unmade.”
“That’s it?”
“No, it’s not that simple. It must be done beneath the same moon under which you made yourself immortal.”
“What do you mean, the same moon?”
“I mean within the same three-day period of the yearly lunar cycle.”
“Did you try to unmake him then?”
Alexander was silent for a moment, casting his gaze down to the sodden wooden steps. “No,” he said awkwardly. “The time was not right, and he fled immediately.
“Several centuries streamed by before I saw him again. He tracked me to Charlemagne’s scriptorium and tried to steal the live-forever machine. He wanted the secret of unmaking so he could do away with me. The scroll was well hidden, but in his anger he cut a swath of destruction through the library’s vaults. The three days when I could have unmade him had passed. From then on, he dogged my stepsaround the world, heedless of my warning. I suppose he thought my threat had been an idle one.
“The most curious thing about Coyle was that he was vastly changed each time I saw him. He was so obsessed with his vision of the future that he would forget everything about the last age in which he had lived: the language, the customs, the knowledge. He was a perfect chameleon. Every year, it seemed, he would learn everything anew. Scarcely a fragment of the past clung to his consciousness except the memory of the live-forever machine, and his drive to unmake me.”
They had reached a high door at the bottom of the rotting staircase. Alexander fumbled in his coveralls for his ring of keys.
“The last time I saw him before now was at the Louvre. I trapped him in one of great galleries, and had him taken down to one of the dungeon vaults that hadn’t been used since the building’s days as a royal residence. I sealed him in, hoping never to see him again. He must have remained there for the better part of a century, smouldering with hatred in the dark. I have no idea how he finally got out. Perhaps an unwitting labourer released him. Now he has come back into the world.”
Alexander turned the key in the lock and pushed the door wide open.
“Go in—go,” he said.
Eric gasped.
Pirate’s treasure, toy shop, art gallery, museum, junkyard. The lantern’s light played across smooth marble busts and crude clay statuettes, the canvases of oil paintings, a stone sarcophagus inlaid with lapis lazuli and red limestone, teetering piles of books, a Bull’s head plated in gold, a bronze helmet. It was all stacked up against the walls of the cave-like chamber, covering antique tables and bureaus, sprawled out across the floor on Persian rugs. Trunks and strongboxes lay open, filled to the brink with fabulous baubles.
“This isn’t part of the museum’s collection, is it?” Eric said.
“Oh no,” said Alexander, shaking his head. “No, this is mine. My private collection, things I have gathered through time. No one sees these but me. And now you.”
Eric no longer noticed the rank smell of the cellars. He felt suddenly like a child again, going through the museum for the first time. There was so much to see here, so many wonderful things. His eyes slipped over the vast array: tapered storage jars, an ivory horn, a jewel-encrusted clock, dagger blades, a silver ladle with a dolphin handle, a stone oil lamp. Hewanted to hold them all. He paused at an ornate mechanical hen with a wind-up key in its side, reached out to touch it.
“No!” Alexander shouted, and Eric snatched back his hand.
“Sorry,” he replied automatically.
“Don’t touch anything,” Alexander said, and there was a fanatical glint in his eyes. “Please don’t touch anything here.”
Eric rammed his hands into his pockets. These things were centuries old. Alexander didn’t want them hurt. Made perfect sense.
But as he moved through the subterranean museum, looking more closely, he began to notice the decay. Ancient cobwebs trailed from the damp walls. A ghostly film of dust had settled over
“That’s it?”
“No, it’s not that simple. It must be done beneath the same moon under which you made yourself immortal.”
“What do you mean, the same moon?”
“I mean within the same three-day period of the yearly lunar cycle.”
“Did you try to unmake him then?”
Alexander was silent for a moment, casting his gaze down to the sodden wooden steps. “No,” he said awkwardly. “The time was not right, and he fled immediately.
“Several centuries streamed by before I saw him again. He tracked me to Charlemagne’s scriptorium and tried to steal the live-forever machine. He wanted the secret of unmaking so he could do away with me. The scroll was well hidden, but in his anger he cut a swath of destruction through the library’s vaults. The three days when I could have unmade him had passed. From then on, he dogged my stepsaround the world, heedless of my warning. I suppose he thought my threat had been an idle one.
“The most curious thing about Coyle was that he was vastly changed each time I saw him. He was so obsessed with his vision of the future that he would forget everything about the last age in which he had lived: the language, the customs, the knowledge. He was a perfect chameleon. Every year, it seemed, he would learn everything anew. Scarcely a fragment of the past clung to his consciousness except the memory of the live-forever machine, and his drive to unmake me.”
They had reached a high door at the bottom of the rotting staircase. Alexander fumbled in his coveralls for his ring of keys.
“The last time I saw him before now was at the Louvre. I trapped him in one of great galleries, and had him taken down to one of the dungeon vaults that hadn’t been used since the building’s days as a royal residence. I sealed him in, hoping never to see him again. He must have remained there for the better part of a century, smouldering with hatred in the dark. I have no idea how he finally got out. Perhaps an unwitting labourer released him. Now he has come back into the world.”
Alexander turned the key in the lock and pushed the door wide open.
“Go in—go,” he said.
Eric gasped.
Pirate’s treasure, toy shop, art gallery, museum, junkyard. The lantern’s light played across smooth marble busts and crude clay statuettes, the canvases of oil paintings, a stone sarcophagus inlaid with lapis lazuli and red limestone, teetering piles of books, a Bull’s head plated in gold, a bronze helmet. It was all stacked up against the walls of the cave-like chamber, covering antique tables and bureaus, sprawled out across the floor on Persian rugs. Trunks and strongboxes lay open, filled to the brink with fabulous baubles.
“This isn’t part of the museum’s collection, is it?” Eric said.
“Oh no,” said Alexander, shaking his head. “No, this is mine. My private collection, things I have gathered through time. No one sees these but me. And now you.”
Eric no longer noticed the rank smell of the cellars. He felt suddenly like a child again, going through the museum for the first time. There was so much to see here, so many wonderful things. His eyes slipped over the vast array: tapered storage jars, an ivory horn, a jewel-encrusted clock, dagger blades, a silver ladle with a dolphin handle, a stone oil lamp. Hewanted to hold them all. He paused at an ornate mechanical hen with a wind-up key in its side, reached out to touch it.
“No!” Alexander shouted, and Eric snatched back his hand.
“Sorry,” he replied automatically.
“Don’t touch anything,” Alexander said, and there was a fanatical glint in his eyes. “Please don’t touch anything here.”
Eric rammed his hands into his pockets. These things were centuries old. Alexander didn’t want them hurt. Made perfect sense.
But as he moved through the subterranean museum, looking more closely, he began to notice the decay. Ancient cobwebs trailed from the damp walls. A ghostly film of dust had settled over
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