The Anubis Gates

Doyle snapped out of his stupor and, pushing the half-stunned Stowell along in front of him, hurried over to the trapdoor. Boaz was already down the ladder, and he impatiently guided Stowell’s feet onto the rungs as he descended, followed closely by Doyle, who pulled the trapdoor closed over them. A moment later all three of them stood on a stone floor, peering about at the barrels and boxes dimly visible in the radiance of the two sparkling boot chains.

“French wine I was saving,” said the innkeeper shortly, nodding at a stack of crates. He sighed. “Come this way, past the onions.” As they left the cellar and made their way down a narrow stone corridor, Doyle asked, speaking instinctively in a whisper, “Why did you have this bolt-hole ready?”

“Never you mind why—oh, what the hell. Further on the sewer’s broad enough to row a boat up from the river. Sometimes it’s prudent not to trouble the Customs House about a taxable shipment… and occasionally a patron wants to leave, but not by a visible door.”

Here I go leaving by another invisible door, Doyle thought. When they’d gone about forty paces down the tunnel the boot chains dimmed and went out.

“We’re out of the magic sphere,” Stowell muttered.

“Like enough ‘twas the damned chains set the place ablaze,” Boaz growled. “But here we are—you can see the moonlight through the grating.”

The tunnel floor crowded up against the ceiling below the sewer grating, and Doyle, his knees bent, braced his shoulder against the iron bars. He grinned sideways at Boaz. “Let’s hope I’m better at ripping up sewers than crushing pewter mugs.” Then his face lost all expression as he strained with all his strength to straighten up.

* * *

The fact of the matter, thought the shivering Duke of Monmouth as he stepped closer to the conveniently burning inn, is that I don’t truly need these sorcerers—or their damned forged marriage certificate. I’ve told Fikee that I’ve every reason to believe that my mother really was documentably married to King Charles, by the Bishop of Lincoln, at Liege. Why doesn’t he try to find the real marriage certificate?

He pursed his lips—which, to his chagrin, were unattractively chapped—for he knew the answer, and didn’t like it. It was plain that Fikee didn’t believe Monmouth was the rightful successor to the throne; and therefore his efforts couldn’t be interpreted as simple patriotic concern. The sneaking sorcerer must be relying on favors and influence from me when I’m properly crowned, he thought. And I suppose the main favor would be the one he’s been agitating for for years: the abandonment of all British interests in Tangier. I wonder, thought Monmouth, why Fikee is so determined to prevent any European power from gaining a toehold in Africa.

He looked toward the artificially tall Fikee, who was standing a few feet away, holding the black box that contained the forgery. “What are we waiting for, wizard?”

“Shut up, can’t you?” Fikee snapped, not taking his eyes off the burning building. Suddenly he pointed. “Ah! There!”

A burning man had come bounding around the corner of the building, springing an impossible three yards with each step, hotly pursued by two men who also seemed to be partially afire—at least there was a lot of sparking around their boots.

Fikee started forward just as one of the pursuers flung himself forward in a flying tackle that knocked the burning man off his feet and tumbling through the snow.

A gallant rescue, thought Monmouth. But then the fat man scrambled over to the stunned and still partially flaming figure, and Monmouth gasped to see him draw a dagger and drive it down at the man’s chest—but the blade snapped off, and the two men in the snow fell to wrestling savagely.