The Anubis Gates

It heard voices and the swishing of feet through the grass behind it and to its right, so it ceased all motion, turning over and over as it lost speed until it rocked to a halt against a bush, its arms and legs pointed upward.

“But if my friends will let us stay with them,” a man was saying impatiently, “and I tell you again they’d be glad to, then why not?”

Why I believe it’s that young lord, thought the thing in the grass. We were going to have him do something for us. That’s right, and he was a ka—the original was in Greece. What was his name? And he was to have killed the king. Plots and schemes, half-wit dreams.

“Well,” answered someone else dubiously, “they think you’re out of the country. How would you explain your presence here?”

There was something about the second voice that profoundly upset the crawler, and it sat up so quickly that it left the ground and hovered for a few moments like a nearly worn out helium balloon, and when it touched down again it kicked strongly and flew twenty feet into the air so as to be able to see.

Two men were walking across the field away from the burning tents, and the slowly descending creature stared in horror at the taller of them. Yes, very tall, it thought, and—Isis!—a full mane and beard that seem to be blond! But by what damnable aid did he get out of that inn? And back to now? Who is this man Doyle?

It began flailing and swimming to get back to the ground quicker, for it had to follow him. If there was any spark of purpose left in the deteriorated ka that had once been Doctor Romany, it was to see, finally, Doyle dead.

* * *

The induced fever was breaking, and Doctor Romanelli stared angrily at his placidly sleeping patient. Damn you, Romany, he thought, let me know how it proceeds. This fever story won’t hold up much longer—I’m going to have to either kill him or let him recover.

The doctor laid his palm on Lord Byron’s forehead, and swore softly, for it felt cool. The sleeper shifted, and Romanelli tiptoed hastily out of the room. Sleep on, my lord, he thought; for a little while longer—at least until I hear from my incompetent duplicate. He strode into the disordered room he was using for a workshop, looked hopefully at the lit but inert Candle of Far Speaking, then sighed and let his gaze drift out the open window to where the sun was sinking over the hills beyond Missolonghi. The broad Gulf of Patras was already in shadow, and several fishing boats were plying for home, their triangular sails bellying in the evening breeze.

A sputtering from the table made him whirl and stare at the candle, which had begun to glow more brightly. “Romany!” he called into the flame. “Do you succeed?”

The candle flame was silent, and though it was glowing more brightly every second, it had not taken on the spherical shape.

“Romany!” the wizard repeated, louder now, not caring if he woke Byron. “Shall I kill him now?”

There was no reply. Suddenly the almost blindingly bright candle bent in the middle, like a beckoning finger—Doctor Romanelli grunted in surprise—then it split softly open in the middle and spilled a steaming flood of wax out onto the table top. As the candle folded down to a sizzling puddle Romanelli saw that the whole snaky length of the wick was glowing yellow-white.

Damn me, he thought, that means Romany’s candle is at this very moment burning up. His tent must have caught fire. Could he have lost control of the yags? Yes, that must be it—they got too excited, and burned down his camp. There’s no way they’ll be ready to burn London tomorrow, then; they’ll be sated and sluggish for weeks. Romany, you blundering, damned… forgery!

He waited until the wick stopped glowing and the puddle of wax had begun to scum over as it cooled, and then he went to the closet and unbuckled a trunk and carefully lifted out of it another candle. He unwrapped it, lifted the frosted glass hood of the room’s lantern to touch it alight, and in a few moments the new candle’s wick bloomed with the magical round flame.