“I’ve met him,” Kuro said, “Here. On Avalon. A bunch. We’re friends, sort of.”
“Liar!” one of the other lutin shrieked. “Bindal is gone. He was taken by wizards more than a dozen years ago. There is nothing that would stop a lutin from coming home if he were alive.”
“What about a promise?” Kuro asked.
“What do you know of promises, wizard?” accused another lutin who had appeared behind him.
Kuro whirled to find that the part of the kitchen he hadn’t been looking at had filled with more lutin. Some he recognized, but some he didn’t.
“Half-wizard,” Kuro said. “I’ve made a couple promises. Real ones, blood and names and truth. They feel a lot like the magic that made me follow orders.” Kuro couldn’t say much more, but he looked to Ingot, hoping he would understand what Kuro meant.
He did. He shifted from suspicious to serious. “Where?” he asked. “Where did you see him?”
“Mostly in the graveyard,” replied Kuro. He reached out his hand to Ingot. “I’ll show you.”
Ingot warily took his hand and Kuro closed his eyes. He forgot about the smells and sounds of where he was. He focused on the feel of the small hand in his and remembered where he needed to be: the mausoleum behind him, two tombstones to his left, a fallen statue to his right.
The sensation of sleet stinging his face pulled him back from his imaginings. He was there, in the graveyard, with Ingot still holding his hand and looking very upset with him.
“How did you do that?” he demanded.
“Bindal showed me,” Kuro replied.
“I guess we can stop avoiding you, then,” replied Ingot.
“What do you mean?” asked Kuro.
“Sir Talen asked us to avoid interacting with you. He was worried that you could learn to do lutin magic and that would cause problems.”
Kuro was equal parts comforted and annoyed. Dubois was interfering without explaining himself, as per usual, but at least it was his fault and not Kuro’s. “You don’t think I’m a monster?”
“Less than most wizards are,” replied Ingot. “Now where did you see Bindal?”
Kuro gestured around vaguely. “Here,” he said. “We met here a lot.” He then called out for Bindal a few times, but that would not have worked even under normal circumstances. Bindal wasn’t there, and Kuro had no way to make him appear.
Ingot, on the other hand, was distracted by a mark in the ground. “You’re really telling the truth,” he said, as he stared at the tiny imprint of Bindal’s shoe in the mud near the mausoleum.
“Yeah,” said Kuro.
“Why did you wait so long to tell us?” asked Ingot. There was a deep sadness in his voice. A desperation to find a lost child. “Why now?”
“I didn’t know,” said Kuro, apologizing for his blindness. “I didn’t even consider it until this morning. When . . . I think Bindal is the burglar. I think he’s the one that drugged everyone. I’m worried that it’s all done now, and he’s not coming back.”
“Missing for so long, and just as we find him, he is lost again,” said Ingot, tracing the outline of the footprint delicately with one of his small fingers.
“I’m surprised that you all remembered him after twelve years,” said Kuro.
Ingot stared into the distance for a moment, and Kuro noticed his fingers twitching in turn as if he were counting. “Nearly sixteen,” he said. “There are not so many of us that we would forget a stolen child. He was taken as an infant, before he could escape on his own. We searched everywhere and demanded the wizards do the same. There was never any sign of him.”
Despite the tragedy of the situation, Kuro couldn’t help but be surprised. “He didn’t seem sixteen,” he said.
“We do not all grow as fast as wizards,” said Ingot. “No matter. Thank you for telling us, Kuro. Maybe you are right, and he will not return, but we will wait and watch and begin our search again. There may be no way to find him, but now that we know to look, there is a chance.”
“There might be a way to find him,” said Kuro.
Ingot shook his head. “A lutin cannot be followed, even by another lutin.”
“I mean, I have another way,” said Kuro. He opened his bag and looked for the dragonfey inside.
