by Nick Marsh
‘Here, here,’ he said, lifting the lid. Four bone tubes lay at the bottom of the musty box. Betty reached in and picked one of them up.
‘Feels very light,’ she said, as she unscrewed the cap and peered in. ‘Hmm.’
‘What is it, Mrs Sunderland?’ Grace asked, nervously.
‘Empty,’ Betty said, dropping the case back into the box.
‘What?’ Azap cried, a look of horror on his face, reaching for another case. I did likewise. Both were similarly vacant.
‘But... but... ’ Azap muttered, genuinely surprised. ‘No one has handled these scrolls in years! I don’t--’
Milos unscrewed the final case, and pulled out a small, yellowed scrap of paper.
‘It is in Turkish,’ he said, squinting at it.
‘What does it say?’ Grace asked.
Milos cleared his throat. ‘“The Skinless One reclaims what is his. Cursed be Garaznet the thief.”’
He sighed, and dropped the scrap of paper back into the box. ‘They have beaten us to it.’
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, 20th November, 1925
Well, it is quite the pickle we find ourselves in. All this time and effort recovering this statue and no idea what to do with it now. Not for the first time, I wondered about dropping the bloody thing into the Bosphorus and being done with it, but I suspect our foes would find that only a minor inconvenience.
We left the palace feeling deflated. We had risked exposing ourselves with high hopes that by this morning the whole affair would be done with, yet as the winter sun struggled into our windows to the sound of that blasted call to prayer once more, it found us with no ritual, and no leads either.
Professor Azap was clearly as surprised as us to find the scrolls missing. According to his records, the last person to even look at the things had been a man named Selim Makryat in 1823 – over a hundred years ago! I suspect even the remarkable Mr S. Holmes would find it difficult to uncover a trail grown so cold.
We decided our next best course of action would be consulting the library within the palace, a library that Azap assured us was second only to that of the university. Well, that it may be, and it is certainly impressive and imposing, but the only mention of ‘Garaznet’ was a brief description of a Kurdish scholar who died some four hundred years ago and left no descendents. Selim Makryat was not mentioned at all – although the name does seem familiar to me. Perhaps I should search through my diaries, although I am certain we haven’t met anyone of that name.
Dispirited, we dined solemnly and silently last night, but over coffee we discussed the best plan of action. None of us suggested abandoning the quest, though all of us were thinking about it. We have come far, and lost much, but our biggest fear remains what will happen if the cult (or Fenalik, if he is indeed still alive) get their hands on the statue. Nothing good, that is for sure. We decided that, despite the further chance of exposure, Neville, Grace and I would visit the university library in Beyzat Square, whilst Milos would contact his associates to see if they could furnish him with any leads on who might know something about either the cult or the statue. This too seemed a dreadful risk, but we were short of options, time and patience.
After a restless sleep, Milos headed off in secret to talk to his friends, and also to check the Simulacrum was still secure. We took a taxi to the Grand Bazaar, and made our way through it towards the university. The bazaar lived up to its name – bustling, sprawling, and one of the most colourful places I have ever seen, filled with carpets, textiles, clothes, and almost everything else imaginable. Sadly, our dark moods meant that we were largely immune to the charms and wonders of that great market - all I could think of was how much Violet would have loved to see the place, and so we plodded morosely through one of the wonders of the modern world.
The university library did little to raise our sombre spirits. Another fruitless five hours wasted, with not a single mention of Garaznet, Sedefkar or even Makryat. Perhaps Alphonse may have found something, but our skills were not up to the task. We got a taxi from the university to a random hotel – the Moulin Bleu Grand, another in the chain of hotels we had stayed in throughout our travels – to throw off any pursuit, and then slipped out of the back way and took another taxi back to The Golden Horn.
Milos was waiting for us upon our return, and his investigations had been only a little more helpful than ours. The statue was still safe, he assured us, and his associates knew nothing of any mysterious cult working within the city. However, they had given him the name of a man who was knowledgeable in such things, and arranged a meeting with this man the following afternoon.
