The Blackthorn Key (22 page)

My jaw dropped. “
Me?
But . . .
why
?”

“You were away from the shop exactly when the Cult struck. Lord Ashcombe thought that was suspicious. When he went back to look at the shop this morning, he saw the ledger page was missing. He knows you lied about what Master Benedict wrote. He's sure there's something incriminating on it, and you took it so no one else would see it.”

A pit grew in my stomach. “That still doesn't explain why I would kill him.”

“He's not sure. He thinks you might be working with the Cult of the Archangel.”

I stared at Tom. “That's . . . that's crazy.”

“He also suggested that maybe you just made Master Benedict's death
look
like one of the Cult's murders, so everyone would blame them instead of you. He thinks maybe you just wanted revenge for Master Benedict beating you.”

I stiffened. “He never laid a hand on me!” Then I realized: He
had
hit me. Once, only once. “Lady Brent,” I said.

Tom nodded. “Lord Ashcombe questioned her. She claimed Master Benedict beat you regularly. She said he was cruel to you, and you resented it. That's why he went back to look at the shop, at the ledger page. I told him it wasn't true, but he just thinks I'm lying to protect you.”

Master Benedict had hit me, cursed me, to keep me from Wat and the rest of the Cult. He'd played the part of cruel master well enough to save me, at least temporarily. But Wat hadn't been the only audience. Lady Brent's word would be enough for any court to convict me. I felt sick.

“Master Hugh,” I said suddenly. “He knows the truth. And he's a master in the Guild. They'll have to believe him. If we can find him, he'll vouch for me.”

Tom stared at the floor. “Master Hugh is dead,” he said quietly.

I sat there, not moving. It was a moment before I could speak. “Wh . . . what?”

“Lord Ashcombe told me. The body buried in the garden, the one we saw on Oak Apple Day. It was Hugh's.”

I thought the news would hit me harder. I just felt numb. Maybe it was because I couldn't imagine anything more crushing than to be blamed for my master's murder. Or maybe it was because deep down, some part of me already knew Hugh hadn't left the city. That, like me, he couldn't leave Master Benedict behind. “Then . . . the Cult
did
attack them Thursday night.”

“Actually,” Tom said, puzzled, “Lord Ashcombe isn't sure it was the Cult. Hugh wasn't cut open like the others. Also, it was a Christian grave. He was buried on hallowed ground.”

I frowned. Why would Hugh's killers give him a Christian burial? None of this was making any sense. “I suppose he blames me for Hugh's death, too,” I said bitterly.

“He didn't say. He does blame you for Stubb, though.”

“What does that mean?”

Tom looked surprised. “You haven't heard? Stubb is dead, too.”

My jaw dropped. “What?” I blinked. “He . . . he can't be.”

“They found him in his home this afternoon. He and his apprentices were murdered, just like the rest of the Cult's
victims. The news is all over the streets. I thought you knew.”

My mind whirled.

Stubb . . . was dead?

I didn't understand. Master Benedict. Hugh. Now Stubb?

Why would the Cult of the Archangel kill Stubb? He was
in
the Cult.

I thought of Wat. Martin and the Elephant had been waiting at Apothecaries' Hall this afternoon. Wat had come from outside.

Did Wat kill Stubb? Was that where he'd been?

The murders certainly sounded like Wat's handiwork, and the boy clearly hated the man. Was he out of control, then? Did he kill Stubb out of malice?

Or was he acting on higher orders?

I didn't
understand
.

“Christopher.”

I looked up. I hadn't even realized Tom was still speaking.

“You must see now, don't you?” Tom said. “You have to leave London. The Cult is getting rid of everyone. The one man who can stop them thinks you're part of it. You can't fight them, and you can't go to Lord Ashcombe for protection.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” I said.

“I don't know. Find a new city. Get a new job. Any master would be lucky to have you as an apprentice.”

“A new apprenticeship would cost
pounds
,” I said. “And there's no work for someone like me. You know what happens to children on the streets.” I shuddered, thinking of what would happen to Sally if she didn't find a job, remembering the older children who'd aged out of Cripplegate. The lucky ones were still out there, begging, or cutting purses—or doing things even worse. Most just disappeared, never to be seen again.

