ne of the corpses was still moving, although not to any great effect, much in the manner of most people when they go into shock. It was Espatha, the private eye with the perpetual hangdog expression and a tendency to slur his sibilants, now collapsed in a corner with Agrippina bending over him. Most if not all of the sanguinary decor appeared to belong to him. His right arm was badly mangled, his chest clawed to the bone, and his right thigh had been laid open from knee to groin, from which injury the preponderance of the gore was issuing forth. In Sebek’s parlance, he wasn’t well. Sprawled on a bench by the door was the other casualty – an exceedingly tall, thin individual in a rain-soaked black coat, his weathered features the colour of wet sand, bloodshot eyes staring glassily up at the ceiling. He’d been shot several times in the chest, and apart from a slight bubbling of blood on his lips, wasn’t moving at all. From this I deduced that he was even less well than Espatha.

"Help me!" Agrippina was trying to stem the gushing of the imminently mortal leg wound. "I got my statue back!" crowed Sebek, bouncing over to me to wave the small black figurine in my face, "I got it back all by myself!" Most of the blood that wasn’t on Espatha, the walls or the carpet was on him. I decided that assisting Agrippina probably had priority over celebrations. "So I see," I said, moving past him to where I could get a better look at Espatha’s injuries. The detective was not looking at a rosy future – divorce cases are thin on the ground in the Land of the Dead for a start, and expenses claims take forever to settle. I had an odd vision of him sitting gray and vacant behind a desk in a featureless monochrome city, waiting in perpetuity for a client who lacked the élan vital to make it up the stairs. Agrippina’s tourniquet seemed inadequate to pre-empting this particular fate, so I weighed in with a healing spell. The bleeding stopped and the wounds began to close, but it didn’t look as if we’d be getting Espatha’s side of the story soon. Even with professional medical care, shock and loss of blood would keep him hors de combat for some time to come.

"All right," I said, "Would someone like to tell me what happened here?" I turned round to find the statue that had caused all this trouble just inches from my nose again. "Look!" said Sebek excitedly, "I found it! It’s all safe now because I found the rubbish clue and the trails and did a big raid!" I gently pushed aside the offending eidolon, determined not to be infected by his unbridled joy until some kind of an explanation for the bloodbath was forthcoming. "What happened?" I repeated.

"We came in and found the dead guy – it’s Iacobus, I think – lying on the couch," said Agrippina as she set about making Espatha more comfortable, "Sebek saw the statue on the desk and was on Espatha before I could stop him. I was barely able to pull him off." She favoured the author of the resultant exsanguination with a stern look. "He was a criminal detective," said Sebek indignantly, belatedly realising that he was being called upon to defend his actions, "He stole my statue and shot Captain Yucky-bus." Sebek never jumped to conclusions – he used a pole vault and took a good run up first. I went over and peered down at the late master of the Lapal Urma. The bloodstains on his coat were blurred by the rain, while the cheap blue jacket he was wearing beneath was almost entirely saturated with red. He obviously hadn’t acquired his wounds here, nor had he succumbed to them immediately. "He was shot outside Asanci’s apartment," I realised, "It looks as if he managed to escape and make his way here before he died. Espatha didn’t do this, Sebek." "But he had my statue wrapped up in that parcel," protested Sebek, pointing out a tangle of wrapping paper and wood shavings on the desk, "He’s a thief. He’s going to jail, and the other criminals will put soap up his bottom in the shower, and serve him right too." "He’s going to hospital," I said firmly, "and... and that’s not what they do in jail." Where did he get these ideas? "I’ll call an ambulance," said Agrippina quickly, reaching for the telephone. Yet again, the parental lecture was being left to me.

I turned back to the errant minor. "Sebek, this is very bad," I scolded, "Espatha didn’t steal your statue. Iacobus brought it to him after he got shot. Did you stop to ask what was going on?"" Sebek clutched his statue more closely to himself and shifted from foot to foot, avoiding my gaze. "No," he muttered. "And in any case, what did Tristan tell you about arresting criminals?" I demanded. "Always-read-them-their-rights," recited Sebek sulkily. "And did you do that?" "No." "Well Sebek, you’ve made a very bad mistake, and almost killed an innocent man," I said sternly, "Now what do you say?" Sebek shuffled reluctantly over to where Espatha lay unconscious, cradling the little black figurine protectively in his claws as if he still expected the man to rise up like some larcenous latter-day Lazarus and attempt to wrest it from his grasp. "You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent," he began. "Sebek." Hurt and bewildered, Sebek looked between me and the supine detective for a moment. He scratched his nose. Then he remembered. "Sorry," he mumbled. Repeated experience had long ago taught me that a grudging apology was generally the best I could hope for under these circumstances. "Right then," I sighed. Sebek, unfortunately, had learned the obverse lesson, to whit, that once the magick word was uttered and acknowledgment forthcoming, all was forgiven and forgotten. "I got my statue back," he said, perking up again, "Can we go to the opera now?"

"... offices of Espatha and Arcarius," Agrippina was saying, "Second floor. What? Oh, er, wild animal attack. Look, just hurry, will you?" She deposited the receiver back in its cradle. "They’re on their way," she informed us. "Right," I said, "We’ll wait until they arrive, and then head back to the apartment." "But the opera," interjected Sebek, "We’ll be late. I want a big box by the stage and bubble-whisky at the bar and show all the singers my statue afterwards." I ground my teeth and grasped the nettle. "Sebek," I said, "You’re not going to the opera. Not after what you did to Mr Espatha here. In fact, once we’ve got back to our apartment and collected our things you’re going straight back to the Priory, and you won’t be allowed out again for the rest of the month. Do you understand?" Sebek seemed to shrink back into his trenchcoat, reminding me slightly of Weimar. "That’s not fair," he objected, "You said I had to find my statue and I did and anyway he was a stupid detective. Only stupid detectives wait around for people to bring them clues." Espatha reacted to this slander with the studied indifference of kettles everywhere. "And he didn’t have a tummy gun," concluded Sebek, saving the most damning argument for last.

