by Sarah Rayne
As he climbed the stair to the second floor the memory of the cool dim Vatican and Ambrosian Libraries flicked jeeringly across his mind. See what you lost? See what you exchanged that for? Toneless pop music and drug dealers and young men who sell their bodies in nearby pubs. One of the male prostitutes from the floor below him was just on his way out: Raffael nodded to him and they exchanged a comment about the fog. Yes, it was astonishingly like one of the old London smogs, and no, it was certainly not a night to be prowling the streets. The boy cracked the time-worn joke: still, better than working for a living, and Raffael smiled perfunctorily, because there was not really any answer to this that could not be bawdily construed. He could not even say something like, ‘Make sure you stay well wrapped up,’ because the boy would not be intending to stay wrapped up, in fact he would be unwrapping in the most basic of ways several times before the night was over. He would probably start off in the nearby Anchor, and go wherever the night took him, and if all Raffael had heard was true he might well have had ten men by 2 a.m.
The two boys had been off-handedly companionable to Raffael, coming up to his rooms to explain about leaving the main door on the latch so that the occupants could get in with their keys late at night, and warning him about the landlord’s habitual trick of trying to get an extra week’s rent when it was only a four-week month, sly old tosser. Raffael suspected they would ordinarily use a somewhat earthier word than tosser, but had refrained out of some dim sense of respect either for his years or some subliminal recognition of the authority he had once wielded. The pulpit still casting that invisible mantle of command?
They had appeared to accept him as some kind of eccentric – wasn’t London full of eccentrics anyway, and one more made no difference – and shortly after he had moved in they had issued an invitation to supper. Raffael had imagined them saying to one another, ‘Poor old sod, up there on the top floor all by himself. Let’s ask him down for a meal, put him right about the ways of the house.’ He had accepted the invitation, which he had thought would give him an insight into the kind of people who frequented Chance House, and after careful thought had bought four cans of bitter and four of lager to take with him. This had evidently struck the right note, and the supper – a huge greasy fry-up of sausages and eggs and hamburgers and chips – had been unexpectedly pleasant. Raffael had found himself relaxing, enjoying the sharp, enfant terrible humour of the two boys, and then had been annoyed with himself for his attitude. The Vatican’s a long way behind you, Father, and you’re a priest in reduced circumstances.
He went up the stair, his mind returning to the Decalogue. It would probably help to clarify his thoughts if he wrote them down. This was a habit carried over from his days in the priesthood and it still held good. The magnitude of the task still appalled him; it would not look any less appalling in writing, but it might help him define some kind of plan.
He let himself into his rooms. He had tried to improve them, covering the bed with a thick tapestry rug in cool blues and greens, and curtaining off the corner with the gas ring and the ugly Formica-topped dresser. He had arranged the two worn wing chairs in front of the gasfire, and bought a small table lamp with a thick parchment-coloured shade, and in the light of the lamp the room’s dismal shabbiness softened considerably. It was not unpleasant to sit in one of the chairs with the gasfire popping in the way that old gasfires did. He would heat a tin of soup and drink it as he made his notes, and then he would return to Chance House and Ginevra.
It was then that he saw that the two wing chairs were occupied.
Several opening lines were possible, the most obvious being the classic: ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Raffael said, ‘Who the devil are you? And how did you get in?’
At least the two men would not be intent on theft. There was nothing worth stealing in the room; in fact he would happily have assisted a burglar to carry most of the stuff out.
The men had risen at his entrance, and the taller one said, ‘Father Raffael?’
‘You’re behind the times,’ said Raffael curtly, crossing to the window and drawing the thin curtains before switching on the lamp. ‘I haven’t answered to that title for several years.’
‘How do we address you?’
‘You don’t. You leave. At once.’
For answer the man resumed his seat, and after a moment the younger one did the same. ‘We should like to talk to you,’ he said, and this time Raffael heard the foreign intonation. They were both light-skinned, but with the pallor of non-Europeans, and the raven’s-wing hair of the East.
