Day of the Djinn Warriors (12 page)

V
enice is Italy’s most interesting city for the simple reason that the streets are made of water and the cars are boats. The Gravelli Palace was Venice’s oldest and best hotel and looked out over the largest “street,” which is the Grand Canal. Below Philippa’s bedroom window, the bright morning sunlight danced on the waves like liquid music, and she thought she had never seen a more beautiful view. But Groanin was not impressed.

“It smells a bit, does Venice,” he said, wrinkling his nose as they left the hotel to take a trip aboard a beautiful polished wooden motorboat through the limpid, bright green waters to the island of Torcello. “I say, it smells a bit, does Venice. Like it needs the services of a good plumber. I’ve been splashing my new aftershave on myself to cover the stink. Of course, I have a very sensitive sense of smell. Where are we going, anyway?”

“We’re going to the Library of Attila the Hun,” said Nimrod.

“What, him that sacked Rome?” said Groanin. “I wouldn’t have picked him as much of a reader. I say, he’s not a man I can easily picture reading the latest John Grisham.”

“Books were a source of power and status in those days,” explained Nimrod. “Regardless of whether you were a reader or not. Before he sacked Rome, Attila also sacked Constantinople, which was the capital of the eastern Roman Empire, and there he stole a library that the Byzantine emperor had stolen from the Persians, who, in turn, had stolen it from the Chinese.”

“It’s like I always say,” said Groanin, “there’s more theft in libraries than you’d ever credit.” He nodded grimly. “I know. I used to work in a library. That’s where —”

“I know,” said Nimrod. “You lost your arm to a tiger in the British Library. You’ve told us many times.”

“Pardon me for breathing,” said Groanin, “I’m sure.” He sniffed loudly and made another face as the smell of the canal prickled his sensitive nostrils.

“On his way back from Rome in
A.D.
453, Attila left the library on Torcello,” continued Nimrod. “And there it has remained ever since, in the care of the Knights of St. Mark. Today it’s the best Oriental library in Europe.”

“Well, speaking as an ex-librarian,” Groanin said stiffly, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“The Library of Attila is not open to the public,” said Nimrod. “Only to the Knights of St. Mark, of whom I am a
Grand Commander.” And so saying, Nimrod showed them both a gold medal he was wearing around his neck on a purple silk ribbon.

Now it was Groanin’s turn to groan and roll his eyes at Philippa. “I might have known,” he said. “It’s like I always say, it’s those who have a lot already who always get more.”

Torcello was a small island full of rather simple, brightly painted houses, many of which looked like they were falling down. The entrance to the library was by boat, through a dank, dark water gate in an anonymous-looking area of wall that cleverly concealed its purpose; it was only after they had left the boat and mounted a series of slippery stone steps to open a heavy wooden door that Philippa was able to appreciate the building’s true size and significance.

They were standing under a huge concrete dome, almost 150 feet tall, with a central opening or
oculus
, open to the sky.

“I never heard of a library with a hole in the roof,” said Groanin. “Don’t the books get wet when it rains? I say, don’t the books get wet?”

“The books are housed in vaults around the circumference,” said Nimrod. “They never get wet. When it rains, the librarians simply sweep the water down the steps.”

He led them across the marble floor to where a librarian appeared to be waiting for them. But on closer inspection, it turned out to be two librarians. One was about seven feet tall, and he was carrying the other in his arms, who couldn’t have been more than about four feet tall and who — despite his clothes — was of Asian origin. Both of them were wearing
black silk stockings, silver buckled shoes, black brocade coats, periwigs, and white lace collars. Philippa thought they looked as if they had stepped straight out of the eighteenth century. The big one said nothing while the little one did all the talking.

“This is Peng Win,” Nimrod told Philippa. “The master of the library. Peng Win, this is my young niece, Philippa, and my butler, Groanin.”

“Welcome to the Universe,” said Peng Win, “which others call the Library of Attila. Do you like books, Philippa?”

“Of course,” said Philippa.

“And you, Mr. Groanin?”

“I can stand a bit of poetry. And I read the odd thriller now and again.”

Seeing Philippa’s uncertain smile, Peng Win said, “You are wondering why my friend, Mr. Borges, carries me around. It’s because I don’t have the use of my legs and there are many stairs in this library. Many more than you can see. Don’t worry, my child. He is very strong and I am very light.” He looked at Nimrod. “If it’s an old book you’re after, then you’ve come to the right place, my friend.”

