The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “My heavens,” he said. “Is that a lymrill?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Max.

  “What a marvelous creature,” said Señor Lorca, reaching out a hand to stroke Nick’s quills. Nick’s tail rattled, and he unfurled his lethal, curling claws to stretch luxuriantly, scoring the kitchen’s worn red tiles in the process.

  “Nick—no!” scolded Max just as an elderly woman arrived at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a blue silk robe. She looked puzzled, alternating her gaze between Nick and the group.

  “Bah!” the old man chuckled, waving off the damage. “Everyone should be so lucky as to have a lymrill in their kitchen. Please meet my María.”

  The woman smiled politely but hurried through the introductions until she reached Cooper.

  “My William,” she cooed, pulling off his black cap to hold his face in her hands. She gazed up at him, searching his face with tender affection, while Cooper’s pale, scarred features writhed into something approximating a grin. The woman patted his face and prodded his belly. “Too thin,” she said with a conclusive frown. “Someone is starving my boy.”

  “Shhh, María,” said Cooper. “Mum’s a cook.”

  Señora Lorca glanced over at Mum, whose scowling face would have curdled milk. The woman laughed and took Mum by the arm, leading the indignant hag into a side pantry. “You are a cook, eh? Then you can help me fatten him up!”

  A half hour later, even Mr. McDaniels waved off a final pass at leftover fabada, a rich stew of pork and sausages and buttery beans in a savory broth. Señor Lorca watched with obvious pleasure on his creased face, refilling Mr. McDaniels’s glass with a strong red wine.

  “That is your first real supper in some time, eh?” asked the Spaniard.

  “Delicious,” rumbled Max’s father, dabbing his mouth.

  “Good,” said Señor Lorca. “I like to watch you eat. Reminds me of when I was younger. Now, I just peck, peck, peck like a bird.” The old man rolled his eyes and sighed. “Are you tired, my friend?”

  Mr. McDaniels gave a groggy nod.

  “I’m sleepy, too,” croaked Mum, sitting on several cushions. “I miss my cupboard.”

  “We have many beds and several baths, but no guest cupboard,” laughed María. “We do have a linen closet you might like. I will show you.”

  Mr. McDaniels and Mum shuffled off after Señora Lorca; her husband’s shining eyes watched them go. The old man sighed and patted Cooper’s arm.

  “It is good to see you, William. Now, perhaps you will tell me why you bring these two to me.”

  “Cooper,” interjected Miss Boon, “perhaps we should discuss what is suitable to share.”

  “It is all right, Miss Boon,” said Cooper gently. “Antonio has saved my life many times over.”

  “Does he have security clearance?” asked Miss Boon, stirring a cup of black coffee.

  Señor Lorca looked at Miss Boon with an amused expression. He pushed back from the table to pluck a framed photograph from an antique side table. He handed it to Miss Boon. The young Mystics instructor peered at the photo and shot a startled glance at Cooper, who looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” said Señor Lorca, “that is our William and myself, some years ago.”

  Max leaned close to Miss Boon for a glimpse. There was Señor Lorca, receiving a medal from Ms. Richter in what looked to be a great hall. In the photograph, Señor Lorca’s hair was darker and the line of his jaw had a finer cut. But it was not the younger version of Antonio de Lorca that made Max stare; it was Cooper.

  Max only knew the figure was Cooper from the Agent’s distinctive stance—hands clasped patiently with his head tilted in thoughtful repose. Max blinked and looked again. In the photo, there were no scars, no patchwork of shiny skin and ruined features. The young man at Señor Lorca’s side was strong-featured and roughly handsome, with a boxer’s nose and brilliant blue eyes that gazed with pleasure upon Señor Lorca’s medal.

  “That is an old photo, Antonio,” said Cooper, taking it gently from Miss Boon and placing it back on the side table. Señor Lorca grunted and rolled up his sleeve. Max leaned forward to peer at a red tattoo, dull and faded as a bruise upon his wrist; he had seen that mark before.