‘So,’ Grace asked as we talked quietly over lunch, ‘What is his name? And where are we meeting?’
Milos hesitated. ‘His name is Beylab,’ he said. ‘Beylab the Perspirer.’
‘Beylab the what?’ I asked.
‘Perspirer,’ repeated Milos.
‘Are you sure you’re translating that right, old boy?’ Neville asked, and Milos nodded.
‘He knows much lore, ancient lore, my friends tell me,’ he said. ‘He is the man to ask of such things in Constantinople.’
‘How do we know this sweaty chap isn’t working for the cult himself?’ Neville asked.
‘We do not,’ Milos said. ‘Have we any choice?’
‘Where are we supposed to meet this... Perspirer?’ I asked.
‘Across the Horn,’ Milos said. ‘In Pera. He says we should meet in a bathhouse.’
‘Bathhouse?’ Grace said.
Again, Milos nodded. ‘Turkish bath, apparently he always meets there.’
‘Well, no wonder he sweats a lot,’ Grace said.
‘So,’ I said, ‘a bathhouse? Does that mean men only?’
Milos nodded.
‘An excellent way to split us up,’ Neville said, echoing all of our thoughts. ‘Hmm.’
‘I don’t like it either,’ Milos agreed. ‘It sounds like a trap. But my associates did not tell this Beylab what we want to meet about, only that we wish to meet. He doesn’t know who we are.’
‘Still,’ Neville said, ‘he could have been warned to be on the lookout for anyone wanting a meeting.’
‘Yes,’ said Milos. ‘It is possible.’
‘I don’t think you should go, Milos,’ Grace said, quickly, reaching across to put her hand on his. ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’ She has grown very attached to him. Normally I’m much quicker to notice these things. It must be the stress.
‘It’s up to the men,’ I said. ‘They are the ones who may be putting themselves in danger.’
Milos and Neville looked at each other.
‘It is fine by me,’ Milos said. ‘No more waiting.’
‘Yes,’ Neville said. ‘If it’s a trap, let’s get it over with. I’m tired of all this scurrying around like rats in a sewer.’
‘My friends,’ Milos said. ‘I told them move the statue, just in case. I won’t know where it is, if they take us.’ He turned to me and handed me a slip of paper with a string of numbers. ‘If you need them, call this number. They will be expecting you.’
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, Milos,’ I said, smiling and trying to sound cheerful.
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Saturday, November 21st, 1925
We insisted that Grace and Betty remain at the hotel. The likelihood of a trap seemed high, and better it was sprung on half of us than all of us.
Just getting to the bath was an adventure in itself. The traffic across the bridge, and in Pera itself, was dreadful, far worse than anything I have seen in London. The narrow streets were jammed with automobiles, horses, rickshaws, motorbikes and pedestrians, all travelling in different directions, shouting or continually honking their horns. It took two hours for the taxi to deposit us in front of a decrepit and shabby building, the driver insisting that this was the place. Milos tipped him generously and asked him to wait for us, telling him that we would not be long, to which the driver responded with
a broken-toothed grin and an ugly leer. I have no idea what he thought we were doing.
The foyer of the bathhouse, silent and cool, was a stark contrast to the bustle of the bridge and the crowded streets. We told the attendant that we had a meeting with Beylab, and he nodded as if this was all perfectly normal. I entertained a vain hope that we may be meeting in an office upstairs, but the attendant informed us that the only way to enter the baths was as customers. Disrobed customers.
A couple of swarthy men lay in the dressing room, sipping that bloody awful sweet tea they serve everywhere. They did not look up as we entered. I slowly began to unbutton my jacket, and Milos removed his balaclava.
I have seen him without the thing, of course, and I tried not to stare. I have seen the scars of mustard gas first hand, and am not easily shocked, but Milos is especially badly affected. His nose has gone, as well as most of his lips. Fortunately for him his eyes and eyelids were spared. Some surgeon has done some work around the septum, but by the looks of it things had not gone well.