I forced myself to remain unmoved. "What about Asanci and Ghastman and the others?" asked Agrippina. "Yes!" said Sebek, "I want to catch them. They can have soap up their bottoms instead. Maybe they’re at the opera. The little buggy-eyed man was at the opera. We should go there and look." Let no-one say that domestication robs velociraptors of their instinctive cunning. "I will tidy up our loose ends," I told him, "But you are going home." Sebek turned to Agrippina for support, but she was registering her own disapproval by returning her attention to Espatha. With the air of a therapod unappreciated in his time, the Great Detective slunk off to the other side of the room, where he set about favouring his statue with a plaintive sotto voce monologue of disaffection.

I turned to Espatha’s desk and quickly dashed off a note suggesting that he send all outstanding expense claims and hospital bills to the Amber Consulate, and added it along with my card to the pile of papers that seemed to pass for his in-tray. "... stupid detective pretending to be a criminal..." Then I flicked through his case notes in case he’d managed to stumble onto any intelligence that our own stumbling had overlooked. Apparently not. I did find a summons from the District Attorney "requesting" an interview concerning the murders of his partner Arcarius and the late Thursa Bey, the wording of which suggested that the authorities hadn’t even managed to work themselves up to the stumbling stage. "... not my fault if the big salty man didn’t die when he ought to..." Agrippina, finally satisfied that Espatha would survive the wait for the paramedics, sidled up to me. "What were you planning on doing about the real thieves?" she asked quietly. "... have a big party and we won’t invite Damien..." "Find them, find out what they think they’re doing and what Ghastman’s real story is, and then take it from there," I replied breezily. "And what about Miss Asanci?" she inquired, just a little too casually. I opened my mouth to rebut the unspoken insinuation, when I realised that the mumbled litany of complaint from behind us had ceased. I turned round. Sebek was looting the corpse.

"What are you doing?" I demanded. Sebek glanced back at us guiltily, a clawful of loose change and chewing tobacco hurriedly disappearing into a trenchcoat pocket. "Detectiving," he said defensively. "And did you find anything?" "No." A square of blood-soaked paper, dislodged from the inside of Iacobus’ coat, unpeeled itself to settle wetly on the carpet. I went over and picked it up. It was an adhesive address label, but instead of an address, someone had inked on it an angular sigil not unlike a three-legged swastika. "Sign of Eibon," I mused, "Used to ward off minions of the Crawling Chaos..." The associated enchantment was all but dead. Much, I suddenly realised, as if someone had been carting it along a Shadow path in the not too distant past. I quickly checked the discarded wrappings on the desk – the outer layers were similarly slick with gore, but a few faint traces of glue were still visible. "It looks as if someone was trying to keep Nyarlathotep’s hirelings away from your statue," I said. "I found another clue!" exclaimed Sebek in delight, "I find all the clues!" He paused as something flickered furtively in his yellow gaze. "The criminals will get away if I have to go back to Amber," he said slyly, "You need my help to find the clues." I recognised the exemplar of that particular species of logic – he’d obviously been spending too much time in Chalice’s company. I looked at Agrippina. Her expression batted the ball right back into my court. I looked back at Sebek, who was managing to look both beseeching and inordinately proud of his mastery of guile. I took a deep breath and exhaled it again. "All right," I said, "You can stay until we catch them. But when we get back to Amber you’re still grounded for the rest of the month."

Sebek jumped up and down at the reprieve, and then stopped and cocked his head. "There’s a fire engine coming," he announced, "Can we go and see the fire? Maybe the criminals started it, just like the other one." "That’s not a fire engine," I said, "That’s the ambulance. Time to go. Come on, let’s wrap up your statue again so it won’t get wet." While Sebek made a mess of the packaging on the desk, I checked on Espatha, who was showing signs of coming round. "You’ll be fine," I told him. "You’re a damn good man, shishter," he mumbled deliriously. Maybe Agrippina had overdone the morphine. Meanwhile, the approaching siren was winding down somewhere outside in the street. Our departure, however, was in danger of being delayed on account of Sebek’s discovery of the joys of sellotape. Agrippina helped him disentangle himself from his mucilaginous cat’s cradle while I rewrapped the statue, the package being snatched from my hands again almost immediately. Then we made our escape, even as the footsteps of the ambulance crew echoed up the stairwell. I closed the dead mariner’s eyes on the way out.

Up came the umbrella again as we stepped out of a back entrance into the never-ending Noachic deluge. Now that punishment no longer loomed large in his consciousness, Sebek was in high spirits as he trotted along beneath the shelter of its uncoordinated colours. Agrippina and I trudged along beside him as we wound our way back to our rented apartment, resigning ourselves to never being dry again, not in this century or the next. Presently, he began to serenade the package nestled against his chest:

"Old mad tartan, old mad tartan,
Old mad tartan lemming time..."

I bit my tongue – I’d taught him that song only last month, and it was already mutating out of control. "So what do you make of the sign on the label, then?" asked Agrippina, "What are these people up to?" I took a moment to consider this. "Well it seems to bear out Ghastman’s little fable to some extent," I allowed, "It must have been Bey or Asanci who did the labeling – Asanci, probably, since we know that she has at least some appreciation of the arcane arts – in which case they also seem to have been alive to a Nyarlathotep connection. So either they’re all sharing the same delusion, or Ghastman’s on the right track."

"... Thwart the lusting comfy leper,
Old mad tartan lemming time."

"Are we likely to run into any of these creatures?" she persisted, "The ones the sign were supposed to ward against? Because if we are, I’d like to suggest sending Sebek back to Amber anyway." Since I’d personally seen Sebek dispose of three byakees, a gnoph-keh, any number of ghouls and a fully grown shugoran, I wasn’t particularly worried on this account. "He’s fought worse things in the Circus," I assured her, "The servitors of the Crawling Chaos are a fairly sorry lot these days. I think we’ll be able to keep him safe. It’s probably the servitors themselves you should be worrying about." Agrippina grunted, unconvinced by my expert tactical appreciation. Sebek sang on.

"Hang a coffin on a cannon,
Eggs are baiting foreign mimes..."

We rounded the final corner and ahead of us rose up a rather dour-looking brownstone monolith bedecked with neo-gothic excrescences, a style which in Oscuro City passed for the most rarified of Classical design. The rooms within were distinguished mainly by having fewer gargoyles. They were, however, warm and dry, and provided ample space for an easily-distracted velociraptor to swing his tail. The latter had been one of the reasons why we had moved out of the hotel that had been our initial choice as a base of operations. That, and Sebek’s determined monopolisation of the local Room Service.

