The Anubis Gates

Amenophis Fikee walked back to where the man stood and, able to look down at him by virtue of his stilted shoes, hissed, “Listen to me, you posturing clown. If your damned backside is ever to rest on the throne it will be because of my efforts, and in spite of yours. Or do you imagine that the idiot assassination attempt you and Russell and Sidney set up last year was intelligent? Hah! Fools, trying to reach through a pane of glass for a sweet! You need me, and magic, and a damn large spoonful of luck even to steer clear of the headsman’s block, far less become king! And the man who contacted me tonight, greeted me through the candle with the ancient passwords, has more raw power than I’ve seen in a sorcerer for—well, a long time. You were there, man—I didn’t even have to light the candle to receive him—it just burst into flame! Now he’s run afoul of something, very possibly James’ precious Antaeus Brotherhood, and he’s had to fall back to the spot on the Surrey side where there’s one of those inexplicable bubbles of indulgence I mentioned to you, in which sorcery is freer. Therefore we will meet him there. Or would you rather return to Holland to pursue the crown on your own, without my help?”

The Duke of Monmouth still looked sulky, so Fikee waved the little black box at him. “And without my indetectibly forged marriage certificate?”

Monmouth scowled, but shrugged. “Very well, wizard. But let’s get moving, before your damned frost freezes us solid.” The band moved forward again, toward the bridge.

The boat had been sailing close-hauled, its half-drunk sailors waving their flaring torches more or less in time to their singing, but now the man at the tiller had cut too close into the wind and the sail luffed and fluttered empty; the boat lost its speed, the grotesque faces painted on the great wooden wheels becoming distinguishable as the disks rolled more and more slowly on the wooden axles penetrating the framework that supported the craft, and finally the boat lurched to a stop on the ice, and after a moment began to roll indecisively backward as the sail billowed in reverse.

Burghard, who had been leading Doyle and the ten Antaeus Brotherhood members in a long, curving sprint across the ice behind the screen the wheeled boat provided, caught up with it now, leaped for the rail, caught it, and swung over the gun-wale and tumbled into the boat. The drunken mariners, already irate at having lost the wind, turned angrily on this unimposingly slim boarder, but lurched back in confusion when the burly figure of Doyle came vaulting lightly over the rail, all flying mane and beard and cape.

“We’re taking command of this vessel,” he cried in a voice tight with restrained laughter, for he realized that he’d read about this adventure only a few hours ago. “Burghard, how do you get this thing running again?”

“Stowell,” the leader called over the rail, “get the back wheels pushed all the way over and then all of you get in. Everybody’s used to seeing this thing tacking around the river—our man won’t notice if it follows him.”

“It be my boat, though, mate,” objected a tubby man in the stern, who scrambled to his feet as the tiller moved slowly over.

Burghard handed him some coins. “Here. We’ll not mistreat her, and we’ll leave her on the south shore. Oh, and—” he counted out some more coins, “—this is yours too if we can have your masks and torches.”

The owner weighed the coins against the obvious determination of the boarders, then shrugged. “Abandon ship, lads,” he called to his companions. “And leave the masks and lights—we’ve got enough here for a whole butt of sack.”

The evicted sailors climbed over the gunwales and dropped to the ice cheerfully, and as the last of Burghard’s men swung aboard, the sail filled again and the boat began to rock forward.