“Now we shall see what we shall see,” he said with a wink.
Holding the device before one of the many rows containing the yellows and greens, he closed his eyes.
“W’ntesirare ostumae, ventarntateratu, oderastic!”
Almost at once the familiar glow of the craft began to surround the globe, and the little weathervane within it began to spin slowly. Lionel held it still for a moment, then he started to move it horizontally, along one of the yellow rows. As he did, the vane started to turn more rapidly; then it went faster still, until it revolved so quickly that it became a blur. He kept it in place for a moment, taking note of the spot on the chart. Then he moved the device a bit to the right, and the vane began to slow. When he moved it back to the left, it sped up again. Lowering the globe, Lionel took note of the writing beneath the colored square before which the vane had spun the fastest. The azure glow surrounding the globe finally faded and disappeared.
“Y267,” he muttered to himself as he climbed down the ladder and waddled back to the stool at the table. Hopping up on it, he placed the globe on the tabletop, next to his equalizing spoons. “Y267, yes, it is,” he chattered to himself, as if he were in danger of forgetting it. Quickly he made a note of the letter and numbers on a sheet of parchment. Only then did he seem to relax.
“What did you just do?” Shailiha asked. Bursting with curiosity, both she and Celeste walked over to the table and bent over to examine the odd globe.
“That device is called a hue harmonizer,” Lionel said simply. “Yet another invention of the master’s. It senses the color of the herb in its handle, then matches it to the one most closely represented on the chart. It is enchanted to make allowances for the passage of time, since once the herbs are dried and ground their colors generally fade somewhat. This can, of course, also be attempted by the human eye, but the results are far more vague—oftentimes even dangerous. Anyway, once the correctly colored square is found, one makes a note of the code written below it. In this case, our herb is of the yellow family, square number 267. Interesting, is it not? But we are not quite finished.”
He looked to the wall containing the vast library. “Source Book of Herbal Families, please,” he said loudly. “Yellow Family, code numbers two hundred through three hundred.”
Almost immediately a dusty, ancient book slid out and came soaring through the air. It landed gently on the table in front of him. The thick, gilt-edged book looked as old as time itself.
Thumbing through the text, Lionel finally found number 267. “Ah, at last,” he announced proudly. “Yellow number 267 is the blossom of the witherwood tree—a rarity employed primarily for the relief of pain in the joints, particularly in the upper extremities. Probably nothing that Abbey needs, but with herbmistresses, one never knows.” Then he looked at the bags lying on the floor.
“Perhaps after having seen these procedures, you can better understand the immense nature of the task ahead,” he said sadly. “Yes, the herbs can be isolated. But do you you realize how long it took to identify a pinch of just one? There are thousands of herbs in those bags, and they are all mixed together. And making things even more difficult is the fact that Abbey has a particular list of things she requires, and she needs them now. But because they are so mixed up, there is just no way to give priority to searching for the ones she wants. We must simply go through all of the bags, one by one, and trust to luck that we come upon those she needs, and soon enough to be of help.” He shook his head for a moment.
“Frankly, the task is monstrous,” he added quietly. “And I’m glad I’m not the one who has to explain all of this to my master.”
Shailiha looked skeptically at Celeste. All Wigg’s daughter could do was shake her head.
Then the princess saw a curious look come over Lionel’s face.
“But we still do not know the effects upon the witherwood’s potency from having been mixed with so many other herbs,” he said. “It would be most interesting to find out, don’t you think? And it would provide a ray of sunlight for Master Faegan, to be sure, oh yes, to be sure. Being able to tell him the potency of at least one of them might soften his mood when he hears about all of this, yes, it might.”
Taking another small pinch of the dried witherwood blossom from the spoon, he eagerly walked to another table at the far end of the laboratory. There he dropped it into a flat, gold pan.
“One of the best ways to determine an herb’s purity is to test the sample with fire,” he called back to the women. “The amount I have here is far too small to cause much reaction. Still, it should tell us something.”
Striking a common match against his trouser leg, he held the small flame to the herbs. Celeste and Shailiha cringed instinctively.
As the match burned, the top of the tiny pile of herbs began to singe and smoke a bit, but nothing more. Finally the match went out.
Smiling, Lionel turned to them. “See,” he shouted triumphantly. “I told you so! The potency must be so weak that—”
The explosion that followed sent Lionel flying through the air. He landed hard onto the tabletop near them. Beakers overturned and fragile glass tubing shattered, their contents pouring out as the gnome came to rest on his back in the slick, multicolored mess. Flames shot upward into a giant red ball, its concussive force so great that it shattered a section of the ceiling, sending smashed glass raining down. The roiling smoke was at first so thick that Shailiha couldn’t see a thing.
Fearing for Lionel’s life, she held her breath and waved her arms madly as she tried to make her way to the table she had seen him land on, the glass crunching beneath her boots as she went. By the time she got there, Lionel was sitting up, holding his head.
Bits of glass fell from him. His spectacles were more shattered than ever, and lying halfway off his nose. He was wet and sticky from head to toe, and part of his vest was still smoldering. Shailiha quickly began patting Lionel down, making sure that he was not truly on fire. In the final analysis, he somehow didn’t seem too much the worse for wear.
