The Spirit Well Page 7

  The resulting chase succeeded only in wounding the coachman, Giles; Kit had escaped and the Burley Men were held to blame for the debacle. For the last four days the Black Earl and his louts had been combing the countryside for Kit. At first they merely searched the physical geography of the area—the hedgerows, villages, barns, and even the river—and when that failed to raise any material evidence the search was expanded to include any ley lines within reach of the fleeing man. They had found a likely ley in the vicinity of their initial chase, but a thoroughgoing search of the destination on the other side failed to raise a trail.

  As day gave way to day and reports from the Burley Men brought them no closer to finding the fugitive, his lordship’s temper darkened the more. He was angry at everyone and everything: angry at being lied to—though the Burley Men denied this vehemently—angry at the lack of results, angry that his plans were being stymied by a mere know-nothing nobody, angry at his own failure to get his hands on the one piece of the Skin Map he knew where to find. None of this was Haven’s fault, a fact she was not hesitant to point out. She most strenuously distanced herself from the current disaster, hoping to remain aloof from the steadily mounting storm of his lordship’s wrath.

  “There is some deception here that I have yet to penetrate,” Burleigh declared on his return to the inn. It was the evening of the fifth night of the futile search, and his mood was toxic. “Livingstone has been aided and abetted in his escape. That is the only explanation—at least, it is the only explanation that makes sense.”

  The weather had turned cold and wet with a foretaste of the winter to come; Lady Fayth was sewing new buttons onto a coat she had bought in the market, replacing the wooden ones with silver. Lord Burleigh sank into a chair by the fireplace and summoned one of the inn’s serving boys to come and remove his muddy boots.

  “Clean them and bring them back when you are finished,” he commanded, his German lumpy but understandable. “Have the landlord fetch me something to drink—a jar of mulled ale will suffice for now. Get on with you. And be quick about it!”

  The lad scurried off. He had learned to obey swiftly and without question when the earl spoke.

  “You say Kit is a know-nothing,” Haven ventured, “and by all indications it would seem that you are correct in your assessment. If that be so, then what can it possibly matter that he has escaped?”

  “Because he is a thorn in the flesh,” snarled Burleigh. “He is an increasingly troublesome obstruction to the ongoing search for the map. He is a rival and a threat.”

  Haven did not raise her eyes from her work. “Hardly that, I think.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “I doubt it very much indeed, sir,” she replied. “He is as you have painted him—a nothing, a nobody. His only attachment to this enterprise was through his great-grandfather, Cosimo. That tether has been severed, and Kit has no idea what to do or where to go next. In the brief time I was with him he showed no volition and demonstrated no extraordinary understanding of the enterprise in which he was involved.”

  “My impression too,” affirmed Burleigh. “Entirely.”

  “Why not simply put him out of your mind? Kit Livingstone is of no consequence. Whatever his understanding may be, it can have no bearing on your designs.”

  “How is his presence in Prague to be explained?”

  “Just coincidence, surely,” she suggested, passing the needle through the button and into the cloth in a single smooth stroke. “Everyone must be somewhere, after all.”

  “But why here?” Burleigh growled, watching her. “I think he was here for a reason, and I want to know what it was. That woman at the coffeehouse is mixed up in this—I know it.”

  “Who?” Haven raised an eyebrow. “One of the serving girls?”

  “No—not a servant, blind you. The other one.”

  Haven stared at him blankly. “I cannot for the life of me think who you must mean.”

  “The tall one,” he snarled. “The English manageress or owner or whatever—I’m telling you she knows more than she lets on.”

  “You are chary by nature,” Lady Fayth suggested, returning to her work. “It does you no good. Here we are, flailing about uselessly when we could be getting on with the hunt. That is surely more important than running down Kit Livingstone.”

  “She was poking around the palace, trying to ingratiate herself at court. That’s where I met her, you know—the first time I came here. A right Miss Busybody.”

  Haven drew the needle up through the button. “Are we talking about the woman from the coffeehouse again?”

  “She implied she knew about my travels, or something of the sort,” Burleigh continued. “I warned the wench in no uncertain terms to keep her nose out of my affairs.”

  “Then I am certain she has taken your good advice to heart,” concluded Haven sweetly. “Anyway, she can have no idea about any of this. Living here in Prague and running a coffeehouse—one is hardly liable to stumble across anything of value to our cause.”

  “Perhaps we should go talk to her,” he said. “Find out what she knows.”

  Haven lowered her work into her lap and gave the exhausted earl a look of sharp appraisal. “The woman is hardly going to cooperate after your heavy-handed intimidation. If she does know anything, you would be the last person in whom she would confide.”

  Burleigh frowned, then brightened as a new thought came to him. “You could go.”

  “Me?” Lady Fayth feigned disapproval. “I cannot see what good that would do. I can think of nothing worthwhile to say to her.”

  “You could come alongside her—woman-to-woman, be her friend, gain her confidence.”

  “Do you honestly imagine that will achieve some positive result?” Haven asked, still shaking her head.

  “She would talk to you,” insisted Burleigh. “Get her to confide in you.”