Alarm bells began to sound in Raffael’s mind, but he leaned against the thin window ledge and said, ‘I’ll give you five minutes. Talk.’
They exchanged glances, and then the tall man said, ‘Admirably brief. We are here to request you to stay out of our people’s affairs.’
‘Your people?’
‘We won’t play games or prevaricate,’ said the man. ‘The people of Tashkara.’
‘Ah,’ said Raffael softly. ‘So that’s who you are. The League of Tamerlane, by any chance? Yes, I thought you might be. “Request” seems a trifle polite. How am I supposed to be in your affairs in the first place?’
‘Firstly you want the Decalogue,’ said the man, and the word dropped into the listening room with sharp clarity. ‘That’s why you’re inside Chance House. We know that.’
‘What we’re unsure of,’ said the second man, ‘is who you’re working for.’
‘Why must I be working for anyone? Why can’t I want the Decalogue for myself? Is it for sale?’
‘It is not.’
‘Are you sure about that? Most things have their price. Including men and women.’ Raffael dwelled with brief amusement on de Migli’s probable reaction if he were to be informed that it was no longer necessary to destroy the Decalogue, because the Vatican was going to purchase it. What would the figure be? Ten million? Several hundred million? Raffael would have given a great deal to see de Migli’s face at such a piece of news.
‘The Decalogue is not for sale under any circumstances,’ said the man coldly, and Raffael regretfully banished the small fantasy. ‘The Stone Tablets of Vengeance are priceless in the real sense of the word,’ he said. ‘And if you were thinking of stealing them—’
‘Heaven forfend—’
‘You should know that they are extremely well guarded and also very well hidden.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about,’ said Raffael. ‘By the way, we said five minutes and your time’s running out.’
The tall man faced Raffael, and Raffael took in his height and the lean whipcord strength. Not one to oppose. Certainly not one to jump. ‘It is not the Decalogue that is our prime concern,’ said the man, ‘although it would be better if your superiors abandoned their interest in it.’
Raffael’s brows went up. ‘I call no man my superior,’ he said. ‘Continue.’
‘It is the boy, Grendel. In two or three days’ time we shall take him back to Tashkara, and if you or Lewis Chance try to find him or follow us, we shall have you killed.’
Raffael’s mind flinched at the cold threat, but a part of his brain registered the inclusion of Lewis Chance. Does that mean they haven’t got him? He said, ‘Why do you want Grendel?’
‘As the Pretender to the Throne of our people. As their new ruler.’
Raffael stared at them, and then laughed. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but this is purest nineteenth-century romance. And not very good romance at that.’ He crossed to the nearest chair and sat down. ‘Do go on. I can’t wait for the denouement. And your five minutes have been extended. But do you think I could know your names – not because I particularly want to but it would make it easier to have something to call you.’
The two men exchanged glances. ‘I am Timur,’ said the spokesman. ‘This is Iwane. We head the League of which you apparently have heard, and there are a number of our people in London with us.’
‘Gatheri
ng to welcome the new Messiah?’
Timur stared at him coldly. ‘It amuses you to mock us, doesn’t it?’
‘Enormously.’
‘Did you mock your own religion?’
‘Of course. That’s why they kicked me out. Why are you really taking Grendel to Tashkara? What qualifies him to be your ruler?’
The sly cruel smile lifted Timur’s lips. ‘Grendel has a most remarkable ancestry,’ he said. ‘And the circumstances of his conception and birth—’
He broke off, and Iwane said, ‘Twenty-five years ago Lewis Chance brought about the end of a religion. He splintered a line that had been unbroken for almost three thousand years.’
‘Dear me,’ drawled Raffael.
‘As a result there was a division in our people,’ said Timur. ‘A schism. It started quietly and unobtrusively, but it grew wider and wider until seven years ago those of us who looked to find new ways formed the League of Tamerlane. We wanted to adapt, to make use of what we had instead of mourning what we had lost.’
