The Anubis Gates

“Bind him,” the sorcerer croaked, “and take him downstairs to the hospital. Hurry.” The St. Elmo’s fire was flickering wildly now, and popped every time he pronounced a hard consonant.

Ashbless leaped at the man to his right and with the whole weight and strength of his body punched him in the throat; the man went straight over backward and his reflexive shot exploded the face of the clock on the wall. Ashbless had just gotten his balance back and was about to whirl and grab Jacky and Coleridge when his left leg was abruptly slammed out from under him and he landed awkwardly on the floor.

The scene stopped being a moving mix of impressions for him, and he could only perceive things one at a time: his new trousers had a gaping, blood-wet hole blown out in the left knee; his ears were ringing from the bang of a second gunshot; blood, and bits of bloody cloth and bone, were spattered on the wall and floor in front of him; his left leg, which was extended straight out in front of him, was bent sideways at the knee.

“I still want you to bind him,” rasped Romanelli. “And put a tourniquet on his thigh—I want him to last a while.”

Ashbless lost consciousness when Carrington and the gunman grabbed him under the arms and yanked him upright.

* * *

Three minutes later the room was empty except for Coleridge, who was sitting pale-faced in Horrabin’s swing with his eyes closed, and one of Carrington’s men, a rat-faced young man named Jenkin who was embarrassed at having been posted as guard over such a harmless old fellow. Jenkin looked around the room curiously, noting the fresh blood puddle and the shattered clock, and wondered exactly what had happened here before Carrington had called him in. He’d seen three people being taken out of the room as he hurried in, and only one of them was walking, but everything had seemed to be under control; Jenkin had thought when he heard the two shots that it was the start of the mutiny, but evidently that would have to wait for a bit.

He started violently when he heard a step in the hall, and then sighed with relief to see Carrington enter the room.

“They got tea hot in the kitchen?” Carrington growled.

“Aye, chief,” replied the mystified Jenkin.

“Fetch a pot and a cup—and sugar.”

Jenkin rolled his eyes but obeyed. When he got back with it Carrington had him set it on a table, then went to one of the higher shelves and took down a brown glass bottle. He uncorked it and shook several splashes of a sharp-smelling liquid into the tea. “Throw a lot of the sugar in, too,” he whispered to Jenkin.

Jenkin did, and jerked a thumb inquiringly toward Coleridge.

Carrington nodded.

Jenkin drew the thumb across his neck and raised his eyebrows.

Carrington shook his head and whispered, “No, it’s laudanum. Opium, you know? It’ll just put him to sleep, and then you’ll stash him in Dungy’s old room. And when we’ve got rid of the clown and the wizard we’ll take him down the underground river and dump him by the Adelphi somewhere. He won’t remember where this is. Extra trouble, but after the publicity the papers stirred up over the murder of that Dundee fellow Saturday, we don’t dare kill a well-known goddamn writer.”

He poured a cup of the tea and carried it across to Coleridge. “Here you go, sir,” he said gently. “A bit of hot tea will help.”

“Medicine,” Coleridge wheezed. “I need my… “

“The medicine’s in the tea,” said Carrington reassuringly. “Drink up.”

Coleridge drank the cup empty in four swallows. “More… please… “

“That’s plenty for now.” He took the empty cup back to the table. “He’ll sleep till noon with that dose,” he told Jenkin. “I’ll dump the pot before somebody else finds it. Be quick about getting our friend here down to Dungy’s room if you don’t want to carry him there.”

Jenkin lowered his voice and asked, “When do we… ?”

“Soon now, though we’re one man short—that Ashbless bastard punched Murphy in the throat, and smashed everything from his chin to his collarbone. Dead before he hit the floor.”

“Who is this Ashbless?”

“I don’t know—but it’s luck for us that he seems tough; their lordships will need a bit of time to wreck him. But he won’t last forever and we’ve got to take them while they’re busy with him, so get moving.”

Jenkin crossed to the swing, helped Coleridge up and hustled him out of the room.

Carrington, his face looking leaner than ever with tension, took the teapot to the front door and dumped it out on the steps, then bolted the door, tossed the teapot into a chair and glanced around. It certainly wouldn’t do to let any inquisitive police officer see the place like this. He dragged a couple of little rugs over from the hall and flung them over the broken glass and the smeared pool of blood.

He straightened and shook his head wonderingly, remembering the quickness of Ashbless’ strike at Murphy. Who the hell was the man? And why was he out riding in the mismatched company of an evidently well-known writer and a beggar boy, like Jacky Snapp?