The Anubis Gates

When they were passing the open door of a public house two buildings away from Kusiak’s, Doyle stopped. “If you’re taking me back to that lunatic who tried to burn my eye out last time,” Doyle said, a little unsteadily, “then I need two beers first. At least two. And since you’ve got all that gold, sport, you can buy ‘em.”

There was silence behind him for a moment, then the gypsy said, “It’s a kushto idea. Adree we go.”

They entered and walked through the high-ceilinged room where the bar was, to a smaller chamber two steps up where a lot of tables were set randomly across the wood floor. The gypsy rolled his dark eyes toward a table in the corner, and Doyle nodded and crossed to it and, sitting down, warmed his hands over the candle that sat on it.

When a girl had appeared and taken their order—beer for Doyle, wine for the gypsy—Doyle’s captor said, “They call me Damnable Richard.”

“Oh? Well, pleased to—no. Uh, I’m Brendan Doyle.”

“And this is my partner,” the gypsy said, pulling from his pocket a monkey carved out of wood. Doyle remembered seeing Richard with it last Saturday night. “Monkey, this is Doyle. Doyle is the gorgio the rya has been so anxious to find, and the rya will be very pleased with us for netting him.” He smiled quite cheerfully at Doyle. “And this time we’ll take you to someplace where there are no prastamengros to hear you yell.”

“Listen, uh. Damnable,” said Doyle with quiet urgency, “if you’ll pretend you didn’t catch me, I’ll make you a rich man. I give you my word—” He rocked violently back in his seat then, for the gypsy had moved as fast as a striking mousetrap and rapped a knuckle hard against the bridge of Doyle’s nose.

“You gorgios all think the Romany, the gypsies, are stupid,” Richard remarked.

The wine and beer arrived at this point, and Doyle made the girl wait while he finished his beer in two long, laboring, throat-burning drafts, and then gasped out an order for another pint.

Richard was staring at him. “I guess it’s no harm if I bring you to him drunk.” He looked after the girl wistfully, “A bit of cool beer would sit well after all that running.” He sipped his wine without enthusiasm.

“It’s not bad. Have some.”

“No—beer was my Bessie’s favorite drink, and since she mullered I’ve not had a drop of it.” He drained the wine in one long gulp, shuddered, and then when the girl brought Doyle’s second beer he ordered another glass of wine.

Doyle gulped some more beer and pondered this. “My Rebecca,” he said carefully, “loved nearly every kind of liquor, and since she … mullered, I’ve drunk enough for the two of us. At least.”

Richard pondered this, frowning, for a few moments, then nodded. “It’s the same idea,” he pronounced.

“It’s to keep them from being forgotten.”

When the girl came to their table this time she demanded some money, got it, and then left a pitcher and a bottle on the table. The two men thoughtfully filled their glasses. “Here’s to dead ladies,” said Damnable Richard.

Doyle raised his glass. There was a moment of silent gulping, and then both glasses bumped back down on the table empty. They were ceremoniously refilled.

“How long ago… did Bessie die?” asked Doyle.

Richard drank half his glassful before answering. “Seventeen years ago,” he said quietly. “She was thrown from a horse near Crofton Wood. She was always kushto with horses but we were running at night from prastamengros and her horse put his foot in a hole. The fall… just… broke her head.”

Doyle refilled his own glass and then reached across to the wine bottle and refilled the gypsy’s. “Here’s to dead ladies,” Doyle said softly. Again they drained the glasses and refilled them.