  “A manageress?” Haven made a wry face. “What could she possibly know that would be of the most remote interest to us, or to the success of our venture?”

  “That,” declared Burleigh decisively, “is what you must discover.” He thought for a moment. “No . . . no,” he said slowly. “Better still, gain her confidence and invite her to dinner tomorrow. Lure her here, and I will take care of the rest. Once we get her upstairs, alone, we’ll find out what she knows soon enough.”

  Lady Fayth, having given an entirely believable performance of the Reluctant Accomplice, agreed to take on the chore and took herself to the Grand Imperial the next afternoon. She was there, waiting, when Wilhelmina returned from another unsuccessful attempt to locate Kit. The two exchanged a knowing glance and Wilhelmina, after greeting Etzel, filled a pot with fresh coffee and sat down with her ally to share information on the state of the game so far.

  “I cannot understand the Black Earl’s interest in Kit,” Lady Fayth mused. “On the one hand he insists that Kit knows nothing useful to the quest. On the other hand he refuses to simply let him go. We have already stayed in Prague far longer than originally intended, and there are no plans at present to leave.”

  “Burleigh is not being entirely truthful,” observed Mina. “No doubt the shock of seeing Kit here in Prague, when he thought him dead and buried in Egypt, revived his interest—at least insofar as he assumes Kit must have had help to escape the tomb.” She thought for a moment. “Has he said anything about this?”

  “He has vouchsafed nothing specific or germane to the issue at hand. His lordship’s hirelings have borne the brunt of his anger on that account, and they have paid dearly for their lapse.” Her lips curled in a conspiratorial smile. “Nevertheless, they have helped our cause—unwittingly, it must be said—by maintaining the fiction that the prisoners were in the tomb when the wadi was abandoned. To admit anything more would merely bring even greater approbation down upon their sorry heads.”

  “Poor things,” Wilhelmina said without the least shred of pity.

  “As it stands, Kit is the object of the earl’s prese
nt obsession. The quest, I suspect, will not go forward until Kit is found. As to that, our nemesis intends on casting the net wider. He intends to find out what you know about this affair.” Lady Fayth sipped her coffee and watched Wilhelmina for a response.

  Mina took this information in stride. “He is grasping at straws.” She thought for a moment. “What form would this interrogation take?”

  “You might well ask. He has prevailed upon me to be the agent of his inquiry.” She offered a cheerful smile. “I am to gain your trust and induce you to confide in me. Under the guise of a dinner invitation, he would lure you to the inn, take you prisoner, and menace you into revealing your secrets.”

  Wilhelmina’s brow creased with concern.

  “Of course,” Haven continued quickly, “it goes without saying that we must decide between ourselves what we want him to know.”

  “Then we must think very carefully what to tell him,” agreed Wilhelmina. She reached for the little pewter pot. “More coffee, Lady Fayth?”

  The young lady made no move to hold out her cup. “I suspect he knows you are a ley traveller, and I have no doubt he intends you harm.”

  Wilhelmina returned her gaze steadily. “He will have to catch me first.”

  “It would be unwise to make light of the threat. Lord Burleigh is fully capable of carrying out his nefarious designs, as we both know only too well.” Lady Fayth gave her a solemn nod. “In regards to the dinner tomorrow night—you dare not for a moment even contemplate actually going.”

  “But if I refuse,” countered Mina, “won’t that make him even more determined and suspicious?”

  “Perhaps.” Haven pursed her perfect lips in thought; she glanced out the window at a man carrying a wicker basket. “Why not go away for a few days? Leave the city, go somewhere—anywhere. Stay out of his way completely.”

  “Run away, you mean.”

  “Why not? Only for a few days, mind. His lordship will soon grow tired of waiting and leave Prague. We would have departed long since if not for Kit.”

  Wilhelmina thought for a moment. “I could go away,” she agreed. “I have been wanting to go back to—”

  “Do not tell me,” warned Haven. “It will be better for both of us if I do not know. Only make some excuse and depart as soon as possible. Leave at once.”

  Wilhelmina regarded her co-conspirator for a moment in silence, unable to tell if she was keeping something back.

  “Please,” urged Lady Fayth. Reaching across the table, she clutched Wilhelmina’s hand and squeezed it for emphasis. “Please go.”

  “Very well.” Mina rose and pushed back her chair. “If you will excuse me, I think I have some packing to do.”

  PART TWO

  The Jagged Mountain

  CHAPTER 8

  In Which a New God Is Extolled

  Chaos is loosed upon the Black Land, my brother,” declared Anen, Second Prophet of Amun, with a solemn shake of his head. “Pharaoh pursues a dangerous course. He takes counsel only from his Habiru advisors and listens not to the voice of his own people. He taxes the land heavily to pay for the building of his new city in the desert.” He paused and added, “There is even talk of closing Amun’s many temples.”

  Arthur Flinders-Petrie shook his head in sympathy. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  “It is believed by many that unless he is stopped, Akhenaten will bring all the country to ruin.”

  Benedict, reclining at table next to his father, cleared his throat. He leaned close and whispered, “What is he saying?”