Then the doors to the herb cubiculum blew wide open and an anxious group of gnomes burst in carrying buckets of water. Seeing that the fire was already out, they simply stood there, glaring at Lionel. Then an obviously indignant Samantha the Squat marched straight up to Lionel, threw her hands into the air, then pushed one of her stubby index fingers at his stunned, sooty face.
“How could you do this again!” she shouted at him. Shailiha couldn’t decide which was more merciless: Samantha’s shrill voice, or her imperiously wagging finger. “You know you aren’t supposed to experiment unless the master is present! He has told you that countless numbers of times! What in the name of the Afterlife is the matter with you? Are you deaf, as well as stupid?”
Aghast, the princess and Celeste turned to Samantha. “Do you mean to tell us that this has happened before?” Celeste asked.
“Oh, yes,” Samantha answered angrily as she lifted one of Lionel’s eyelids to examine an overly dilated pupil. “You just love to impress folks with your supposed knowledge of this room, don’t you, Lionel?”
Smiling stupidly, Lionel looked back at her, his eyes partially glazed over. “I can’t hear you!” he screamed. Shailiha and Celeste recoiled at the loudness of his voice.
“You know it’s like this every time there is an explosion!” he shouted as he swayed back and forth, animatedly gesturing to one of his ears.
Beginning to wonder whether Lionel’s hearing had suddenly become selective, rather than simply impaired, Shailiha turned to look around the room. Although the entire herb cubiculum was a slippery, tangled mess, the canvas bags of herbs blessedly remained unharmed, as did the vat of oils. But how in the world were she and Celeste going to manage getting them to—and through—Faegan’s portal? Not to mention the Chart of Ascending and Descending Hues and the massive library that Faegan and Abbey would now apparently require.
And then there was the matter of Lionel. She couldn’t leave the curious gnome here,
free to conduct more of his “experiments” without Faegan’s guidance. Only the Afterlife knew what might come of it.
There was only one solution: She would have Celeste and Lionel help her hide the bags, the vat, and as many of the books as possible before Faegan’s portal opened the next day. Then all three of them would go back through the portal. That way, in the event that other slavers returned they would find neither the missing items nor the princess and Wigg’s daughter. She hated the idea of leaving the rest of the gnomes defenseless, but she could see no other way.
She shook her head as she tried to imagine the wizards’ reactions when she walked out of the portal with only Celeste and a sooty, overconfident gnome who had just blown up Faegan’s herb cubiculum.
Wigg and Faegan would not be pleased.
CHAPTER
Twenty
Such a beautiful boy you are,” cooed the aging woman in the ragged red dress. As if in defiance of her advancing years, there was a suggestive slit running a bit too high up one side of her frock, and her cheeks were overly pink with rouge. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was old and cracked, much like the lines in her skin. She smelled faintly of cheap perfume and body odor. Running a gnarled hand over the boy’s curly red hair, she bent forward slightly, so as to examine him better. He felt her coarse fingers grip his chin, then turn his face first one way, then the other.
“Would you like to come and work for me?” she asked coyly. “You look like you could do with a hot meal, and it is warm and dry where I live. Not cold and wet, like here.”
She dragged her long, painted nails gently down one of his grimy cheeks, leaving odd-looking, contrasting rows of what had once been healthier, cleaner skin. He cringed. “You do trust me, don’t you, dearie?” she asked sweetly.
Her face only inches from his own, she widened her mouth and kissed him lightly on the lips. With the kiss came the smell of garlic, wine, and half-digested fish.
His back hard against the brick wall, Marcus cringed. His foray to steal some food from this still largely unknown city had inadvertently led him to one of its darkest and most crime-ridden niches. Bargainer’s Square, he had heard someone call it.
Night was falling, and the light cast from the oil streetlamps had begun to spread silent, shadowy fingers across the sidewalks and streets, morphing the silhouettes of passersby into twisted, misshapen monsters. Halfway into this human wasteland he had realized his mistake and tried to turn and leave. But by then the aging harlot had cornered him in the alley, and it had been too late.
Having just turned twelve Seasons of New Life, he was streetwise enough to understand what it was the old whore was trying to entice him into. He had heard stories about purveyors like her. She was one of those who sold young people to older ones, and every fiber of his being told him he wanted no part of it. He had to get free of her quickly, before any of her friends might appear and help her abduct him outright.
Because if that happened, ’Becca would be alone. And ’Becca needed him.
But just as he thought he might be able to give the old woman a sharp push and run around her, a shadow loomed.
Marcus raised his face to see a man—a large, dirty man—come up behind the woman. He had a thick beard and long, tangled hair. He wore a dark cloak around his shoulders, and huge, knobby boots. From where Marcus stood, the man’s hands seemed the size of small hams.
“What’cha got here, Allison?” he asked in a heavy, gravelly tone. The woman just smiled.