It was happily munching on a pile of candy. The drawer that Kuro had hidden Bindal’s sweets in had been breached by the raccoon, and the two were gorging themselves on the remains. Kuro scowled at his own familiar as he wrestled the dragonfey away from the candy. He suffered some nips and scratches of protest as he brought the creature out of the bag, but it could have done much worse had it wanted.
“How will your familiar help?” asked Ingot, who moved to a safe distance from the very pointy monster.
“It’s not mine,” admitted Kuro. “It’s Bindal’s.”
“That is impossible,” replied Ingot. “Familiars are wizard magic.”
“It’s only impossible if you don’t know how to do it,” said Kuro. “We figured it out together.”
Ingot was skeptical, but the possibility of finding a lost child was enough for him to entertain the idea. “How will this help?”
“If you pop a familiar, the memories go back to the owner,” explained Kuro. “I don’t know how far away that can work, but we could try.”
“Do it,” said Ingot. “Please.”
Kuro explained the plan to the familiar. He didn’t know if it could understand him, but he felt bad just killing it without an explanation and apology. Whether it understood or not was unclear, but it settled itself on a tombstone.
Kuro found a rock and hefted it over the little dragonfey. He cursed at it for looking so alive. It fussed and cleaned its joints with its fangs. It might also be the last memento of his strange little friend, something that had been entrusted to him to care for when Bindal was pulled back into the clutches of his master.
Ingot had no such patience. He took a rock and brought it down on the dragonfey, whose exterior burst like a balloon, releasing the spiritual energies inside.
As they had during the unsummoning, the condensed memories shot through Kuro’s mind before flying toward Bindal. They zipped off through the forest, a swirl of glistening black, like ink pouring from a well. It went in a straight line directly across the winter landscape, ignoring trees and rocks and hills.
Kuro sped after it, gathering every bit of wind he could to push him forward and keep pace with the small stream of black. Ingot did not run; rather, he blinked from hill to hill and tree to tree.
They shouted guidance to each other as they lost and found the streak of memories repeatedly. Kuro kept better track of it in the thickest underbrush, where he could keep close to it, even though the pine boughs slapped at him and stung through his clothes. Ingot was a better lookout, able to spot where it reemerged after plunging into a hill.
The snow slowed and tired Kuro. It was waist deep in places, and he had to leap and bound over it to keep pace. Even with all the help the wind could offer, it was exhausting work, and the memories showed no sign of finding a resting place.
Kuro realized that, in their haste, he hadn’t thought of the possibility of Bindal being a thousand miles away. A lutin could be anywhere instantly. They could follow it to the veil at the edge of the island at the very least. He didn’t know what would happen there, whether it could pass across like a lutin, or be trapped. Regardless, they would have a direction to go. That was something.
Winter faded to Spring, and the inky streak showed no sign of slowing. Kuro followed through ferns and fens and flowers. Covered in mud, soaked in sweat and melted snow, with the gale-force wind being the only thing holding him up and keeping him going, he ran until the chase came to an abrupt end.
A little way behind the amphitheatre where school assemblies were held was a small iron door. It was easy to miss and unremarkable, the entrance to the cells that prisoners had been held in before execution in the days before
Avalon was a school. Kuro had visited it once on his tour of historic places of the island and had found it filled with unremarkable things: servants’ uniforms, laundry equipment, coffee makers, and stores of alchemy supplies. At the time he’d dismissed it, just a space claimed by the servants to do the dull work of school maintenance.
Now, as the memories crashed against an invisible barrier just outside the door and skidded around it like water splashed on a too hot pan, Kuro reconsidered his initial evaluation.
“What is it? What is going on?” asked Ingot, appearing beside Kuro and watching the memories dance about, trying to find a way in.
“They can’t get through this door,” said Kuro.
“There is no door. There is only dirt,” said Ingot but then realized his mistake. “Salt bricks.”
Kuro nodded. It would make sense that a prison would have protections against fey creatures and magic, probably more than the residences. To a lutin, it would be like a gap in the world. They’d just see the far side, where the protections ended.
“How can Bindal be in there?” asked Ingot. “A lutin could not cross through?”
