The Anubis Gates

Doyle hesitated, trying to sort out the different interests in all this. If a truce could be enforced, he wouldn’t mind talking to Doctor Romany, for the man obviously knew—somehow—the times and places where the gaps would show up; and Doyle still had his mobile hook strapped to his arm. If he could learn the location of a gap and be standing inside its field when it closed, he’d reappear in that lot in London in 1983. He felt a wave of homesick longing when he thought about California, Cal State Fullerton, the Ashbless biography… On the other hand, this Doctor Romany hadn’t given the impression of being an accommodating sort of person, what with his cigar and all. And what was this boy’s interest in the whole thing? Probably the “big” reward.

Doyle must have given Jacky a wary look, for the boy shook his head in disgust and said, “And no, I’m not planning on turning you over to him. I wouldn’t deliver a mad dog into the hands of that creature… even if he kept his word about the reward, which is unlikely. The real reward would probably be the opportunity to check the bottom of the Thames for lost coins.”

“Sorry,” said Doyle, taking a sip of the brandy. “But it sounded like you had been to a meeting of these people.”

“I was. Captain Jack pays me to wander around and keep track of what the… competition is doing. Horrabin holds meetings in a sewer under Bainbridge Street, and I’m a frequent visitor. But stop dodging the question—why does he want you?”

“Well…” Doyle held his glass up and absently admired the way the flames shone through the dark topaz of the liquor. “I’m not completely sure myself, but I know he wants to learn something from me.” It occurred to him that he was beginning to get drunk. “He wants to know… how I arrived in a field near Kensington.”

“Well? How did you arrive? And why does he care?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Jacky my boy. I traveled by magic.”

“Yes, it would have to be something like that. What sort of magic? And where did you come from?”

Doyle was disconcerted. “You don’t find that hard to believe?”

“I’d find it hard to believe that Doctor Romany could get this excited by anything that didn’t involve magic. And I’m certainly not so… inexperienced as to claim it doesn’t exist.” He smiled with such bitterness that Doyle wondered what sort of thing the boy might have seen.

“What sort of magic?” Jacky repeated.

“I don’t know, actually. I was just part of a group, and the magical mechanics of the whole thing was somebody else’s department. But it was a spell or something that permitted us to jump from one… place to another without traversing the distance between.”

“And you jumped all the way from America that way?”

Why not, thought Doyle. “That’s right. And this Doctor Romany must have seen us appear in that field—I think he was watching the place, for you can’t just jump from here to there as you please, you see, you’ve got to take off and land at certain places, what the man in charge called gaps, and I believe Romany knows where all the gaps are—and he must have followed us from there, because he grabbed me when I was just for a moment away from the others, and he took me to some gypsy camp.” Doyle gulped some brandy, for telling the story was reawakening his fear of the bald-headed old man.

“And what happened to the other people, the ones you came with?”

“I don’t know. I guess they made it back to the gap and jumped back to, uh, America.”

“Why did you all come?” He laughed. “It’s a long story, but what we came for was to hear a lecture.” Jacky cocked an eyebrow. “A lecture? What do you mean?”

“Have you ever heard of Samuel Taylor Coleridge?”

“Of course. He’s supposed to speak on Milton at the Crown and Anchor next Saturday.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows. This beggar boy was beginning to impress him. “Right. Well, he got the dates mixed up and came to give it last night, and we were all there, so he delivered it then. Very interesting talk, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?” Jacky finished his brandy and thoughtfully poured himself another inch. “And how did you people know he’d get the dates mixed up?”

Doyle spread his hands. “The man in charge knew.”

Jacky was silent for a few moments, gingerly scratching under his moustache, then he looked up and grinned. “Were you just a hireling brought along to mind the horses or something, or were you interested in the lecture?”

Doyle was tempted to tell this arrogant boy that he’d published a biography of Coleridge. He contented himself with saying, as loftily as possible, “I was brought along to explain to the guests who Coleridge… is, and to answer questions about him after we’d got back home.”

Jacky laughed with pleasure. “So you’re interested in modern poetry! There’s more to you than meets the eye, Doyle.” The door at Doyle’s back opened and Copenhagen Jack entered, looking even taller and broader-shouldered in the small room. “Two new members,” he said, perching himself on the corner of the table and picking up the brandy bottle.