“Hold up,” Sir Tode said, adjusting himself in the brambles. “You’re using magic books to destroy all magic? Feels a bit like cheating.”
Prigg gave an almost pitiful smile. “Cheating is what magic does best. You of all people should appreciate that.”
“But the books don’t work that way,” Peter insisted. “They create magic, not destroy it.”
“You are quite right,” Prigg said, tapping his chin. “How does one fight fire with fire?”
Sophie shifted away from her father, her eyes fixed on The Book of What floating before Prigg. “The Zeitgeist,” she said. That was what her mother had been frightened to find in The Book of What.
Prigg’s face lit up. “Ah, so you’ve heard of it!”
“What in blazes is a Zeitgeist?” Sir Tode said.
“It’s an elemental beast,” Sophie replied, recalling what she had read in The Book of What. “It is thought to have ushered in one of the ages of magic. It is controlled by something . . .” She closed her eyes, trying to recall what she had read. “Feelings, or ideas, maybe?” She shook her head. “I can’t remember.”
“Will,” Prigg said helpfully. “The Zeitgeist is controlled by force of will. Whatever you imagine, the Zeitgeist will become. When summoned, it obeys the will of the minds around it. If the minds are divided, the Zeitgeist will tear itself into nothing—as most often occurs.” He raised a finger. “But if all the minds around it are unified under a single idea, the beast will grow in strength until nothing can contain it.” He marched to the front window and removed a poster. “Fortunately, we have just such a single idea in Bustleburgh.”
Sophie stared at the words across the top of the poster:
NO NONSENSE!
“The Pyre.” Sophie felt a sickening dread in the pit of her stomach. “You were just manipulating them. Convincing them to hate magic . . . all for this.”
“Precisely.” Prigg paced in front of her, the four books floating slowly around him. “And what better day to harness this collective will than Pyre Day?” He swept a hand toward the front window, inviting her to behold the view.
Sophie looked and saw Bustleburghers rushing up and down the alley—many more than usual, given the early hour. She looked at their eager faces, their fine clothes. Many of them were clutching books in their arms. “Today is Pyre Day,” she said, her voice small.
“And what a day it shall be!” Prigg said. “You see, Sophie Quire, I have not just been searching for these books. I have also been orchestrating the perfect conditions for their use. I tried to summon the Zeitgeist twelve years ago and failed. Your mother saw to that.” He gave a tight smile. “But even without her meddling, I could never have accomplished my task alone. The history of magic is that of lone heroes against faceless hordes, but the history of man tells a different story: strength in numbers. When I summon the Zeitgeist from these pages, it will be fueled by thousands of minds—all of them clamoring for the death of stories.”
“A world without stories is a world without magic,” Sophie said, recalling what Professor Cake had told her in the library.
“That’s the idea,” Prigg said, walking to the door. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Zeitgeist to summon.”
“You’re just going to leave us here?” Peter said, twisting in the brambles.
“Well, I was planning to kill you, but time seems to have gotten away from me.” He rubbed his chin, looking at the Four Questions. “Who might be trusted with such a delicate task?” The Book of Who opened and flipped to an entry. Prigg read it and smiled. “The very man I had in mind! Torvald Knucklemeat!”
No sooner had he said these words than Knucklemeat appeared beside him on the floor of the shop. He was crouched in a fighting position, dripping wet, with one pistol drawn. Blood flowed from a long gash in his side. His other pistols were neatly slotted into his holsters, which he had since reclaimed from Taro’s lifeless body, not without some apparent struggle: The mandrake’s severed fist was still clasped around the buckle of the harness. Whatever confusion Knucklemeat might have felt about being summoned to a bookshop via magical book quickly gave way to delight when he saw Sophie and the others bound up in quickbramble. He stood and tipped his hat to Prigg. “Looks like you’ve been busy, sir.”
“Busy and then some.” Prigg opened the front door and took a deep, rapturous breath. “I have some pressing business that cannot wait. The girl should remain alive—I might find myself in need of a good bookmender.”