“I think it’s possible to smuggle one across,” said Kuro. “I think that’s what the burglaries were all about.”
“We should get McCutcheon,” said Ingot. “She will know how to get in.”
Kuro shook his head. “I think Bindal will run if he sees another wizard,” he said. “He might not if it’s just me. I’ll go and try to talk to him.”
“What if Phineas is in there with him?” suggested Ingot. “Can you stand up to that man?”
Kuro’s heart skipped a couple of beats just considering it. “No,” he said. “But I can hide and run from him.”
“Is the door not locked?”
Kuro shrugged. He retrieved what he needed from his bag and corrected that problem. He pulled the door open with the delicate touch of a lifelong thief, slid past the swirl of memories still trying to break through the invisible barrier created by the salt bricks, and crept into the darkened stairway beyond.
Twenty-eight
Where There’s Smoke
Kuro paused at the top of the narrow stone staircase that led down into the dark cells. He let his eyes adjust and his breathing still as he eased the door shut behind him to keep it from clanging as it swung back on its own. As it clicked closed, a calm fell over him, a cool considered confidence earned from a lifetime in the shadows. Creeping through a darkened hall in a place he was not meant to be was more familiar than a day at school or a dinner with friends would ever be.
Noise and light spilled into the hallway below. It was soft, just the sound of occasional movement, but that was more than enough to cover Kuro’s approach. He descended the steep, narrow stone stairs like a stalking cat. A mouse wouldn’t have been disturbed by his passing.
He reached the first of the rooms that had once held prisoners for execution which now held wash basins, pillows, and bedding. Kuro slipped inside in case Bindal was hiding in the shadows. The only light was the indirect glow of an oil lamp from a chamber down the hall, reflected off the stone walls. It was just enough to navigate by, not enough to be sure whether the shapes in the shadows were piles of pillow stuffing or a huddled lutin child. He felt around, just the lightest of touch on every surface, building a map of the room in his mind and building certainty that the room was lutin free.
His fingers found residue in the wash basin, and he sampled it. It smelled like stale electricity and tasted like spicy mold and sour seaweed. It reminded him of the potion he used to coat the gold to sneak it through the veil. Similar ingredients, similar effects, he thought.
Convinced of the emptiness of the room, he crept on. The next had been converted into a makeshift lounge. There was a chair, a coffee maker, some cushions, and a desk. Hanging on a rack were a pair of servants’ uniform jackets. It was curious but clearly lacked a small lutin. The final room was where the noise and light were coming from.
Kuro waited and listened outside the half-open door. The sounds were not that of a lutin; they were too big and too loud. There were sniffs and breaths, slurps of sipping a hot drink, and the clinks of glass being bumped and moved.
Kuro needed to be prepared to move quickly if anyone caught sight of him, or if he caught sight of Bindal. If Bindal was in there, his plan, if he could call it that, was to grab him and blink away, pulling the lutin with him. He’d go to the lodge, and the adult lutin there would know what to do. He prepared himself for the blink, imagining himself in the place he needed to be so there would be no delay once Kuro caught hold of Bindal.
He held his breath, and with all the lightness and grace he could find, crept into the lit chamber.
The first thing he saw was a man whom Kuro did not immediately recognize, an adult human in a white coat, working with his back turned at an alchemy bench. Above him, shelves were lined with jars of ingredients: eyeballs and eels, silver and salt, glowing molds, and groping lichens. On his bench were trays of glass phials with coloured stoppers, each filled with a dark red liquid. Kuro recognized them well. They were Blandland blood-taking phials, the sort Phineas had used to draw blood from Kuro for his experiments.
There were dozens—enough, Kuro guessed, for every first- and second-year student at the school. The man was methodically pulling the stopper off each in turn and placing a drop of a golden liquid from a simmering beaker to his right into the blood, and then observing the effects carefully.
Strange and suspicious behaviour, certainly, but not relevant to Kuro. He poked his head farther into the room and caught sight of his target. Bindal was leaning against the wall, slumped, silent, and sad, but the moment Kuro looked at him, he jumped to attention.
