Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  Alchemy as a scientific tool was one thing, but the exoteric truth of it was a whole other kettle of particularly bitey fish. I knew some—such as Lady Rutledge above the drift—who studied the former.

  All those who studied the latter changed.

  Case in point, myself.

  I gave the giant of a man a wan smile as he grunted.

  “Shall I assume you’ve gotten introductions settled?” I asked lightly.

  “Quite.” Ashmore rose, and I realized that the room didn’t seem small just because Ishmael was in it. The ceiling was close enough that even Ashmore needed to bend his head lest he brain himself. “Are you hungry?”

  “A bit.” When he slanted me a severe frown, I added hastily, “I could certainly eat something.”

  “Then I shall prepare a meal when we return.”

  “Have we moved?”

  Ashmore plucked my coat from a nail hammered into a beam and passed it to me. He did not help me dress, but there was no need. “Maddie Ruth passed your message.”

  “Is she safe?” I asked, though without much worry. If she were not, I trusted Ashmore to say so right away.

  He did not disappoint me. “That she is.”

  “Good.” I sighed, thrusting my arms into the sleeves. It was stiff with mud clinging to the hem, but it would do. I dug into the outer pocket, relieved when parchment crumpled beneath my searching fingers. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Thirteen hours,” Ishmael told me, and plucked from the pocket of his overalls a scuffed pocket watch. His blunt fingers looked comically large against the tiny device as he opened the case. “And thirty-two minutes.”

  Cringing, I peeked at Ashmore through my lashes and whispered, “I am very sorry I worried you.”

  His lips thinned. “We will talk of that later.”

  I had no doubt. “Yes, of course. In the meantime, I believe I know what is making the Ferrymen go...”

  “Barkers?” Ishmael offered, but with none of the humor it might have otherwise allowed.

  “Right,” I said.

  Ashmore watched me carefully, no doubt to ensure that I did not stray too far into exoteric matters. There was no true way around it, but Ishmael trusted me—or at least I believed he did.

  When I offered insight, he took it. As did I when he offered the same.

  “I believe the Veil has found a method by which it can train a killing body,” I said quickly. A single exhale. That I believed it to be alchemical in nature was something I would tell Ashmore later. Then again, given Hawke’s not unknown talents, it could be sorcerous. “The method used is currently not yet known to me, but it appears to alter one’s physical nature.”

  Ashmore’s features tensed.

  Near the door, Ishmael clasped his hands and studied them for a moment before nodding once. “Can it be stopped?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “How is it done?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” Yet.

  It was Ashmore who asked the question I dreaded, and the quiet quality of the asking said he knew it. “Is Hawke involved?”

  I thought of the searing blue source I’d seen within the twisted aether of the Ferryman’s corpse and nodded wordlessly.

  Ishmael’s curse rumbled like a thundercloud. Saying nothing else, he left the small room. The harsh thud of his stride as he navigated stairs spoke of purpose.

  Knowing what I did of Ishmael’s responsibilities, I suspected his intent.

  “Bollocks,” I muttered—earning a winged soaring of Ashmore’s bright red eyebrows—and darted after my friend. “Ish, wait!”

  “Cherry,” called Ashmore, and then repeated, “Bollocks,” on a frustrated growl.

  As I stumbled out of the narrow stair, I squinted at the shady gray light filling what looked to be some sort of taphouse—closed by day, likely, and run by a Baker sympathizer. Ish paused by the door, fished a large wool cap from the pocket of his stained overalls and fit it upon his head with care.

  A quick study assured me that we were alone, so I wasted no effort on subtlety. “What do you plan to do?” I demanded.

  Ishmael’s broad shoulders dipped as he turned to face me. “End Hawke.”

  Ashmore caught my arm as I stepped forward, fists at my side. “You can’t,” I said tightly.

  Ishmael’s expression was not unsympathetic, but it was hard. As it must be. “There’s no help for it, girl. Whatever he’s doing, it’s costing me Bakers.”

