Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“I suppose. It must be!” Desperation glittered his eyes. “And he will have his revenge.”

“What sort of revenge does he desire, Master Flamel? Do you think he means to keep Perenelle?”

“This is my greatest fear,” he said quietly. “But he wanted the Stone, too. This, he could never achieve on his own. But what he did not realize is that Perenelle was instrumental in helping me achieve it. Her mind is keen, more than any other woman I have ever met. I had notes from my grand-père . It was said that he had made the Stone once before he died. But his notes … They were a jumble, the rambling of an old man. It was Perenelle who made sense of all the dross. Without her, I could not have made the Philosopher’s Stone. We were on the verge of creating the Elixir of Life. But without her I cannot.”

“Is that what he means to do, sir? Is that why he wants her, besides sticking a dagger into your heart?”

He laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound. “Yes, he means to stick a dagger in my heart. He has done it! But I think he does intend to make the Elixir and keep Perenelle … forever.”

Crispin shuffled on his seat. “When you say … forever…”

“I mean forever ! Once they achieve the Elixir, they will both be immortal. She will never be free of him.” He dropped his face into his hands, but he did not weep. Crispin feared he was beyond weeping now. “Our only hope is that she keeps silent, does not let slip how much she knows of how to make the Stone and the Elixir. If she tells him-or, God help her, is compelled to tell him-then all is lost. What can we do?”

“Tell me one thing more, Master Flamel. Who was the leader of this English army who killed Piers’s son?”

He lifted his face. “Do you not know? It was the late Prince Edward and his brother John, the duke of Lancaster.”

He heard Jack’s startled gasp from over his shoulder.

Crispin had known. After all, he had been there at Limoges as well, fighting at the duke’s side, some seventeen years ago. And now it all made sense. “He is alive, Master Flamel, and he is seeking revenge not just on you, but on Lord Derby. He is Lancaster’s son. At first he tried to discredit him, but just last night, Lord Henry was attacked. Had I not been there, he would certainly have been killed.”

Flamel slammed the table with his hand. The candles wobbled, spitting wax onto the table. “It must stop! We must rescue Perenelle and stop him, Maître .”

“We will stop him. Jack, here, will stay with you, keep watch. But before I leave, would you know of anyone from court who would sponsor such an operation? For I am convinced that Piers came to England at the urging of another. And with the true purpose of poisoning London’s water supply.”

“The poisoned cistern,” he murmured. “But King Richard’s court? No, I am sorry. I am unfamiliar with those of the English court.”

Crispin nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I received another clue last night. He’s given me the last clue, the last place I might find him. But he has many tricks. I need to know how to get past his defenses. He played a game of chess with me, but I do not yet know who the winner will be.”

“There are no defenses. But if he has made the Elixir and has drunk it, then you may try to kill him but you will not be successful.”

“I do not believe it. Only God can give us everlasting life.”

He stared at Crispin steadily now. “Believe what you like, Maître Guest. I only know what I know. But you must forget what you think you know.”

Crispin stopped. His heart pounded. Those words again! Though it was true. Whether Nicholas de Litlyngton told him or Nicholas Flamel, he had to forget what he thought he knew.

Crispin strode down harp Lane, taking in both sides of the street with sweeps of his gaze. He did not know what he was looking for, but he assumed he’d know it when he saw it.

Above the rooftops, he could just see the tall battlements of the Tower of London. Surrounded by a moat, it was the most secure place in all of the city, save Westminster Palace itself.

Eyes scanning the street, he saw the usual shops and houses. Nothing that could help him in his quest. Had he been duped again? Was this a false lead? No, the man played fair, and playing was what he did best. Flamel might use his means of sorcery to stop the man, but Crispin had only his own senses, and they were not helping him.

“Where is the bastard?” he muttered. He had to come out sometime, didn’t he? But where was Crispin to look for him? He ran the chessboard at the guildhall over in his mind. All pointed to Harp Lane, and as diligently as he looked, he knew he would not find any alchemical symbols to help him this time.

Leaning against a wall and folding his arms under his cloak, he settled in to wait.

Hours passed. The ringing of the bells told him so, as did the many passersby with their carts and donkeys, traveling to and from their parish churches. It was Sunday, the Lord’s day, and cause to celebrate, for the citizens of Christendom were not burdened with work on this day. None but Crispin.

He looked up to the gray sky above the rooftops, watched his own cloud of breath escape heavenward, and settled his gaze on the lane again, shadowed under his hood.

He was surprised to spy Robert Pickthorn striding down the lane, a sack over his shoulder. The man’s gait was sure but careful, and he checked from side to side and over his shoulder. What business did he have here? Especially after Crispin had told the man to lay low. Was it a coincidence his coming to this particular street? Crispin had the urge to follow him, but there was little reason to do so. The man had been a dupe of this scheme and was of interest only because Crispin was bored.

He let it go, though he watched him make progress north toward the curve of the road until he disappeared in the crowd.

So much for that. Crispin wondered if he should move on to another section of road, but at the thoroughfare seemed as good a spot as any. He had a good view of most of the lane, yet it was frustrating not knowing just what he was looking for.

Another hour passed. He rolled his shoulder and stomped his feet to get the feeling back in them. If he stayed much longer, he’d become an icicle. The clouds above were heavy with snow, he could feel it, and the air was dense with waiting. A dog wandered nearby and Crispin had been so still that it never even looked his way as it sniffed along and lifted its leg to a post.

Coming from the opposite direction, with his head covered by a hood, was Pickthorn again. His coarse hair protruded from under his hood. Someone stopped him to talk and he listened patiently, though Crispin sensed the tenseness in his shoulders and restless hands.

Then he turned his head and smiled.

Crispin jerked up. His hand fell to his dagger.

God’s blood! So that was what had unsettled Crispin. That smile. He’d seen that smile before. That one gray tooth in just the same place. Oh yes. He’d seen it twice now. He’d seen it on Pickthorn, but he’d also seen it under the bulbous nose of the impostor Bartholomew of Oxford. The alchemist wasn’t an accomplice. He was the same person!

Pickthorn continued on, without seeing Crispin. Crispin let him get several yards ahead and then peeled away from the wall and followed.

The man went nowhere in particular. He stopped at a grocer and picked through the bruised apples. He ran his hands into a sack of dried peas. Leaving that behind, he wandered farther and examined pelts from a fur merchant.

What was he doing? Crispin wondered. Simply shopping? Or did he know he was being followed and had decided to lead Crispin on a useless route to throw him off the scent?