The Anubis Gates by Tim Powers

the gunwales and two hands gripped Doyle’s shoulders, “your man’s tied up like a bloody top before the string’s yanked.” A woman muttered something Doyle didn’t hear. “Well,” the man went on, “we can’t just let him drift past with a wave and a nod, now, can we? Besides, I’m sure he appreciates the fact that we’re poor hard-working merchants, and even a Good Samaritan delay like this is costing us money. Stands to reason.” There was a locking click and then a knife blade was sawing and snapping through the ropes with businesslike ease. “That’s it, feet up now, may as well get them all. Good, that’s got it. Now—damn it, Sheila, didn’t I tell you to sit over there?”
    “I wanted to see if he’d been tortured,” said the girl.
    “Torture enough, I’d call it, to be bound hand and foot and pitched into the Chelsea Creek and then be fished out only to have to listen to an idiot girl. Sit down.”
    The man lifted Doyle up by the collar, then reached out over his shoulder and, flipping the sopping coattails aside and grabbing the waistband of his pants, hauled him over the gunwale and onto the forward thwart. Doyle tried to cooperate, but was too weak to do more than brace his hands against the gunwale as it went by under him. He lay motionless on the thwart, still absorbed with the pleasures of relaxing and breathing.
    “Thank you,” he managed to gasp. “I couldn’t have… kept afloat… sixty more seconds.”
    “My husband saved your life,” said a potato-faced old woman sternly, leaning into his field of vision.
    “Now, Meg, he’s as aware of that as you are, and I’m certain his gratitude will be handsomely expressed. Now let me get us moving again, we’re drifting in toward the bank,” He sat down on the center thwart and Doyle heard the oarlocks rattle as he took up the oars. “I’ll have to set to rowing with a passion to make up for the time we’ve lost, Meg,” he said, more loudly than necessary. “And we’ll still probably be too late to get our usual spot at Billingsgate.” He paused a moment, and then the boat shuddered, and surged forward, as he leaned into the work.
    The girl Sheila leaned curiously over Doyle. “Gentlemanly nice, those clothes was, before they got spoiled,” she remarked.
    Doyle nodded. “Put ‘em on for the first time tonight,” he said hoarsely.
    “Who was it tied you up and threw you in the creek?”
    Having regained his breath and some of his strength, Doyle sat up dizzily. “Gypsies,” he answered. “They, uh, robbed me, too. Didn’t leave me a cent—I mean a sixpence.”
    “Oh God, Chris,” the old woman interrupted, “he says he hasn’t got any money. And he sounds like some kind of foreigner.”
    The rhythmic clacking of the oars ceased. “Where do you hail from, sir?” Chris asked.
    “Calif—uh, America.” The breeze on his soaked clothes had set him shivering, and he clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering.
    “Well then, Meg, he’s got money for travelling, hasn’t he? Stands to reason. Where’s your hotel, sir?”
    “Actually, I—damn, it’s cold, have you got anything I could wrap up in?—actually, I had just arrived. They took everything: all my money, my luggage, my, uh, passport… “
    “In other words, he’s a shivering pauper,” stated Meg. She turned a righteous stare on Doyle. “And just how do you expect to repay our kindness in saving your life?”
    Doyle was getting angry. “Why didn’t you tell me your rates before you pulled me out of the river? I could have told you then that I can’t afford them, and you could have gone on and looked for a more affluent person to rescue. I guess I never read the last part of that parable—the part where the Thrifty Samaritan serves the poor devil with an itemized bill.”
    “Meg,” said Chris, “the poor man’s right, and we wouldn’t accept money from him even if he had any. I know he’ll be happy to work off the debt—for that’s