Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
Lord Burleigh put his heels together and made a crisp, elegant bow. “Your devoted servant, Majesty,” he said in a full, resonant voice.
“We welcome you, my Lord Earl,” said Rudolf. “Is this your first visit to Prague?”
“It is, Majesty,” replied Burleigh, his German flawless. “But I assure you, it will not be my last.”
Other introductions were made then, which Mina ignored, finding herself wholly unable to take her eyes from the darkly handsome earl. What luck! she thought. A fellow countryman.
The formalities observed, the chief alchemist turned to his assistant. “Rosenkreuz, clear away a space for the use of our friends here,” he commanded. “They are here to produce an elixir of
Kaffee
for the emperor. Have chairs brought in.”
“At once, Herr Doktor,” replied the young alchemist, handing the parchment diagram back to the earl. With a nod and smile of acknowledgement to Etzel and Mina, the young man began moving beakers and pots, making room for Englebert and Mina’s simple equipment. The box was brought in and unpacked. Working quickly together, fresh water was soon on the fire, the beans ground, and the pot and cups prepared. At each stage of the operation, Englebert with enormous gravity explained what they were doing.
While the company waited for the water to come to a boil, the chief alchemist offered a small tour of his laboratory and Wilhelmina sidled up beside Lord Burleigh. She caught his attention. “
Guten Tag, mein Herr
,” she said, speaking low. “
Ich bin
Wilhelmina. But perhaps we can speak English?”
“Delighted to meet you, my dear,” he replied smoothly, his manner at odds with his old-fashioned demeanour.
“When Herr Bazalgette introduced you just now, I was a little surprised. I’ve not met many Englishmen in Prague.”
“Nor will you, I imagine,” he replied, offering her an ingratiating smile. “But, please, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to be here?”
“Here in the palace? Or here in Prague?”
“Either,” he said, laughing politely. “Both.”
Before she could answer, Bazalgette called to them, “May I direct your attention to
this
—our latest discovery!” He lofted a large jug of green glass half full of a cloudy whitish liquid. “Come close, everyone.”
“Another time, perhaps,” said the earl, directing his steps to rejoin the others, who were now gathered around a table heaped high with books and racks of glass vials and porcelain jars.
“Come to my coffeehouse tomorrow,” invited Wilhelmina, falling into step beside him. “I’ll give you a cup of coffee, and we can talk then without interruption.”
“I’d be delighted,” replied the nobleman with a bow of his head. “But, tell me—which
Kaffeehaus
is it?”
“There
is
only one.”
CHAPTER 30
In Which a Mystery Is Confronted
T
he screech of the wind seared through his skull and the world spun around him, but Cosimo, fighting with a skill born of long experience, ignored the discomfort, gritted his teeth, and clung doggedly to the fast-fraying strands of his concentration. Eyes straining into the seething black void before him, he gathered his strength and the instant he felt solid ground beneath his feet once more, gave out a tremendous push with both hands. Solid muscle and bone met his fists. The Burley Man, momentarily disoriented by the crossing, was flung sprawling to the ground.
Spinning around, he glimpsed the ruined temple at the far end of the long avenue of sphinxes and knew they had successfully completed the leap from Black Mixen Tump to Egypt. Unfortunately, the Burley Men had made the jump too.
He heard a shout and turned to see Sir Henry down on all fours, struggling to rise—an attempt made the more difficult by the Burley Man clinging to his back.
Three quick strides carried Cosimo to his side, and two swift kicks to the groin and instep of the thug freed his friend. “Run!” he shouted, pulling Sir Henry to his feet. “This way!”
Without waiting for a reply, Cosimo put down his head and raced for the temple.
He did not get far.
Cosimo, in full flight, felt his foot caught from behind and yanked out from under him. The broken pavement beneath his feet came up fast and smacked him on the chin. He rolled onto his back, lashing out with his legs as the Burley Man descended on him. One of his wild kicks connected, knocking his black-coated assailant back a pace or two.
Scrambling to his feet, Cosimo dove into the fight, fists swinging. He managed to land a punch or two before being seized from behind and pulled off. Thrashing this way and that, Cosimo tried to shake off the steely grip. He sensed rather than saw a movement to his side, and heard a thin whistling sound. He ducked just as the silver knob of Sir Henry Fayth’s walking stick flashed by his ear, striking the Burley Man squarely in the centre of the forehead. The man gave out a yelp, released his grasp, and sank cursing to his knees, arms flung over his head.