‘How admirable. And those who are outside the League – the traditionalists perhaps? – resisted? Yes, I see. Well, I have absolutely no interest in your petty palace revolutions or your minor civil wars, gentlemen. But I don’t think I can let you take Grendel, you know. Not for all your ancient kingdoms.’
Timur leaned forward, his eyes hard and cruel. ‘We have been watching Grendel and talking to him for several years now,’ he said. ‘Your word might be “conditioning”. Lewis Chance knew that: it was why he continually moved the boy from place to place.’
‘To evade you?’
‘Yes. Because Grendel,’ said Timur softly, ‘has proved very receptive. And tomorrow night will see the climax of our years of work. Tomorrow is the ancient Feast of Sekhet, and at one hour before midnight Grendel will take part in the ritual of the Burning Altar. Everything is ready—’
‘Ritual?’ said Raffael sharply.
‘Among our people it would be regarded as initiation.’
Raffael’s mind was racing and his inner vision was seeing fragments of a macabre jigsaw slot into place, but when he spoke his voice was offhand. ‘Human sacrifice?’
‘Of course.’ Timur regarded him. ‘You with your learning should know the ancient tradition that once prevailed in Egypt,’ he said. ‘That of hunting the gods and feasting on their cooked limbs.’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Raffael, his mind tilting in horror. ‘Have you found gods here in London, then?’ He was thankful that the words came out with just the right note of sarcastic disdain.
‘We have certainly found victims,’ said Iwane.
‘Victims?’ Raffael stared at them, and the mental jigsaw reassembled itself slightly. ‘The prostitutes,’ he said. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? The male prostitutes who vanished. It was your people all along.’
‘They are very easy to take, your young men,’ said Timur. ‘And it was very easy to coax Grendel’s natural instincts down the path we wished him to take. For several years now he has craved human flesh, and we have been happy to feed that craving.’ A brief dismissive gesture. ‘That is not important now. What is important is that our plans are not upset at the final hour.’ His eyes never left Raffael. ‘If you or Lewis Chance – or Ginevra Craven – try to stop us or follow us, or bring in your police, we shall simply remove you.’
‘How?’
Timur smiled. ‘You will die as all who try to interfere or spy on us die,’ he said. ‘And although we primarily use young and potent men out of respect for the goddess, we are not averse to sacrificing young fertile females occasionally. And she is very attractive, Ginevra Craven,’ he said softly. ‘But if you continue to hinder our plans, you will certainly see her die. She will burn on the Altar of our ancestors. And you will follow her.’
Extract from Patrick Chance’s Diary
Tashkara, 1888
Finally able to leave Fenris’s colony and start the journey into the forbidden city of Tashkara.
It’s the very devil when your guts betray you, especially when they do it to such purpose, and particularly if you happen to be inside a leper settlement at the time with only a thunderbox perched across a stream by way of plumbing.
Theodore keeps saying things like, Serves you right, and, Always knew you’d come to a bad end, and muttering about Retribution and Divine Vengeance like some Old Testament prophet. I’ve refused to listen on the grounds that Divine Vengeance unlikely to manifest itself in such a sordid and undignified manner, and anyway none of the bad ends prophesied for me has taken the form of suffering disgusting version of dysentery in primitive mountain colony.
We bade an emotional farewell to Fenris and Sridevi and their people – at least I was emotional; Theo couldn’t be emotional if he tried with both hands for a month – and I promised that once we were back in England we would arrange to send out whatever foodstuffs could be conveyed over such a long distance, along with medicines and blankets.
‘I suppose your mind’s running on impractical things like pears preserved in brandy and live poultry, together with a few cases of claret,’ said Theo, afterwards. (It was.)
‘You do realise,’ he demanded, ‘that between the exigencies of the journey, not to mention venal sailors and untrustworthy Sherpas, none of them would reach its destination?’