"... Lift the mannered porky whiner,
Ants and dog hair, lemming time.
Old mad tartan, old mad tartan..."

"Sebek," I said, as the mean streets echoed to the refrain, "You do realise that detectives are supposed to avoid drawing attention to themselves?" It was, however, too late. The slim, damp figure I had spotted lurking in the neighbouring doorway had detached itself from the shadows and had launched itself in our direction with a staccato clatter of high heels. "Oh, I thought you’d never come!" she exclaimed, all but collapsing against me. Beside me, Agrippina tensed. "Hello Miss Sea Shanty," said Sebek brightly, "I found my statue. You’re not allowed to steal it, or the big men with tattoos will chase you with soap. I saw a film about it. There was shooting with tummy guns as well. Do you have any more whore-duffs? I’m hungry."

"Sebek, will you just forget about the soap?" I demanded, feeling unaccountably embarrassed at the way he was burbling on in front of the really rather gorgeous malefactor who had quite literally fallen into my hands, "And in any case, it’s hors d’oeuvres." Brigita Asanci’s cobalt-blue eyes turned feral and hungry for an instant as she focused on the bundle in Sebek’s left claw, but then the moment passed, and the Damsel-in-Distress act reasserted itself. She had been somewhat aided in this by the rain, which had reduced her elegant coiffure to a dark red tangle plastered against her pale cheeks. Looking bedraggled in Oscuro City is hardly an art. She managed a wan smile. "Hello Sebek," she said, "Well done. I’m so glad you got it back. I was afraid Captain Iacobus wouldn’t be able to find you in time." Sebek preened himself as well as he could with both claws full. Agrippina, tested beyond her shrinking capacity to endure this kind of humbug, snorted incredulously. "What do you want?" she growled. Asanci tried the timid smile on her, then remembered it didn’t work on ex-gladiators. "You have to help me," she said, directing her pleas to the apparently more susceptible audience of Sebek and myself, "They’re after me, Ghastman and the others, and I don’t know who else to turn to." She stifled a well-crafted sob. "Don’t worry," said Sebek, "We’re going to find the Fat Man and make him pay. And if you’re good, I’ll let you see my statue. My priests made it for me." "Why don’t we go inside," I suggested cheerfully, "before trench foot becomes a problem?" Agrippina spluttered. I shot her a look. One of our chief suspects had just thoughtfully dumped herself in my lap. What else was I supposed to do but to try and hang onto her? Agrippina’s stony mien suggested that she had read my thoughts exactly, and was of the opinion that I could have chosen my words with just a little more care.

We dripped our way into the lobby of the apartment building and headed for the stairs, Sebek making his usual detour to press the elevator button anyway. Asanci made a fine show of leaning on me while Sebek skipped alongside and nattered away at her, and Agrippina and her scowl brought up the rear. I made a quick mental scan of the aether as we reached the door to our rooms. My alarm spell, which I’d given up maintaining once it had become clear that its effective warning range in this Shadow would be yards rather than miles, was bleating pathetically. I pursed my lips as I unlocked the door and we entered the hallway. All was dark and silent, the silence emanating primarily from the living room, the bathroom and the kitchen, sufficient for me to estimate a minimum of three lurkers. Sebek started sniffing the air – he could sense something amiss as well. "What?" said Agrippina, starting to draw her sword. At which point the light in the sitting room blinked on, silhouetting the broad bulk of Kantar Ghastman, Esquire, a benevolent smile on his fleshy lips. Weimar, the boy playing at being a gangster, waddled out of the kitchen in his ankle-length trenchcoat, an automatic pistol the size of a small carbine in each hand. Kahira emerged from the bathroom, but he was only carrying a twenty-two, so I decided to treat him as unarmed. Asanci cried out and pressed herself to my side, in a manner which might have been a lot less wearisome if we hadn’t had company. "Well, sir," said Ghastman, ever the genial host, "we’re all here, as you can see for yourself. Now let’s come in and sit down and be comfortable and talk."

Since talking had loomed large in my own strategies for our eventual encounter, I had no particular quarrel with this notion. Sebek however pushed himself to the front to face the Fat Man. "You’re a bad man and you’re going to pay," he said accusingly. The three interlopers’ eyes were immediately fixated on the package in his claws, so I briefly amused myself by calculating angles and distances... "Well, sir, as to that," began Ghastman mildly. "Yes," said Sebek, "I want my money. I’ve got my statue now and I won’t let you look at it if you don’t pay me my money like you said." Agrippina groaned audibly. Asanci looked bemused and alarmed. Ghastman just chortled. "Well, sir, as to that," he repeated, and drew a small bag from his pocket. It clunked heavily onto the living room table beside him. Sebek started towards it, reptilian eyes aglow with the thought of the overpriced junk with which he could now afford to clutter up the Velocidrome. Since I knew that his current wish-list featured a pair of stilts, a flame-thrower and a calliope with mechanical dancing monkeys, I decided to intervene.

"There are matters we need to discuss," I said sharply, "before we conclude any transactions." Sebek hesitated at my tone, his unencumbered claw hovering over the money bag. Ghastman just beamed at me. "This is an honour and a privilege, Lord Mortlake," he said, "an honour and a privilege indeed. Won’t you join us, you and the delightful Miss Asanci? And Miss Flaminia, too. Charmed to make your acquaintance at long last. Your victory over Globus the Myrmillo is truly the stuff of legend. Do be seated." "I want to see my money," broke in Sebek petulantly. "Mr Ghastman is going to have to explain a few things before you can show him the statue," I told him, "But why don’t you count it and make sure it’s all there?" That should give Ghastman enough time to answer my questions. And quite possibly recite the Iliad and conduct the Ring Cycle while he was at it, too. Mollified, Sebek executed a little hop of excitement. The claw flicked down, and heavy gold coins spilled from the sundered purse. They looked like hundred crown pieces, fresh from the mint. Carefully, he began to separate them out. "One, two, three..."