  “I know,” I said, already weary of the words. “Ish, believe me, I know, but I don’t believe Hawke a willing accomplice.”

  Pity tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. If he’s involved, it’s easier to cut off that supply than take the head.” The phrasing told me he’d already understood the Veil to be the lead in the war he waged. “Too many lives are already lost.”

  “But what if we could stop it?” I asked. Pleaded, really, and Ashmore’s fingers tensed around my arm. I tugged at it.

  My tutor did not let go. “We have no evidential proof that we can,” he said quietly.

  The Baker nodded once. “A war’s on, girl, and we’re losing. You cannot ask me to bear any more than this.” Such strain in his simple words, such gravity. The severity he’d come to demonstrate shaped itself around that simple truth, and I sagged against Ashmore’s hold.

  “But...” But what? What could I say?

  Objectively speaking, Ishmael was right. If Hawke truly was the foundation of this nightmare, then ending him might just end it all. When the symptom could not be cured, remove the source.

  Only Ishmael had not been there when I’d seen Hawke, collared and penned like a beast. He could not wear my skin, feel the warmth of Hawke’s kiss and the pain delivered in blood.

  I did. I had.

  Was it foolishness that kept me hoping?

  Wasn’t it always?

  I closed my eyes, chin falling to my chest, and counted slowly to ten.

  Beside me, Ashmore transferred his hold to a one-armed embrace around my shoulders. “How soon before you can muster an assault?”

  Ishmael was silent for a breath. Then, “Soon.”

  A simple answer to a not so simple question. It told me that the Bakers had been preparing for months.

  War, he’d called it. And how.

  I raised my head. “I can fix him,” I said.

  Ishmael’s black eyes betrayed nothing but the determination that was as much hallmark of his own bearing as the responsibility he bore for the Bakers he led.

  To his eternal credit, Ashmore did not argue with me. “Are you sure?”

  “Well,” I amended, “I think we can. If you’d help.”

  Ashmore searched my gaze. I hoped I projected confidence; I like as not implored instead. When he inclined his head in acquiescence, relief nearly stole the strength from my knees.

  I stepped out of his hold and clasped my hands as a child at prayers might. “Please, Ish. I promise I can save Hawke and end whatever it is they’re doing to the Ferrymen. I only need time.”

  Ishmael’s full lip protruded as he studied me, as closely as Ashmore and with years of knowing between us to make it all the sharper.

  I scrambled for all the weight I could muster out of little more than wishful thinking. “If I can release Hawke from his bondage to the Veil, he could prove a useful ally. Certainly he knows of means to assault the Veil.”

  “Can you speak for him?” Ishmael asked.

  I almost laughed at the obviousness of the answer. “No,” I managed, straight-faced. “But I don’t believe he’s a man to let debts fall by the wayside. If I free him, he will owe.”

  It was a large gamble I made, a terrible risk. I felt no more qualified to predict the ringmaster’s actions than I did to speak for Ish. Each was his own man, and not beholden to me.

  At least Ishmael Communion called me outright a friend.

  After a full minute of solemn silence, he pushed his large hands into his p
ockets and rumbled, “Four days. It’s all I can give.”

  I might have hugged him, but the set to his massive build suggested it would not be welcome. The burdens he carried were heavy, even for a mountain as he was. I nodded. “I’ll have results.”

  “Aye, girl.”

  Saying nothing else, he turned and left the empty taphouse. The door clunked into place, wood scraped against the frame.

  In the silence that lingered, Ashmore’s footsteps clicked. “Let us go over what passes for a plan in that earnest mind of yours and fetch a meal, shall we?”

  I blamed the weariness dogging me for the burn of tears I blinked hastily back. “I don’t have a plan,” I confessed, my voice very small.

  Ashmore’s mouth, a soft line, tugged upward at both corners. He touched my cheek. “Well I know it, minx. Come along. You’ve a lot to tell me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Not a chance.”

  As the first words Ashmore spoke after my somewhat mitigated report, I had expected worse. We sat within the small and dingy confines of a Coffee-House—which, despite its name, did not limit itself to the bitter Turkish brew.