  “Wonderful,” sighed Miss Boon, resuming her air of tart skepticism. “Another member of the Red Branch. Should I take this as a confirmation that Commander Vilyak is dictating our mission?”

  “I know nothing about your mission, Miss Boon,” said Señor Lorca. “But you are not the first visitors I have had today.”

  “Who came to see you?” asked Cooper, sitting once again.

  “The witches’ representatives here in Spain,” replied the old Agent, pouring himself a coffee. “This morning. I thought it was more of those crazed children and masked fools—os peliqueiros—knocking on my door, insisting we join the festival. Ever since the Demon visited the city, they have been wandering in from the countryside, acting as though every day is Carnival. Salamanca has gone mad.”

  “Astaroth has been here?” asked David, sitting up straight.

  “Yes, my boy. Three weeks ago. He arrived and addressed the people in the Plaza Mayor. It is because he has chosen to ‘bless’ Salamanca that the city has electricity. There are to be a hundred days of festivals.”

  David made a curious face and excused himself from the table. He returned with the Conjurer’s Codex, laying it out before the wizened Agent.

  “Did he look like this?” asked David, pointing to the engraving.

  “Yes,” said Señor Lorca, wiping his glasses with a napkin. “Perhaps not so youthful, but this is a very good likeness. Where did you get this book?”

  “The Archives,” said David. “In the forbidden section.”

  “Clever boy,” said Señor Lorca, peering again at the engraving.

  Miss Boon snatched the red book up from under Señor Lorca’s nose and scanned its cover. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “David,” she said. “Please tell me you haven’t . . . done anything.”

  David remained silent; Max thought of the mysterious knowledge David seemed to have acquired their last night aboard the Erasmus.

  “David Menlo,” said Miss Boon. “Promise me this instant that you will not attempt any of the summoning spells in this book.”

  David said nothing; he merely folded his hands in his lap and stared at a yellow ribbon of wax that had dripped down a candle.

  “Promise me, David,” repeated their Mystics teacher, tapping a hard nail on the table.

  “I can’t do that, Miss Boon,” said David meekly, avoiding her eyes. “It says that Astaroth is bound to tell the truth and—”

  “Then I will keep it safe,” interrupted Miss Boon, snapping it shut and placing it on her lap.

  David’s head whipped up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but slowly closed it once again. Cooper leaned over to glance at the cover before flicking his eyes back at Señor Lorca.

  “What did the witches want?” said the Agent, changing the subject.

  “These two here,” said Señor Lorca casually, waving his spoon at Max and David. “The witches suspect that Rowan has attempted a clever ruse and is using a disavowed Agent to take custody of these children. I knew nothing of it and said so. They seemed to think you had been in Portugal, but now believe you are in Spain. I’ve been promised the witches’ eternal gratitude if I should keep a lookout for you.” The old man shook his head and sipped his coffee.

  Miss Boon shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Max glanced about the old house nervously.

  “How do the witches know this address, Antonio?” asked Cooper quietly.

  “We have helped each other in the past,” replied Señor Lorca. “They have been useful to me in my old age.”

  “Did you let them into the house?” asked Cooper.

  “I know what you are thinking, but rest assured there are no witch familiars here—no little spies hiding in the corners,” said Señor Lorca. “I am old, but I am not
blind to that silly trick, William.”

  Cooper nodded, but stood and paced the room.

  “Coming here was a mistake,” he said abruptly. “This house will be watched. I’d hoped to rest here several days, but that is impossible.”

  Inwardly, Max sighed. He was tired of walking and sleeping in tents; a few days in a warm bed sounded very appealing, but he knew Cooper was right.

  “And where will you go?” asked Señor Lorca.

  “Germany,” said Cooper.

  “Ah,” said Señor Lorca, tapping his fingers together. “Be careful, William. They’re no better than the witches. But if you must be off, perhaps I can be of some use.”

  Cooper looked at his comrade with an expectant air.

  “There are some trains running again,” said Señor Lorca. “Government trains—top officials only. You could be in Germany in two days.”

  “Can you get us on one?” asked Cooper.

