Simon Toyne - The Key

‘It’s in the bag under the table,’ he said, staring out at the market crowds rather than engaging with the grey eyes again. ‘Got my boot stamped down on the handle. You give me the package, I lift my foot.’

Something clunked down on the tabletop and a scrap of sacking was pushed towards him.

Hyde shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. ‘Zero points for presentation.’ He flipped open the sacking and examined the object inside. The stone looked incredibly ordinary. It could almost have been one of the chunks of masonry you found lining the streets in piles all over the city. He turned it over and saw the faint marks on its surface, just lines and swirls. ‘Hell of a price to pay for a chunk of old rock,’ he said, wrapping it up and lifting his foot off the bag containing fifty million Iraqi dinars, worth around forty thousand American dollars.

The Ghost stood up, the bag already in his hand. ‘Make the most of it,’ Hyde said, relaxing a little now the money wasn’t his responsibility. ‘Looks like the cash cow’s about to get slaughtered.’

The Ghost hesitated then sat back down. ‘Explain.’

Hyde savoured the look of confusion on his face. Now it was the freak’s turn to be caught out. ‘You really should stay more in touch with the burning issues of the day.’ He slid his newspaper across the table. Above the fold on the front page was a picture of the Citadel of Ruin next to the headline:

WORLD’S OLDEST STRONGHOLD ABOUT TO FALL?

‘If the holy guys in the mountain aren’t around to drive up prices, guess the bottom will drop right out of the market for bits of old stone.’ Hyde trapped a greasy note under the empty coffee glass and hoisted the bundle of sacking under his arm as he stood to leave. ‘This might be your last big payday my friend.’

‘The Citadel has never given up its secrets,’ the Ghost muttered, opening out the page and staring at the three photographs of the civilian survivors on the bottom of the page.

‘Nothing lasts for ever,’ Hyde said. ‘Just ask my soon-to-be-ex wife.’ Then he turned and walked quickly away, before the freak with the grey eyes had a chance to come back at him.

Hyde felt good as he left the dangerous buzz of the market behind and headed back to his 4x4. For the first time he’d got one over on the Ghost. He wasn’t such a badass after all. He’d looked like he was going to puke when he saw the newspaper. He was just another hustler, trying to make a buck.

He squinted up at the deepening sky. Sun down was in an hour and so was curfew. He needed to get across town and rejoin the rest of his crew at the hotel. They’d be heading out of town again at dawn, returning to the oilfields in the dusty badlands west of the city. He preferred it out there. Less noise. Less people.

He rounded another corner and saw the truck parked in the shade of a row of buildings, the red company logo on the door the only splash of colour in the drab street. Tariq was in the driver’s seat, keeping guard to make sure no one stuck rocks up the exhaust pipe, or booby-trapped it in some way. Vehicles belonging to Western companies were always getting blown up or sabotaged.

Hyde waved to draw his attention. Tariq looked over and froze. Hyde spun away, sensing movement from his left, instinctively reaching for the automatic inside his jacket. He turned his head and found himself staring into a pair of pale grey eyes.

‘You forgot this,’ the Ghost said, draping the newspaper over Hyde’s extended gun. He stepped closer, ignoring the gun pressing into his chest. ‘These people,’ he tapped the photographs on the cover, ‘they may come here, searching for — something. If they come, let me know.’

Hyde glanced down and saw a satellite phone number scrawled beneath the three photographs. His lip curled into a sneer as he prepared to tell the Ghost where to go, but it was too late. He had already gone.

The Citadel, Ruin

The sound of the lament hit Athanasius like a wave as he and the other heads stepped into the cathedral cave and made their way to the front. It was the one space in the Citadel big enough to house everyone, and here everyone now was, united in their grief.

At the back were the numerous grey cloaks, the unskilled monks yet to be assigned a guild, separated from the higher orders by a vivid red line of guards. The brown cloaks came next — the masons, carpenters and skilled technicians who maintained the fabric of the Citadel — so tired after the work of the past week that Athanasius could see them swaying where they stood. In front of them were the white-hooded Apothecaria, medical monks whose skills elevated them above all but the black cassocks — the spiritual guilds, priests and librarians who spent their lives in the darkness of the great library, hoarding the knowledge that had been gathered in the dark mountain since mankind first learned to write and remember.

The sound continued to pulse from the congregation as Athanasius took his place at the altar and turned to face them all. It was traditional when the Prelate, the head of the mountain order, was gathered to God that the Abbot would deliver the eulogy and assume the role of acting Prelate until an election confirmed him in the position or chose someone else. But there were two bodies lying in state below the T-shaped cross at the front of the cave: the Prelate on the left, and the Abbot on the right. For the first time in its measureless history the Citadel had no leader.

As the lament neared its conclusion, Athanasius stepped up to the pulpit carved from a stalagmite and looked over the heads of the gathered monks to the raised gallery where the Sancti — the green cloaks — usually stood, segregated from their brethren to ensure the great secrets they kept remained so. There should have been thirteen of them including the Abbot, but today the gallery was empty. In the absence of an Abbot, or a natural heir drawn from the ranks of the Sancti, it fell to the Abbot’s chamberlain to deliver the eulogy — it fell to Athanasius.

‘Brothers,’ he said, his voice sounding thin after the richness of the requiem, ‘this is a sad day for all of us. We are without a leader. But I can assure you this situation will very soon be rectified. I have consulted with the heads of each guild and we have agreed to hold elections for the office of both Prelate and Abbot immediately.’ A murmur rippled through the congregation at this news. ‘All candidates must declare themselves by Vespers tomorrow, with elections to follow two days later. Such haste has been agreed by mutual consent because of the need to re-establish order coupled with the lack of a natural heir.’

‘And why are we in this situation?’ a voice called from the middle of the congregation. ‘Who ordered the Sancti to be taken from the mountain?’

Athanasius looked towards the voice, trying to catch sight of the monk who had challenged him. ‘I did,’ he said.

‘On whose authority?’ Another voice, from further back in the massed ranks of grey cloaks.

‘I acted on the authority of my own conscience and a sense of compassion for my brother monks. The Sancti had been struck down by some sort of haemorrhagic fever; they needed urgent medical attention and the explosion had cracked the walls to provide a quick means of evacuation. Modern ambulances were waiting outside. I did not think to question this providence. I merely thanked God for it and acted quickly to save the lives of my brothers. Had the Sancti remained in the mountain, they would now be dead, of that I feel sure.’

‘And what has become of them?’ A different voice now. Athanasius paused, fearful that the whole congregation was massing against him. Since assuming caretaker responsibilities, he had been privy to the Abbot’s usual digests and communiques from the outside world. By this method he had learned the fate of the monks he had sought to save.