The Anubis Gates

“Damn it, the man who has programmed—sorry, harnessed, blinkered and saddled you?” Byron frowned in puzzlement, the new clarity in his eyes fading, so Doyle said quickly, “‘Good morning, my good man. I am Lord Byron. May I buy you a pint of something? If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm should be in a place like this’—who said all that?”

“I did.”

“But who said it to you, who made you memorize it? Those aren’t your words, are they? Try to remember who said all that to you.”

“I don’t—”

“Close your eyes. Now hear those words, but in a different voice. What’s the voice like?”

Byron obediently shut his eyes, and after a long pause, said, “Deeper. An old man.”

“What else is he saying?”

“‘My lord,’” and Byron’s voice even went an octave deeper as he quoted it, “‘these statements and replies should be sufficient to get you through these two days. But if things become close up, and louder, and you lose the veil of protection my guidance gives you, return to the camp here instantly, before the people in the streets tear you to bits like a crippled dog in a ratting pit. Now Richard will drive you to town in the wagon, and he’ll pick you up at six o’clock this evening at the corner of Fish and Bread streets. Here’s Richard now. Come in. Ready to go? Avo, rya. Rya, that toy the foreign chal brought—let’s start it up, my monkey would like to see it move. We’ll talk about that later, if you please, Richard. Right now take milord here to town.’” Byron opened his eyes wonderingly. “And then,” he added, in his own voice again, “I was in a wagon.”

Doyle kept his face impassive, but his mind was racing. God help us, it’s Romany again, he realized. What in hell is the man up to here? What can he hope to gain by brainwashing Lord Byron and turning him loose to make semi-treasonous speeches? He’s certainly making the man visible—all I had to do to find him today was follow the rumors of the lunatic lord who’s buying everybody drinks. Is he responsible for Byron being in England now? Anyway, I’ve got to hang onto this poor devil.

“Listen,” he said, “you’ve got some high-octane memories to retrieve, and we can’t do it here. I’ve got a room a few streets away—inherited it, sort of—and the people that live there aren’t inclined to be nosy. Let’s go there.”

Still dazed, Byron got to his feet. “Very well, I suppose, Mr … ?”

Doyle started to answer, then sighed. “Oh hell. I guess you can call me William Ashbless. For now. But I’m damned if I’ll stay William Ashbless for the whole ride. All right?”

Byron shrugged bewilderedly. “That’s fine with me.” Doyle had to remind him to pay for the beers, and during the brief walk to the lodging house Byron kept craning his neck at the buildings and the crowds of busy people. “I really am in England again,” he muttered. His dark eyebrows lowered in a frown that he wore for the rest of the walk.

When they’d reached the shabby building and picked their way up the stairs—which several families seemed to consider their personal chamber, swearing at the two young men and jealously hiding bits of horrible food as they climbed past—and reached the room that had once been Dog-Face Joe’s, and when they’d filled two cups from the coffee pot that was still warm over the coals in the fireplace, Byron fixed on Doyle his first alert glance of the day.

“What’s today’s date, Mr. Ashbless?”

“Let’s see… the twenty-sixth.” Byron’s expression didn’t change, so after taking a cautious sip of the coffee, he added,

“Of September.”

“That’s not possible,” Byron stated. “I was in Greece… I remember being in Greece on Saturday the, uh, twenty-second.” He shifted on his chair and bent down to pull off his shoes. “Damn, these shoes hurt,” he began, then picked one of them up and stared at it. “Where on earth did I get these? Not only are they too small, they’re about a century out of fashion. Red heels, of all things, and these buckles—! And how in God’s name could I ever have put on this coat?” He dropped the shoe and said, in a voice so tightly controlled that Doyle knew he was scared, “Please tell me the true date, Mr. Ashbless, and as much as you know of what has happened to me since I left Greece. I gather I’ve been ill. But why am I not with my friends, or my mother?”

“It is the twenty-sixth of September,” Doyle said carefully, “and all I know about your recent actions is that for the past couple of days you’ve been buying drinks for half the population of London. But I know who can tell you what’s been happening.”

“Then let’s go to him immediately. I can’t bear this—”