  I had never been inside one before, for my coin was always greedily spent upon laudanum. I had little to spare for matters such as a repast, and few Coffee-Houses remained open beyond the setting of the sun.

  What I knew of such things had been taught to me by way of a Handbook of Knowledge, published and distributed seven years prior. The writer had much to say of the peculiarisms of a London Coffee-House. It began with a simple query.

  What is a Coffee-House?

  The writer replied that it was the opprobrium of the London thoroughfares.

  This was likely true. While the exterior of the Coffee-House was often one of—dare I say it—charm, with lamps charmingly lit and pretty windows framed by sculptural accouterments, the interior would never be called anything else but dim, cramped and greasy. Stalls separated tables, provided a measure of privacy—and of idle forgetfulness.

  One ordered not because a man came to fetch one’s instruction, but by way of banging upon the table with a ladle or a cup. A man in shirtsleeves and apron—or woman in same—would arrive without fanfare, hear the order, grunt some measure of response, then leave again.

  Were we situated above the drift, as Ashmore was no doubt inclined, we might have chosen a small yet much cleaner restaurant—a demesne for what middle-classes could afford such matters; neither overly highbrow to avoid suspicion and gossip, nor a common Coffee-House.

  They were, near as I had ever placed them, not nearly as reviled as a Cookshop, but only just. In truth, not a soul above the drift would dare call the awful concoction they labeled coffee as such, and while the number of fermented fruits of the vine they maintained remained high, few might be considered palatable.

  Ashmore and I claimed coffee—I was not morally opposed to the brew, only preferential in my libations; I did not dare risk their watered-down tea—and ordered with it bread and something passing for butter, a side of bacon I assumed hid itself under all the black char, and various other dishes considered a fair repast were it not for the uncertainty of their origins.

  Ashmore ate while I informed him of my doings, maintaining a severe regard as I did so. That it allowed me the opportunity to ensure that the food was not poisoned by some trick of ill luck and handling was my own private victory.

  I did not believe anything would harm Ashmore. He was a veritable Methuselah among mortals.

  I left out the details of Hawke’s kiss, but included the alchemical thread of brilliant azure I found tangled within the dead Ferryman.

  The denial he favored me with came after I suggested that I intended to crack the Menagerie grounds once more.

  “You’ve said yourself that we can’t do anything for him as long as he is behind the walls,” I pointed out, breaking the bread without care for utensils. There was a certain freedom in these things that Fanny would never have allowed me; bless her. It seemed I was destined to fall far short of her tutelage.

  “You’ve said yourself that you were recognized,” he countered, wiping at his mouth with his own handkerchief—they did not provide them here.

  My features twisted into a mask of annoyance. “Osoba’s got deucedly sharp eyes.”

  “Mind your language,” he returned, but mildly. It was hardly the worst I’d ever said. “And that is one reason why you won’t be going in. We have tried this before.”

  “But what else can we do?” I dragged the bread through the fat left dripping upon my plate. Now that I’d smelled food, I was remarkably hungry. Even if the fare worried my remaining sensibilities. “I’m not thinking to wander in broad as day.”

  “Which is worse,” he replied with level simplicity. He leaned back in the booth as if he were a gentlemen in his own study, chipped cup of lukewarm coffee cradled in one hand. He took his without cream and sugar.

  Because I did not trust such things in this place, I drank mine also without—and regretted it. They made the whole black as pitch, left to stew until flavor had been replaced by bitterness and the jarring realization that one might as well be licking sap from a tree.

  Beneath Ashmore’s simple street cap—not at all the sort of gentlemanly attire I’d come to expect from him—he looked like any other bloke, and I constantly found myself forgetting that he was every bit as much the Society creature I was meant to be. He wore suspenders over his shirtsleeves, brown fustian trousers and a patched dun jacket.

  They suited him. Then again, much did.

