Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“Well?” asked the strained voice of Sheriff Hugh. “What else?”

Crispin turned back toward them. “My lords, did you wish to hire me to investigate the matter for you?”

Hugh rapped him sharply against the side of his head. “Insolent dog! Do you think you are the only man in this city with a brain?”

Prevented from answering truthfully when Sheriff William shoved him out of the way, he slowly rose.

“There’s something to that,” said Sheriff William. He cast his glare upon Flamel. “You, then. You’re French, are you not? And the French bring trouble with them wherever they go.”

Instead of speaking up to defend himself, Flamel stayed quiet but tense.

“I think you should hire Guest here. He favors toiling with the dead, discovering … things.” He said the last with a sneer.

Flamel bowed. “I should be only too happy to.”

Crispin studied his shoes. Well then. Only more coin for him. And he’d planned on investigating anyway.

A glove slapped his face and he raised his head sharply to Venour. The man’s twisted scowl was aimed at him. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, knave. You heard the man. Er … who is this Frenchman?”

Flamel bowed again. “I am Nicholas Flamel, alchemist.”

The curl to Venour’s lip indicated he was not impressed. “Find the murderer, Guest. And report to me. And don’t dally. There is enough trouble in the city without your adding to it.”

“My lord?”

His scowl grew darker. “Don’t you know anything? Noblemen are stirring up anxiety at court. No one is spared from these events. The world has gone insane,” he lamented. “It’s now in the hands of Parliament.”

Crispin tried for nonchalance. “And what of … what of the king’s commissioners? What of Lord Derby?”

The sheriff jutted his chin. “What of him? Oh, that’s right. He was your pet once. Or were you his?”

Crispin ground his teeth. Just tell me, you jackdaw!

The sheriff seemed to take pleasure in saying, “Lord Derby and Nottingham stand against the king, or so the rumor holds. How do you think he is faring? At any rate, no one knows where he is, and if you know anything, Guest, you had better come to us forthwith. The king wishes to see his cousin at court.”

Henry’s visit of the night before ran through Crispin’s mind. He desperately tried to remember what he had been telling Crispin besides the silly jesting. Damn the wine that punched holes through his memory!

“But Lord Sheriff-”

He turned on his heel and signaled to Fastolf. “I’m not your herald, Guest. Go to an alehouse if you wish to get more news.” He talked to his serjeants about taking the body away to the apprentice’s family before he turned a last time to Crispin. “In any case, Guest, we expect results from you.”

Crispin bowed. “As always, Lord Sheriff.” He caught Venour rolling his eyes before the man pushed his way out the front door, followed quickly by Fastolf.

The serjeants carried the man away, and all was quiet again. Yet a rope still hung from the rafters, swinging from the draft of the ever-moving planets.

Crispin picked up the discarded bit of rope cut from the man’s leg and turned it over in his hands. Good-quality rope. Not a fisherman’s rope. New. Bought for this purpose? He placed it on the table beside the bloodied knife and parchment. The sheriffs had been so anxious to allow someone else to do their job that they had not noticed these items among the clutter, for which Crispin was grateful. He did not like to have to explain to the sheriffs the intricacies of what was truly happening. Nor did he care to lie … too much.

Just as he reached for the parchment, Avelyn swooped in and snatched it up.

“Damnable woman! Give it here!”

She pulled it away from him, holding it up to the window and studying it.

“What is she doing, Master Flamel? Make her give it to me. I-”

But he saw it. She held it up to the oiled hide covering the window opening. It allowed golden light to filter through, but it cast enough light that he saw faint lines etched on the parchment. He stepped up and took it from her, and this time she let him, nodding. He held it up for himself, finger tracing the careful invisible writing evident only with the backlighting from the window.

“Master Crispin?” Jack was at his side. “What is it? God blind me! There’s more writing there!”

Crispin brought the parchment to the hearth and took up the poker. He pulled some ashes from the cooling fire and scraped them into a pile on the hearthstone. He crouched and took some of the ashes in his hand and sprinkled them on the parchment, gently rubbing them in with his fingertips, taking special care to embed them into the words etched with an empty quill. When he’d filled in the lines, he tipped the parchment and blew away the remaining ashes.

He squinted. The lines were only just legible. He read aloud:

“‘Leave the Stone at the niche at Saint Paul’s feet in his cathedral by Sext today. Do this or she dies.’”

Jack took it from his hands and read the lines carefully, mouth moving silently.

Crispin turned to Flamel. “You knew this secret message was here.”

He shook his head frantically. “No.”

“You know far more than what you are saying. Do you realize your wife’s life is at stake? If you know the man who abducted your wife, you had best tell me.”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Then why did your servant know of this secret message?” He turned to Avelyn. She scrutinized Crispin with narrowed eyes.

“She … she is familiar with my own ways. I do many of my notes in codes and with such methods because the work I do is secret and dangerous. Of course she would naturally look for it.”

Crispin was unconvinced. “This Stone he speaks of,” he said. “And don’t waste my time lying that you don’t know what it is.”

Flamel wrestled with himself and finally nodded. “Yes. Yes. It is a very valuable broach. The most valuable thing I own, save my wife.”

Satisfied, Crispin fit his thumbs in his belt. “Well then. I suggest you fetch it. We will place it at the feet of Saint Paul as instructed and await this abductor. We’ll trap this rat with the proper cheese.”

And yet, Flamel still hesitated. Was any object worth the life of a loved one? Crispin watched the contortions of the man’s mind written clearly on his face. And then he looked to Avelyn. She was also watching Flamel. Her body tensed, as if waiting to run or jump to his bidding. Then suddenly she turned to Crispin. Her eyes seemed to bore through him, searching his soul. She was a changeling, he was certain of it. No human could have such pale hair and eyes. No human could see so clearly inside of him. He wasn’t entirely certain that she liked all she saw, but it seemed to satisfy her enough. Without being asked, she pivoted and dove into the clutter of the alchemist’s things, shoving papers aside, moving coffers out of her way to get to the doors of an ambry. She opened it and hesitated, then looked over her shoulder at Crispin. An elfin smile drew up her mouth as she touched a carving around the edge of the ambry’s opening. An audible click sounded, and a drawer that had not been there before slid forward. She reached inside, still looking at Crispin with that strange, enigmatic smile, and blindly retrieved a velvet pouch.

She pushed the secret drawer closed and it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. She handed the bag to Flamel with an absent curtsy. Those slanted faery eyes moved with Crispin as he walked over to the man and looked down into his hand.

He pulled forth a sapphire broach. It was nearly the size of a robin’s egg, deep and pure, surrounded by clear faceted crystals. Three teardrop pearls hung from the bottom of the oval of stone. “Magnificent,” Crispin whispered. Jack whistled. Crispin knew little of jewelry, but he knew enough that he reckoned the sale of a stone like this might buy him a very decent wardrobe … for everyone he knew.