Maelstrom (4 page)

“And how valuable would such a map be?”
Money was never a bad guess when it came to motive, after all.

“I couldn’t say, really,” he confessed. “I’m
sure the right collector would pay well for it, but an early map of
the town would be far more valuable. Most of its worth was as a
historical document.”

An odd choice for a thief, then. “Why wasn’t
it in the museum?”

“The Ladysmith? Hmph.” Tubbs scowled. “To
paraphrase the City Clerk, the museum would take every object of
note in Widdershins and hoard them away from the rest of us. The
Ladysmith already has enough old maps, including some very valuable
ones drawn up by Theron Blackbyrne himself. And yet their American
History department or their librarians come by every so often and
attempt to convince us to give them all of ours. I turned down such
a request myself just last week. Pure greed on their part, wouldn’t
you agree, Mr. Flaherty?”

“Absolutely.” A shame Whyborne wasn’t here.
He would have gleefully joined in with Mr. Tubbs and heaped abuse
upon the American History department in general, and Bradley
Osborne in particular. “Was there anything of special interest on
this map?”

“I don’t believe so.” Tubbs shrugged.
“Various geographical features, the locations of old Indian
villages, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” I didn’t see, actually, but an
appearance of confidence never went amiss. “Thank you, Mr. Tubbs.
You’ve been most helpful.”

“I’m grateful to have been of assistance.”
He rose and showed me to the door. We paused there, and he cleared
his throat nervously. “If you have any more questions, don’t
hesitate to send for me. Perhaps I could meet you somewhere more
genial than this office to answer them.”

The poor fellow wasn’t exactly practiced,
which made his suggestion even more flattering, as it implied he
didn’t often arrange such meetings. “I appreciate the offer,” I
said with as much kindness as I could, “but I feel any questions
would best be answered here, in a professional environment.”

A blush stained his cheeks. “O-of course.
Good-day, Mr. Flaherty.”

Whyborne

“I have something for you to inspect,” said
one of the librarians. “A codex. Fifteenth century, if I’m not
mistaken.”

I resisted the desire to check the clock.
I’d spent the day in the library, laboring over the Wisborg
Collection. As Christine had said, it wasn’t my job, but it would
hardly be the first time I’d spent my hours at the museum
researching the occult rather than comparing ancient languages.
Although to be fair, in this case there was some overlap.

The librarians carefully opened the crates
and removed the volumes one at a time. Mr. Quinn had his best men
inspect each book and identify the language, if known to them, as
well as the name of the volume, if indicated. Any of interest he
brought to me.

Most of the hundreds of
books were ordinary fare: a number of Bibles, one dating from the
medieval period and adorned with the fanciful artistry of the monks
who had copied it; the
Histories
of Herodotus; the works of Homer and
Shakespeare.

But other, darker, tomes
lay mixed in, like adders lurking amidst a pile of sticks. A Latin
translation of the
Al Azif, De Vermis
Mysteriis
, fragments of the Pnakotic
Manuscripts, and of course
Cultes des
Goules
. Several others had no name
inscribed on them, but a cursory glance showed them to be grimoires
of the blackest sort. There was even a book similar to the
Liber Arcanorum
, but
oddly altered, as if copied by someone making deliberate changes.
That one I told Mr. Quinn to keep under lock and key, and to show
to no one but myself. An outrageous demand, but he’d merely bowed
and looked unaccountably pleased.

A heavy iron latch held the codex closed. I
hoped the stains on the leather cover were from rust. I opened the
tome cautiously; although I couldn’t have said why, I felt almost
as if I touched something alive, an animal that might turn on me at
any moment.

There appeared to be no
title, and the writing, while in a neat hand, was in no system of
letters I’d ever seen before. Was it a code, perhaps? Some
alchemists used them to conceal their knowledge from rivals, as did
sorcerers. The
Liber Arcanorum
was one such example. But the letters within it
had still been Latin, not...whatever this system of writing
was.

“Pardon me, Dr. Whyborne,” Mr. Quinn said
from my elbow.

