wheel, as you put it, is the most powerful—"

  "Of course, of course, man!" Setne broke into the Behon's lecture with a sharp-edged voice. "There isn't an apprentice of dweomercraeft or novice cleric in all Egypt who isn't aware of the Nine and Ninety Celestial Artifacts! I am asking what you have done about the demand for it by the murderer."

  "Oh," the Ovate said with subdued voice. "Prince ... ?"

  "Nothing!" Llewyn spat in answer. "That sort of demand cannot be granted."

  Inhetep looked skeptical. "Even at the risk of many lives—your own certainly among them?"

  The prince shrugged. "To yield that would place the whole kingdom into the palm of the Master of Jackals' hand," he said without force. His face showed as much uncertainty as did his evasive answer to the wizard-priests's query.

  "So the Jackal wishes to control Lyonnesse by means of possession of the Wheel of the Tuatha de Danann as well as the imposition of Set. . . ."

  "Yes," the Kellts said in chorus.

  "Similar demands have been made to the other rulers of the Five Crowns?"

  "Well . .." the Behon began.

  "Exactly," Prince Llewyn snapped. "We are in contact with all concerned. The fiend has demanded from each of us the great magickal objects which enable sovereignty."

  Inhetep stood up for a second time. "Allow me, please, to examine this purported statuette of Anubis." Llewyn nodded; the other three had no objections save cautionary murmurings. "No need to fear. I shall exercise utmost discretion. Besides, this chamber is triply warded."

  It was time to see what was on the Jackal's mind, Setne thought, as he stooped near the little figurine. He drew forth an enspelled lens and inspected minutely the carved stone. It was onyx, and the jet hue of the jackal head was as natural as the pale, milky color of the figurine's kilt. "This is incredible!" he announced. The workmanship was masterful, the stone perfect, and the carving that of only one origin. "It is Egyptian!" The faceted eyes were probably from Hind, and the inlaid gold must be checked to see if its foreign admixtures discounted it coming from his native land, but Setne felt that would not be the case. He put away the crystal lens.

  "Are you finished?" the prince inquired.

  "No. I must see . . ." Inhetep replied distractedly as he drew forth several other small items. Without saying more, the wizard-priest began to lay castings of discovery. The aura of the figurine, its enchantments, powers, even its history and possessors were subject to such magickal inquisition. The object shimmered with halos of oddly hued radiances, but only to Setne's vision, for the others there able to discern aural lights had not empowered themselves to do so. This was the ^Egyptian's work. Inhetep saw the emanations of evil as an indistinct cloud surrounding the statuette. Malign power and danger. The thing was charged with many forms of heka— the energy of stone, attendance by the supernatural and, greater still, that of the uttermost nethersperes. It was very old. How many millennia? Inhetep was uncertain, but over six thousand years had slipped past since the carving of this work. It had been done by a faithful young cleric of Anubis, passed to an official—Setne saw an overseer, a governor of one of Egypt's many sepats. There followed next a beautiful woman, a high-ranking military officer, then a succession of foreigners, the last of whom was a merchant who passed it to another—an Egyptian. There followed many nondescript impressions. Then the reading became hazy. Power of another sort had been imposed, and it was the energy of a sahu. That meant the figure had been entombed with some mummy only a few hundred years after its fashioning. There was a brief light, as if it had been brought forth from the tomb and might again have recorded impressions, only magick interposed. This time it was a deliberate obscuring.

  "Come on, Inhetep! What is it you see?" Crown Prince Llewyn demanded.

  "Too much and too little," the wizard-priest told him. "I will have to employ less subtle means," he informed the five who were watching. It was not a request. It took only a few second to begin the incantation, and soon the power of words and ritual brought a nimbus of golden sparks to dance around the little figure. Suddenly the amber luminosities were sucked into the statuette, and as they were absorbed the figure became larger and less distinct. Inhetep gasped in surprise. He stepped back a pace, for the mask of the Master of Jackals had suddenly solidified out of the haze of the enspelled object.