The delightful Miss Asanci was still clutching at my arm, so I eased her down into a nearby sofa, just as Weimar shuffled up behind me. "You’re not going to frisk me," I advised him, not bothering to turn round. "Shut up. Stand still," snarled Weimar. I’d taken one of his precious guns away from him the day before, so he liked me even less than he liked Sebek. Kahira was starting to look worried, while at my side Asanci was hastily perusing the room with an eye for the fixture least pervious to flying bullets. "... five, six, seven..." muttered Sebek, unconsciously cranking up the tension. I smiled cheerily at the Fat Man, and perched myself on the edge of the sofa. We could talk like civilised men, or over the bodies of his accomplices. Ghastman got the message. "Never mind, Weimar," he said, waving the gunsel back. Several pairs of tensed shoulders relaxed.

"... eight... er, eight... um... One, two, three..."

Ghastman frowned at me indulgently as he eased himself into a padded rocking-chair. Although sturdily built, it creaked somewhat under his weight, possibly because Sebek had been using it earlier to play chariots. Kahira had taken the armchair nearest the table, while Weimar stationed himself in the doorway, one gun pocketed, the other held by his side. Agrippina was behind me, leaning against the wall, in a position that would allow her to brain Weimar with a thrown tea-tray, lop off Kahira’s head, open Asanci’s throat with the back swing and bury her gladius in the Fat Man’s gut if any of them got frisky. Something told me that the seeds of Ghastman’s flattery had fallen on stony ground.

Sebek, oblivious to the tactical dispositions around him, shuffled coins about on the surface of the table. "... ten, eleven... Oh, this one’s shiny. Ten... no, twelve... no, er... One, two..." Agrippina was starting to look pained. "Sebek, why don’t you count them out into piles of ten at a time, and then count the piles?" she suggested. "Yes!" said Sebek, "I bet that’s what Tristan did when he collected taxis. He’s clever like that. One, two, three..." Mesmerised by the glitter of gold, he was obviously prepared to keep this up indefinitely. However, much as it suited me to keep him distracted, I had seen enough to estimate the haul at a mere ten thousand crowns, rather less than the down payment of twenty five thousand that had been promised to him.

"You were talking about more money than this," I told Ghastman. "Yes, sir, I was," agreed Ghastman comfortably, "but Mr Sebek and I were talking then. This is actual money, genuine coin of the realm, sir. With a crown of this you can buy more than with ten crowns of talk." Sebek looked up, puzzled. "I buy lots of things with talk," he informed us, "I go and talk to the shopkeepers and then they give me things if I go away again. Sometimes I don’t even have to talk because they leave me things outside the shop when they see me coming." Ghastman’s jowls shook with silent laughter. "There are more of us to be taken care of now," he elaborated, turning serious again as he indicated Kahira, "and – well, sir, in short – the situation has changed." I shrugged. "So you’re together now," I said, "Good for you. But we have the statue." I gestured towards Sebek, who was poking the coins thoughtfully, evidently contemplating the exchange rate of gold for chatter.

Jule Kahira spoke up. "I shouldn’t think it necessary to remind you, Lord Mortlake," he said in a nasal whine that strove for menace but achieved only peevishness, "that though you may have the statue, we certainly have you." Agrippina snorted derisively. Ghastman had the decency to look mildly embarrassed, while Asanci made a half-hearted attempt to feign anxiety, although I suspected the main reason she was clutching my hand was to annoy Agrippina. Kahira, having failed to impress, sat back in his chair, looking slightly deflated. With his pop-eyed demeanour and dandified garb, he resembled nothing so much as a fairy tale frog whose princess was too prim to permit the use of tongues. Under the thaumacetylene lighting, his skin had an odd rubbery sheen to it, reinforcing the impression.

I decided to let the matter go for the meantime. I hadn’t endured the ups and downs of the past fortnight simply to add to Sebek’s not inconsiderable bank balance. "We’ll come back to the money later," I began. "Okay," said Sebek blithely, and started scooping the coins into the already bulging pockets of his trenchcoat. A few slipped through his long, narrow claws, and when he bent down to retrieve them, the rest cascaded forth from the innards of the garment, followed by a number of other choice items looted during the course of the day. If Ghastman recognised his best cigars, he was too polite to comment, although Asanci frowned slightly at the sight of Espatha’s paperweight as it rolled to a stop against the toe of one of her stiletto-heeled pumps. "Stupid coat," muttered Sebek as he scrabbled one-armed amidst the strewn plunder. Agrippina, unable to stand aside any longer, detached herself from her prime position by the wall. "Why don’t you take the coat off, Sebek?" she said through gritted teeth, "We can sort out these things some other time." The others watched in bemused fascination as a complicated ballet ensued, as Agrippina endeavoured to help Sebek out of his trenchcoat, while Sebek clutched at his precious bundle and snatched at scattered coins as they caught his eye. Finally, the pas de deux drew to a close, with Agrippina in possession of the coat, and Sebek in possession of a hastily conscripted champagne bucket in which rescued currency rattled, plugged with his upended parcel.

I turned to Ghastman. "We’ll come back to the money later," I repeated, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but if you really want Sebek to show you his statue, then you’re going to have to start making up the balance in talk. Tell us how you found out about the Clavicle of Biahmu." "Ah," said the Fat Man affably, "that is indeed a tale, sir, and perhaps not one that might be readily summarised. Suffice to say, sir, that..." "Is there more of the story?" interrupted Sebek, looking up from where he was still scavenging for escaped coinage, "You didn’t tell it properly last time anyway. We should all have bubble-whisky while you tell it properly." "No!" said Agrippina and I in unison. "Huh," said Sebek sulkily. Ghastman shifted his bulk in the rocking chair, glanced over at the drinks cabinet, noted the heavy steel padlock and chains, and decided not to take us to task for being indifferent hosts. "You were saying," I prompted.