  “My contacts are good. And with your talent for illusion . . . Yes, I think it’s possible,” concluded the old Agent. “Let me make inquiries first thing tomorrow morning. With some luck, you could be on the evening train to Paris, and from there on to Germany. Agreed?”

  Cooper glanced at Miss Boon before giving a slow nod to Señor Lorca.

  “We must know by noon,” said Cooper. “We’ll be gone otherwise.”

  “That gives me nine hours,” said Agent Lorca. “Get some rest while you can, my friend.”

  Señor Lorca blew out the candles and led them up the back staircase to the second floor and a richly appointed hallway that gleamed with Spanish paintings. They passed one door and heard Mr. McDaniels’s slow, rumbling snores. Mum’s one shoe rested outside the dark wood of a hallway closet. Max and David were given a spacious room toward the front of the house with a private bath and two small beds stacked with white towels and blue pajamas. While David filled the bath, Max placed the Spear of Cúchulain on his pillow and wandered over to a pair of arched windows. Peeking through the drapes, Max watched masked figures steal down the cobbled lanes and alleys like grinning rats in a great maze of stone and light.

  8

  THE RED OATH

  The next morning, Max wandered out of the kitchen, where Señora Lorca and his father were emptying the Lorcas’ pantry of hams and cheeses and breads. These were deposited into David’s battered but seemingly bottomless backpack, which had been magicked the previous year. While Mum wrapped sandwiches in waxed paper, Nick sprawled sphinx-like on the old red tiles and methodically devoured a set of old spoons. Max was restless. He trudged through the dining room, where David was arguing with Miss Boon. The Conjurer’s Codex of Summons lay upon the table; Miss Boon’s fingertips rested lightly on its crimson cover.

  “Have you seen Cooper?” Max asked.

  Miss Boon’s bright, mismatched eyes flicked from David to him.

  “Not since dawn,” she said. “I’d imagine he’s out scrounging for information. Speaking of which, I’d like to have a brief lesson once you’ve eaten.”

  “Where’s Señor Lorca?” asked Max, ignoring the prospect of an impromptu class.

  “Looking into rail passes,” said Miss Boon. “We’ll start the lesson in fifteen minutes.”

  “Hmmm,” said Max, wandering out the door to a snug den paneled in dark wood and accented with yellow throws. He examined a little bronze statuette and several more photographs before slipping through the door that separated the private rooms from the bookshop.

  The blare of horns and crash of cymbals continued to invade the house as they had throughout the night. The room was dark; only a thin slice of daylight slipped between the curtains’ crimson folds. Max walked slowly around the perimeter, stopping at a tall bookcase whose contents were labeled by a brass plate: INDEX LIBRORUM PROHIBITORUM.

  “Can you read Latin?” asked a voice behind him. Señor Lorca was standing at the far end of the room, removing a black overcoat. His white hair was swept back off his face, cheeks pink from the November chill.

  “Yes, sir,” said Max. “It says these books are forbidden.”

  “And so they were,” said the old Agent, arriving next to Max and gazing through the glass case. “Centuries ago, the Church started making a list of books like these, their Index Librorum Prohibitorum. The stuff of heretics—blasphemous! To own one of these one risked much—imprisonment, excommunication . . . and worse. During the Inquisition, anything was possible.”

  “But I’ve heard of these writers,” said Max, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. “Kant, Voltaire, Locke . . . what’s so dangerous about them?”

  Señor Lorca chuckled; his eyes twinkled like dark coppers.

  “Nothing is more dangerous than an idea. Ideas bring change and people fear change very much.” He opened the glass case to retrieve a bound, delicate-looking manuscript entitled De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium. “Do you know what Goethe said about our friend Copernicus? The same Copernicus who concluded that our little earth was not—heaven forbid—the center of the solar system?”

  “No,” said Max.

  “Mist and smoke,” whispered Señor Lorca, conjuring a hovering orb of white vapor with a cardsharp’s flick of the fingers. He blew into it, a gentle exhale that plucked at its edges until the ball dissipated to nothingness. “ ‘So many things vanished in mist and smoke! What became of our Eden, our world of innocence, piety, and poetry; the testimony of the senses; the conviction of a poetic-religious faith?’ Do you understand what Goethe was saying?”