“Enough!” The shout was like the clap of a rifle shot in the still air. “It’s over.”
Cosimo glanced back over his shoulder to see three more Burley Men standing in the centre of the avenue; one of the men held tightly to a chain, on the end of which strained the great brindled brown shape of the cave lion. Muscles bunched, head low, the great cat watched them with evil interest as it ran its red velvet tongue around its daggerlike teeth. Rattling along the rough-paved avenue behind them came a wagon drawn by a team of mules driven by a fourth Burley Man with a rifle across his lap.
“Mal, Dex—stand down. Con, get the gear from the wagon,” commanded the man who was clearly the leader of the gang. Dressed in a loose white shirt, tall boots, and wide-brimmed straw hat with a red handkerchief knotted around his throat, he looked more like a simple farmhand than the sadist that he was. The face beneath the hat was impassive as the stone statues around them. He strode forward to address his captives. “I’m Tav,” he said. “Which one of you is Cosimo?”
Cosimo and Sir Henry exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.
“Baby is hungry,” said Tav. “I have half a mind to let her feed. If you’d rather not be on the menu, you’ll answer me when I speak to you—and no delay. I ask you again, which one of you is Cosimo?”
“I do not deal with thugs, sir,” replied Cosimo.
The Burley Man’s hand snapped out so quickly Cosimo did not see it coming. The blow snapped his head back, and a moment later he tasted blood on his tongue. “Mind your manners, friend,” Tav warned. “We’re going to take a little walk, and you’re coming along whether you like it or not. Now, you can make things easy on yourself, or difficult—it’s up to you. I don’t give a tinker’s either way.”
The wagon came rattling up, and the one called Con hurried over, returning with two coils of rawhide rope.
“What do you want with us?” demanded Cosimo, rubbing his lip.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” replied Tav. He signalled to his thuggish crew, who began shedding their coats, throwing them into the back of the wagon, and withdrawing bundles of lighter-weight clothing. “You two want to change into something more comfortable?” he asked. “It’s going to get hot.”
“We’re fine as we are,” replied Cosimo with sullen resolve.
Tav nodded and called to his men. “Ready, lads?” Turning away from the temple, he started back down the long avenue lined with sphinxes either side. Some had lost heads or feet; others had crumbled, their features eroded by wind and sand over time; but a good many were whole and in place, still guarding the pathway to the temple. When Cosimo and Sir Henry failed to fall into step behind him, he said, “This way, gents.”
“I protest this treatment most strenuously, sir. I am not going anywhere with you,” Sir Henry declared.
“I think you’ll find that you are,” replied the Burley Man. He gave a nod to Con, who advanced with the ropes. The one called Dex fetched two burlap bags from the wagon. Before either Cosimo or Sir Henry could protest further, the coils of rope were around their waists, their wrists were tied, and the burlap bags whipped over their heads. Thus bound and blinded, they were led away. The Burley Men with their wagon and cave cat fell in behind them, and the party moved off down the rough-paved road.
Cosimo and Sir Henry shuffled along. A little light came through the uneven weave of the burlap, and they could see their feet and the patch of ground on which they walked, but no more than that. They could hear the heavy footfall of the men, the creak of the wagon wheels, and the low, breathy rumble of the cat padding dangerously close behind them. At the end of the avenue, Sir Henry and Cosimo stepped off the ancient pavement and into the desert, where they were led in a more-or-less southerly direction toward a range of low dun-coloured hills. It was a thirsty region—a wasteland of shattered rock, dust, and sand in more or less equal measure—ruled by the sun and inhabited only by scorpions and lizards. The ground was rough and uneven, treacherous underfoot—like traversing an endless field of potsherds and broken brick.
After trudging a goodly while in silence, Sir Henry moved fractionally nearer to Cosimo and whispered, “Where are they taking us?”
“Not a clue,” Cosimo replied, his voice barely audible. “I was here briefly a few years ago, but so far as I know there’s nothing for miles around in any direction.”
“We should formulate a plan of action.”
“Agreed,” whispered Cosimo. “But until we know what they intend—”
“Quiet, you two!” said the gang leader. “Save your breath—you’ll need it before we’re through.”
