The Anubis Gates

“Well,” said Jacky, not too disconcerted by the conversational change of gears, “it seems to me that there’s something about the Logos, as defined by St. John, that parallels Plato’s idea of absolutes: the eternal, constant forms that material things are sort of imperfect copies of. Some of the pre-Socratic philosophers, in fact—”

She was interrupted by a fist abruptly poking in through the open window and pressing the muzzle of a pistol against her upper lip. She could feel the coldness of the metal right through her false moustache. Another arm had snaked in through the other window at the same moment and was holding a pistol against Ashbless’ eye.

“No one moves,” said a harsh voice, and a lean, squinting face grinned in at them through Jacky’s window. “‘Ello, Squire,” he said to Ashbless, who was too jammed in to make a move even if he could think of one. “Not gonna be pitchin’ anybody through a winder this time, eh? ‘Pologize to break in on yer pretty talk, but we’re takin’ a detour—to Rat’s Castle.”

To his own surprise, Ashbless realized that his breathless feeling was as much elation as it was fear. By God, he thought, you never know when you’ll come across a chapter Bailey missed. “I’m pretty sure it’s me you want,” he said carefully, blinking against the muzzle. “Let these two go and I’ll promise to go quiet.”

“Yer fair makin’ me weep with yer heroicals, sport.” The man poked lightly with the gun, rocking Ashbless’ head back. “Now shut the hole, eh?”

The cab made a right turn onto Drury Lane, and though the new driver almost had the starboard wheel spinning in midair as he wrenched the vehicle around the corner, the two men crouching outside on the step bars never flinched or lowered their guns.

“I’m not sure I follow this,” said Coleridge, who had shut his eyes and was rubbing his temples. “Are we to be robbed, or killed? Or both?”

“Probably both,” said Jacky evenly, “though I think their boss would be more interested in stealing your soul than your purse.”

“They can’t steal that unless you’ve lost it already,” said Coleridge calmly. “Perhaps the time would be best spent if each of us… shored up his claim to possession of one.” He composed his pudgy features into a placid blankness and let his hands fall into his lap.

The cab paused at Broad Street, then moved rapidly across. The clatter and jingle of the cab sounded louder now, for the lane was much narrower north of Broad Street.

After a few moments Jacky sniffed. “We’re in the St. Giles rookery, sure enough,” she muttered jerkily, as though she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. “I can smell the trash fires.”

“The man said shut up,” her guard reminded her, giving her a poke in the moustache. She obediently remained silent, afraid that another such would knock the thing off.

At last the cab halted and the two armed hijackers hopped down and opened the doors. “Out,” said one of them.

The three passengers unbent themselves from the cramped interior and climbed out. Coleridge promptly sat down on the step bar, held his head and moaned; evidently the headache was getting worse. Ashbless glanced bleakly up at the huge, ragged building they’d arrived at.

Partially brick—brick in every degree of size, shade and age—and half-timbered, the structure was linked to the dark bulks of other buildings at every level by flimsy bridges and ratlines, and was pierced by windows in such an uneven pattern that they couldn’t, it seemed to him, reflect the arrangement of floors inside. Jacky just stared down at the wet mud between her boots, and breathed deeply.

Len Carrington hurried out of the well-lighted open doorway and surveyed the scene. “All go smoothly?” he asked the driver, who was still perched up on the bench.

“Aye. By yer leave I’ll take this back to Fleet Street before the real cabbie can report it missing.” “Right. Go.”

The whip snapped and the cab rolled forward, for there was no room to turn it around. Carrington stared at the captives. “That’s our man,” he said, pointing at Ashbless, “and that’s… what was the name, haven’t seen him in a while… Jacky Snapp!—whose involvement in this I’ll want explained… but who’s the sick old bastard?”

The hijackers shrugged, so Ashbless said quietly, “He’s Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a very famous writer, and you’ll be buying more trouble than you can afford if you kill him.”

“Don’t tell us what we—” began one of the hijackers, but Carrington shut him up with a wave.

“Get ‘em all inside,” he said. “And quickly—the police have been known to come this deep into the rookery.”

The captives were marched at gunpoint into the large front room, and for the first time that night Ashbless felt the icy emptiness and despairing inner wail of real fear, for Doctor Romanelli was there, reclining in some sort of wheeled crib and staring at him with wrathful recognition.