The truth was, I had nowhere to go. Tom was just wishing. For a moment, so did I. I closed my eyes and ran away, somewhere safe, where Master Benedict was still alive. No more pain, no more death.

But that was just a wish.

“What are you going to do?” Tom said quietly.

What else could I do? “Go see Isaac. Get the key to the mural.” And trust that Master Benedict would help me find a way out.

“But . . . you can't even walk the streets anymore. Lord Ashcombe is putting out a reward for your capture. A big one, too, five or ten pounds. Everyone in London will be looking for you.”

I ran my fingers over the vials in the sash. “I have an idea about that. You just go return these coins before your father puts
you
in a grave.” I handed him the purse. “And don't come here again.”

“I'm going with you,” Tom said, surprised.

“No, you're not,” I said. “It's too dangerous.”

Now he looked annoyed. “You're not my master. Don't tell me what to do.”

“You have to work tomorrow,” I reminded him.

“My father sends me to buy flour from the market on Monday. I'm away for hours. I'll come by after the cry of six.”

“Tom—”

He threw his arms to the heavens. “Oh, would you just stop
talking
for once.”

I did.

“They're not going to take you,” Tom said. “The Cult, Lord Ashcombe . . . whoever. They're not going to take you, too.”

Tom turned to go. He stopped at the door. “Good night, Christopher,” he said. Then he left.

I BARELY SLEPT. THOUGH I
was exhausted, my back ached with every shift and shiver, jerking me awake if I moved so much as an inch. The jolt that pulled me out of bed for good came at six. It was the crier, calling my name.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez! Be on watch, good citizens! Christopher Rowe, murderer of Benedict Blackthorn, is at large! Grown rebellious against his master's cruelty, young Rowe has thrown his lot in with the Cult of the Archangel! His Majesty offers a reward of twenty pounds for the boy's capture.”

The crier's voice carried easily through Dr. Parrett's ruined house. I still wasn't sure I'd heard him right.
Twenty pounds?

“Good morning,” Dr. Parrett said.

I nearly fell out of bed. Dr. Parrett stood in the doorway, holding a bucket.

“My apologies,” he said. “I didn't mean to startle you. I brought you some water.” He placed the bucket at the foot of the bed, water sloshing up the side. “Are you not feeling well? James says your sleep was troubled.”

I stared at Dr. Parrett, saw his worn and tattered clothes, his body underneath, emaciated from begging for scraps. He had to have heard the crier.
Twenty pounds.

I pulled the blanket to my chest. “Dr. Parrett . . . what they're saying . . . I didn't—”

“Don't listen to them,” Dr. Parrett said fiercely. “They're liars! They—” He choked on his words. For a moment, reality seemed to punch through his madness, to the sorrow living behind his eyes. Then the knowledge was gone, and the man stood there, blinking away the truth. “You have a home here, with us, for as long as you need it. I have some bread for breakfast, when you're ready. Can I get you anything else?”

I asked for one more thing. He nodded and left. I downed the last of the willow bark, for whatever little good it would do. Then I dragged the bucket over and got to work.

•  •  •

When Tom saw me, he nearly bolted. His eyes darted around James's room, as if someone else could be hiding in this burnt-out tomb. Then his jaw dropped. “Christopher?”

I turned, arms spread. “What do you think?”

For a moment, only his mouth worked. “What happened to you?”

My hair was now jet black, stained with squid ink from my master's sash. I'd discarded Tom's old clothes, too, borrowing new ones from Dr. Parrett. I wore a pair of the man's tattered breeches, too big, and one of his son's linen shirts, too small. For that additional touch of street urchin, I'd used vermilion from crushed snail shells mixed with the remaining squid ink to mark angry maroon dots on my face. The swelling on my cheek where Martin had punched me added to the costume, though it was hardly worth the pain.

“It looks like you just got over the pox.” Tom crinkled his nose. “And you smell like you didn't.”

