The Anubis Gates

“He’s here. It’s you. No, listen—you were recalling verbatim conversations a few minutes ago. Do it again, and listen to yourself. Let’s see… try ‘Avo, rya.’ Remember hearing that, in a different voice.”

“Avo, rya,” said Byron, and the alertness fell out of his expression. “‘Avo, rya. He’s very kushto with it. Handled guns before, it’s clear. That’s good, Wilbur. Though he won’t need much skill—he should be only a few feet away from him when he’ll use it. Does he seem to be able to draw it with sufficient speed? I’d like to just have it in his pocket, but I’m afraid even a lord might have to submit to a search before entering the royal presence. Oh, avo, rya, the little holster under his arm gives him no problem. You should see him—it’s in his hand quick as a snake. And he’s shooting with no hesitation? It’s got to be automatic. Avo, the dummy is all shot to bits, he’s done it so often—’”

Byron leaped out of the chair. “Good God, man,” he exclaimed in his own voice, “I was to go kill King George! What abomination is this? I was a puppet, sleep-walking, taking these diabolical instructions as… docilely as a maid would agree to serve dinner! By God, I’ll get satisfaction for this… atrocious affront! Matthews or Davies will convey my challenge to… to …” He slammed his right fist into his left palm and then pointed at Doyle. “I think you know who.”

Doyle nodded. “I think I do. But don’t go off half-cocked here. You may as well inventory what you know before you rush into it. Tell you what—try ‘Yes, Horrabin,’ in the same voice that was asking the questions in that last conversation. Do you get anything from that?”

Though still frowning, Byron sat down again. “Yes, Horrabin.” Again his face went blank. “‘Yes, Horrabin, I’d have that one killed too. This has got to run like clockwork, and it’s conceivable he may know enough to obstruct it at some point. Better to err on the side of excessive thoroughness, eh? Incidentally, is the Antaeus Brotherhood still actually in existence? I mean, do they meet and all? If so, I say we destroy them too. They were evidently quite a thorn in our side at one time. A hundred years ago they might have been, your Worship, but it’s nothing but an old men’s club these days. I’ve heard the old stories, and it certainly sounds as if they were formidable once; they’re relics now, though, and obliterating them would only call possibly harmful attention to their history. That’s a point… very well, but post some of your people at wherever it is that these old men congregate—Off Bedford Street, your Worship, rooms above a confectioner’s—and have them report back here if they see any … oh, never mind. I’m firing at shadows. Why don’t you take his lordship here outside and run him through his lines again.’ “

Focus and intensity returned into Byron’s eyes and he clicked his tongue impatiently. “This is worthless, Ashbless. I get nothing but incomprehensible dialogues, and I still can’t recall one detail of how I got from Greece to here. I do remember being taught the route back to this man’s camp, though, and I’ll return, sure enough—but I’ll bring a set of duelling pistols.” He stood up lithely and padded to the window—which Doyle still half-feared would recommence its contortions—and stood with his arms crossed, staring vengefully out across the roof-tops.

Doyle shook his head in exasperation. “This man isn’t a gentleman, my lord. He’d probably accept your challenge and then signal one of his men to blow your brains out from behind.”

Byron turned and squinted at him. “Who is he? I can’t recall hearing a name applied to him. What does he look like?”

Doyle raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Why don’t you just remember? Hear the voice: “Yes, Horrabin, I’d have that one killed too.’ But don’t just hear it—see it, too.”

Byron closed his eyes, and almost immediately said wonderingly, “I’m in a tent all full of Egyptian antiquities, and the most hideous clown in the world is sitting on top of a birdcage. He’s talking to a bald-headed old—good heavens, it’s my Greek doctor, Romanelli!”

“Romany,” Doyle corrected him. “He’s Greek?”

“It’s Romanelli. Well, no, I expect he’s Italian; but he’s the doctor that was treating me when I was in Patras. How is it that I didn’t recognize him until now? I wonder if he and I came back here together… but why should Romanelli want the king killed? And why bring me all the way back from Patras to do it?” He sat down again and stared hard, even belligerently, at Doyle. “No joking now, fellow—I need to know the true date.”

“It’s one of the few things I’m sure of,” said Doyle evenly. “Today is Wednesday the twenty-sixth of September, 1810. And you say you were in Greece only four days ago?”