He had a satisfied look, as if he had just cracked a good joke.

“I think you’re being cunning with me,” I said. “You either know . . . or you can at least surmise exactly how to extract the information.”

“Perhaps,” said Erasmus, not arguing. “But then Gesar didn’t explain his present, did he now? And I don’t really want you to hear the prophecy.”

“I can hardly blame you for that . . .” I agreed. “Although you seem to take the prediction of your own death rather calmly.”

“Prophecy,” Erasmus corrected me, turning his back to me and reaching out his hands towards the fireplace. “But you don’t know just how vague prophecies are. ‘At the end’—whose end? Mine? Or the whole of humanity’s? Or does it simply mean the time—at the end of the day?”

“It can hardly be the time,” I said. “It’s morning now.”

“I ought to have asked you to come round in the evening,” said Erasmus, throwing his hands up in the air. “Although, there is one other possibility! ‘At the end there shall come to me Antoine . . .’ ”

I said nothing.

“Perhaps it was about you?” the prophet suggested amiably, giving me a sideways glance. “And you have come to me at your end . . . and, after all, if the Tiger starts hunting you . . .”

“That’s what I don’t like about you Dark Ones,” I said, getting up. “Thank you for the chalice.”

“Don’t be offended, Anton.” Erasmus was either embarrassed, or he was pretending to be. “I only wanted to forewarn you and indicate all the possible meanings of the prophecy . . .”

“How long is it since you were last in contact with Zabulon? I asked abruptly.

“Permit me not to answer that question . . .” Erasmus said, with a sigh.

“Consider that you already have,” I said. “Give my greetings to your teacher.”

Since we were in London I felt justified in taking my leave in the English style, and did not say goodbye.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

THAT EVENING I WAS SITTING AND DRINKING BEER IN A PUB called The Swan, not far from my hotel.

I liked English beer, although I was rather baffled by its numerous different sorts. The one I was drinking this time was light and smelled of honey (perhaps even Yorkshire honey)—and that suited me fine.

The pub itself was very presentable, although it was a thoroughgoing tourist trap. (What else can a pub be, if it’s on a busy street right beside the famous Hyde Park and a dozen hotels?) An inscription on the wall proudly stated that the inn could trace its history back to the early seventeenth century, and at one time it had been the place where criminals on their way to the scaffold drank their final mug of beer.

The English ability to pride themselves on what other nations would prefer to forget is a remarkable trait . . .