From a deep flap pocket in his elegant coat he took out a small pad of paper and an ancient-looking pen, so that he might write down the name of the book.

“I’m looking for a book on Chinese zombies,” said Nimrod. “At least I think I am. There may be some confusion as to whether ‘zombie’ was the word that was actually used.”

“The Chinese word for a revenant or reanimated corpse is
wui wan xi.”
Peng Win drew the Chinese characters that made up this word on his little pad of paper. “From
wui
— ‘something that turns’;
wan
— ‘soul or a spirit’; and
xi
or
shi
— meaning ‘corpse or carcass.’” Peng Win shook his head, which was the largest part of his body. “But there is no exact word for ‘zombie,’ not even in ancient Chinese. Regretfully,
wui wan xi
is the closest you might come. And I’m certain there is no book on this subject. Even here. Where the library is complete.”

Nimrod thought for a moment, which left a sufficient space in the cool air of the library for Philippa to admire Peng Win’s pen.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “All of the pens in this library were made from the Sword of Mars that belonged to Attila the Hun himself. It was done so that all men might know that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.”

“I wonder,” said Nimrod. “If ‘zombie’ is the wrong word, then perhaps there is a Chinese word that sounds a bit like ‘zombie.’ After all, the word was heard in China. So that might make sense. Is there such a word, Peng Win?”

Peng Win thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “There is one possibility that might fit what you’re looking for.
Dong Xi
. For one thing it sounds a little like ‘zombie.’” He shrugged. “A little. But it is perhaps closer to the true meaning of what you were asking about, Nimrod, old friend.
Dong Xi
means ‘fool,’ or ‘thing,’ something less than human, anyway. It also
means ‘creature.’ It’s some time since I read it, but I believe there may be a reference to
Dong Xi
in the
Jade Book
of the Emperor Chengzong of Yuan China.”

“Did you say
Jade Book
?” asked Nimrod.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Only that of late there have been many thefts of jade,” said Nimrod. “You must take care of this book.”

“Mr. Borges guards the books,” said Peng Win. “I should hate to think what he might do to someone attempting to steal one.”

As big as a telephone directory, the book was a series of thirty jade tablets strung together with yellow silk straps, with the Chinese text engraved in gold.

“Chengzong was the grandson of Kublai Khan,” explained Peng Win. “His reign, from 1294 to 1307, was an unremarkable one. That is, apart from this magnificent book, written by the emperor himself, which is an account of ancient Chinese myths and legends, demons, fairies, and other subversive spirits. He was, by all accounts, a very superstitious man.”

With Mr. Borges seated silently at a great oak table, and Peng Win seated upon his lap, the Chinese librarian put on a pair of half-moon glasses, opened the book, and began to turn the tablets carefully, with Nimrod, Groanin, and Philippa looking around their shoulders.

“What have we here? Ah, yes. Here it is. The
Dong Xi
.” The librarian’s face darkened a little as he read what was
written in the fabulous book. “‘Beware the shaped form that is the
Dong Xi
for he is neither dead nor alive. Beware his heated touch. Beware his invisibility. Beware the
Dong Xi
. Beware the warrior devil. His name is mud for this thing is a dirt shadow of that which is created by God. He is the raw material of evil and the word of destruction lies under his tongue. He is clumsy, he is slow, but he will not rest. Shun the warrior devil as you would shun the foulest demon, for he is also harbinger of death. Leave him buried and let him not see the light of day. Drive the warrior devil back into the pit where he belongs. Return him to the dust. Pray that he never escapes, but if he does, then seek the bones of the great one called Ma Ko. Only he will know how to help you. Beware the
Dong Xi
. Beware the warrior devils.’” Peng Win looked up and took off his glasses. “That is all there is,” he said.

“Sounds like it’s enough,” said Groanin. “Whatever it is, I shouldn’t like to meet one of them devil warriors on a dark night.”

“Who was the great one called Ma Ko that the Emperor Chengzong was referring to?” asked Philippa.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” confessed Peng Win. “Possibly some Confucian philosopher now forgotten.”

“Pity,” said Philippa. “He sounded like a pretty useful kind of guy to know.”

“Thank you, Peng Win,” said Nimrod, who was then silent until they were in the boat and on their way back to the hotel.

