Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

She lifted his feet onto the mattress and then cradled him so he leaned back until his head rested on the pillow. He knew his face must look like raw meat-felt like it-and one of his eyelids had swollen shut.

He closed the other eye and just breathed, thankful that he still could. Ribs weren’t broken. That was a mercy. He didn’t know how he’d avoided it, but he had.

Lying on his bed, he simply breathed for a time, relishing the warmth from the hearth. He startled upward when an ice-cold cloth slid against his face. Avelyn’s fingers on his arm soothed him back down. She carefully bathed his sore cheeks and chin, leaving the cold cloth on the most swollen parts: his nose, cheek, and eye. It felt good.

Fingers started unbuttoning his coat and he gently closed his hand over them. “Leave it. My ribs hurt from the pounding they took.” But she persisted and he found himself sitting up enough for her to pull off his hood, cloak, and coat. Fingers slipped up under his shirt and probed, testing the tender flesh and pressing gently on the ribs. When she was satisfied, she tucked a blanket over him and went to the fire to jam a poker in to urge it higher. He did not immediately notice when she left.

He must have dozed, for when she returned she was pressing something to his lips. A cup. He opened his mouth obligingly and drank. It tasted of herbs and earthy tones and was not particularly pleasant. But it did not take long for his limbs to feel warm and weightless, and it took the edge off the pain in his face. “You are a miracle worker.”

“Not so much a miracle,” said the unexpected voice of Flamel. “Alchemy takes many forms.” Crispin opened his good eye and looked at the man standing by his table. Avelyn remained next to him on the bed, holding the cup.

“I thank you both.”

“Such a dangerous job you have, Maître . So much sacrifice.”

“It must be done.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“I have a question for you, Master Flamel.”

“Perhaps you should rest, Maître. You have suffered much.”

“Just one question. How long have you been in England?”

“Some three months. We arrived on the evening tide in August. And no one knew we were coming. We told no one we were leaving and booked passage the day we left. No one knew.”

“But-”

“Rest, Maître Crispin. Rest.”

He closed his eyes and let the potion do its work.

He awoke to Jack arguing with Flamel. “And you didn’t think to ask how he got this way?” Jack stomped back and forth over the floor. “Could have been robbers. Could have been this man we are looking for. It could have been … ah! God blind me with a poker! Those men following us!”

“Jack, has anyone ever told you how loud you are in the morning?”

The boy stopped his furious pacing and flung himself on Crispin’s bed. “Master Crispin! How do you fare, sir?”

“Knocked about a bit. How do you think I fare, especially with you yelling at the top of your lungs?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just worried about you.”

He rested a hand on Jack’s and patted it. He was surprised to note that he could see with both eyes. He raised a hand to his face and felt that almost all the swelling was gone. A miracle indeed. “Master Flamel was kind enough to minister to me and stay with me all night.”

Flamel bowed to him.

“And it was the sheriffs’ men. Our dear sheriffs wanted to make certain that I got a message: I was meddling where I didn’t belong. Curious. I did not know I had gotten that far in my investigation, but clearly they thought I had. What do you make of that, Jack?”

Tucker scratched his lightly fuzzed chin. “I dunno. When did they grab you?”

“Right outside the Cockerel’s Tail Inn.”

“That is curious, sir.”

“Did our preacher return?”

“No. Which leads me to believe, sir, that he has other lodgings.”

“Accomplices?”

“Perhaps. I had many such bolt-holes when I was about my business as a young lad. Places to hide when on the run. He might have them, too.”

Crispin lay back, resting his head on his bent arm. “Why should a preacher need such hiding places?”

“He is a very bad preacher?” offered Flamel.

“By all accounts he is a very good preacher. But I suppose the feeling is relative.”

“Master,” said Jack, leaning forward, “there is a great ruckus up Cornhill Street. People are rioting.”

“What? Why?”

“The cistern. They demanded to know why it was closed. They blame the king and his ministers. The sheriffs’ men at the other cisterns are having a time of it, so I hear. I went myself to the Standard and there is fighting there as well.”

Crispin sat up. “Do you suppose there are more poisonings?”

“I don’t know, Master. But at the Tun, I did notice this sign near it.” He ran to the coffer, grabbed a wax slate, and brought it over. He sketched the sign and showed it to Crispin.

Flamel grabbed the slate from his hand and gasped. “ Maître, this is the sign for arsenic.”

“God’s blood!” hissed Crispin. “The bastard was actually taunting us! Jack, did you see this at any of the other cisterns?”

“No, sir. I looked, but I found nothing.”

Crispin lay back. His aching ribs were making themselves known again. “I do not know if that is a mercy or not.”

“And something else, sir.” He leaned in much closer to Crispin when he said, “I saw Lord Henry there, in the background. He was taking note of it all. And then he saw me and left hurriedly.”

“Damn! Curse it all!” He threw himself forward and sat up, clutching his belly. Jack was poised, ready to catch him if he fell over, but even through the stabbing aches, he reassured the boy with a quick nod. “The sheriffs were not pleased with me. At first I thought it was for being out after curfew, and then for taking so long over investigating this murder of Thomas Cornhill-which they had admonished me to do in the first place. But then they were also angry that I was ‘meddling,’ so they said, in this matter of poison in the cistern. I got the impression that they were being censured for acquiescing to my demands to protect the water supply.”

Jack gasped. “ They were censured? The sheriffs have something to do with poisoning the cisterns?”

“I don’t know. But they wanted me to stay out of it. I had begun to think that it might have been a French plot.” Flamel stiffened at that, but Crispin ignored it and pressed on. “But instead, I rather think they are protecting someone. Someone in high places.”

“Lord Henry?”

“No. They are after him, remember? It seems outlandish on the surface, and yet-”

“We have encountered the like before,” Jack finished. “The earl of Suffolk,” he muttered. “Aye, but how to discover it?” His face drained of all color. “Will … will we have to go to court, Master?”

“That seems unlikely. And you know how welcomed I would be there.” With a grunt of pain, he rose to his feet and stood unsteadily. “At any rate, we must talk to this preacher, despite what the sheriffs desire. He has something to do with one of these events. At least he knows more than we do.”

Jack offered Crispin a steadying hand. “Wine, sir? I’ve warmed some.”

“Yes. I will take it.”

“What are you saying, Maître Crispin?” said Flamel, giving him an arm to lean on as Jack hastened to fetch the wine. He helped Crispin to a seat by the fire.

“As strange as it seems, Master Flamel, there may very well be royal connections to not only the poisoning of the water, but to you and to your wife’s disappearance.”