Knucklemeat nodded. “And the rest?” He was staring straight at Peter.
Prigg shrugged. “The rest you can kill in whatever order pleases you.” He nodded to Sophie. “Happy Pyre Day!” And so saying, he stepped lightly out the door, whistling as he went.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
PROMISES
While Prigg cheerily strolled toward the impending Armageddon, Sophie and the others remained rooted to the spot, as it were, confined by endless cords of ever-tightening quickbramble. Peter, who would ordinarily have been their best hope at escape, had been so worked up into knots that his arms were twisted backward behind his legs.
Knucklemeat, their jailer, seemed quick to appreciate the difficulty of their situation. “Eenie, meenie, miney, moe . . .” he said, walking in front of them. “Kill you fast or kill you slow . . .”
Sophie knew that these were not the correct words to the rhyme, but it didn’t seem like the time to quibble. She glanced over her father’s shoulder toward the shop window. She would have screamed for someone to help them, but the streets were now empty—everyone had already reached the Pyre grounds and was preparing for the celebration. “You have to let us go!” she said to Knucklemeat. “Prigg is heading to the Pyre right now. If we don’t stop him, every scrap of magic in the world will be destroyed—and that includes your precious scrying eye.”
Knucklemeat shrugged. “So I’ll get another.”
“You don’t understand! There will be no scryglass. No nonsense. No magic at all. The world will be nothing but a wasteland!” She thrashed against her bonds, which only clenched tighter, compressing her lungs.
“Wasteland or not, there will always be room for men in my line of work.” Knucklemeat tucked his hands into the belt of his holsters. “Can’t say the same for bookmenders.”
Sophie was getting nowhere. And every second that passed brought Prigg closer to the Pyre. She tried a different tack. She tilted her head down, lowering her gaze, recalling the way Professor Cake had spoken to her in the library. “Bustleburgh needs you, Torvald Knucklemeat. Cut us free. Together we can stop him before it’s too late.”
Sophie did not think her performance was laughable, but Knucklemeat laughed nonetheless. “It’s already too late,” he said. “I’ve promised the Inquisitor that I’d kill you off. And when it comes to killing, I’m a man of my word.”
That much she believed. Sophie felt her father’s arms, wrapped tightly around her sides, tighter even than the quickbramble. “Papa,” she whispered, turning up to see his face. “I shouldn’t have run from you. I should have listened . . .” She could feel the thorns tensing against her throat, choking her words back.
“No, child.” He shook his head, and she could see tears in his pale eyes. “This . . . this is my fault. Your mother made me promise that if something ever happened to her, I would keep the book safe. If I had not brought Prigg here . . . If I had not broken my promise to her . . .” He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to the top of Sophie’s head. “Forgive me, my love.” It was unclear whether he was speaking to Sophie or to the wife he had lost.
“Ain’t that sweet?” Knucklemeat said, wiping an invisible tear from his good eye. “Think I’ll leave dear old Papa for last—give you two a bit more time.”
“Did you show the same mercy to Taro?” Peter called from the wall. “When you murdered him?”
“Nope. Tossed his scraggy corpse over the edge of the world—boots and all.” He looked admiringly at the severed hand
clenched tight around his harness. “Well, not all.”
“What kind of brute wears a hand as a trophy?” Sophie said.
Knucklemeat sniffed. “And why shouldn’t I? It’s not every day a man slays a mandrake. Thought I’d keep a little souvenir.” The truth was a little more complicated than that. Loyal even in death, Taro had held fast to the harness containing the books of Who and What. Try as he might, Knucklemeat had not been able to break the mandrake’s grip. And so, rather than leave the harness behind, Knucklemeat had elected to chop off Taro’s hand at the wrist and cast his body into the river. The cries of Madame Eldritch as her loyal servant’s corpse floated into the shadow had rung for miles through the hinterlands.
“And what about Eldritch?” Sir Tode said. “Did you kill her, too?”
“The little minx gave us the slip before we could apprehend her.” Knucklemeat spat on the floor. “Not that it’ll do her much good. Alone in the hinterlands? She’s probably been eaten alive a dozen times over by now.” He laughed again, as if amused by the thought.