Ghastman sat back and steepled his stubby fingers. Kahira was looking at him anxiously, while Asanci’s grip on my fingers tightened slightly. "Be careful, Damien," she whispered, "You can’t trust a word he says." Ghastman, it seemed, was in possession of intelligence that not everyone wanted bandied about. Only Weimar looked unconcerned. Like Sebek, he was sulking, albeit not for want of whisky and soda. He wanted to shoot people, and nobody would let him. "I suppose," allowed Ghastman generously, "that certain pertinent aspects of the background to our current situation might be elucidated in a spirit of mutual understanding. It begins, as you no doubt appreciate, with the beauteous Queen Nitocris, who, after taking her leave from your good self" – he nodded at me – "determined to..." "And me," interjected Sebek plaintively, "I was there. She said goodbye to me too." "... and from Mr Sebek, of course – you do well to correct me, sir – determined to augment her powers in such a fashion that she would no longer be dependent on the unpredictable largesse of elder gods and their ilk."

I kept a polite, attentive smile on my face. The main reason that Nitocris had left me was because she didn’t want to be dependent on the unpredictable largesse of me. Shorn of her old power over Shadow, she had come to the decision that if we couldn’t be a partnership of equals, then we couldn’t be a partnership at all. The fact that I didn’t seem to mind that she now wore another woman’s face may also have been a factor. "In the course of her travels and researches," continued Ghastman, "she naturally made contact with scholars and antiquarians who might be in a position to complement her own discoveries with insight and advice. It was in this manner that certain of us came into contact with her, and in the course of rendering some small service, we were privileged to be taken into her confidence in commensurate regard. Thus it was that we became privy to the secret of the Clavicle. Regrettably, Queen Nitocris’ quest ended badly, both for herself and for her former patron. A bad business all round, sir, although I hope you will take it in the sprit intended when I say that her manner of departure exemplified a nobility and grandeur typical of a quite remarkable personage." "Of course," I said blandly. The main thing I recalled about her manner of departure was that last desperate Trump call, proof of her final, belated realisation that self-sufficiency will only get you so far.

Damien... Help me...

What I didn’t understand was why Nitocris should have confided anything to this sorry collection of amateurs. Ghastman was a sorcerer, that much was clear, and his cryptic scribblings in the Museum catalogue further revealed him to be a dedicated hobbyist as far as the Great Old Ones and their works were concerned. Asanci was no slouch in the magick department either, as evidenced by the enchanted jewelry that bedecked slender wrists and fingers, not to mention the warding sigil that Sebek had discovered earlier. Even Kahira sported a couple of magickal gewgaws. But the question wasn’t why Nitocris might have seen fit to sound them out on matters mythological, but why she would have entrusted them with the location of a supposedly major item of power. Frankly, I would have thought twice before entrusting any of them with directions to the nearest post office, let alone a key to unlock the paths between worlds, and I was far more trusting than Nitocris had even been.

Kahira gave a sudden shriek of alarm. Sebek had sneaked round beside him and had suddenly grabbed his ankle, hoisting his foot into the air and sending him half-sprawling out of his armchair. "Get him off me!" he yelped, trying to kick himself free. Sebek, unconcerned with his victim’s reaction, released Kahira’s foot and ducked down to retrieve something from the floor beneath. Clang went another coin into the bucket. "Your feet smell of fish," remarked Sebek conversationally, before turning away to continue his search. Shaking, Kahira sank back into the chair.

"So Nitocris told you about the Clavicle," I said, determined not to be derailed by Sebek’s antics, "And once she was out of the way you decided to take it for yourselves?" Ghastman’s eyes twinkled. "Your implicit reproof is not wholly undeserved, sir" he allowed, "but think of it in this manner: what benefit was it to anyone if hidden away in obscurity? Queen Nitocris herself understood that power is ultimately to be taken and used, so our endeavours were in no wise a mark of disrespect. Our search was a long and arduous one, and it was only recently that we learned that the black raptor was in Mr Sebek’s possession." "So you decided to steal it," broke in Agrippina. "If necessary," replied Ghastman, quite unabashed, "I sent Miss Asanci, Mr Kahira and Mr Bey to Amber to obtain the statue by whatever means they deemed fit." He chortled merrily. "I understand they were quite at a loss as to how to proceed," he continued, "when quite by chance it fell right into their hands."

"Sebek," I said, "Come and listen to this. Put the sideboard back. If there are coins under it we can look for them later. Mr Ghastman’s explaining how they stole your statue." Sebek scuttled over, his monetary search-and-rescue mission abruptly postponed in the interests of velociraptor justice. "Which one of them was the thief then?" he demanded hotly, "I’m going to make them sorry." Kahira quailed under his accusing stare. "It was her!" he said, pointing at Asanci, "She took it!" "Liar!" snapped Asanci, "It was him!" Sebek’s head swung menacingly back and forth between them as they glared at each other, and then the same look of dawning inspiration crept across their respective countenances. "It was Thursa Bey!" they cried simultaneously. Sebek scratched his nose, looking slightly disappointed. "Oh," he said, "He’s dead now. He got shot." Then he brightened again. "He can have worms up his bottom, then," he declared, "That’s what happens to dead people, and it’ll serve him right too." Ghastman chuckled. "Ah, yes, Miss Asanci’s accomplice," he said, "I should have known she would enlist him in an attempt to doublecross me. You see, sir, our scheduled rendezvous was a decidedly ill-attended affair, and so Weimar and I were obliged to make enquiries, which led us to this very metropolis. Miss Asanci was lying low, but Weimar was able to track down her confederate." "And then you had him killed," I put it to him. I might as well get the whole story out of him, for Sebek’s elucidation if nothing else.

Ghastman leaned back, steepling his fingers. "It was not lightly done, sir," he said, "At first we attempted to follow him in the hope that he would lead us to Miss Asanci, but he was too crafty for that. So we arranged a meeting in order to persuade him that his interests lay with myself rather than with the young lady. However, she had him wrapped too tightly around her little finger, and so it became necessary to remove him from the scene. It was, you will appreciate, the most sensible way of flushing the lady out into the open. Without allies, it was not unreasonable to suppose that she might become more receptive to a reconciliation of our differences. So Weimar followed him back to his hotel, and did what he did." "Bang," muttered Sebek to himself.