I started, having not heard his approach.
“Oh! I, er, yes?”

One spidery hand fluttered in the direction
of the clock. “It is after five.”

“Oh, of course.” No doubt the librarians
wished to end their day and return home. I occasionally worked long
hours, although for the sake of matrimonial harmony, I tried to
leave as close to five as possible. Was it my turn to cook tonight?
Blast, I couldn’t remember.

Still, I hesitated over the codex. I’d
handled far too many books of dangerous lore over the last few
years, and as a consequence had developed something of an instinct.
The writing within the codex might be incomprehensible at the
moment, but something about it set my nerves on edge.

Another half hour wouldn’t hurt. Griffin had
said he might be late, given his own work. “I think I’ll take this
one back to my office,” I said, rising to my feet. “I’d like to
give it a closer look.”

The librarian who’d brought me the codex had
drifted up during our conversation. Now he offered me a bow.
“Widdershins,” he said, in the same tone I imagined an Englishman
might say “my lord.”

Mr. Quinn gave him a poisonous glare, as if
the poor fellow had overstepped his bounds. Why, I hadn’t the
slightest idea, since I’d been subjected to the librarians
addressing me thusly since that awful Hallowe’en of two years ago.
The librarian hastily bowed again and departed.

“As you wish, Dr. Whyborne,” Mr. Quinn said.
“Do let me know if you find the codex to be of interest.”

“Of course,” I said, scooping it up before
he changed his mind. I didn’t think he would, given he ordinarily
seemed to have no qualms about handing me the darkest of tomes, but
one never knew.

I passed a few of my
colleagues on the way to my office, all of them making for the
exit. “Don’t work too late, Percy,” Bradley called jovially as I
passed. “You wouldn’t want to keep your
landlord
waiting for
dinner.”

Ass.

A visit to the men’s washroom was in order,
so I left the codex on my desk and made my way through the
labyrinthine corridors. A few minutes later, as I returned back the
way I’d come, I spotted a familiar form. “Iskander,” I called.

He stopped, a relieved smile on his face.
“Whyborne! I was just coming to find you, actually. I’m glad to see
you haven’t left for the day.”

I couldn’t recall him ever seeking me out on
his own. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh! Yes, fine.” He hesitated. “I think.
There is something that’s been weighing a bit on my mind.”

I fell into step beside him. “By all means,
please tell me. You know I’ll do whatever I can to assist.”

A rueful smile curved his handsome lips. “I
know. Thank you for the offer of hosting the wedding in Whyborne
House.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “That was
entirely my father’s.”

“Oh.” The smile faded. “I
thought...well.”

I’d said something wrong, although I wasn’t
entirely certain what. “You thought...?”

Iskander sighed. “Massachusetts may not have
anti-miscegenation laws, but Christine will do her career no favors
by marrying me. It’s a heavy truth, but wishing things were
otherwise won’t make them so.”

Oh. It hadn’t even occurred to me. But of
course he was perfectly correct.

“The loss of the firman in
Egypt, returning from Alaska virtually empty-handed, marrying a
half Egyptian...her career is in jeopardy.” Iskander went on. “If
Christine were a man, of course, things would be different. But as
it is, having the wedding with the stamp of your family’s
approval—of
your
approval—will help. People respect you.”

I snorted. “They respect Father, perhaps.
Although I fear Stanford destroyed a good deal of that respect with
his antics.”

Iskander stopped. “No,
Whyborne. They respect
you.
And your father as well, of course, but he wasn’t
the one who fought your brother or saved the town from the tidal
wave the Endicotts raised. Christine told me all about it.
One for the land, and one for the
sea
.”

The damned prophecy was going to haunt me
for the rest of my life. “Whatever the case, I’m glad Father saw
fit to help,” I said. “So what is it you need from me?”

Iskander began to walk again. “Holding the
wedding in Whyborne House will do us no good if we fail to make the
right sort of impression. My father was a diplomat, and my family
well enough off to move in certain social circles back in England.
I know how these things go. Every eye will be critical, just
waiting for some breach of etiquette or taste.”