Sophie wasn’t sure how she felt about Madame Eldritch escaping. She hated the woman, but she hated Knucklemeat and Prigg even more—perhaps it was worth having the former running free if it vexed the latter? In any case, none of that had any effect on their current predicament. By the time Prigg unleashed the Zeitgeist, Madame Eldritch and everyone like her would be as good as dead.
“So you’re here to kill us,” Peter said. “Who are you going to start with?”
“I should think that’s pretty obvious.” Knucklemeat drew something small from a pouch on his belt. He held it up in front of Peter. “You know what this is?”
“Obviously not,” Sophie said. “He can’t see it.”
“Aye, but this lad, he don’t need to see it.” He waved it mysteriously in front of Peter’s face. “Do you?”
Peter set his jaw. “It’s a bullet.”
“Astonishing!” Knucklemeat said. He tossed it into the air and caught it again. “And not just any bullet, is it? This here is the very same bullet you swiped from this very gun.” While saying this, he loaded the bullet into the muzzle. He drew a paper of gunpowder from his pocket and tore off the end, spitting it onto the floor. “You left it in the back of my wagon. Thought I’d keep it just in case our paths ever crossed again.” He carefully poured the gunpowder into the pan and set the lock.
“I should warn you,” Peter said. “I’ve been shot at before. It hasn’t taken.”
“Oh, I’m not going to use it on you.” He swung his arm away and pointed the gun at Sir Tode. “I’m going to use it on your pet.”
“Sir Tode!” Peter cried, thrashing against his bonds. The quickbramble snaked around his head, pulling him back. Blood ran down his face where the thorns had cut into his brow.
“Steady, Peter,” Sir Tode said. He was staring straight at the gun, his features cut with steely resolve. “That’s no way for a hero to go out. And if I’m to die, then I can think of no better way than at the side of my dearest friend.” There was a tremor in his voice, but beneath that was something deeper, truer. “It has been an honor to journey at your side. I wouldn’t take back a second of it.”
“A touching eulogy.” Knucklemeat drew back the hammer, which made a sharp click.
“Wait!” Peter cried, pulling his head free. “I have something! Something you want. Something more valuable than any treasure you’ve ever seen.” He was breathing heavily. Rivulets of blood ran down his pale, trembling face. “Spare his life, and I’ll give it to you.”
Knucklemeat kept his pistol ready, but he did not pull the trigger. “I’m listening.”
“Peter . . .” Sir Tode said in a warning voice. “What are you doing?”
Sophie watched all this, horror mixed with confusion. What was Peter offering to the man? And why was Sir Tode so frightened?
“Let’s see this treasure first,” Knucklemeat said. “Then I’ll decide.”
Peter took a breath and nodded. “Take off my blindfold.”
“No!” Sir Tode cried, but it was too late. Knucklemeat had already grabbed the boy’s blindfold and ripped it from his head.
Peter blinked to reveal the most extraordinary pair of emerald-green eyes that Sophie had ever seen.
Droopy poets are often fond of saying that the eyes are the window to the soul, which is ridiculous on its face. But when one looked upon Peter’s eyes, the statement felt almost true. Looking into Peter’s eyes was like looking into a thousand different stories, each more impossible than the last. “Peter,” she said, breathless. “Your eyes. They’re . . . fantastic.” This was truly the only word for them.
Knucklemeat, who had been similarly dumbstruck, seemed to regain himself. “The girl’s right on that count,” he said, his voice touched with wonder. “Prettier than a diamond mine and twice as large.”
Torvald Knucklemeat, who could see more than ordinary people, understood that Peter’s fantastic eyes were not just beautiful. He understood that they held a deep magic within, the likes of which the world had never seen. “They’ll make a nice set of cufflinks.” He holstered his pistol in favor of his machete. “Only question is: Do I kill you before or after I cut ’em out?” He traced the blade along Peter’s cheek.
“A question for the ages,” said a voice from the far corner. “Is life more painful than death?”