  “I think so,” said Max. “Copernicus challenged the way people viewed the world.”

  “And thus themselves,” said Señor Lorca, tapping the manuscript before stowing it back behind the glass. “And that is very frightening, Max. Frightened people become capable of terrible things. Astaroth understands this very well. Ample evidence is in the streets.”

  Several knocks and laughter sounded at the front door.

  “Ignore it,” whispered Señor Lorca, raising a finger to his lips. “It is more of those idiot children summoning residents to festival. They will go away.”

  There were more knocks and a child’s voice called out something in Spanish before Max heard the sound of running footsteps retreating over the din of distant music.

  “Is it awful out there?” asked Max.

  “It is,” replied Señor Lorca with a grave nod. “My beautiful old university is destroyed—something unspeakable has taken up residence within it. The professors have been arrested. It is always so in such times, and I am old enough to remember others. Fortunately, my errand was worthwhile.” The Agent sighed and produced a thick stack of stamped documents and papers.

  “Will those get us to Germany?” asked Max.

  “I hope so,” said Señor Lorca. “I called in many favors. If they fail, William will look after you. He is most capable.”

  “It’s so funny,” said Max, thinking of Cooper. “I never think of him as having another name or . . .”

  “Or another face?” asked Señor Lorca with an understanding smile.

  Max nodded.

  “I know,” said the old man, sidestepping to another shelf to gaze upon the first editions arranged in neat rows. “It is hard for the young to believe that their elders were once foolish and beautiful, too.” The old man bent down to smooth the fringe on an ornately woven rug. “Our William was the finest young Agent Rowan had seen for some time. He tells me that the Spear of Cúchulain has been entrusted to you.”

  “Yes,” said Max. “It’s upstairs.”

  “An ugly thing,” said Señor Lorca, rising with a disapproving frown. “It made our William ugly.”

  “What does it have to do with Cooper?” asked Max, walking over.

  The old Spaniard’s eyes gazed at Max’s reflection in the glass case.

  “That weapon is broken,” said Señor Lorca. “Fearsome, yes, but not at full potency. Cooper sought one who might mend it and make its magic whole.”

  “And who was that?” asked
Max.

  “The Fomorian,” replied Señor Lorca, letting the syllables roll slowly off his tongue. “An ancient giant who hides still on the Isle of Man. It is the last. We hunted the others to extinction. The Fomorian is a great craftsman and of the Old Magic. He understands the secret makings of such a thing.”

  “And Cooper took the spear to him?” asked Max quietly.

  “He did,” sighed Señor Lorca. “And you have seen the result. It was I who found him—we did not think he would live.” The old man shook his head at the memory.

  “Fomorians must be awful,” said Max.

  “The most terrifying presence I have ever experienced,” said Señor Lorca, closing his eyes. “I never saw the giant, but I know it saw me. A most peculiar feeling, Max—a sudden realization that Death was very near and my time on this earth had finished. I’ll never know why it let us leave.”

  “Did you go back with more Agents?” asked Max.

  “No. There are some things that should be left alone.”

  Señor Lorca opened his eyes and looked sharply at Max as if suddenly remembering that he was there.

  “I want to give you something,” he said abruptly.

  The old man crossed the room to another bookcase, opening its glass door and removing an early edition of Don Quixote. He flipped the book open and let his fingers wander the page as though reading Braille. The bookcase slid back into the thick stone wall, revealing a small room behind it.

  “What’s in there?” asked Max, his interest piqued by glints of gold and the smell of age.

  “Everything but my María,” laughed the old Agent, slipping inside. Max heard the clinking of metal and a sound as if the man was rummaging through boxes. Señor Lorca emerged a moment later holding a long-sleeved shirt of gunmetal gray. Its surface seemed to swallow up the daylight peeking in from the curtains. As Lorca spread it between his fingers, Max perceived slender white runes and symbols woven into the fabric like moonlit cobwebs.