Milos saw me looking and smiled as best he could.
‘Pretty, eh?’ he said.
‘Could have been worse, of course,’ I said, and Milos nodded, much aware of this. The two tea-drinkers were doing their level best not to look at him.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m used to it now.’
‘Milos,’ I said, ‘You and Grace are together now, aren’t you?’
He nodded again, his smile gone. ‘I tried not to... I tried to tell her she is upset, and--’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Times of war. Strange bedfellows, and all that.’
Milos cleared his throat uncomfortably, and I realised that he may not have been familiar with the phrase.
‘You know it won’t last, don’t you?’ I said. ‘She’s just--’
‘I know,’ Milos said, quietly. ‘Shall we go in?’
Leaving our clothes with another attendant, we passed through into the ‘warm room’. It felt decidedly hot to me, and my eye socket itched painfully, although the old wound in my leg was much improved for the steam. The marble and stone made our voices echo around the large chamber, but there were only a couple of other men here. Evidently we had come to the baths at a quiet time, which suited us well.
We lingered beside the pool for a few minutes, as it seemed more polite than simply marching through to the next chamber, and then we continued into the ‘hot room’, where we had been told Beylab was waiting for us.
The hot room lived up to its name. The chamber was full of steam, and the hiss of water on coals. Thin shafts of light filtered from a star-shaped hole in the ceiling, but visibility was poor. If Beylab spent most of his time in here, it was small wonder he had been awarded with his undignified nickname. Although we were on our guard, the vapour and the heat made it hard to see, to concentrate, or even to breathe. It was an excellent place for an ambush.
Slowly our vision cleared, and we began to make out the shape in the centre of the room. It was quickly apparent how the ‘Perspirer’ had earned his name. A grotesquely fat man lay sprawled on a large hexagonal slab, a large towel barely covering his dignity. He was completely bald, with a thick, black moustache, and he gestured to us through the steam as he made us out.
‘My friends,’ he said in English, with a smile. ‘I have been waiting for you. Come, sit.’
As we approached he pointed to slabs in front of him. ‘Sit, sit,’ he said, sweat dripping from the folds of flesh around his chin as he spoke.
‘We prefer to stand,’ Milos replied. Beylab shrugged. If he was shocked by Milos’s appearance, he did not show it. I peered through the mists around the room as we stood in front of him. The hot room seemed otherwise deserted, although it was impossible to tell.
‘We shall not be disturbed, Colonel,’ Beylab said with a smile.
‘How do you know me?’ I asked, alarmed. Milos had used false names to arrange the meeting.
The fat man waved his arm as if it was not significant. ‘I know many things. You think I would agree to a meeting if I did not know who you were?’
He paused, and leaned over to a ladle sitting in a pool of water in front of him. He poured some of the water over his flabby chest, grunting in pleasure as he did so.
‘You are wanted men,’ he said with a slight smile.
Milos took a step forward.
‘Relax, relax,’ Beylab said, lifting one giant arm. ‘You need fear nothing from me. As I say, I only like to know who I am meeting. So, what can I do for you, my friends?’
‘You know a lot,’ Milos said. ‘Maybe you tell us.’
Beylab grinned. ‘Ha. I can understand why you are cautious, and you are right to be. Your enemies are powerful. Very powerful.’
Here he paused again, absently rubbing his belly, which wobbled obscenely.
‘No more of the dance,’ he said. ‘I am tired. Your enemies, as we both know, are the Cult of the Skin. This city is their home, and you have something that they want.’
I checked the room again. If Beylab wanted to betray us, he had us trapped. We were finished.
‘I do not wish to anger such men,’ Beylab said. ‘I take a great risk even talking to you. But... it would please me to see their power diminished. They are worried, that is clear. You can harm them. I would like to help with this.’
‘How do you know the cult is after us?’ I asked.