He’s given to verbosity at times, that Theo, but on consideration have to admit he’s probably right. The sailors would kill the poultry and eat them before they were out of sight of Plymouth Harbour and it’s doubtful if claret would even get off the quayside. However, no reason why we can’t ship out some cases of canned meat and fish – believe canning process much improved these last few years – and maybe some chloroform and morphia, or bromide mixtures. Should like to see a sailor purloining bromide!
We eventually set off two hours later than we had intended, hung about with various food packages from the lepers’ small store – tsampa and dried fruit and salted meat – which they thought we might need on our journey. Accepting these was one more of those awkward and painful moments: the poor creatures had little enough for their own needs but to refuse would have wounded them beyond bearing, so we took it and expressed suitable appreciation.
‘And a small leather flask of our special wine,’ they said, presenting it proudly. ‘We remember how much you enjoyed it.’
We threw the wine away the minute we were out of sight of the palace. It will probably render that square of ground for ever barren, and in years to come travellers will use it as a landmark and talk of it as the Patch Where No Thing Will Grow. I would rather bequeath a Patch Where No Thing Will Grow to Tibet than drink the lepers’ wine again, however. The flask will be useful for carrying extra water.
At first I thought we weren’t going to find anything. This valley is a strange silent place, not precisely desolate but locked in what I can only describe as the most immense isolation I have ever encountered. There is a removed feeling about it, as if it might have been sealed off from the rest of the world a very long time ago and has stayed sealed ever since. The mountains rear up on all sides, and there are odd whispery echoes everywhere. If you raise your voice even the smallest bit your words rebound off the rocks and bounce jeeringly back in your face, which makes you want to shout ribald expressions, only I didn’t on account of offending Theodore’s sensibilities and also in case we might be already inside Touaris’s realm and within hearing of any prowling lookouts she might employ. It wouldn’t do to find ourselves labelled as people given to hurling indelicate epithets at the sacred peaks, although as Theo pointed out, it’s unlikely that an ancient tribe of complicated ancestry and ambiguous religious persuasion would be able to understand ordinary everyday English, never mind Anglo-Saxon obscenities.
It was Fenris who had called the mountains sacred peaks, although the deeper we went into them the more they seemed like profane peaks to me. Remarked to Theo that if this was the path the renegade Bubasti tribe trod three thousand years a
go you had to give them credit for perseverance at least.
‘I’m not giving them credit for anything until I see them,’ he replied sepulchrally, and added that he dared say the path had been easier in those days.
And then without the least warning the path wound sharply down, and as it curved to the right a splinter of brilliance from the noonday sun cut a slice of pure pale gold light across our path.
I think we could both be forgiven for thinking for a moment that we had stumbled across something from an Arabian Nights fantasy: an ancient walled city basking in the sunshine, its spires catching the light and throwing out dazzling spears of scarlet and gold. There was a sense of timelessness about it, and a feeling that it was not part of the ordinary world at all, but somehow beyond it and beyond Time as well. If the river at the gorge’s foot was Kubla Khan’s legendary Alph, this was undoubtedly Xanadu itself in its deep romantic chasm amid the dancing rocks. The sunlight poured over the mountains – pure soft light, streaked with crimson from the setting sun, and it was as if the entire walled city were lying inside a huge shallow dish fashioned from old gold and rose quartz and the sides of the dish were melting and running down to immerse the city. It was the most breathtaking sight either of us had ever seen.
This was the ancient realm we had come to find: the hidden kingdom of the cat goddess of the Bubasti.
Tashkara, the forbidden city of Touaris.
Later. We have made a roughish kind of camp on the gentle slopes that look down on the city, and we can see it quite well from here; huge blank gates are set deep into the walls but beyond them are tantalising glimpses of buildings with the narrow vertical chimney structures that the Tibetans call stupa and paint with uncomfortably lifelike eyes to look out at the four corners of the world. At the very centre we can make out a kind of elaborate tiered palace with each layer gilded and japanned: scarlet and ivory and jade green.