  “Excuse me a moment, Anen.” Arthur put his head near his son, and replied, “He is telling me that there is trouble in Egypt just now—the new pharaoh is pursuing a reckless course.”

  “The new pharaoh—Amenhotep, you mean.”

  Arthur nodded. “He has taken the name Akhenaten and is building a new city in the desert to honour his god. The people are unhappy.”

  “Perhaps we should leave,” suggested Benedict. “If there’s going to be trouble . . . ”

  “You may be right.” Arthur turned once more to his friend. “It was my hope that my son could abide here awhile to study your language with the priests in the temple school—as I did all those years ago. But it seems that the Flinders-Petrie visit has come at an awkward time. Perhaps it would be best if we made other plans. You will not want us underfoot.”

  “Never think that,” said Anen, taking a handful of dates onto his gold plate. “As always, your visit gladdens my heart. To see you and your son once more is a potent medicine to this old man. The troubles of which I speak are but wisps of smoke on the winds of time.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “But true friendship is carved in stone. It endures forever.”

  “It does indeed, my friend,” agreed Arthur. He dipped a scrap of bread into the olive oil and then into the salt, put it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “I treasure our friendship.”

  Anen raised a finger, and a temple slave stepped silently to the table with the wine jug. Benedict swallowed the dregs and held up his cup for more. While the two older men talked, he contented himself with taking in the wealth of exotic sights around him. They had been in Egypt less than two days, and already he felt himself forgetting any other life but the one he saw around him—a life that seemed to flow as easily and effortlessly as the great green river Nile on which the High Priest’s palace was built.

  Benedict fingered the blue lapis scarab he had been given as a token of Anen’s esteem and gazed around the intimate banquet hall—the smaller of the palace’s festive chambers—marvelling at the richly painted walls, the elegant statues and carvings, the stately columns and regal sphinxes, the tall, dark-skinned servants in their embroidered white robes, the exotic scent of sandalwood on the air, the sumptuous banquet spread on the low table before him. All of it—from the endless marble corridors to the gold chains round the priest’s neck—seemed fantastical, and far beyond what he had imagined from his father’s stories. Yet here he was, reclining at table in the presence of Egyptian nobility. The way Benedict understood it, Anen as Second Prophet ranked a step below High Priest but was nonetheless accorded all the benefits of royalty because of his blood ties to the royal family.

  As a child of six, Benedict had visited Egypt; his father had brought him to meet Anen. But other than being very ill the day of the journey and very hot the rest of the time, he could remember almost nothing about it. This time, however, he was determined to soak up as much of the experience as he possibly could—all the more since the current troubles meant their visit might be curtailed.

  He listened to the sibilant susurration of his elders’ speech and wondered how he would ever learn it. That was why they had come: to allow Benedict to further his education by learning the language— much as they had done a couple years ago when he spent time in China with his mother’s sister and her family. Then again, if the troubles his father and Anen were just then discussing were to deepen or spread, he would not have to worry about it, since they would not be staying.

  “ . . . the Habiru are hard workers and keep to themselves. Pharaoh has given them land in the Gesen, and they live there most peaceably. We have no difficulty with them. No”—he shook his smooth shaved head—“no, the difficulty is that Akhenaten has taken up their curious doctrine that their god, a formless spirit called El, is the only god worthy of honour and worship by anyone.

  “Why? Why should this be?” Anen demanded. “It makes no sense. We do not say that only Amun must be worshipped, or only Horus, or only Anubis. There is room for all. You may venerate Sekmet or Ra if you like, while I am free to revere Ptah or Hathor or Isis as it suits me. There is room in Egypt for everyone, and each is free to follow the decrees of his own heart.”

  The priest smiled sadly. “But it is not so with the Habiru. Their god El makes many demands, and one of these is that there must be no other gods worshipped by those who call on his name. This, I think, is because the Habiru do not recognise that all the go
ds are but expressions of the One, the Absolute God.”

  “I have heard this said,” remarked Arthur. Like the English gentleman he was, Arthur did not argue with his various hosts about religion; whatever world or epoch he visited, he kept his own views to himself. It was one of the rules he lived by as a ley traveller.

  “But these Habiru must make even simple things—like sacrifice and offering—very difficult,” Anen continued. “I do not understand it. Unfortunately, Pharaoh has become infatuated with the precepts of the Habiru and has turned his back on the gods of his own people. He shuns certain foods and will not cut his hair—all to appease this new god that he has named Aten.” The priest’s lips twisted with disapproval. “But this is merely El under a different name. This is where the difficulty lies.”

  “I see the problem,” Arthur offered. “But what will you do about it?”

  “In two days the Temple of Amun is sending a delegation to Aten City to discuss matters with Pharaoh—to see how this present difficulty may be resolved. You are welcome to come along.”

  Anen glanced at Benedict, who was now nodding on his cushion. “It seems as if we have exhausted our young traveller with our talk.” He raised a hand, and one of the servants stepped up and knelt beside him. The priest spoke a few words, and the servant moved to the side of the sleeping youth and gave him a gentle nudge.