  Perhaps it was the worldliness about him that allowed him to appear at ease wherever he came to rest. Had I as many years behind me as he did, I might be just as accustomed.

  Then again, I might also be terribly lonely. I had never truly thought what it must mean to be even a century old, much less more. The whole seemed overwhelming.

  I polished off my plate, ignoring the twitch of amusement Ashmore favored me. “I know for certain that the Veil is angry at Hawke.”

  “And you,” he pointed out. “Most specifically you.”

  “But there’s most certainly conflict brewing there,” I insisted. “I’d never heard the spokesman use the singular before. He said ‘I,’ and he did so while the woman was in the room.”

  Ashmore considered this. “Hypothetically,” he allowed, inclining his head, “say that what you believe is true. What then?”

  He had me there. I set my fork down beside the plate with care. “I haven’t quite figured that out,” I said slowly. “’Tis difficult to plan so far without verifiable fact.”

  “At least you aren’t all mad,” he said dryly.

  I wrinkled my nose at him. Before I could lob a retort back in kind, I recalled that what I had meant to ask. “You know Chinese, do you not?” When he raised his eyebrows in inquiry, I shaped my mouth around the words I had heard the servant say. “Zhōngshān Láng Zhuàn.”

  Ashmore choked on what I think was meant to be a laugh, quickly smothered. For all the amusement he showed me, it did not quite reach his eyes, and he leveled a firm stare upon me once he collected his composure. “Where did you hear that?” A beat. “Well-remembered, by the by.”

  I was not known for my ability to grasp the language I mimicked. His praise, slight as it was, warmed me. “The servant said this to me.”

  “When?”

  “When I had thought to go to Hawke after his escape,” I answered, and could only mimic the rise of his eyebrows when understanding shaped his nod. “Why? What does it mean?”

  Ashmore laced his hands together, elbows braced upon the table. It was a terribly rude gesture, or would have been if we were seated at Fanny’s table. “It means that you owe your rescuer your gratitude,” he told me. “She was offering a warning.”

  “In gibberish?” I demanded.

  He leveled me a look made of stern censure. “In Chinese,” he corrected. “She spoke of an old tale, The Wolf of Zhongshan.”

  It mea
nt nothing to me.

  “In short,” he explained, “it tells the story of a foolish scholar who saves a wolf from a hunter, only to narrowly escape being eaten by it.” When I shook my head at him, utterly bemused, he sighed. “You are altogether too literal at times. It is a cautionary tale, minx, and one you would do well to remember. She was warning you that you would get no thanks for your good intentions. Your efforts to rescue Hawke—the metaphorical tiger—might well result in your devouring.”

  If you are caught by either god, you will be devoured.

  A warning? A chill ripped down my spine, and I shifted upon my suddenly too-uncomfortable seat. There was no padding upon the wooden bench. I frowned down at my plate. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “It means—”

  “No,” I cut in, lifting my gaze to my tutor’s. A fire burned somewhere within me, but I could not say if it was anger or fear that fueled it. “I mean that I do not know why everyone I know is so determined to drive me from Hawke. They say he is a tiger as though they expect him to sprout fur and fangs at any moment.”

  Ashmore searched my face but said nothing. As was proper, for I demanded no answer in my frustrations.

  “Is he not just Hawke?” I asked, pressing both hands to my chest when a thread of helplessness infected my voice. It warbled some, and Ashmore’s expression turned a shade more sympathetic.

  That, too, was unwanted.

  “Whatever it might be,” I said hastily, lest he offer words to his sympathy and undo my determination entirely, “I cannot let all this talk of tigers and dragons and wolves threaten my resolve. Hawke deserves the opportunity to be free.”

  “He does,” Ashmore said firmly. When I blinked, surprised at his certainty, he reached over to take my hand between his. “But you would be wise to heed the warnings inherent in each tale. The battles between the dragon and the tiger have always ended in sacrifice.”

  “Oh, tosh,” I snorted, snatching my hand back. “If that were so, why would they bother to keep Hawke where he was such a danger? They’d be better suited to kill him outright.”