"And did Weimar also do what he did to Captain Iacobus?" I inquired, "Sebek, pay attention. This is important." "That would be a gross over-simplification, Lord Mortlake," said Ghastman, "Captain Iacobus’ death was entirely Miss Asanci’s fault." Asanci, who had been sitting through all this in obvious discomfort, clutched at my arm. "He’s twisting everything, Damien," she protested, "I warned you not to trust him." "Never mind whose fault it was," I said to Ghastman, "Just tell us what happened." Ghastman beamed benignly. "Just as you say, sir," he replied, "Well, by this point Mr Kahira had made his way to Oscuro City, and we recognised the advantages of pooling forces. Mr Kahira is a man of nice judgement. The Lapal Urma was his thought. He recalled that Miss Asanci and Iacobus had been seen together in Diega, and it was not a great matter to deduce that the black raptor had been placed on board in an attempt to throw us off the scent. Mr Kahira and Weimar and I went to call on Captain Iacobus – yes, Mr Sebek, that was just after our little discussion – and were fortunate enough to encounter Miss Asanci with him. We persuaded her to come to terms with us, or so we thought. But we had barely left the harbour when she and Iacobus gave us the slip." He smiled fondly at Asanci. "By Gad, sir, it was neatly done."

"Why torch the ship if you thought you had what you wanted?" I asked. Ghastman waved a dismissive hand. "Weimar was out of the cabin looking for the statue while the rest of us were talking," he said, "No doubt he was careless with matches." Sebek shot Weimar an envious glance. "Hmm," I said, finding this only too plausible, "But you were saying about Iacobus." "Well, sir," resumed Ghastman, "Mr Kahira led us to Miss Asanci’s apartment, and sure enough, that was where the miscreants were to be found. Iacobus attempted to smuggle the statue out the back while Miss Asanci stalled us. Fortunately, we had anticipated such a move and stationed Weimar in the alleyway outside. He managed to shoot Iacobus, but the good captain possessed an unexpectedly robust constitution and made his getaway regardless of his injuries. Miss Asanci, when pressured, claimed that she had sent him to Mr Espatha, but since trust was an increasingly rare commodity between us, we permitted her to give us the slip again, and then followed her here." Asanci looked slightly startled at this, and not a little chagrined. "And that," smirked Ghastman triumphantly, "was indeed neatly done."

Indeed. And allowing for a certain amount of self-serving polish, Ghastman’s tale at least fitted the known facts. Most of the gaps I could fill in for myself. Asanci’s reasons for running to us were easy enough to discern. Her little display of dismay didn’t fool me for an instant – she had knowingly led Ghastman to us, hoping that by setting us against each other she could then sneak off to retrieve the statue from Espatha. Really, we Amberites were amateurs when it came to this sort of thing. Only one part of the jigsaw didn’t quite fit – there was a death still unaccounted for. "And what about Arcarius?" I asked, "More of Weimar doing what he does? Or was that Thursa Bey’s handiwork?" Ghastman shook his head. "Not Weimar’s doing," he said, jowls a-wobble, "Or so he assures me, and Weimar would never dissemble over such a matter. He takes such pride in his work, you know. He did however hear the shot fired – didn’t you, Weimar? – and he and Thursa Bey were several streets away at the time. So the detective’s death is no less a mystery to me as it is to you."

Which probably meant that he had the same suspicions as I did. Certainly he didn’t seem very surprised when I turned to regard Miss Asanci. If neither of the professional gunslingers had pulled the trigger, then she was the next most obvious suspect. "What calibre gun do you carry?" I asked her casually. The District Attorney’s missive on Espatha’s desk had cited a thirty-eight as the murder weapon, smaller than the heavy calibre hardware toted by Weimar and Thursa Bey. Asanci flinched away from me. "Damien!" she demurred, big blue eyes hurt and bewildered, "How can you ask me such a thing?" "Because he’s met you," came a faint mutter from Agrippina. I stared back into Brigita Asanci’s wonderfully hypnotic eyes for a moment, and decided that I couldn’t tell if she was shamming or not. She’d probably lived so many lies that truth and falsehood had merged into an indistinguishable blur of expediency. Maybe she’d shot Arcarius, maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he’d learned something inconvenient, maybe she’d wanted to frame Thursa Bey for the killing, and then again, maybe Arcarius’ death was completely unrelated to the case. A private detective who doesn’t make enemies probably isn’t doing his job.

"You see, Lord Mortlake," broke in Ghastman’s dulcet tones, "I have been completely candid with you. If the affair has been explained to your satisfaction, then I must hold Mr Sebek to his end of the bargain. Give me access to the statue and to the Clavicle of Biahmu, and our business will be concluded." I tore my gaze away from the lustrous sapphire orbs, and looked over at Sebek. I couldn’t think of any particularly good reason to postpone the dénouement any longer. There were other questions I wanted to ask, mainly about Nitocris, but first it might be useful to ascertain the truth of the matter of the Key. "Sebek?" I said, "Were you listening to all that?" "Yes," said Sebek, "Dead people with worms stole my statue, and then Weimar shot everybody and burned up the big boat with all the flames going whoosh. I knew that all along." "Fine," I said, having by now given up hope of him ever grasping the full intricacies of the plot, "Then are you ready to show Mr Ghastman your statue?" Sebek looked dubious, as well he might. "Do I have to?" he asked plaintively. "Now, Mr Sebek," Ghastman interjected, "We had an agreement – the money for the key. Surely you would not have it said that you were not a velociraptor of your word?" "You don’t have to if you don’t want to," said Agrippina firmly, as Sebek scratched his nose, wrestling with the double negative. "I want to keep my money," he decided, once he had scraped a victory on points, "So he can have a look and see if the Clever Girl of Beer Mug key thingy is there, because I want to see it too. But if he breaks my statue or tries to steal it again then I’m going to eat him." He glanced at Ghastman’s not inconsiderable bulk. "But not all at once," he amended.

"Succinctly put as ever, sir," declared Ghastman expansively, as he eased said bulk out of the rocking chair, "I accept your conditions. You need not fear for the well-being of your property, for the procedure of extracting the key is of an entirely mystical nature." He gestured at the tabletop. "Well, sir," he said, "will you do the honours?" Asanci and Kahira were also on their feet, joining Ghastman at the table, the three of them staring at Sebek expectantly. Even Weimar took a few paces forward, which allowed me, as I stood aside for Miss Asanci, to adopt a position far more conducive to taking them all down once the key was in the open and they started fighting over it. Only Agrippina remained where she was, although I could tell that she was holding herself back with an effort, intrigued despite her better judgement. Personally, I was only interested in the key insofar as it answered my questions concerning Nitocris’ mad research project and her attendant fate. Of course, if it turned out to be valuable, or too dangerous to let fall into the hands of Ghastman and the gang, then I was sure I could find a place for it in the museum. I surreptitiously checked my pockets. Yes, I even had a few "Removed for Conservation" cards, so that nobody need go home empty-handed.

