Page 25 of Tomb of Ancients
1248, Constantinople
“You do not know where to eat, my friends. You do not know! Baki will show you. Baki knows every stall and butcher from Galata to the port. That tea shop by the temple serves piss. What were you thinking, Dark One?”
My Greek, far better than Henry’s, was proving useful when dealing with Baki. I knew him only tangentially through Finch, who spoke highly of the man. Baki took up nearly the entire alley ahead of us, his immense belly popping out from under an embroidered vest and short tunic. His head and shoulders were covered with a fantastically striped shawl, though it did little to hide his horns and pointed ears.
“We’re not here for the food,” I told him with a snort.
“But we’ll be sure to try the oxtail,” Henry teased.
Baki rumbled with laughter, patting his stomach and turning to give us a wink. His eyes were mismatched, one blue and one a catlike yellow.
“Very good, my friends. I myself do not partake in cow flesh, but Baki will look the other way if you are so inclined. Maybe we can discuss your friend’s quest for the writer over honeyed pudding tomorrow. There are rumors of some great battle at the Henge, and Baki is always ready to talk of battle!”
Leave it to Henry to make friends with another Upworlder faster than I could. The narrow passage we traveled down was lit only by the lanterns of homes above us. The neighborhood was one I couldn’t name, somewhere to the southwest of the coliseum and garden-heavy estates of the wealthy. The walls here had once been painted but had been long since neglected. Rat eyes sparkled from every crevice, flies gathered over piles of refuse and rotting bones, their swarms thick enough to choke you.
Inside Henry’s pack, the little hellhound pup whined. I sympathized. We let Baki go ahead while Ara took up the rear. Her indistinct grumbles joined the dog’s whimpers.
“I don’t like this,” I heard her say. It was a phrase she must have uttered twenty times already that day.
“You try and stop him,” I replied. “You know how he gets once he has a notion.”
“Me?” Ara laughed, though her laughter never sounded innocent or merry. “You try. You know he worships you.”
I rolled my eyes, watching Baki lift a drooping clothesline out of the way. The darkness here was dense and soupy, the walls pressing in more and more as we followed some path only Baki knew. I told myself we could trust him. Finch was a good judge of character, and Baki was one of ours. Under his shawl, down near his waist, I could see a small tail swishing against the fabric, barely concealed. He was a Re’em, strong as a team of oxen, with horns and teeth that could make quick work of flesh.Perhaps only Goliath and Nephilim were stronger, or whatever Ara was, but she was not one of ours.
“We are close, my friends. Only whispers now, and only if you must.”
The silence allowed me to hear the skittering of unseen rat claws and the occasional deep voice muted by plaster and brick. Deeper we went, as if navigating a jungle and not city streets. What I would’ve given to be back at that mediocre tea shop, sipping herbal brew and complaining about the heat. I had no stomach for these dark adventures, but Henry, whether because of his own dark nature or his curiosity, could not get enough of them.
One day I would learn to turn him down. One day...
“And you’re sure this Faraday chap can help us? I’m spending a lot of coin on you, friend, it had better not be a waste,” Henry hissed.
“I would take you to him for only the gift of that little doggy,” Baki said, his pointed ears perking under his shawl. Under his tunic, his tail swished faster.
“Ha. Unlikely. That runt is worth more than any information you or this stranger might have,” Henry replied. “And anyway, I’ve grown attached.”
“Of course, of course. Now, friends, be silent, we are here.”
I murmured a prayer of thanks to the shepherd, huddling close to Henry and Baki as the tall and round Re’em drew up shortto a door hidden by a tattered burlap cover. He pushed the cover aside and knocked in a strange pattern, then waited. Something brushed by my ankle, and I gasped, nearly leaping into Henry’s arms with fright.
“Steady on,” he whispered. “Just a mouse.”
“Mice are not cold and wet.”
The door swung open, revealing a hovel with a low ceiling. A hunchbacked woman met us there, her hair white, her eyes white, her garb completely black. Nobody would call her appealing to look at, her mouth no more than a short slash above her chin.
“Ah, White Keeper, you are looking radiant this evening,” Baki cooed.
White Keeper. That certainly fit. The rest of it? Henry and I exchanged a glance. She reached a crooked arm out from her black cloak, the wrinkly white skin covered in faded ink markings. Patting Baki’s cheek, she puffed out a dry laugh.
“What do you need, my boy?” she asked in Greek. “I take it this is not a social call. How disappointing. You never come to see me unless you need something.”
Baki shrugged and patted his stomach. “You and me, we catch up while these others pay their respects to Faraday, eh? Maybe you still have some supper on the stove...”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed, and she turned a vicious sneer on us. “The master? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You will not beseeing him. Not tonight. He is in a foul mood and is as likely to throw you from the roof as he is to serve you tea. He has not been the same since returning from the salt.”
“Please, mistress,” Henry pleaded, turning on the charm. He leaned languidly against the doorframe, giving her his most boyish grin, flipping the dark hair out of his eyes before lowering his cowl so she could see him completely. “We’ve traveled such a very long way. It would be a damn shame if it was all for naught.”