  "You!" The sound hissed from the mouth opening. "Servant of Thoth, get thee from this place! You will not oppose your own gods, will you? Heed, Setne Inhetep, and I shall place you in a noble position. Disobey, and you will be cut down as these infidels will be soon should they fail me. That is what the mind of the Master of Jackals reveals to you. You may seek no more," the voice hissed evilly. There was a rush of wind, a loud clap, and all magick was gone from the salon. So was the figurine.

  UNDERGROUND SECRETS

  There were only the two of them now, Setne and Rachelle, and they were back in their suite of rooms in the Prince House Inn. It was near evening, and Inhetep hadn't moved from his chair since they had returned just before noon. "Setne, I'm hungry," Rachelle said conversationally. She had been trying to stay unobtrusive and keep busy, while the wizard-priest meditated. Inhetep made no response. Rachelle sat down across from him and tried to fix her gaze on his green eyes, but the Egyptian was looking slightly upwards with a fixed stare indicating that he saw nothing. "O Greatest of Ur-kheri-hebu, O One Whose Wisdom is as Thoth's . . ."

  "Stop that nonsense!"

  The words seemed to come from behind her, but Rachelle knew his trick of ventriloquism. The hawk-faced man was irritated at being disturbed and was trying to get her to go away—or else strike up a conversation with a vase or bedpost. Rachelle had to smile, for he had duped her into that sort of thing a few times in the past. The wily spellbinder would use his voice-throwing ruse, then cause some petty spirit of the aether or similar origin to occupy the furniture and converse banally with whomever spoke to the confining object. Some of these forces were tricky and inventive, and the conversation might go on for an hour or more. "That's a useless ploy, bald-pate," Rachelle said firmly, still looking at Inhetep. "I want to talk to you, not some dumb spirit, and I want to speak now!"

  "A dumb spirit would not converse at all, and you are speaking, I believe," the magister said with acid tones, still gazing off into space.

  "Setne Inhetep, you pay attention to me this instant!"

  Inhetep sighed, shut his eyes a moment, then looked at Rachelle and smiled. "Very well, guard and mistress of my household, you have my humble apologies and complete attention," he said sincerely, even though a portion of the Egyptian's mind was still engaged busily with the problem of the statuette. "What service may I perform?

  "I am hungry," Rachelle snapped.

  "Am I to cook our supper, then, or would you have me conjure up some enchanted fare?"

  Rachelle made a moue. "You know very well that isn't what I want, Setne. There is a small banquet tonight at the castle. That's where I wish to dine this night!"

  "But of course,"
Inhetep said effusively. His long face was wreathed in smiles, and he arose, swooped, and before she knew it the girl was on her feet and being propelled toward her chambers. "Certainly, dear Rachelle, it shall be as you wish. I confess I have let the matter slip from my mind, but there—you've reminded me! Do put on your gown and be ready in an hour. I wouldn't have you miss the festivities for the world," Setne added as he shut the intervening door.

  She thought it highly unusual behavior on Setne's part. He was never eager to attend functions of such nature as court dinners, doubly so when he was working on some criminal problem of a mysterious nature. Thinking that perhaps she had managed to select the perfect time to make her demand, the proverbial weak moment, Rachelle went about her preparations. She was happy and pleased. In less than an hour, wonder of wonders, she returned to the big parlor between her rooms and those of the wizard-priest. "What are you doing here?!" Her voice carried a note of real surprise.

  "You look as lovely as a princess of Faerie," Sir Aldriss said with a sweeping bow of greeting. "Pray forgive me if I startled you, but I assumed that when Magister Inhetep requested I call for you, he had made the arrangement at your request."

  "Arrangement? Request?" Rachelle was filled with annoyance, which would grow into anger if she allowed her emotions free rein. "No matter, Sir Bard. I must ask you to pardon my . . . happy surprise. Of course I expected to be taken to the royal banquet this evening, and my astonishment was provoked by seeing you, dear Aldriss. I had not hoped for anything other than some common escort, shall we say."

  The chief bard beamed. "You will fairly have the court abuzz when they see you on my arm, lady. Shall we be off, then?"