“Let’s hope that the warrior devil wasn’t what John was talking about,” said Philippa.

“No, indeed,” agreed Nimrod. “We shall have to question Faustina about it in more detail when, eventually, she and John arrive in Venice.”

“That poor, poor girl,” said Groanin. “I bet she’s dying to get back inside her own body. I hope this idea of yours works, sir. It’d be a crying shame to drag that lass all this way and find that it didn’t. Especially after building all her hopes up. I can’t imagine what kind of a peculiar torture that would be, to see your body and not be able to climb back inside it. If it were me and it didn’t work, I think I’d drown myself in that there Grand Canal.”

“She can hardly drown herself if she hasn’t got a body,” said Nimrod.

Groanin shrugged. “Well then, I don’t know what I’d do. I suppose that once you’re a ghost, life’s already done its worst. All that’s happened, all that’s ever going to happen, has happened.”

“Faustina’s not dead, Groanin,” said Philippa. “That’s the point of bringing her to Venice. She’s not dead.”

“Aye, miss, but if she can’t get back into that body of hers, she might as well be. I say, she might as well be dead.”

“As usual, Groanin,” said Nimrod, “you have a point. A very sharp one. Just like that cologne you’ve taken to wearing.”

Back at the hotel they were surprised to find Finlay McCreeby waiting for them in the lobby. He stood up and smiled at them sheepishly. And since it was Finlay’s body, John and Faustina thought it best to let him explain that there were in fact three of them squeezed tight inside it, and that they were anxious to proceed with the transfer of Faustina’s spirit back into her own physical form as quickly as possible.

“It’s just that it’s getting a little crowded inside my skin,” said Finlay.

“Two’s company and three’s a crowd,” said Groanin. “Right enough.”

“Is Faustina’s body here in Venice?” asked Finlay.

“She’s upstairs in bed,” said Nimrod, and led Finlay toward the elevator. “By the way, how’s your father?”

“Him?” Finlay shook his head. “We haven’t talked since he had me turned into a falcon. You remember that?”

“It doesn’t do to bear a grudge about these things,” said Nimrod.

“You’re probably right,” said Finlay. “Now that we’re even.” And, with great mirth, he described the events at JFK Airport in New York that had seen his father arrested as a suspected terrorist. “He was pretty mad about it. Especially when he saw me. I imagine he must have guessed what happened.” Finlay chuckled. “Still, I expect they’ll let him go. Eventually.”

Nimrod had a suite of rooms on the top floor with its own private terrace, plunge pool, a living room, dining
room, and several bedrooms. Finlay was impressed. “This place is like a palace,” he said.

“That’s because that’s exactly what it was,” said Nimrod. “A palace once owned by the Gravellis, one of the richest families of Venice. Which reminds me. The Sleeping Beauty is in here.”

“The Sleeping Beauty?” Finlay sounded puzzled.

Nimrod opened a door on which was hanging a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign and showed Finlay into a darkened bedroom where they had left Faustina’s body in a semblance of sleep.

“That’s what they were calling her in the place where we found her,” explained Nimrod.

As soon as Finlay saw her lying there, which was the first clear look he’d had at Faustina since meeting her spirit back in New York, Finlay understood why John liked her so much. Which was embarrassing for Faustina since she was able to read all of his thoughts. And for John, who didn’t like to be reminded of just how quickly he had fallen for her. Or to think that he might now have a rival.

“It was in some catacombs at a place called Malpensa, in southern Italy,” added Nimrod. “They stole her body from the storeroom at Madame Tussaud’s and were passing her off as a mummified corpse.”

Faustina could restrain herself no longer. “As a what?” she said. Her own voice sounded strange in Finlay’s mouth, and it rather unnerved Groanin to hear it.

“The monks at Malpensa have been preserving the dead bodies of the local people for centuries,” said Nimrod. “And then putting them on display.” Nimrod smiled drily. “You were their main tourist attraction, my dear.”

“You mean I was in some horrible crypt with dead bodies?” said Faustina.

“More than some,” said Groanin. “There were about four or five hundred of them, to be precise. Many were little better than skeletons, with hands and jaws falling off. It were a regular chamber of horrors, and no mistake. Made that other one in Madame Tussaud’s look like a Sunday school. Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, I reckon. Proper horror film, so it was, miss. I don’t doubt I shall have nightmares about the place for weeks to come.”