As for Sebek, he was precisely where he liked to be – right at the centre of attention. Setting the champagne bucket on the table, he extracted the enwrapped figurine and, with a flourish, placed the package in the middle of the mahogany surface. Unbalanced by padding and wrapping, it promptly fell over. Righting it again, Sebek slit open the packaging with a razor-sharp claw, and the black raptor emerged like a hatchling from its egg. "That’s my statue," said Sebek proudly, "See, it says ‘Sebek’ in the guard-tush at the bottom. My priests made it for me." He stood it upright for all to see, and awaited our admiration.

I’d never quite appreciated before just how ridiculous it looked, with its sculpted nemes headdress and false beard. Less than a foot in height, it was an accomplished enough piece of work, carved from black stone in the robust semi-naturalism of Old Kingdom sculpture. The effect, however, was spoiled not just by the incongruous accoutrements of divine royalty, but also by the complacent "feed me" expression on its face. Even the owner’s cognomen, picked out on the base in delicately incised hieroglyphs, seemed faintly absurd, as if the sculptor had foreseen only too well that he would manage to lose it, and hence had made sure that it came with a name tag. Yet to Sebek the statue was a treasure beyond price, and to Kantar Ghastman, Esquire, and his cronies, it contained one.

Slowly, as if aware that Sebek’s protective stance would brook no sudden movements, Ghastman reached out for the statue with fat fingers. "Ah," he said huskily, "now, after seventeen years!" His eyes were moist, with an almost gelatinous luster. Asanci and Kahira seemed no less effected. Kahira was licking his lips, his hands gripped together as if fighting the impulse to grab the figurine for himself. The girl was biting her lower lip, her arms rigid by her sides, nails digging into palms. Neither seemed to be able to take their eyes off the statue. Whether the Clavicle existed or not, they certainly believed in it. A brittle atmosphere of expectation suffused the room as Ghastman turned the little sculpture over, examining it from every angle. Sebek was looking expectant too, glancing from face to face. He was waiting for them to say something nice about his statue.

"It’s it," said Ghastman finally, which probably wasn’t quite the desired response, "but we’ll make sure." Carefully, he set the statue down on the table again, and fumbled in a pocket, from which he produced a small packet of darkly stained parchment. From this he delicately tapped out an even circle of greenish brown powder around the black raptor. Sebek immediately poked his snout forward to sniff at it. "Sebek..." I began warningly, but it was too late.

"No matter," said Ghastman, wiping powder from his face as Sebek snuffled and rubbed at his itching nose, "I have more. However, it would be advisable, sir, if you were to stand back a bit." Sebek reluctantly took a small step back, and Ghastman carefully poured out another circle of the fine grained substance. Then he spread his pudgy hands over the statue and began to chant in a low, guttural mumble. The powder began to sparkle faintly, and a tangible aura of power coalesced around the table. I thought I recognised something of Nitocris’ style of magick, and I was fairly certain that at least part of the litany was cribbed from Alhazred’s Al Azif. Or possibly the other way round. It seemed to be part scrying, part summoning, part unwarding – a miniature Opening of the Way, in fact, not at all inappropriate for calling forth a well-concealed mystical bauble. Ghastman’s voice rose, and the powder began to throw out tiny sparks in a counter-clockwise progression, rather like a flea-circus version of walking the Pattern. Kahira’s bulging eyes remained fixed on the statue, but I noticed Asanci stealing sideways glances at Ghastman. She was trying to memorise the spell. Power swirled, the powder glowed, and Ghastman’s voice took on an odd polyrhythmic quality as the invocation grew. Agrippina and Weimar were both edging forwards to get a better look, or at least whenever they thought the other wasn’t watching. "Hgh’yai ‘ngha ybnaiih," intoned Ghastman ponderously, "h’ehye n’grkdl’th unglf’ii th’ldkrg’n..."

"What are you doing?" asked Sebek. "What?" said Ghastman, and the spell fizzled out, leaving only a handful of jumping sparks and the acrid smell of ozone.

"What are you doing?" repeated Sebek, "Are you doing magick on my statue?" He turned to me. "Is he doing magick on my statue?" he demanded. "Yes," I said, "but I’ll let you know if he does any bad magick on it, okay?" "I was endeavouring," enucleated Ghastman with just the faintest look of irritation, "to extract the Clavicle from its hiding place, an operation, sir, of some delicacy." "Oh," said Sebek. He looked from Ghastman to the statue and back again. "Go on, then," he said. Ghastman swept the now inert circle of dust off the table, and laboriously poured out another one. "As you see," he observed tartly, "I am now obliged to start over." He resumed the chant from the top, frowning in concentration. Kahira was looking jittery, but Asanci was smirking slightly. The more often Ghastman repeated the spell, the easier for her to learn it and divine its secrets. Again the circling sparks rose, again the power sizzled round the small black figurine. "Y’bthnk ‘ngha," recited the Fat Man, "Kh’ugn nya’a fhtgl u’um ghlii..."

"Is it going to take long?" Sebek wanted to know. "By Gad, sir!" exclaimed Ghastman in open annoyance. Kahira let out a shriek of frustration. "You do that deliberately!" he cried. "No, sir," said Ghastman heavily, "Under normal conditions the Rite takes but a few minutes, if only I might be permitted to finish it." "It might be better if you didn’t interrupt, Sebek," said Asanci with one of her winning smiles. One more trip on the flea-circus merry-go-round and she’d probably be able to cast the spell better than Ghastman could – as long as he was, indeed, permitted to finish. "Yes," I said, "Sebek, if you keep quiet and let Mr Ghastman finish his spell, then we’ll all be able to see what the key looks like." "Okay," said Sebek. "I have sufficient of the Powder of Ibn Ghazi for one more attempt," noted Ghastman pointedly, as again he brushed the table clean, "and I have little wish, sir, to become embroiled in an argument over who is to go and get more should the Rite be interrupted a third time." He laid down yet another circle of powder, took a deep breath and raised his hands again. "Weimar could go," suggested Sebek, "He could get ice cream as well." The three seekers of the key glared at him. "After we’ve got the key thingy," he added. There were times when even Sebek knew not to push his luck.

