“And this,” Cass said, indicating the open pages of the book before her, “you think this is a drawing of that map?”
“I do, yes.” Brendan pursed his lips in a frown as he contemplated the image on the page. “Alas, it is not a reliable copy of the original map-merely an artist’s conception, no doubt based on a verbal description of the map-perhaps someone who had seen it described it to Heredom, who made the drawing. Unfortunately, Heredom doesn’t say. But inadequate as the drawing may be, it nonetheless serves to authenticate the original provenance of the map.”
“Forgive me, Brendan,” objected Cass lightly, “but who is to say this artist’s rendition isn’t itself simply based on pure fantasy-like all the other fairy-tale maps in this book? Is that not a more likely explanation?”
The thin Irishman smiled. “I shall very much enjoy working with you, Cassandra. Your scientific instincts serve you well.”
Cass brushed aside the assertion that they would be working together. So far as she was concerned nothing was decided yet. “The simplest explanation is the most likely to be true. In this case, the simplest explanation is that Schiehallion, the fantasist, merely dreamed up the map-in the same way he dreamed up all the others.”
“And you would be right, of course, if not for the fact that we have independent corroborating evidence that confirms the existence of the map. I can assure you that it is much as you see it here.” He took a last look at the picture, then closed the book and returned it to its place. “I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“You have the original Skin Map?”
“A piece of it, yes.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, it has been stolen. We are working to get it back.”
Missing evidence is no evidence at all, thought Cass, and once again felt the worm of suspicion squirm in her gut. Yet here she was in Damascus, about eighty years out of joint, and with no rational way to account for it. “I don’t suppose you have anything else you could show me?”
“To convince you?” He laid particular stress on the word. “Isn’t that what you mean?”
“Well, if you put it that way-what have you got to convince me?”
“One might be forgiven for thinking that your experiences up to now should have taken you a fair distance towards conviction.” He turned and gestured towards the door. “After you.”
Cass felt the mild reproach of his words as she moved towards the door. “Do you travel, Brendan?”
“Ley travel? Sadly, no. It is not for me.” Brendan followed her out and locked the genizah again. “But like it or not, Cassandra, you have become a traveller. You have traversed the hidden dimensions of a universe far more vast and varied than present science imaginesalthough some enlightened thinkers-like Einstein or Neils Bohr, for instance-are beginning to theorise about it and describe it in ways that are strikingly close to our conception of the way things are.”
Brendan allowed these words to sink in a moment, then said, “We are on the cusp of a monumental discovery. I can feel it.” He paused on the landing and turned before starting down the stairs. “I have no doubt that we will do great things together.”
“Assuming I agree to join you,” Cass stated flatly. “I still have a choice, you know.”
“Oh, of course you have a choice. You can join us or not as you wish. But ultimately, knowing what you know, I believe you will find it comes down to a choice between accepting your destiny or forever denying it. Either way you will choose, and either way you will move forward. Because, you see, there is no turning back.”
CHAPTER 26
In Which Astral Dislocation Finds Explication
Snipe! Put down that toad,” shouted Douglas Flinders-Petrie. “Did you hear me?”
The pale-skinned youth paused in his experiments; he glanced around at his master storming towards him across the stable yard and whipped the bloody knife out of sight.
“Stop torturing that creature, and come here. It is time to go.”
With grudging reluctance Snipe dropped the wounded toad and stood. Still hiding the knife, he wiped the blade on his trousers.
“Come with me.” Douglas started away.
Snipe waited until his master’s back was turned, then stamped on the struggling animal and ground it beneath his heel.
“Now!” called Douglas. “We’ve got work to do.”
Mouthing incoherent curses, the truculent servant fell into step behind his master, fists clenched at his sides.
“We’ve got to cut your hair, get you washed up and dressed,” Douglas told him. “And we’ve got to get to the ley by sundown if we are to have any chance of meeting up with Brother Bacon tonight.”