For the first time in days, I felt a bit of hope. If my disguise could confuse Tom, even for a second, it just might do its job. “You were wrong about the reward,” I said. “I'm worth
twenty
pounds.”

He made a face. “Keep that in mind, before you make my life any harder.”

•  •  •

The disguise worked almost too well. On the streets, more than one shopkeeper raised a club and cursed at me if I got too close, protecting his goods from being easy pickings for a nimble-fingered thief. All the while, Tom trundled along with the traffic some distance back, dragging his empty flour cart behind.

The King's Men were out in force. Three times I passed a pair of footmen close enough to touch them, their hands on their broadswords and pistols, scanning the Monday morning crowd. Their eyes passed over me without recognition, but each time I had to turn the corner before I could breathe again. At least their presence made it unlikely Wat and the others would attack me in open daylight, even if they spotted me. Still, I hurried. The longer I stayed anywhere, the more attention I'd attract.

Isaac's bookshop was tucked away on Saint Bennet's Hill, a narrow street near the river, uncomfortably close to Apothecaries' Hall. It had no storefront, and no windows. The entrance was set in the center of an old stone building with shipping warehouses on either side. The door was thick, heavy oak, banded with iron. Nailed to it was a wooden plate.

RARE TOMES

PROPRIETOR, ISAAC CHANDLER

ALL WHO SEEK KNOWLEDGE ARE WELCOME

Another phrase, in Latin, was carved into the stone above the door.

FIAT LUX

Let there be light.

•  •  •

Inside, Isaac's looked more like a library than a shop. The room was small, no more than fifteen feet square. Shelves covered the walls, except where a fire burned in the stone hearth, filling the room with warmth to fight the morning's chill. Books weighed down the shelves, so heavy in places that the cedar planks sagged in the middle. In one corner, more books lay stacked in tall columns that reached nearly to the ceiling, a maze of paper and leather blocking a narrow staircase that led to the upper floors. It made me think so much of my master that my eyes stung.

Tom and I were not alone. Directly opposite the door was a short wooden counter. Behind it, an old man with
wispy white hair and a sharp chin sat peacefully on a stool, eyes closed. Proprietor, Isaac Chandler.

His voice was soft, like a whisper. “May I help you?”

“I'm looking for some information,” I said.

He waved his bone-thin hands over the hundreds of tomes. I guess I needed to be more specific.

“I need to know what some symbols mean,” I said.

He opened his eyes. “Come closer, please. My sight is failing.”

I went to the counter, Tom trailing behind. As we got close, I saw what he meant. Isaac's eyes were starting to cloud over, like the morning's fog had slipped inside them. “A curse, for a lover of books,” he said. “I'd rather lose my heart. But God never seems to ask.” He sighed. “Who are you?”

Tom tensed. The question caught me off guard, too. The crier had made my real name unusable. “I'm . . . James Parrett,” I said, feeling my face grow hot. “I'm apprenticed to . . . Andrew Church, at Apothecaries' Hall. My master sent me to inquire about some symbols he's uncovered in an old text.”

“You've forgotten your apron.”

I looked down at my street urchin's kit, no blue apron to be found. “I . . . uh . . . destroyed it in the lab. I . . . got oil of vitriol on it.”

“A dangerous substance,” Isaac said. “But useful, in the right circumstances.” He nodded. “Very well. What are these symbols?”

I'd kind of hoped that I'd just say,
I'm looking for a book on symbols
, and he'd point and say,
Of course, here's exactly the thing you need
. Master Benedict had sent me to Isaac for the key, but he'd also said to tell no one. I couldn't be sure if he'd meant to include the bookseller in that warning. I decided to give Isaac the partial truth.

“There are a number of glyphs,” I said. “A sword, pointed down. A triangle, pointed up. Another triangle, with a line across it, like a snowcapped mountain. Things like that.”

For a moment, I wasn't sure if he was thinking or if he hadn't heard me. Then he said, “Symbols can mean almost anything. The context is important.” He seemed to be waiting for something.