And so the ritual began all over again. Sebek watched with interest, occasionally opening his mouth as if to make some helpful comment, and then remembering and shutting it again. Kahira, by now in a high state of anxiety, kept throwing him fearful glances, and Asanci, intent as she was on deciphering Ghastman’s glottal stops, was almost as fidgety. Finally, the spell reached its polysyllabic climax, and the encircling powder flared up one last time. When it faded, leaving nothing but a faint scorch mark on the table, the sparkle had transferred itself to the statue, and I heard a faint "Ooooh" from Sebek. Ghastman lifted his right hand, and slowly brought it down to touch the black raptor on its cheerfully scintillating snout, and at that moment, you could have cut the tension in the room with a sickle claw. "Come forth," he said, a husky tremour of anticipation in his voice.

Nothing happened.

Ghastman blinked, and repeated the gesture. "Come forth," he commanded again. With an air of mounting alarm, he picked the statue up, pawing at it. "No," he said, "No. It can’t be." He shook it vigorously, the bulbs of his cheeks dancing in agitation, and then let it drop back to the table with a thunk. Sebek snatched it back up and cradled it protectively. "Stupid Fat Man," he protested, "You nearly broke my statue. Oh, and you’ve shaken all the sparkles off." He peered at it, and then peered at the table. "Where’s the Clapper Mill of Piano, then?" he inquired. Ghastman’s jaw sagged, and for a moment he just stood there, blinking vacantly. "That’s not the real Memphite Raptor," he said hoarsely, "It’s a fake."

Reactions to this judgement were many and varied. Weimar just frowned, while Agrippina snorted contemptuously. "You’re lying," cried Asanci, shaking her dark red curls in denial, "This is some kind of a trick!" "It’s not a fake!" objected Sebek indignantly, "Look, it’s got my name on it." Kahira, now a frayed bundle of nerves, was less inclined to take issue with the truth of the pronouncement. Dancing up and down in a hysteria of disappointment, he rounded on a still stunned-looking Ghastman. "You bungled it!" he screamed, "You fat fool! No wonder we had so little trouble stealing it! You bloated idiot!" Fists clenched, he began to swing wild and feeble punches at the Fat Man’s listless form.

If Ghastman’s attention had not been elsewhere, then his concentration might not have lapsed. As it was, he just starting to bestir himself when Kahira’s fist, more by accident than design, caught him across the side of the head and sank straight into it. Kahira cried out in dismay, and then again in what sounded like agony. Ghastman’s skull seemed to ripple as the smaller man wrenched his hand free, fingers raw and blistered as if seared by some corrosive substance. He staggered back, whimpering, the mutilated member clamped beneath his uninjured arm. However, nobody had much sympathy to spare him, because everybody was still staring at Ghastman. Kantar Ghastman, Esquire, was changing.

An expression of mild vexation passed over his face before it darkened to a greenish-black colour and melted into a saclike blob. Oily black pseudopods were bulging from his increasingly shapeless outline, rolls of viscous flesh oozing from sleeves and waistband. His clothes started to smoke and char at their acidic touch, and then were sucked into the interior of the protean mass, leaving a bubbling, shifting integument coated in a noxious-looking ichor. Arms and legs merged into the amorphous whole, their place taken by a dozen or so misshapen tentacles which were exuded and retracted seemingly at random.

There was a brief exodus away from the table, Asanci almost tripping over her high heels in her effort to put some distance between herself and the newly unmasked monstrosity. Agrippina had her sword out. Weimar, the only one of us who didn’t seem too surprised, had planted his back against the wall, pistols covering as much of the room as possible, including the part of it occupied by his erstwhile employer. He’d obviously known that Ghastman wasn’t entirely human, but I doubted very much that he’d ever witnessed such a transformation before. Even I judged it expedient to move back a pace or two, until I could work out precisely what it was that Ghastman was turning into, and how I could deal with it. I had, unfortunately, a pretty good idea. Only Sebek remained where he was, peering in fascination at the writhing blob on the far side of the table. He glanced back at me over his shoulder and pointed. "Look," he said excitedly, "He’s made of jelly."

"What the hell is it?" demanded Agrippina, darting forwards to grab Sebek’s tail and pull him out of reach. "Shoggothoi," groaned Kahira from where he was slumped against the wall, "Shoggothoi..." Asanci’s eyes widened in recognition. "A Shoggoth Lord," she whispered. She seemed impressed, as well she might be. Of all the races spawned in the wake of the Great Old Ones, the Shoggoths were widely reckoned the most dangerous. They had spooked even the great Alhazred himself, and that was saying something. However, although possessed of a certain sardonic cunning, these amorphous devourers were not the brightest abominations ever to slither out of the slime. The smaller and more compact Shoggothoi, however, were the elite of the breed – just as ravenous, just as dangerous, but intellectuals of not inconsiderable learning and refinement withal. Well, as much refinement as is possible in a slime-coated lump of protoplasm six feet across. I’d even heard tales of some of them who wrote poetry, although I’d dismissed this as one of those unaccountable absurdities that sooner or later accrue to any long-established body of esoteric lore. More plausibly however, some of the Shoggoth Lords had reputedly acquired enough control over their labile forms to pass for human. It seemed, however, to be something that required an ongoing exercise of willpower, hence Ghastman’s inadvertent reversion to the viscidity of his primal form.

"Damien," said Asanci suddenly, "You can’t let him have the statue. Can you imagine the Shoggoth Lords if they gained true power over Shadow?" "Hmm," I said noncommittally, pondering the less-that-subtle subtext. "You can’t!" she insisted, this time more urgently. As if in response, a large bulge emerged from around the middle of the amoeboid mass, and shaped itself into a passable imitation of Ghastman’s face. It looked at us. We looked at him. The mouth opened wetly, but before it could speak, Sebek turned to me again. "Can I poke him with a stick and make him wobble?" he asked hopefully. That was when Asanci made a grab for the statue, and things got really interesting.