The Anubis Gates

“And Jacky points out that since Doyle hopes to take up the begging trade here in London, and since he prospered so when he didn’t speak and suffered exile the first time he uttered a word, he ought to get back into the habit of relying on gestures to communicate with. You need practice at being Dumb Tom again, Mr. Doyle. Don’t you agree?”

Everybody turned to Doyle, and he saw one of the captain’s eyelids flutter slightly. The purpose of all this must be to conceal my accent, Doyle realized. But why? And how did that boy know I’d have one? He smiled uncertainly and nodded.

“You’re a wise man. Dumb Tom,” said Copenhagen Jack. “Now Jacky tells me you and he used to be great pals in Bristol once, so I’ll let him rob us of your company for a while so he can explain our ways to you. And in the meantime I’ll consider the rest of the candidates for recruitment. Stand up, another of you!”

As a bleary-eyed old man struggled to stand up at another table, Jacky hopped down from the platform and hurried over to Doyle, his oversized coat flapping around his thin form like the wings of a bird. Still wary, Doyle stepped back from him and glanced again at the door.

“Brendan,” said Jacky, “come on now. You know I’m not one to hold a grudge—and I understand she left you for another bloke only a week later.” Skate let out a rumbling chuckle, and Jacky winked and mouthed something that might have been trust me.

Doyle let himself relax. You’ve got to trust somebody, he thought—and at least these people appreciate a good Bordeaux. He nodded and let himself be led away.

* * *

Fairchild gently pushed the door closed, and then stood troubled by thought on the pavement outside the dining room. The air was getting chilly as the last gray light faded out of the sky, and he frowned—then took cheer from the memory of the five shillings in the drainpipe, for that would buy him a couple of days of leisurely living, graced with beer and beef pies and skittles. But—and he frowned again as much at the abstractness as at the bleakness of the thought—there would be days after the five shillings were gone. What would he do then? He could ask the captain what to do… no, that’s right, the captain had just thrown him out, which was why he had to think of what to do.

He whimpered a little as he hurried down Pye Street, and slapped himself across the face a few times in an effort to rouse his brain to constructive thought.

* * *

“You knew I’d have an accent.” Doyle pulled the corduroy coat closer about himself, for the little room was cold in spite of the smoldering coals in the grate.

“Obviously,” said Jacky as he piled blocks of wood onto the old embers and arranged them to produce a good draft. “I told the captain that you mustn’t be allowed to speak, and he improvised a story to arrange for it. Close those windows, will you? And then sit down.”

Doyle pulled the windows shut and latched them. “So how did you know? And why shouldn’t people hear me?” There were two chairs, one on either side of the small table, and he took the one nearest the door.

Having got the fire going to his satisfaction, Jacky got up and crossed to a cupboard. “I’ll tell you as soon as you answer some questions of mine.”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed with resentment at being talked to so peremptorily by a kid who was younger than most of his students—and his resentment was only slightly appeased by the bottle the young man had lifted down from a shelf.

A muted racket of applause and whistling sounded from downstairs, but neither of them remarked on it.

Jacky sat down, and gave Doyle a look that was both puzzled and stern as he splashed brandy into two snifters and pushed one across the table to him.

“Thanks,” Doyle said, picking it up and swirling it under his nose. It smelled as good as any he’d ever had. “You people do live well,” he admitted grudgingly.

Jacky shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Begging’s a trade like everything else,” he said, a little impatiently, “and Copenhagen Jack’s the best organizer of it.” He took a gulp from his own glass. “Tell me the truth now, Doyle—what have you done to make Doctor Romany so anxious to get hold of you?”

Doyle blinked. “Who’s Doctor Romany?”

“He’s the chief of the most powerful band of gypsies in England.”

Ghost fingers tickled the hair at the back of Doyle’s neck. “A tall, bald-headed old guy? That wears spring-shoes?”

“That’s the man. He’s got every beggar and thief in Horrabin’s warren looking for a… a man of your description with a foreign, possibly American accent. And he’s offering a big reward for your capture.”

“Horrabin? That clown? My God, I met him this morning, saw that damn puppet show of his. He didn’t seem to—”

“It was only this evening that Doctor Romany told everybody to look for you. Horrabin mentioned having seen you at Billingsgate.”