“Stay alert, and look for an opening,” Cosimo concluded.
“I said, that’s enough chatter!” Tav snarled, giving the rope binding their hands a painful jerk.
The sun climbed higher in the empty blue sky, and the heat increased. Every now and then the cave cat gave out a wounded-sounding growl, just to let them know it was still there. Aside from that—and the weary creak and crunch of the wagon wheels—no sound could be heard. The captives in their heavy dark clothes began to suffer from the heat. Through the burlap, they could feel the sun’s burn and began to wish that they had changed clothes when given the chance. Sweat ran from their heads and down their necks. Their shirts and cloaks were soon drenched.
Still they trudged on. Another hour passed, and then a third. As the fourth hour commenced, Sir Henry gave out a sigh and stopped.
“Get moving, you!” came the command from behind.
“No,” he replied, bending to rest his hands on his knees. Sweat poured from beneath the burlap bag to fall on the bone-dry ground. “I need water. I am near to fainting in this heat. I shall not take another step until I get a drink.”
“We’re all thirsty, mate,” said Tav, not unreasonably. “But there’s nothing to drink out here until we reach the site.”
“No water?” sneered Cosimo. “What manner of fools are you?”
“Shut your face,” snarled Dev. “Get moving.”
“No,” said Sir Henry, planting himself firmly in place. “I will not.”
“You can stay out here all day and die for all I care,” said the gang leader. “But we’re nearly there—a few more minutes is all. The sooner we get there, the sooner we all get a drink. Savvy?”
“Come along, Sir Henry,” urged Cosimo. “It’s too hot out here to argue.” To Tav, he said, “Lead on.”
The party resumed its march and a short while later reached the foot of a low bank of hills. Here they paused, and the burlap bags were removed, much to the relief of the captives, who gasped and gulped down the fresh air. A few more minutes’ walk carried them to the base of the nearest hill, where a seam opened in the much-eroded landscape: a wadi barely wide enough to admit the mule cart and team. Into this parched gulch the party turned and proceeded down the long, undulating corridor cut into the sandstone by water from the melt runoff during the last ice age.
The air inside the wadi, though dead, was at least a little cooler owing to the shadow cast by the steep walls; the sun did not penetrate to the valley floor save only a few minutes each day. The shade was welcome, and Cosimo felt himself slightly revived. As they proceeded deeper into the gorge, he began to notice small niches carved in the soft sandstone. Some were square nooks, others rectangular; a few of the more elaborate niches had inscribed hieroglyphs alongside them, and many of these had pedestals fashioned into the floor of the nook as if to hold an object for display. Whatever the niches had held, all were empty now.
They came to a place where the wadi divided; Tav guided them into the wider of the two branches and proceeded as before. The wall niches became more numerous, larger, and more elaborate. Cosimo noticed that some few of these had been defaced—the hieroglyphs scratched or chiselled away, the pedestals smashed and broken.
The canyon snaked this way and that as it cut through the rock hills; the travellers followed the long, looping bend and came all at once to a dead end: a smooth wall of ruddy sandstone towering two hundred feet in the air, at the bottom of which was carved a doorway—a black square guarded either side by enormous effigies. On the right side, holding a rod of authority, stood Horus, the sun god, who possessed the body of a long-limbed, muscular man combined with the regal head of a hawk. On the left, his hand raised in warning, stood Thoth, ibis-headed god of all civilized sciences and magic, and judge of the dead.
Here they stopped.
“Sit ’em down, lads,” ordered Tav. He walked to the door and disappeared inside. The wagon and mules continued on, passed around a bend in the wadi and out of sight.
Cosimo and Sir Henry settled themselves on a rock in the shade, wiped sweat from their faces, and sat panting from their exertion and dehydration. The cave lion, too, lay down, panting, its red tongue lolling from its mouth. “I know just how it feels,” muttered Cosimo, unlacing his boots to cool his hot feet. He had rubbed one foot and ankle and was rubbing the second when the gang chief reappeared carrying a skin of water; in his wake came another man, tall and dark, with a face not unlike that of the hawk-beaked Horus carved in the rock. Although clearly a European, he was dressed like an Egyptian in a long, loose-fitting black garment with a black turban on his head.