  "In but a moment, sir. Did the magister say where ... ?"

  Aldriss looked slightly annoyed, then an expression signifying the return of memory spread over his handsome face. "Ah, how could I be so forgetful? Here is a note which the worthy priest-mage left for you. May I open and read it for you?"

  "No, you may not," Rachelle replied sweetly but with steely edge in her tone. "It will be in Hieratic Script—can you read such writing?" Without waiting for a response, she took the hastily proffered square of parchment, broke the seal, unfolded it, and read the contents:

  Better you go alone, Rachelle, for I have an important clue. Each of us can thus be working on this very thorny problem. Watch over all there this night to ward against attack, magick, etc. Always be wary of anything unusual which occurs at the banquet. Record such events for my return, and we shall discuss them then. Expect to be gone for some hours, so don't wait my return. Always, Lovingly & Dutiful, Regretfully, etc. Setne Inhetep, Magister

  She was a little puzzled and very disappointed that the wizard-priest hadn't seen fit to take her into his confidence. Just where was Setne going? And for what purpose? He'd be in danger, Rachelle was sure of that. He should have taken her along on his foray. And such a strange note. . . . Bother this soiree, anyway!

  "What troubles you, dear Lady Rachelle?" Al-driss asked solicitously.

  She turned and smiled at him. Rachelle hoped the expression wasn't too thin. "It is nothing, Sir Bard, nothing. Quite the contrary, for Magister Inhetep has been kind enough to give me the night free from duties!" She laughed a little to emphasize her pleasure at the prospect.

  "This way then, please, Your Ladyship. It is a fine evening despite the chill of winter. Our coach awaits." Moments later, the carriage was rolling away from the inn, its four matched horses heading for the palatial castle at a fast trot.

  The gilded coach's departure was observed by a lone figure shrouded in the shadows of a nearby lane. When the carriage had passed from his sight, the man turned back and disappeared up the near alley. A flickering lantern revealed his face for a split second. It was a hard and ruthless visage whose scars and battering nevertheless could not hide his Phonecian heritage. The fellow was no taller than average, but his wide shoulders and big hands indicated that he had known much labor and hardship. Mercenary? Perhaps. Seaman? Certainly, if the rolling gait was considered. Cutthroat? Who else but one of that sort would roam the unlit byways of Camelough?

  "Whiskey!" he demanded from the barkeep. The strange man had followed lane, gangway, alley, and passage to get to the tavern. It was far distant from the royal seat of Lyonnesse, and the most infamous of the many low dives in the city's slum district, Scathach. Foreigners, thugs, thieves, and all manner of riffraff lived and died without ever leaving Scathach's few square miles. But likewise, many of those in the district came from distant parts, other kingdoms.

  The barman hardly noticed the stranger. Many came into the place. Most were no better looking than the Phonecian, and some were worse. "Whiskey," the sallow-faced barkeep said, as he slammed down the earthenware pot containing about three ounces of raw liquor. "That'll be ta spurs, killey," he growled to the scar-faced man.

  The Phonecian produced a fat disc of silver from somewhere, so that the coin seemed to appear magickally beneath the barman's fingers.

  "The change o' thet drake is yers," he informed the proprietor, "if ya kin tell me suthin'," the Phonecian growled back in near-perfect Lyon-nese gutter dialect.

  The barkeep was suspicious. Those twenty-three spurs—the difference between the two bronze coins he'd demanded and the silver drake the stranger had slipped him—could mean trouble. On the other hand, the sum was about all he made on a typical night. He eyed the scar-faced man. "What air ya askin'?"

  The fellow with the battered countenance tossed off the whiskey in a single gulp. "Aaah . . ." he said slowly. "Anither, an' one fer yersel', killey," the Phonecian added. As he spoke, he made another of the silver drakes appear on the bar. "I'm seekin' atter Eastern curs, so ta spake."

  The barman gaped at the second coin. "Noon i' these parts 'ave stray mongrels," he replied non-committally. "Jest what's special so's ta recognize an Eastern one?"

