Day of the Djinn Warriors (21 page)

John, who had once eaten locusts, didn’t really mind that he had just eaten a rat. It tasted delicious, after all, if not quite as good as locust. And it wasn’t like rats were an endangered species or anything. Even so, it was immediately clear to John, who was inside Finlay’s body of course, that Finlay’s stomach didn’t agree at all with the very idea of eating a rat. John did his best to talk Finlay around and to overcome his evident disgust, but it was no good and a minute or two later he found himself outside in Snack Street, alongside Groanin, throwing up into the gutter, much to the amusement of several Chinese people who had seen them running out of the restaurant.

A minute or two later, Nimrod came outside and eyed his companions sadly. “Well, I’ve heard it said that if you eat too
much rat you get a nosebleed, but this is ridiculous. I shall never be able to show my face here again.” He sighed and pointed up the neon-lit street. “Come on. We’d better be getting along to the exhibition hall. It ought to be closed by now.”

There were, in fact, three exhibition halls, each of them covering an enormous burial pit where hundreds or thousands of terra-cotta warriors had been found. The exhibition hall covering the main pit was a modern-looking building that was the size and shape of an aircraft hangar. The hall was closed for the night and, once again, Nimrod used the little skeleton key to make an unauthorized entry. Finlay/John helped themselves to a guidebook in English as they made their way past the gift shop and into the main body of the hall.

Finlay/John pointed one of the flashlights, which they had bought from a late-night hardware store, into the echoing depths of the building and gradually began to appreciate the enormity of what had been discovered here. The hall was vast — about twice the size of a football field — so vast that the beams of their flashlights couldn’t reach the ceiling or any of the four walls.

In the pit immediately below them stood a vanguard of 204 warriors and behind them an army that numbered about six thousand figures that were slightly larger than life-size. A few were missing heads and hands but all of them stood facing east, in neat ranks, as if at any minute they might start marching somewhere on the orders of the devil Emperor
Qin. Everything — figures and pit — was the same dusty shade of gray, like the color of death itself.

“Why do we always have to visit these places at night?” complained Groanin. He shuddered as the damp smell of an ancient grave pricked his nostrils and he caught his first sight of the crowded ranks of terra-cotta warriors. “Freaks me out, creeping around in the dark like this. And them all staring at us blankly like that. I say, it freaks me out, so it does. Feels like we’ve intruded on something private.”

Groanin did not exaggerate. The place was undeniably creepy. But then, it’s an unusual mass grave that doesn’t give you a little pause for thought. Nimrod climbed over the barrier. “Stay here while I take a closer look.”

“At what, exactly?” said Groanin.

“I don’t know,” said Nimrod. “I won’t until I see it, probably.”

Nimrod jumped down into the actual pit so that he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the terra-cotta warriors.

“Be careful, Uncle Nimrod,” said John. “I wouldn’t want you to get absorbed, like poor Mr. Rakshasas.”

“May I remind you that we don’t have that golden tablet of command?” said Groanin. “Look here, sir, John’s right. If one of them comes to life now, you’ll be stuffed, and no mistake.”

“We’re not leaving yet,” said Nimrod. He ran the beam of his flashlight up and down the torso of the nearest warrior. It might have been more than two thousand years old,
but the figure was fantastically well-preserved. He touched it carefully and then tapped at the torso with his flashlight. The warrior sounded hard and hollow, like a heavy china vase. “This chap is a little bit like Groanin,” he said. “I don’t think it will absorb anything very much. These fellows down here are solid terra-cotta.”

“Very amusing,” said Groanin.

“All the same, that’s what happened,” said John. “Mr. Rakshasas went inside the body of the warrior devil of Dendur, and never came out again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right,” said Nimrod. “But this one seems quite harmless.”

They all glanced overhead as something flew above their heads and, a little surprised by the sudden movement, Nimrod dropped his flashlight.

“What was that?” said Groanin, flicking the beam of his flashlight at the distant ceiling.

“Probably just a bat,” said Nimrod, bending down to retrieve his flashlight from the brick-paved floor.

“It had better be careful,” muttered Groanin. “I expect the Chinese eat those, too.”