Having established himself in the guise of a visiting monastic scholar from Ireland, Douglas now felt free to come and go as he pleased on the streets of medieval Oxford. In the past six months he had consulted the learned professor twice on matters related to deciphering the mysterious text of a book he had stolen from the British Museum-an arcane little volume written in the form of an alphabet of intricate symbols, which the monkish professor euphemistically termed the Language of Angels.
Brother Bacon had yet to admit to composing the manuscript, but did allow that he had copied the text from another source. Douglas suspected the scholar was being overly modest, if not disingenuous- no doubt to protect himself from too-close scrutiny by nosy church authorities who tended to see heretics under every bush. The tome, handwritten on fine vellum, bore the intriguing title Inconssensus Arcanus, which roughly translated as Forbidden Secrets. A book like that would have spelt trouble for its author, and no wonder: its little pages were dense with close-crabbed, inscrutable text detailing all sorts of secrets-any one of which would have had the book’s owner tied to a stake in the marketplace with pitch-soaked kindling bundled around his naked feet. If, that is, anyone had been able to read it.
Roger Bacon was no heretic, but science and magic were uncomfortably close bedfellows in the thirteenth century, Douglas knew, and so he did not press his prime source on the matter. In any event, he was more concerned with achieving practical results than arguing metaphysics with a church-bound mystic.
Six months of migraine-inducing labour and dogged persistence had paid off, and Douglas had finished his deciphering work. It had not been easy, and without the aid of Master Bacon’s key-purloined by Snipe on their first visit to the scientist’s sanctum-it would have been impossible. He was now ready to test the accuracy of his work. To that end, the journey he planned now was to confirm all that he had learned about reading the code and how it applied to the symbols on the Skin Map.
As to the latter, he was certain Bacon knew more about interdimensional travel than he let on. There were tantalising references scattered throughout the book, and Douglas, already well versed in the subject, was not slow to pick up the hints. Most of the text was devoted to a discussion of an abstruse philosophy of which Douglas could make neither head nor tail but somehow embraced what the writer referred to as astralis dislocationem. The treasure buried in pages of this obscure volume was a table delineating the symbology of the coded language itself, a key of sorts, showing how to interpret the symbols as they related to this so-called astral dislocation.
Douglas pulled on his monastic robe and cowl and passed a critical eye over Snipe, who was now dressed as a lay brother-as far, perhaps, from angelic as the founders of the Cistercian Order could have reasonably anticipated. But shorn of his pale, wiry hair, his oval face scrubbed pink, he could pass for a being somewhat less diabolical than was his natural bent.
“Tighten your cincture,” Douglas instructed. “And tie up your sandals.”
Muttering, Snipe obeyed. Douglas, satisfied that they were ready, locked the room and departed for the ley. As it was a damp night in late autumn, the streets would be dark and, he hoped, fairly deserted. The weather was cold, and a misty fog had seeped into town from the river, so it was hoped that they could make the leap without drawing unwanted attention. Monks suddenly appear
ing or disappearing in plain sight tended to have a disconcerting effect on the citizenry; the uninitiated were apt to make much of the event-even in a city as sophisticated as nineteenth-century Oxford. The less dramatic Douglas could make their clandestine comings and goings, the better.
They entered Queen Street from their rooms at The Mitre and walked with purpose into the gloaming. “Look for the mark,” instructed Douglas. “It should be right about… ” His gaze swept the pavement for the chalk mark he had placed earlier in the day. “There it is.” He reached around behind him. “Your hand, Snipe.”
The surly servant slipped his hand into his master’s. “Ready? Step lively. On three.” Douglas strode out. “One…” He took a step. “Two…” And another. “Three…”
He felt his feet leave the ground and then the always slightly unnerving sensation of weightlessness and falling-but only for a step-followed by the familiar jolt in his leg bones as the ground became solid beneath him once more. The mist cleared, and he saw directly ahead the same street as before, only this time it was paved with cobbles, and instead of traffic lights there were log-burning iron braziers set up at the crossroads.
