The Skin Map (37 page)

“Then there are your clothes,” continued Wilhelmina, warming to her argument. “Plain, good quality, serviceable they may be—but the cloth is machine-woven. I had the same problem when I arrived. The things you’re wearing might have been made in England—but a few hundred years from now, I expect.” She fixed him a sly, knowing smile. “They may fool the locals, but they don’t fool me.”

“What sharp little eyes you have, my dear,” replied Burleigh through his teeth.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I don’t miss much.”

He took her hand as it rested on the table. “Then I am certain,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “that you will understand”—he tightened his grip, a little harder for emphasis—“when I tell you . . .” He squeezed again, uncomfortably harder, and maintained the pressure.

“Ow!” yipped Mina, trying to pull her hand away.

Burleigh held her fast in his grip.

“ . . . when I tell you that you have suddenly become an unwanted intrusion into my affairs.”

“You’re hurting me!”

“I’ll do more than that, sweet thing,” he muttered.

“Let me go!”

He brought his face close to hers the way a lover might. “If you want to stay alive,” he said, his breath hot in her ear, “stay far away from me.”

He released her hand and rose from the table. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said, all smiles and good manners once more. “I will say good-bye. I don’t expect to see you again.”

He moved quickly to the door and was gone before Wilhelmina could think to call for Etzel.

She was still sitting there, rubbing her hand and staring at the door through which the treacherous earl had disappeared, when Rosenkreuz returned. “
Fräulein
Wilhelmina?” he asked, taking his seat at the table. “Is all well?”

She started, coming to herself once more. “No—I mean, yes.” She forced a smile. “Never better.”

“What happened to Lord Burleigh?” asked the young alchemist. “Where has he gone?”

“It seems he had to leave. No doubt he will meet you again later.”

Rosenkreuz accepted this without comment.

“But here,” said Mina, jumping up, “your
Kaffee
has gone cold. Don’t drink it. I’ll bring you some more.”

“Thank you, but I should be about my own business.”

“It won’t take but a moment,” said Wilhelmina, hurrying away. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Is anything the matter?” asked Etzel, catching a glimpse of her preoccupied expression as she entered the kitchen. He placed on the baking table a tray of buns fresh from the oven.

“What?” she said. “Oh, no—no. Everything is splendid. I was just thinking. Umm, those cakes smell heavenly,” she told him. As soon as the pot was filled, she returned to the table in the corner bearing a tray with a second cup and a plate of pastries, which she placed before the chief under-alchemist. “On the house,” she said, taking her seat.

The expression puzzled the young fellow, but he reached for a pastry as his cup was filled. “I am in your debt,
Fräulein
,” he said, the crumbs falling from his lips.

“My pleasure,” she replied. “But I need your help with something.”

“Anything.”

“Merely a little information.”

“But, of course. What would you like to know?”

“What is Lord Burleigh doing here in Prague?”

“But it is no secret,” answered Rosenkreuz readily; then after a moment’s hesitation he added, “At least I cannot think that it is a secret. . . .”

“Well, then?”

“He has come to ask our aid in the manufacture of a device to aid his travels.”

“The device, yes,” said Mina, remembering the diagram she had seen in the earl’s hands upon entering the alchemy laboratory. “You were talking about it when I joined the two of you just now. Tell me about it.”

Rosenkreuz explained that the Earl of Sutherland was engaged in the exploration of the astral planes—the otherworldly dimensions that made up the unseen universe—and required a device to aid him. “He is a very intelligent man,” the alchemist confided, “and very brave.”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Mina. “Another pastry? Please, go on.”

“The astral realms are thought to be—”

“The device, I mean. Tell me about that.”

“I do believe it to be the most cunning invention I have ever seen.” His hands described an oval as big as a grapefruit. “This device is to be used to identify the invisible pathways by which the earl makes his travels. These pathways are all around us, apparently—if we only knew how to recognise them.”

“I see.” Wilhelmina nodded, making up her mind. “Herr Rosenkreuz, how would you like to secure a ready supply of bitter earth for your experiments—free, at no charge whatsoever?”

“Of course. It goes without saying,” the alchemist agreed at once, “but that is in no way necessary. We can easily pay.”