Kuro wasted no time. He threw himself into the room and grabbed Bindal. Instantly they were in Kuro’s bedroom, safe from whomever it was working in the laboratory.
Kuro started to explain to Bindal what was going on, and that he was taking him to the other lutin but was unprepared for Bindal’s reaction. He didn’t argue or fight. He just blinked back to the lab with Kuro in tow.
Kuro tried to pull him back to the lodge, but Bindal refused to be pulled. He held firm to where he was, while Kuro tugged harder and harder to bring him back to the lodge. A look of shame washed over the lutin’s face as he said in his small squeaky voice, “Doctor.”
“Do not interrupt me. This is delicate work,” the man at the bench replied. He had a flat Blandlands accent and spoke in short arrogant instructions.
“Doctor,” Bindal repeated as he and Kuro continued their tug of war. “Someone is here.”
That was enough to get the attention of the man at the bench. His head snapped around to look while his careful hands remained dead still. He was a pale man with slightly thinning hair and tired eyes, as though he’d not slept properly in a decade. Kuro had seen him before. He was the servant who had come to clean up and replace Evelyn’s bedding after the burglary. The man reacted with a swift bout of profanity before ordering, “Bindal, hold him. Stab him if he moves or tries any magic.”
In a flurry, Bindal wrenched his arm free from Kuro’s grip, blinked out of sight, and then reappeared on Kuro’s back. He wrapped his legs tightly around Kuro’s waist, with one arm around his neck, leaving the other free to stab Kuro with a scalpel he was wielding.
“Tell me what you’re doing here,” said the man in the lab coat, turning back to his work.
Hoping to scare the man into giving up and running away, Kuro tried a threat. “We came to capture you and rescue this lutin.”
The man laughed without feeling. “And they sent you? A likely story. Nobody has suspected a mere servant like me for even a second,” he said. He spoke in the same way Bindal did: short, clipped orders and absolute certainty. “Who else knows you’re here?”
“Everybody,” said Kuro.
“You lie like a toddler,” replied the man. “Phineas should have taught you better.”
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br /> That shook Kuro. Whoever this man was, he not only knew Kuro’s old master, but knew enough about Kuro to have opinions.
“Tell me how you got in.”
“Picked the lock.” Kuro couldn’t think of a reason to lie, and the doctor was seeing right through him anyway.
He seemed pleased with that answer. “Of course you did. Good old-fashioned ingenuity. That door is warded up and down against magic. Any wizard would spend half a day trying to get through it. Close it behind you?”
Kuro’s silence answered for him.
“Good, that should keep nosy wizards out. I have the only key. Besides, this will all be finished in a few minutes. Behave yourself and I won’t kill you.” He picked up a flask and sloshed its contents around as a way of showing Kuro that he still had some of the potion that the rest of the students had been given. “I’ll give you some of this, and you’ll just forget meeting me. It would be a waste to damage my monster if it’s not necessary.”
Seconds ticked by like hours as Kuro tried to think of what to do. He didn’t want to lose Bindal, but he also didn’t want to get stabbed. The man dutifully added drops of his simmering potion into each phial, one by one, and sipped his coffee as he waited for something to happen.
A movement by Kuro’s right hand nearly made him jump, but the threat of a knife being jammed into his chest kept him still. He felt whiskers and a nose press against his hand, and then a pile of fur slide past it, before the full weight of the raccoon pulled on his shirt and pants as it climbed out of his bag and down to the ground.
It looked at Kuro, and then Bindal. When neither reacted, it began a cautious waddle across the small room and under the bench. Once there, it looked Kuro in the eye, as if trying to communicate a plan, demanding that he do something to distract the doctor.
“What do you mean your monster?” Kuro ventured.
“Just what I said,” replied the man at the bench. “You’re my creation. I made you.”
“I thought Ms. Crawley and my former master made me,” Kuro replied.
Volume 2: Burglary Page 30