The streets of medieval Oxford were patrolled by pike-wielding bailiffs who could be expected to challenge strangers, but Douglas did not see any around. He heard a retching sound behind him and glanced back to see Snipe bent over with his hands on his knees. “When you’re ready,” he sighed impatiently.
While he was waiting, he heard the clock in Saint Martin’s ring. “It must be compline,” Douglas mused aloud. “Come on, Snipe. Wipe your mouth and be quick.”
He started towards the crossroads and turned south onto the Abbingdon Road leading to the river and the bridge upon which stood the old defensive tower-a half-ruined structure now known as Friar Bacon’s Study, or, by those of a less charitable disposition, as Bacon’s Folly. The two walked along the road, their sandals slapping the damp stones. Douglas wondered what day it was, or even what month; guesswork told him it could be any time between late November and mid-January.
The light from the crossroad beacons faded, and they walked in darkness until reaching the bridge, where another set of braziers was set up to illuminate the passage under the tower. Douglas walked around to the side and climbed the few steps leading to the stout wooden door, only to find that it was barred: rough boards were nailed across the door frame.
“What the bloody-” muttered Douglas. He had expected to find the scholar at work in his study, as he invariably was every night.
Snipe took one look at the boarded-up entrance and uttered a sharp bark, which was his attempt at laughter.
“Not funny,” growled Douglas. “We’ll have to go back into town and see if we can find out what’s happened.”
They trudged back up the street, and this time were challenged by the bailiff at the crossroads. “Pax vobiscum,” offered Douglas in greeting. He raised his hand in the sign of the cross, and the town official, seeing the gesture and monk’s habit, raised his pike to let them through. “Benedicimus te, filius meus,” Douglas pronounced in his best clerical tone and passed.
“Salve, frater” replied the bailiff in rough Latin.
Douglas nodded and moved on. As the bells for compline had gone, he decided to call in at Saint Martin’s and see if he might speak to one of the senior clerics. With a muttered warning to Snipe to be on his best behaviour, the two slipped into the church quietly to stand at the back of the simple sanctuary. A group of monks in white robes with black scapulas was standing below the altar at the front, chanting the last prayer of the day.
They soon finished and began shuffling out, some of them yawning, others talking in low voices. Douglas identified one he thought he recognised from a previous visit and, stepping out from the shadows, said, “My apologies for interrupting, brother.” The Latin felt odd on his tongue, but he remembered to dip his head in a slight bow to acknowledge the other’s seniority. “Brother Thomas, is it not? I was hoping to have a word.”
The monk sent his brothers on ahead, stopped, and turned to Douglas. “Do I know you, brother?”
“I am Brother Douglas,” he said, smiling, “a visitor from Tyndyrn.”
“Ah, yes-I remember you. How can I be of service, brother?”
“Pardon my rude speech,” Douglas said. The other gave him a nod of indulgence. “But as you may recall, I have been engaged in scholarly consultation with Friar Bacon-a question of language and interpretation.”
“Yes?”
“I have just arrived in the city and was hoping to find him at work in his study at the bridge, but-”
Brother Thomas completed the thought. “You have discovered that Master Bacon’s tower is boarded and barred.”
“Verily, brother. I was hoping you might tell me the reason for this?”
The senior monk pursed his lips as he thought how best to frame his reply. “Brother Bacon has been placed under arrest and confined to his living quarters.”
Douglas raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Can you tell me the reason for his arrest?”
“Pray, permit me a moment’s consideration,” replied Thomas. The monk steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips in thought. “I can tell you that our brother has been charged with attempting to corrupt the students under his care, and has been confined pending the outcome of an investigation into his teachings.”
“This is a very serious charge, to be sure,” allowed Douglas judiciously. Through his research, he knew Master Bacon had once been placed under house arrest on flimsy charges of heresy-brought, it was thought, by rivals jealous of his patronage by Pope Clement IV. He had, however, not been able to find out when this house arrest began; now he knew. “Is he allowed visitors?”