The man studied Marcus. “A good one,” he said approvingly. “Nice and fresh. With him in the stable, we can sit back and make a pretty pile of kisa, that’s for sure.” A yellow, broken smile spread across his bearded face. “And he’s never been touched, I’d wager. I wouldn’t mind breaking him in myself! But I won’t, for his first time should bring a tidy sum. Might even be able to get an auction going, and get the losers to pay to watch his debut. Just like we did with that little blond girl we took from her screaming nanny on Highbridge Street last season. Now that was a night to remember, eh?”
With surprising speed the bear-man turned his great bulk and took a quick look around. There was no one near—no one, at least, who would be willing to help. He looked confidently down into Marcus’ frightened green eyes.
“So are you going to come with us peaceable-like, or do I have to rough you up? Trust me, you little bastard—if you resist, you won’t fare the better for it. And we don’t want any bruises on that pretty face, now, do we?”
Marcus glanced back at the woman. She was smiling.
As the bear-man stood there staring greedily at him, Marcus realized that if he didn’t act now, he would lose his only chance. Casually sliding his hand into his right pocket, he grasped his spring-loaded knife and ran his thumb over the button on its handle. He had never used his knife on a person before, and he knew he was about to do something awful—but it was unavoidable, if he wanted to stay alive and return to ’Becca.
He forced himself to smile.
“I am not so inexperienced as you think,” he said slyly, while fingering the comforting coolness of the knife handle. “I’ve lived my entire life on the streets, and I know what it takes to get along. In fact, I like it. But I’m tired of foraging for myself, and I do need someone to look after me.” Sick inside, he smiled again. “Before I go with you, would you like to see what I can do?”
The old harlot’s face lit up. “Of course,” she purred. Then she tilted her head back toward bear-man. “Why don’t you prove your talents on him first? I’ll watch.”
Marcus’ mind raced. This was exactly what he had been hoping for, but there would be only once chance—one razor-slim door of opportunity. If he failed, his failure would last forever. And then there would be no one left to take care of ’Becca.
He took a few steps forward, then went to his knees. Holding out his left hand, he crooked a finger suggestively at the man standing before him.
With an eager grunt, the huge man stepped nearer. The dark cloak parted. Large, meaty hands unbuttoned the front of his breeches. His face, looming over Marcus, was split in a wide grin.
Trying to control his revulsion, Marcus grinned back in kind and moved closer yet. Inside his pocket, his right hand closed carefully around the knife hilt. With his left hand, Marcus reached out toward the man’s groin. The leering brute groaned and closed his eyes.
Better yet, Marcus thought. The knife felt cold and hard, just like his heart. With one swift movement, he slipped it from his pocket and pressed the button on the hilt.
Click.
At the sound, the man’s eyes popped open and he recoiled, but it was too late. Marcus had grabbed the exposed privates and pulled hard. With a single, relentless slash he cut straight down.
Marcus cringed, feeling the sensation through the blade as it first struck home, ripped its way in, and then finally broke free. The amputated entities in his left hand suddenly felt warm, soft, and sticky, and he dropped them to the ground.
Even before the man could scream, Marcus was back on his feet, turning on the harlot. With a single slash of the knife, he cut the right side of her face from ear to chin. Then he whirled and ran, leaving behind the earsplitting, inhuman screaming of his victims.
Marcus ran from the alley and down the long, dark streets, until he thought his lungs would burst. Finally he stopped, his chest heaving, and leaned against the wall of a closed rug shop.
He was on one of the more widely used boulevards. Numbly, he wiped the knife off, folded it, and returned it to his pocket. Then he looked cautiously around the corner of the shop. Not far from him, a dark alley loomed. As he walked toward it on unsteady legs, he suddenly felt queasy. The moment he entered the alley, he fell to his knees and vomited, retching over and over until he thought it might never stop.
And then, finally, he curled up on the ground in a little ball, thought of ’Becca, and cried silently, shoulders shaking, until at last sleep came.
Rebecca of the House of
Stinton was shivering. The fire in the abandoned one-room shed had gone out hours ago, and even the embers had long since faded away. She couldn’t light another, for she had no more wood. Besides, Marcus had told her never to do so on her own, no matter what. And Marcus always knew best.
And so she remained hungry and cold in the little dilapidated shack while she waited for his return. Watching the shadows from the single oil lamp creep silently across the clapboard walls, she wondered what would happen when their dark, twisting fingers finally reached her. The cold hearth smelled acridly of spent wood, soot, and charcoal, and her hands were shaking. Curling up on the single cot, she felt terribly alone, and began to cry.
She was very frightened. Marcus had never been gone this long before. Her stomach growled as she pulled the single thin sheet closer around her shoulders. She had not eaten since the previous morning, and even that had been meager. Almost past the point of caring, she reached down to touch her belly. As she did it growled again. Then she suddenly saw the glow, and she froze with terror.
The strange, blue light beneath her cot had returned. All the other times this had happened Marcus had been with her. But he wasn’t here now, and the thought of being left alone with it horrified her. Pulling her head under the dirty sheet, she cowered, hoping the strange light would simply go away. But the light didn’t stop—it just kept getting brighter.
The glow continued to strengthen. She thought she should look under the cot, but at first couldn’t summon the courage. Finally forcing herself to get up, she went to the ground on her knees before the light. Despite her fear, she knew exactly where the strange light was coming from.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 22