“I know,” she replied, “and you are more than generous. But I want to exchange it for your help.”

“Very well,” agreed Rosenkreuz. “What is it that you wish?”

“When you have manufactured this device for Lord Burleigh,” said Mina, her tone taking on an edge Rosenkreuz had never heard in a woman’s voice before, “I want you to make one for me.”

CHAPTER 33
In Which Nature Takes Its Course

I
t began as a simple tickle in the throat. Xian-Li coughed once or twice, drank a little water, and carried on making herself ready for the day. She and Arthur breakfasted with some of the priests on slices of sweet melon, dates, figs in honey, and goat’s milk flavoured with almonds. While Arthur and the servants of Amun chatted over their food, Xian-Li sat quietly and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her back, letting her mind wander where it would.

“You’re not eating,” Arthur observed at one point during the meal. “Aren’t you hungry, darling?”

“Mmm?” She shook off her reverie and looked down at her untouched plate. “Oh, I was . . .” Her voice drifted off.

“You must eat something,” he chided. “You simply can’t meet Pharaoh on an empty stomach, you know.”

She nodded, picking up a fig. She put it down again after only a bite, and her mind flitted away once more. The next thing she knew the meal was over; the white-kilted priests were getting up, and Arthur was on his feet, ready to go.

“Xian-Li?”

“Yes?” she said, glancing up.

“I was talking to you just now. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Very sorry, husband,” she replied, offering a wan smile. “I was cloud-drifting.”

He laughed. “In England we call it wool-gathering.” His glance became serious. “Are you sure you’re well, my dear? You look pale.”

“A little tired, perhaps,” she allowed. She stood up, and the world seemed to spin; the ground shifted under her feet. Her vision dimmed and, suddenly dizzy and light-headed, she sat back down with a thump. “Oh!”

“Darling? Are you all right?”

She waved away his concern. “I stood up too fast,” she told him.

“Here, let me help you.” He put his hand beneath her arm.

She stood again, more slowly this time. “It is nothing.”

They walked across the sunny temple yard to the guesthouse to finish preparations for the short journey to meet the pharaoh’s barge at Oma. Anen was to be their guide and had gone to fetch a mule cart for them; the priest, as a member of the extended royal family, would travel in a horse-drawn chariot. They were to leave as soon as he returned.

“This is a very great honour,” Arthur was saying as they entered the small, spare house. His voice seemed to come to her from a very great distance. “I suppose it would be akin to meeting your emperor Qing—” He broke off abruptly, for his wife was leaning against the doorpost with her hand to her head.

“Darling! You are unwell.”

“I feel a little warm,” she confessed. “Maybe I was in the sun too long.” She patted his arm and went to wash in the basin on the tripod beside the bed. She bent over the basin, and in her reflection in the still water she saw a drawn, hollow mask looking back at her. Lowering her hands into the basin, she laved cool water onto her face and neck and felt instantly refreshed. “That is much better.”

She dried herself and wound her long, black hair into a coil and pinned it up for travel. She found the linen scarf she had been given to help keep the sun off her head and, thus prepared, sat down on the pallet that was her bed to await Anen’s arrival with the cart. Meanwhile, Arthur heard a clatter of hooves in the courtyard and went out to greet the priest, and on his return found his wife stretched out on the bed, her arm over her eyes.

“Xian-Li,” he said, “it is time to go.” He crossed the room and knelt beside the pallet. When she failed to respond, he gave her arm a gentle shake. “Xian-Li? Wake up, my dear.”

She came to with a start. “Oh, forgive me, I must have dozed off. I—” She struggled upright, only to sink back down once more.

He put the back of his hand to her forehead. “Darling, you’re burning up! You have a raging fever.”

“I was in the sun too long,” she insisted, pushing herself up. “I am well enough to travel.”

Arthur frowned doubtfully. “I think you should stay here and rest.”

She scoffed at the idea. “And miss meeting Pharaoh? It is nothing. It will soon pass. I can rest in the cart.”

Arthur helped her to her feet. He steadied her as she swayed. “Still light-headed?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But there—it is gone. I am better now. Let us go, and think no more about it.”