The elder monk shook his head slowly and offered a thin smile. “Alas, no. It is a condition of his arrest that until the charges are tried and proven one way or the other, Brother Bacon is not to see or speak to anyone-lest he spread the contagion of his noxious teachings.”
“Of course,” replied Douglas, sensing an underlying hostility in his informant. “No doubt that is as it should be.”
“To be sure.” The priest drew himself up. “Now, if there is nothing further, I will wish you a good night.” He raised his hand in a parting blessing. “God speed you to your rest.”
“And you, brother,” said Douglas, stepping aside to allow the other to depart. The senior cleric joined his fellows, who were waiting for him at the church door. After the others had gone, Douglas drew Snipe aside. “We wait here until everyone has gone to bed,” he said. “You sleep too. I will wake you when it is time.”
PART FIVE
Five Smooth Stones
CHAPTER 27
In Which a New Recruit Is Canvassed
The soft evening deepened around them as Cassandra and her two guides sauntered along the quiet streets of Old Damascus, listening to the sound of distant church bells. Cass-a little dazed and dazzled by all she had heard that day-was in a quiet, thoughtful mood. From a minaret somewhere the droning sound of the muezzin arose, echoing through the near-empty streets, calling the faithful to prayer. The purple twilight and the sound of the bells and quavering chant suited her perfectly.
“I still don’t know why you’d want me to join your society,” she declared finally. “I have zero experience and know next to nothing of any of this. I really don’t think I have a single thing to offer.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Peelstick, “you have the one thing we need most- youth. All the rest can be learned.”
“The plain truth is that the Zetetic Society has been active a very long time and, regrettably, our membership has aged,” Brendan pointed out. “We may age more slowly than our fellows, but age we do. The simple truth is that most of us are simply too old to go adventuring anymore.”
“It is a fact of life,” agreed Mrs. Peelstick wistfully. “We do all get older.”
“These days, our best and highest use is to recruit new me
mbers and provide support for the active questors,” continued Brendan. “We’re all of us searching for young blood, but it’s not easy. For example, we have several members hoping to pass the baton just now, but hand-offs can be awkward. The travel itself can pose difficulties.” Turning to Mrs. Peelstick, he added, “I’m thinking about Cosimo and Kit.”
The older woman nodded knowingly, then sighed. “They are in my thoughts constantly.”
“We mustn’t give up, Rosemary. Until we know more, we simply cannot allow ourselves to assume the worst.”
“You’re right, of course, Brendan.” She offered a sad, hopeful smile. “Still…” Her voice died away, leaving an uneasy silence.
Cass glanced at Brendan, but he seemed lost in thought. When she could restrain herself no longer, she asked, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry-but who are Cosimo and Kit?”
“Ah,” replied Brendan, coming to himself once more. “Cosimo Livingstone is one of our questors. He has been intent on bringing his great-grandson into the fold-a young man named Christopher- about your age, I should think. Cosimo had tried unsuccessfully to enlist his son and grandson, but in Kit he had found someone who could carry on his life’s work.”
“Handing such responsibility from one generation to another can be fraught with difficulty,” observed Mrs. Peelstick.
“Cosimo had high hopes for Kit,” Brendan continued, “and he was preparing the young man to take a full and active part in the society. They were to have attended our last convocation.”
Again the shadow passed over the two elder members’ faces. They shared an anxious glance.
“We were looking forward to meeting the young man,” continued Mrs. Peelstick. “But we seem to have lost contact with Cosimo completely. It is feared they may have been taken.”
“Missing in action,” corrected Brendan. “Our last communication with Cosimo indicated that he and our dear friend Sir Henry Fayth were on a mission, and Kit is thought to have been with them. This is cause for concern, because they are pillars of the society. What has become of them is yet to be determined.”
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