Nine Gates (23 page)

Unaware of Pearl’s reaction—or perhaps politely ignoring it—Albert went on.

“Because I have kept in contact with the family, I went to Justine Bower, the Snake, myself. She’s living in an assisted-care facility in Duluth. Her daughter, Katie Dunham, lives nearby, and she is actually custodian of the set.

“I went to talk with Justine, and found her quite lucid, if inclined to talk about the past rather than the present—and I can hardly blame her. Her present—she has very bad knees and so cannot get around easily—is not exactly dynamic. I was pleased to find her quite happy to discuss our shared heritage. When I requested a loan of the set, she phoned Katie right off and asked her to bring it over.

“Katie came by about two hours later, with the set. To my surprise, she had a good many questions of her own. It appears that her mother’s reminiscences have made Katie more interested in the family lore, more inclined to think there might be something to the stories her mother—and more particularly, her grandmother—once told her.”

Shen leaned forward. “But did Katie let you have the set?”

“Yes,” Albert assured him, “but only as a loan and only on the grounds that we get together at some point so we can discuss those ‘family fairy tales’ in more detail.”

Pearl nudged Albert’s plate toward him, waited until he had taken a few bites, and then said, “Normally, I’d consider this all good news, but there’s something bothering you. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

Righteous Drum, very conscious of Chinese politeness regarding guests and food, added, “But, please, finish your breakfast. We would not have you go hungry.”

He then made it impossible for Albert to continue his report by the simple expedient of excusing himself for a trip “inside.”

When he returned, Albert had finished his breakfast casserole and first cup of coffee, and was slicing sections from a pear. As soon as Righteous Drum settled into his chair and warmed his own cup of tea, Albert resumed.

“So, I have the Snake set. We acquired the Ram’s mah-jong set with relative ease.”

“We?” asked Waking Lizard.

Albert made an apologetic gesture. “I am sorry. I hired an agent to make some of the inquiries for me—a reliable man I’ve used when seeking pieces for my business. Matt Bauminger is a good negotiator, and, more importantly, famously discreet.”

“Very good,” Waking Lizard said. “I recently learned about what is called ‘the royal we’ and I wanted to be certain I understood.”

“Quite so,” Albert said, ignoring the indication that he might have been speaking as royalty. He ate a slice of pear and continued.

“The Ram’s family moved from California in Third Ram’s adulthood—back in the forties. They moved several times thereafter, following work. Third Ram died a few years ago, and her daughter—the current Ram—is presently settled in New Hampshire. My agent purchased the Ram mah-jong set from her for a fair price, and delivered it to me by hand. He had less luck thereafter.

“Clotilde Hilliard, the current Ox, has recently moved to Boston, in order to live closer to her daughter, who lives in Cape Cod. Since Matt was already in New Hampshire, he went to her next. He contacted Clotilde via phone, prepared to explain in some detail what he wanted. To his surprise, she interrupted him almost before he had begun.

“‘That? Yes. I have it. Had it. I sold it a few days ago.’ Matt then requested an interview with Clotilde, and she granted it. Her daughter is in a relationship with an artist, and so Clotilde is more aware than most of the competitiveness in the world of art collecting.

“In short, Matt learned that a woman had called inquiring after the mah-jong set. She was very specific about what she wanted, up to and including a description of the ox depicted on the lid of the case. Due to her recent move, Clotilde not only knew where the set was, but was familiar with its condition.

“They met, negotiated, and, although Clotilde set a considerable price for the set—again as a result of her experience with collectors—the woman paid without a demur. That was why Clotilde was interested in meeting with my agent. She wanted to pump him for information as to what price she could have gotten. He assured her that she had done very well indeed.”

Shen had been methodically eating grapes while Albert spoke, and now he set the bare stem aside.

“This woman who purchased the Ox mah-jong set, did your agent happen to get her name?”

“Name and description,” Albert said, “both. He let his chagrin show, and hinted that a commission might be in line if he managed to buy the set from the first comer. The buyer called herself Tracy Highlander, but her description matches that of the Tracy Frye who is a member of the Rock Dove Society.”

“The same woman,” Righteous Drum asked, “who attempted to get Gaheris Morris to come over to her?”

“The same,” Albert said. “When my agent learned that someone else was after the sets, he switched his tactics. He phoned both Fourth Horse and the son of Third Monkey who—despite not being the current Monkey; it’s a long story—has charge of the set. He received mixed news. The son of Third Monkey lives in upstate New York, near Ithaca. He had sold the set earlier that day to the same Tracy Highlander.
Like Clotilde, he was curious as to the sudden interest in something that had been collecting dust in his attic, and so was willing to talk.

“However, Matt didn’t talk long. Once he realized that he had again been beaten in the chase, he called the Horse. Her name is Ainsley O’Reilly, and she lives on an isolated ranch in Montana where she raises quarter horses and exotic livestock with her husband.”

For the first time, Albert looked amused. “Her husband’s name is Ricardo O’Reilly. He’s part Puerto Rican, part Irish, and all American West. Ainsley was out when my agent called, and Rico insisted on knowing what some man was doing calling his wife. Matt explained, and Rico got really suspicious, because this was the second call that day about that same mah-jong set.”

“Oh, no!” Pearl said.

Albert nodded. “Matt realized that if Tracy Highlander—as he knew her—had been in upstate New York earlier that day, it was unlikely that she could be at some ranch in Montana until the next day, maybe even later. Matt called me and got permission to charter a plane. He got to the ranch before Tracy Highlander, but he found Ainsley and Rico unwilling to sell the set until they’d heard the other offer.”

“Reasonable,” Shen admitted reluctantly.