His wife strode briskly out into the sun-filled courtyard, drawing the scarf over her head. The priest Anen, holding the bridle of the lead chariot horse, called a greeting; a small two-person donkey cart stood waiting nearby, as well as a pack mule bearing simple provisions, and four other priests to accompany them. Xian-Li approached Anen and gave him a polite bow, then walked to the cart.

“My wife is determined to go,” Arthur explained, stepping close to his priestly friend.

The two men watched as the dark-haired young woman raised her foot to the step at the back of the cart; she gripped the handrails and made to swing herself up into the open end of the vehicle. But it seemed that either her hand or foot slipped, for the next thing they saw was Xian-Li falling backward onto the stone-paved yard. A quick-thinking brother priest saw what was happening and leapt forward to catch her and broke her fall, easing her to the ground.

Arthur and Anen rushed to her side.

“Xian-Li!” cried Arthur, kneeling by his stricken bride.

Her eyelids fluttered momentarily, and then she seemed to come to herself once more. “Arthur . . . oh! What has happened?”

“You fell,” said Arthur. “You must have fainted.”

“No,” she said, “I—” She broke off as a spasm passed through her body. “Oh . . . ,” she gasped, and tried to sit up.

“Rest a moment,” Arthur told her. “We’ll get you back inside.” He signalled to the priests to help him, and they lifted her up and carried her back into the guesthouse and laid her on the pallet bed.

“I have sent Tihenk for the physician,” Anen said as he joined them. “He will come at once.”

Arthur thanked him, and Anen ordered his fellow priests to wait outside. “You must go soon or you will not be on time to meet Pharaoh. You dare not keep him waiting.”

“Another will go in my place,” countered Anen. “Pharaoh will understand.”

“Please, I will not have you stay here on our account,” Arthur protested. “The physician will look after her, and we will join you in a day or two when Xian-Li is feeling better.”

“Then, when she is well, we will travel together,” Anen replied. “Until then, I stay here with you.”

Seeing that no amount of persuasion would change the priest’s mind, Arthur thanked him and fetched his wife a drink of water; he dipped the end of her scarf in the basin and used the damp cloth to bathe her forehead. A few minutes later the physician arrived—a stocky senior priest with a smooth bald head and soft hands. Schooled in the healing arts since childhood, he possessed the easy manner of a competent, unflappable soul. He carried a simple woven grass bag on his shoulder and a small, three-legged stool. “I am Khepri,” he said. “I am here to help you.” Anen completed the introductions and, after a brief explanation, the fellow placed the stool next to his patient, sat down, and removed his bag.

Khepri sat for a moment, quietly, studying his patient, then clapped his hands and, raising his face, closed his eyes and uttered a prayer for Isis to attend him and aid in curing the ailment of the woman before him. Then, leaning forward, he placed his hand on Xian-Li’s forehead, nodding to himself. He turned to Arthur to inquire what she had eaten in the last day.

“Very little,” Arthur told him, then went on to list the few items he knew she had consumed. “Do you think it might be something she ate?”

“That is the most likely cause,” replied the physician. “Many people of foreign origin suffer so when sojourning in our land for the first time. There is nothing to worry about. It will pass.”

“Good,” said Arthur. “I am glad to hear it.” He glanced down at his wife, who lay with a hand over her eyes. “What can we do to make her more comfortable while we wait?”

“I will give her some water mixed with honey and the juice of plums,” Khepri told him. “Also, we will keep a damp cloth on her head and feet to draw the heat from the fire in her blood.”

The treatment sounded good to Arthur, so he gave his assent. Anen spoke a word to the doctor, who went to fetch the necessary items, and then said, “I will leave you in his care for a while. I must go and see Shoshenk on his way to meet Pharaoh.”

“I thank you for your care, my friend,” said Arthur. “But you do not have to do this.”

“It is done,” replied the priest.

He departed, and Khepri returned with the honey water and gave some to his patient. Xian-Li drank as much as she could, then said she would like to sleep. Arthur translated her words for the physician, who nodded, saying, “That is for the best.” He rose, taking up his stool. “I must go stay with a man with a broken arm. I will return when I have finished.”

“Yes, go,” Arthur told him. “I will stay with her until you come back.”