I’d grown up with such critical eyes trained
on me, although many had belonged to my own family. “I
understand.”

“Then you’ll appreciate I’m a
bit...concerned...that Christine seems to be leaving things to the
last minute,” he said. “We agreed to divvy up the responsibilities,
but when I enquire as to the flowers and other decorations, she
says she’s been busy and not to worry.”

“Oh dear.” I’d never had to plan any sort of
event myself, but I recalled how much rushing about Miss Emily and
the other servants had done well ahead of any large gathering.

“Exactly.” He sounded relieved I understood.
“I thought if she won’t listen to me, she might listen to you.
Just...prompt her a bit.”

“Of course.” How I’d do so without provoking
Christine’s well-known tendency to stubbornness, I couldn’t
imagine. But at least if she grew annoyed, it would be with me and
not her husband-to-be. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good chap,
and—I say, did that fellow just come out of your office?”

A man wearing an unremarkable brown suit and
bowler hat strode swiftly away from the now-open door to my office.
In one hand, he carried a valise; the other was tucked into his
coat pocket.

The devil? “Excuse me?” I called,
lengthening my own strides. “Sir?”

He cast a single glance over his shoulder;
his left eye was covered by a patch. Then he broke into a run.

Whyborne

“After him!” shouted Iskander.

We both took off after the fleeing man,
bellowing for security at the top of our lungs. Whoever he was, he
seemed to know the layout of the museum far too well for a casual
thief. He darted down corridors, cut through the taxidermy room,
and knocked aside one of the curators who’d been working late.

Still, I’d walked these corridors for eight
years and knew every secret. “Keep after him,” I told Iskander, and
dashed up the next stairwell.

I suspected the thief made for the service
door at the rear of the building, so as to easier lose any pursuit
in the back alleys. If I was wrong...well, hopefully Iskander might
still catch him. I was out of breath by the time I reached the
roof, my lungs burning and my legs aching. Still, I pounded across
the flat roof to another access, then down the stairway to the
ground floor.

I emerged just as the thief came into sight.
“Stop!” I shouted, and summoned wind.

The magic leapt to obey, fueled by the great
arcane vortex beneath us. I felt it turning, sensed the flow of
energy, the scars on my arm aching as I bent my will to reshape the
world. A breeze ruffled my hair, turned into a gale—

The man halted and drew an antique-looking
dagger from his pocket. Although nowhere near me, he slashed
violently at the air.

The magic fell apart, the warp and weft of
the spell severed by the blade. While I stood gaping, he turned and
dashed down a side corridor, making for the front of the
building.

“Bugger!” Iskander exclaimed. “What
happened?”

I forced my aching legs into motion once
again. “The dagger—it was like the cursed sword Stanford used—the
witch hunter’s blade,” I gasped. “Spells are useless so long as he
has it.”

The one-eyed thief exited through a staff
door into the public portion of the museum. We followed and found
ourselves in the Classical wing. Pale marble statues watched us
through blank eyes from the perimeter of the room. The thief slowed
just long enough to shove a large pithos into our path. The ancient
container crashed to the floor, shattering into ceramic
fragments.

“Damn you!” I shouted as I dodged the
remnants, trying to keep from accidentally stepping on any pieces
and making the damage worse. Bad enough the fellow was a thief, but
this destruction went beyond the pale.

We exited the wing, into the grand foyer
with its displays of ancient animals and humans alike. Apparently
encouraged by his success at slowing us, the man overturned a small
display of neolithic weaponry.

It proved his undoing. Iskander scooped up
one of the obsidian blades, paused to take aim, and threw it.

The sharp edge of the volcanic glass sliced
through the man’s coat, shirt, and arm with ease. He let out a cry
of agony, the valise tumbling from his hand.

“Stop right there!” shouted one of the
guards from the other end of the hall.

The thief ignored the command and the
brandished weapon, instead darting through the small door to the
side of the main entrance. It was yet unlocked, and in an instant
he was gone. The guard ran after him, but I doubted his chances of
catching the fellow amidst the evening crowds.