“Very,” Albert said. “In the meantime, I’ve had someone do a check on Tracy Frye, a.k.a. Tracy Highlander. She’s comfortably off, but not rich, so either she’s taken out a loan to enable her to go art shopping—oh, I forgot to mention, she paid for both of the sets in cash—or she has backers. My detectives haven’t found evidence of a loan.”

“So at least one member of her consortium,” Righteous Drum said, “is wealthy. As wealth often translates into power, that is not a good thing.”

“I agree,” Albert said. “Matt should call today—tomorrow at the latest—to say whether he managed to get the set.”

“If money is a problem,” Pearl began delicately, knowing how proud Albert could be.

“I don’t think money is what’s going to win this bidding war,” Albert said. “Tracy Frye’s backers must have financial resources to match our own. However, I’m hoping they won’t be able to match what I can offer.”

“And that is?” Waking Lizard asked, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Star power,” Albert said, bluntly. “Right now Matt is operating for an anonymous patron. However, he has my permission to indicate who the buyer is if he thinks that will help.”

“And will the prospect of selling to a candy merchant,” Righteous Drum asked with obvious confusion, “make such a difference?”

“It might,” Albert said. “I’m a pretty important ‘candy merchant.’ The access to my more exclusive lines—most of which are never for sale even in my own shopfront—might tempt. However, I can offer more than that. I have some pretty high-profile clients, and I can offer the O’Reillys connections to markets for their horses and cattle like they’ve only dreamed.”

Pearl, who had been trying to guess who Tracy Frye’s backers might be, said, “But can’t the other side do the same? There were at least two men at that Rock Dove Society meeting who could have similar connections.”

“Ah,” Albert said, looking very catlike in his satisfaction, “but while they can give Tracy Frye money anonymously, high-profile backing, by definition, cannot be given that way. And since the official position of the Rock Dove Society and its associates is to give us a chance to deal with the incursion from the Lands before they intervene…”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Righteous Drum. “You are offering the one thing they cannot: patronage. Truly, you have the mind of an emperor.”

Albert looked very pleased. He reached for the coffee carafe, but even before he had filled his cup, his air of tension had returned.

“But even if Matt gets the Horse’s set for us, we have lost
the Ox and the Monkey sets. Once again, we are balked in our efforts to assemble the full Thirteen.”

“And without that,” Pearl said, “no matter if we establish the Nine Gates, our hopes of gaining access to the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice are slim indeed.”

Honey Dream stepped forward to assist as Des pulled the two pictures of the Men Shen from his portfolio. He looked mildly surprised, but accepted her help without question.

“We’re going to glue them up,” he said, producing from one pocket a small white bottle with a cylindrical orange top. “You want Yu Che or Ch’in Shu-pao?”

“I’ll take Yu Che,” Honey Dream said, then watched carefully as Des twisted the orange top to open the container of glue.

One of the few things Honey Dream loved about this Land of the Burning, mutated as it had become since it gave forth the Lands, were all the interesting items for tasks related to writing: pens, inks, pencils. Now it appeared there were glues that didn’t smell bad or come in awkward ceramic pots.

Des squeezed the creamy white glue directly onto one of the upper panels of the wooden door, then smoothed it out with a forefinger. Honey Dream heard no incantations, sensed no magic being worked, so when Des handed her the glue, she imitated him carefully, trusting that the white goo alone would be enough to hold. The printed depiction of Yu Che was beautifully done, the intricacies breathtaking, but there was no magic in it.

Well, that was how it should be. No matter how many people—and she had found them in her own world, and suspected they were in this world as well—wanted to believe that magic was some sort of system, something that could be learned merely by memorizing the correct series of gestures, magic was something that came from deep within the liver, the seat of the soul.

That was why ghosts occurred when the soul fragmented after death and the various parts were not ushered on to their next incarnation. The inner self, not the gestures or items used to give it focus, was the wellspring of magic. Honey Dream knew that the greatest sorcerers could work miracles with no more effort than they breathed, but that was the purview of saints and mystics. Here and now, they had before them the relatively direct task of opening a way between two different and yet related universes.

Honey Dream smoothed the air bubbles from beneath the print of Yu Che, then turned to listen as Des, giving the portrait of Chin Shu-pao an affectionate pat, addressed them all in his best “teacher voice.”

“Our ancestors left us a limit hand they named with admirable directness ‘Nine Gates.’ It consists entirely of characters.”

Brenda Morris gave a small, barely audible groan, and Des shook his head reprovingly at her. Honey Dream felt appropriately superior, but did her best to hide her reaction. Still, she suspected Brenda guessed.

“Sorry, Des,” Brenda apologized. “It’s just that I have so much trouble drawing the characters that I have difficulty concentrating.”

“You need to stop worrying,” Des said sternly, “and use the very fact that you find characters difficult to help you concentrate.”

“I know. I know.”

Brenda looked appropriately contrite, and Des returned to his explanation.

“The sequence for Nine Gates begins with three ones, then contains at least one of the numbers two through eight, before concluding with three of the number nine.”

“That’s only thirteen tiles,” Riprap said, rather predictably in Honey Dream’s opinion. He was such a Dog, so eager to prove how attentive he was. Des didn’t seem to mind.

“The fourteenth tile in the sequence—the fourteenth
number, actually, since we’re not going to make tiles for this spell, but inscribe the numbers directly on the door—will be keyed to which door in the sequence we’re opening.”

“So this door,” Riprap said, “will have four ones instead of three. That must make this a stronger sequence than most.”

“So I thought,” Des said, “when I first learned Nine Gates, but when my grandmother taught me the sequence and its uses, she corrected that misapprehension. Because the one and the nines already begin as sequences of three, the additional ‘tile’ actually adds less force, even though it completes the set.”

Nissa nodded immediate understanding, and Honey Dream was reminded that Nissa was a student of medicine and chemical formulas.