The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “I can pay for our accommodation,” Judd said. “I know you’ve had a hard time of it.”

  “Nay, Judd, put your money away. I won’t hear of it.”

  Our finances were limited because my master needed most of what he had recently accumulated to pay for the repairs to his house. Whenever he did a job, he often had to wait to be paid, sometimes until after the next harvest. That he was willing to pay for rooms now showed how weary he must still be feeling. During the last couple of years, our struggles against the dark had taken a lot out of him. But he was proud as well, and wouldn’t let an ex-apprentice pay for his lodgings.

  A few locals sat gossiping in the corner by the huge fire, sipping ale from pint tankards, but we were the only diners. We tucked into huge plates of beef and roasted potatoes swimming in delicious gravy.

  I looked at the Spook. “You said your work had never taken you to Todmorden, so I wonder how Mistress Fresque knew about your library and what happened to it. . . . Did you tell her, Judd?” I asked.

  “Aye, that I did. I’ve not been back in the County for more than a few weeks. I wanted to return months ago, but it was still occupied by enemy troops. As soon as I arrived, I looked up Cosmina Fresque, an old friend from Romania, who kindly provided me with a roof over my head while I found my feet. She said she had some books to sell—so, of course, I told her about you. She traveled to Chipenden herself, and en route found out about the sad loss of your library.”

  “She should have visited us rather than just leaving a note,” said the Spook.

  “She didn’t want to disturb you when you were busy with all the rebuilding,” Judd explained.

  “She’d have been very welcome,” my master said. “You too, Judd. Why didn’t you bring her up to the house?”

  “As much as I’d have loved to visit, I can’t afford to pass up the chance of paid work. There was a boggart to be dealt with just over the County border, so duty called!”

  “It’s an unusual name, Todmorden,” I commented. “I wonder where it came from. Does it mean anything?”

  “All names mean something,” said the Spook. “It’s just that some are so old that their origins have long been forgotten. Some say the name is derived from two words from the Old Tongue: tod, which means death, and mor—which also means death!”

  “But others dispute that,” Judd said. “They claim the name means ‘the valley of the marsh fox.’”

  The Spook smiled. “Human memory is fallible, and the truth is sometimes lost forever, lad.”

  “Was your dad from the County, Judd?” I asked.

  “That he was, Tom, but he died in the first year of my apprenticeship, and then my mother returned to Romania to be with her family there.”

  I nodded in understanding. My own dad had died during the first year of my apprenticeship, and my mam had gone back to Greece. We’d endured similar things, and I knew how he felt.

  I’d previously met three of my master’s ex-apprentices. All of them were dead now. First there was Morgan, who’d served the dark and had been killed by Golgoth, one of the Old Gods. Second, there’d been Father Stocks, murdered by the witch Wurmalde. Most recently, in Greece, Bill Arkwright had died fighting a heroic rearguard action while we made our escape.

  I’d hated Morgan, who’d been a bully, but had grown to like Father Stocks—and even Bill eventually, though he’d given me a difficult time at first. And now I felt the same way about Judd. He seemed an amiable man. The life of a spook could be very lonely. I hoped that I was about to make a new friend.

  The next day we strode east across the moors until late in the afternoon. Then, after we’d passed through another small village, three steep-sided valleys came into view below us. In the middle lay the small town of Todmorden. I saw that it was hemmed in by dense woods that extended up the slopes. The Spook had told me that the place had a river running through it; the far bank lay beyond the County border. There was something odd about the layout of the town, though. Not only was it divided by the river, but there was a swath of trees on either bank, as if nobody had wanted to build a house too close to the water.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but this is where we part company,” Judd said.

  “After coming all this way, I thought you’d have been guiding us to Mistress Fresque’s door and introducing us,” the Spook said, evidently surprised.

  “Regretfully, I have to decline. You see, I have unfinished business across the moors to the south. It’s that boggart I told you about. I drove it out of one farmhouse and it immediately made its home in another. But you’ll have no trouble locating the Fresque house. Just ask anyone for Bent Lane. The mistress is expecting you.”

  “What’s she like, this Mistress Fresque?” asked the Spook. “How did you come to meet her?”

  “She’s a kind woman, but with a good head for business and practical matters,” Judd replied. “I’m sure you’ll get along fine. I met her on my travels. She gave me my first taste of Romanian hospitality.”