“Wait a minute,” said Nimrod. Something had caught his eye as he picked up the flashlight. He steered the powerful beam along the floor of the pit. “Look, here. Shine your flashlights onto where mine is, would you?”

Groanin and Finlay/John concentrated their flashlights on a gap in the ranks of the warriors, illuminating several
sets of footprints in a thick layer of dust that lay on the floor, as if six or seven of the terra-cotta warriors had simply stepped off their little plinths and walked to the back of the pit.

“That’s odd,” said Nimrod.

“It’s a little more than that,” said Groanin, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “I say, it’s a little more than odd when statues go walkabout.”

Still standing on the viewing gangway while keeping their lights trained on Nimrod, Finlay/John and Groanin made their way to the back of the exhibition hall as the English djinn trailed the footprints along the pit.

“Strange,” he said. “The footprints end abruptly in front of this brick wall. Almost as if they went straight through it.”

Shining his flashlight up the side of the pit wall, Nimrod ran his hand across the dusty surface, and then uttered a noise that seemed to indicate he’d found something.

“What is it?” asked Finlay.

“Some writing,” said Nimrod, rubbing away some of the dust with the flat of his hand. And then: “I don’t believe it.”

“What does it say?” asked John.

“It’s a sort of command,” said Nimrod. “Only it’s in Chinese. Which is rather odd because I always thought this kind of kabbalistic command was only seen in tombs of the Middle East. Never in China.”

“Cannibalistic?” said Groanin. “Is there anything these people won’t eat?”

“Not
cannibalistic,”
said Nimrod. “
Kabbalistic
. It means ‘mystic’ or ‘occult.’ You have food on the brain, my dear fellow.”

“Is it any wonder since there’s none in my stomach?” complained the butler. “Not since dinner, anyway.”

But Nimrod wasn’t listening. “These words. They amount to the same command used by Ali Baba to open the door of the robbers’ den in the story of ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.’ It seems out of place here in China.”

“You mean the story in the
Thousand and One Nights
?” said John.

“Yes. Literally translated, these Chinese words mean ‘open sesame.’”

“Please don’t say them,” said Groanin.

But even as the butler spoke, Nimrod had pronounced the words in such a way as befits a magical word of command.
“Kai Shen,”
he said loudly.

Immediately, a hidden door in the brick wall rumbled open to reveal a long dark passageway. “The footprints go in here,” he announced, shining his flashlight inside. “And seem to lead in a westerly direction for quite a distance.”

“I’ll bet the tunnel goes all the way to the Emperor Qin’s burial mound,” said John, looking at the map in his guidebook. “It’s about half a mile to the west of where we are now, on the other side of the River Wei.”

Finlay read a little more. “For some reason, the burial mound remains unexcavated,” he said. “There’s also another
exhibition hall over pit number four that’s unfinished. I wonder why it’s unfinished.”

“With eight thousand warriors already dotted about the place, they probably figured they had enough,” said Groanin.

“Yes, I wonder why, too,” admitted Nimrod, ignoring Groanin’s explanation. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Something scared them off, perhaps,” suggested Finlay.

“I can’t imagine what on earth could scare people who are prepared to eat dogs and rats,” observed Groanin.

“Perhaps something not
on
earth,” remarked Finlay. “But underneath it.”

“We certainly won’t find out by staying here,” said Nimrod.

“Surely you’re not going in there on your own?” said Groanin.

“Of course not, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You’re coming with me.”

“It could be a trap.”

“True. And so, John and Finlay, you had better wait for us back at the Most Wonderful Hotel in Xian. Just in case something happens.” He tossed the little box holding the skeleton key up to Finlay, who caught it and slipped it into his pocket. “You might need the key to get back in here.”

“Do I have to?” protested Finlay/John. “Wait out here, I mean.”

“Not that anything will happen, of course,” Nimrod
added quickly, for Groanin’s benefit. “It would be a foolish creature that ever imagined it could best a djinn in a fight.”

“Then why do you want me along, sir?” said Groanin.

“You’re my butler, man,” said Nimrod. “An English gentleman doesn’t like to go anywhere without a butler.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Stop moaning, Groanin, and get down here,” insisted Nimrod.