‘I was approached by some... gentlemen of their acquaintance. They asked questions. They were not pleasant in the manner of their asking.’ The big man frowned.
‘From the duke?’ I said.
‘The Duc d’Essientes is one of their number, but he is not their leader,’ Beylab said. ‘That is a man named Makryat. Selim Makryat.’
‘The man who last consulted the scrolls,’ I said to Milos, who nodded. ‘But that was over a hundred years ago--’
‘They make their headquarters in a place called the Ruined Mosque’ Beylab interrupted, ‘an old Byzantine prayer house, sometimes called the Red Mosque, or the Shunned Mosque, in the old city.’
‘We are not interested in where the rats live,’ Milos said. ‘We need information on a certain ritual.’
Beylab nodded, as if this was not news to him. His voice lowered, so that it was hard to hear amongst the echoes and the hiss of the steam.
‘What I tell you now,’ he said, ‘I tell you for the good of my city. If the cult ever learn of it, I am a dead man. You will not allow this to lead back to me, you understand?’
He looked at both of us in turn. ‘You understand?’ he repeated. We nodded, solemnly.
‘You have a great treasure, yes? A statue. The cult has been searching for it for years. With it, their power will grow beyond mere mischief into terror. Destroy it, and you destroy them. You know this.’
Again, we nodded. The heat was oppressive. I had to stop myself from shaking him, telling him to hurry up. I only wished to get out of the place and back into the cool winter air outside.
‘Across the Bosphorus, on the Asian side of the city, there lies the grave of a Kurdish scholar. His name was Garaznet.’
Milos and I exchanged glances. Beylab nodded.
‘The cult has other enemies. This man was one. The ritual you seek is buried with him.’
‘How do you know this?’ I demanded.
‘My business is information,’ Beylab replied. ‘The how does not matter. Only the where. The ritual is there. Garaznet tried to perform it before, and they killed him for it.’
‘Do you know anything about it?’ Milos asked. The fat man shook his head, his fat jowls wobbling.
‘No. Only that the ritual must be performed at the graveside, in Üsküdar. You must take the statue there. And you must hurry.’
‘Take the statue there?’ I asked.
Beylab nodded, solemnly. ‘Yes. You must be very careful. The cult wants the statue badly. It must not fall into their hands.’
‘Can you help us?’ Milos asked.
Bey
lab paused. He reached forward to the ladle once more, and poured cooling water over his bulk. As he closed his eyes, a shadow emerged from the mists behind him. Too late we saw the glint of steel in the figure’s outstretched arm. Before any of us had time to react, the dark figure had slit Beylab’s throat from ear to ear.
Beylab’s eyes and mouth opened wide, and he gurgled like a new-born baby. Then the blood began to pour from his neck in a great gush, mingling with the steam and sweat, and the ladle clattered to the floor. Milos and I both jumped forwards at the same time as the assailant – a thin figure in a dark robe – turned to disappear into the mist. As he did so, he slipped on the smooth stone floor, and before he had a chance to recover I was upon him. The attacker fell heavily onto the floor, wheezing and winded, as I grappled with him, bashing the arm holding the knife onto the slab Beylab lay upon until he released it, and it dropped to the floor next to the ladle. The hood of the robe fell back to reveal a young, dark-haired Turk, twisting and snarling as I pinned his arms behind him and lay on top of him.
Milos knelt beside Beylab. The fat man’s chest was still twitching, but Milos looked at me and shook his head.
The man on the floor cursed and spat as I lay upon him. Milos approached, picking up the knife as he did so.
‘Milos,’ I said. ‘What are you...’
Milos was looking at the knife. It had a wickedly curved blade, of the type that Muslim butchers use to slaughter cattle. ‘They cannot know,’ he said, quietly. Something about his voice caused the man beneath me to stop struggling. Milos drew closer. He looked at me.
‘They cannot know what we know, Colonel. They must not know what Beylab told us.’
I have seen that look before. I have worn it myself, at times. In times of war, victory is all that matters. But were we at war?