Knucklemeat spun around. “Who goes there?” He had two pistols drawn.
Sophie strained against the quickbramble, which held her fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure step through the bookcase. It was a woman with ghostly pale skin and tangled auburn hair.
“Madame Eldritch!” Sophie exclaimed.
“Hello, little bookmender.” The woman’s voice had the drained quality of someone who has no more tears, no emotion left at all within. All traces of the charming enchantress had vanished. Eldritch’s fine dress had been reduced to a cape of tatters—muddy and torn. Her hair was a thicket that rose up from her shoulders, coated with burrs and leaves.
Knucklemeat seemed to have regained his composure. “Thought you’d have enough sense to keep clear o’ these parts, witch.” He snorted and spat in her direction.
The woman released a weary sigh and stepped around the glob of spit. “How many times must I explain? I am a simple shopkeeper.” This may have been true, but she could not have looked more like a witch if she had tried. “I have traveled a very long distance, at great pain, to find you, Torvald Knucklemeat.”
“How flattering,” he said.
Madame Eldritch’s lip curled. “You have something that belongs to me.” She stepped closer, her fingers playing on the edge of her tattered cloak. “Something I want back.” She tried to take a step closer, but Knucklemeat stopped her with the muzzle of his pistol, which he placed right at her heart.
“That’s close enough, witch,” he said.
The woman closed her eyes and took a deep, luxuriant breath. “You’re right. It is close enough.” Her eyes opened again to reveal a look of cold hatred. “Taro,” she said in an icy voice. “Kill.”
No sooner had Madame Eldritch uttered the word Kill than the hand of Taro came to life. It released its grip on Knucklemeat’s harness and crawled up the man’s shoulder. Knucklemeat leapt back, dropping his pistols to the floor.
“Get it off!” he cried, trying to knock the crawling hand from his body, but by that point it was too late—Taro’s fingers had found their mark. Knucklemeat let out a gurgling scream and fell to the floor as the thin, root-shaped fingers clenched around his windpipe.
Madame Eldritch stood over Knucklemeat, watching with an expression of bloody triumph. “The last time I saw you, I promised that you would choke on that smile. You will see now that I am a woman of my word.”
Much as Sophie wanted to see Knucklemeat dead, she found herself unwilling to watch him die. She buried her face in her father’s chest, closing her eyes. She could feel her father’s hands tighten around her shoulders.
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br /> When the act was complete, the hand of Taro released its grip and sprang back—its fingers splayed out like little legs. Knucklemeat’s body lay motionless on the floor, limp as a bag of boiled potatoes. The hand of Taro skittered over the corpse and climbed up Madame Eldritch’s tattered dress. It perched itself onto her shoulder, nestling close to her cheek.
“My dear Taro,” Madame Eldritch said, almost tenderly. “Loyal even in death.”
Sophie released a slow, trembling breath. This killing had taken place not ten feet from where she stood. Knucklemeat’s face was turned away from her—a fact for which she found herself eminently grateful. She turned to Madame Eldritch, swallowing dryly. “There should be a blossom buried in the thicket.”
“I am not a child,” Madame Eldritch said. “I know how quickbramble works.” She walked directly to a corner of the thicket and plucked a blossom buried deep near the base. At once, the thorny tendrils released their grip around Sophie. She and the others all collapsed to the floor.
“You got Taro,” Sophie said, gasping. “Why . . . why did you release us?”
The woman paused, considering her response. “An old friend once asked me the point of living in a world ruled by petty men.” Her gaze slid toward Sir Tode. “I am beginning to see the wisdom of his words. And I think it is perhaps time to change that world.”
Peter stood up, and Sophie found herself again surprised by the light of his emerald eyes. “How did you get into the Professor’s library?” he demanded, peering into the open bookcase behind him.
“You’re not the only one to receive an invitation from Professor Cake. When I had nowhere to run in the marshes, I came upon the abandoned bookcase in my jailer’s wagon. I found that what had once been a bookcase was now a doorway—opened by some unseen hand. I passed through it and found him waiting for me.”
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 26