“Very well, sir. If you insist.” Groanin climbed over the barrier and slithered down the side of the pit. Covered in dust, he arrived on the floor still on his backside, but stood up without another complaint and tried to brush himself off. “Shall I lead the way, sir?” he said, glancing into the passage.

“No, Groanin, I’d better go first,” said Nimrod. “Just in case.”

Finlay/John watched the two men enter the passage until the stone door rumbled shut behind them. They remained there for several minutes.

“Do you really want to go back to the hotel?” Finlay asked John.

“Nope,” he said. “I think we should wait a couple more minutes and then follow. Just to keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t get into any trouble.”

Finlay/John climbed over the barrier and down into the damp-smelling pit, keeping a close eye on the warriors in case one of them came alive and started behaving aggressively,
like the warrior devil back at the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

“Groanin’s right,” said Finlay. “This place is the pits.”

John wasn’t listening because, of course, being inside Finlay’s body, he knew what Finlay was going to say before Finlay actually said it.

You’re right
, thought Finlay.
From now on we should just exchange thoughts
.

Did you hear something
? thought John.

You know I did
, thought Finlay, switching off the flashlight.
Someone’s coming
.

Finlay/John crouched down behind one of the figures as the lights in the hall came on and an American’s footsteps echoed on the gantry above them. They knew he was an American because the author of the footsteps was also making a call on his cell phone.

“Dad, it’s me, Rudyard,” said a loud but youthful voice. “You know how Nimrod and those other dumb clowns got away from my typhoon? Well, they’re here at the exhibition hall in Xian. And guess what? All of them just walked straight into the trap we set for them. That’s right. They went inside the ‘open sesame’ tunnel. Just like you said they would. Yeah.” He laughed an unpleasant sort of laugh. “Like rats in a trap. Boy, are they in for some surprises when they get to the silver lake. I am so looking forward to seeing their faces when they realize how this place works.”

John peeped out from behind a terra-cotta warrior and caught a glimpse of a pale-faced, red-haired boy about fifteen
years old, wearing a dark, Chinese-style suit and dark glasses. He’d only seen the youth once before, at the Djinnversoctoannular Tournament, the previous December in New York’s Algonquin Hotel. But it was hardly a face he would have forgotten. The young man on the cell phone was a djinn, an Ifrit, and a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Philippa had easily bested him in her first game and, predictably, he had been a sore and foulmouthed loser. It was Rudyard Teer, one of the many sons of Iblis.

“So how’s Operation Magic Square coming along, Dad? … It is? … Cool. That Dybbuk kid is so dumb … I know he’s your son, too, Dad. But you have to admit, he’s a schmuck…. All right, all right, if you say so. He’s my half brother, okay. More like half-witted, if you ask me. Listen, Dad, forget that. I’ve got the latest Keyfitz numbers for you.”

What’s a Keyfitz number
? thought Finlay.

I have no idea
, admitted John silently.

“We’re up to ninety billion souls accounted for and dealt with,” said Rudyard Teer. “That’s right. Ninety billion absorbed by your warrior devils. Isn’t it incredible? We’re only six billion short of completely clearing out the whole lousy spirit world ahead of the operation…. Dad? Dad, your signal’s breaking up. Did I hear you right? You don’t want me to bother with those other six billion souls? … Okay, Dad. Whatever you say. And you’re right. Six billion is just too few to get in the way of what we’re planning. Okay, Dad. Call you tomorrow. Bye.”

Still laughing, Rudyard Teer walked back along the
gangway. Seconds later, the lights in the exhibition hall went out, and the terra-cotta warriors and the boy hiding behind one of these were plunged back into darkness.

What was all that about
? thought Finlay.

I’m still thinking about it,
replied John.

We have to warn Nimrod,
said Finlay.

If we follow him through that door, won’t we just be walking into the same trap?
asked John.

Good point
.

Look, Nimrod is a very powerful djinn,
said John.
And Groanin has an extra-powerful arm. We have to assume that they can look after themselves, but if they can’t, we’re not likely to be able to help him. I mean, I have no djinn power. And you’re just a normal mundane kid
.

Can’t argue with any of that,
admitted Finlay.