  The scarred face broke into an evil grin. "Come on now, killey. Big, black ears, and from the place where all the gods 'ave animal 'eds," he chuckled softly.

  "Well ..." the barman responded slowly, glancing around furtively. It was early yet, at least two hours before midnight, the time most regulars came along Rushlight Lane and the Two Cups Tavern. The pair of silver coins gleamed in the barkeep's sight. The foreigner seemed all right. . . . "If you were to go over to Shoddyway an' around ta the Duke's Cellar, I'd wager on seein' summat that's o' interest to you," he told the Phonecian as he scooped up the two drakes. They barely clinked as he asked hopefully, " 'Ave anither whiskey?"

  The stranger nodded, but this time he conjured forth only a big copper piece. The tot of liquor was splashed into the heavy cup. He waited for it to be filled as full as before, and the barman grudgingly obliged. "Me thanks," the scar-faced stranger grated. " 'Tis a quiet place— too quiet, so's I'll be rollin' on."

  "It'll be right lively 'ere in an 'our, killey," the barkeep said, turning to fetch the jug containing his best whiskey from the shelf behind the bar. He'd give the Phonecian a free round—prime the pump, so to speak. Then perhaps the man would start to produce hard silver again. "This one's on the hou—" but he cut his statement short, because the scar-faced foreigner was gone.

  The man's broad shoulders and his scarred face were quite sufficient to discourage would-be assailants, and even kept whining beggars at bay. One look told these street rogues that the Phonecian had a ready weapon, quick hand, and hard heart. Rushlight Lane wandered left and right in shallow curves, south from Roundabout Gardens all the way to Dray Street near the southern wall of the city. About two-thirds of the distance along the crooked lane, the edge of the Scathach cloth and garment district shouldered the byway. Shoddyway was wider and straighter than Rushlight Lane, but if anything it was more dangerous, because more of the denizens of Scathach gathered along its length after night fell.

  When a young tart stopped him near Vixen Court, a gaggle of her older professional sisters looked on and laughed snidely. "She'll be scam-perin' back right smart soon
now," one slattern remarked, having seen the man's hard eyes. "Lookit 'at!" another hissed. Not one of the five or six whores could believe it. The inexperienced little doxy had actually scored! The broad-backed tough was handing her coins, and without further ado the saucy trollop had slipped her arm through his and was wiggling on down the street.

  "You'll be sarry!" one of the older ones jeered after her. Another cried, " 'E'll beat yer arse!" but the calls were ignored.

  "Damme!" the leader of the group muttered as the couple disappeared around a corner. "I swears I saw gold when that barstid 'anded over payment!"

  Her friend was derisive. "Naw, deary. All's ya seen was some new brass, an' 'ats the troof."

  She was wrong.

  "I don't care where we're goin', lovie," the little strumpet said. "At your pay, we can go wherever and do whatever ya likes! But jest where are we 'eaded for?"

  "So ya likes a little gold drachma, do ya," the Phonecian said, phrasing it as a statement, not a question. He saw the tart's thin hand go to her breast, fingering the coin she'd placed inside her blouse. The drachma was a smaller coin than the golden drake of Lyonnesse, about half its weight and value. It was nonetheless a handsome sum, for it equalled no fewer than five hundred of the common coins of everyday existence, bronze spurs. She noticed his glance, hastily removed her hand from the cheap cloth, and nodded. "Good," he said. "You an' I are goin' to pay a visit to a temple—a special kind o' one."

  "Whatcha mean?" the girl asked suspiciously. There were some very strange places in Cam-elough's seamy sections.

  "Don't get yer arse in an uproar now, cutie." There was a trace of humor in his voice. "All's I 'spect is that ye'll be takin' me to the place where they 'onors jackals, so's ta speak."

  She looked relieved and bored at once. "Sure, dearie. I bin ta that temple, as ya calls it—it were back in summer when it were first begin." She shrugged and looked at him. "Ain't nuffin' goin' on there. Lotta talkin'—jus bullshit promises about makin' us per folk rich and alia while takin' coins as contributions. What say we goes ta 'Attie's Paradise instead. They gots all kinds—"