  “Ah, well, spook’s business comes first,” said my master. “But we hope to see you again before we leave. I expect we’ll be here for one night at least.”

  “Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow. Give my regards to Mistress Fresque!”

  Judd gave us a nod, then set off southward, and without further ado the Spook led the way down the steep track toward the town.

  The narrow, cobbled streets were bustling with people going about their business. There were market stalls, and street hawkers selling food and trinkets from trays. Todmorden seemed just like any other small County town, but there was one difference: its inhabitants all looked grim faced and unfriendly.

  The first man my master sought directions from ignored him and walked straight past us, with the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind. At the second attempt, he had a little more success. He approached an elderly, florid-faced gentleman who was walking along with the aid of a stick. He looked like a farmer, with his broad leather belt and big heavy boots.

  “Can you please tell us the whereabouts of Bent Lane?” my master asked.

  “I could, but I’m not sure if I should,” said the man. “You see, it lies across the bridge on the other side of the river. The people over there are foreigners and best kept well clear of!” With that he nodded and continued on his way.

  The Spook shook his head in disbelief. “You wouldn’t credit it, lad,” he said. “Just a few paces across a river and you become a foreigner! They’re just folks like us that happen to be from another county, that’s all!”

  We walked as far as the narrow wooden bridge, which was the only obvious point at which the river could be crossed. It was falling into disrepair. A few of the planks were missing and others were partially rotted through; it was just wide enough to accommodate a horse and cart, but only the foolhardy would risk taking one across. It seemed odd that nobody had thought to mend it.

  From here, the part of the town on the other side of the river looked no different from the part on the County side. Beyond the trees I saw the same small stone houses and cobbled streets, though they seemed deserted. I thought we were about to cross, but the Spook pointed back to a tavern on the County side.

  “Let’s save ourselves some trouble, lad, and ask someone who might be able to give us precise directions. We could kill two birds with one stone by finding somewhere to spend the night.”

  We entered a small tavern whose sign proclaimed its name: the red fox. The room was empty, but there was a fire in the grate, and a balding, sour-faced man in a leather apron was washing pewter tankards behind the bar.

  “We’re looking for the house of Mistress Fresque,” said the Spook. “I believe that she lives at the top of Bent Lane somewhere across the river. Could you be so kind as to give us directions?”

  “It’s on the other side of the river, all right,” said the man, not answering the question. “And crossing the river is dangerous. Few do so from this side. You’ll be the first this year.”
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  “Well, it’s certainly in need of urgent maintenance,” said the Spook. “But I don’t think it’s quite ready to fall into the river yet. Are you the innkeeper?”

  The man put down the tankard he’d been drying and stared hard at the Spook for a few seconds. My master returned his gaze calmly.

  “Yes, I’m the innkeeper. Do you require food and drink, or maybe a bed for the night?”

  “We might need all three,” said the Spook. “A lot depends on how our business goes.”

  “Cross the bridge,” the man said at last. “Then take the third street along on your left. It leads to Bent Lane. The house of Mistress Fresque is the big one right at the end of the lane, up in the woods. It’s hidden by trees, so you won’t see it until you’re very close. And stay on the path. There are bears in the vicinity.”

  “Thanks for that.” The Spook turned to go. “It may well be we’ll see you later.”

  “If you do require rooms, make sure you’re back before sunset,” the landlord called after us. “The doors are locked and barred then, and I’ll be safe in my bed well before dark. If you have any sense, you’ll follow my example.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A STUDY OF THE MOROII

  “WHAT kind of tavern shuts its doors so early?” I asked my master as we strode toward the bridge.

  “It’s obviously one that doesn’t really welcome strangers, lad! That’s clear enough.”

  “I didn’t think there were any bears left in the County,” I said.

  “They are certainly rare. The last time I glimpsed one was over twenty years ago. It sounds like most of ’em have crossed the border to live here!” the Spook said with a smile.

  “So what’s that innkeeper scared of?” I asked. “Why does he need to get to bed before the sun goes down and make so much fuss about locking his doors?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But this town doesn’t seem a very friendly place. Maybe there are robbers lurking after dark. Maybe they don’t get on with the people across the river. Sometimes there are grudges and feuds between families. It wouldn’t take much for folk from different counties to imagine all sorts of grievances.”

  We turned into Bent Lane, which soon started to rise steeply. The few houses were, without exception, unoccupied, their windows boarded up against the elements. Soon the trees took over, and the farther we walked, the closer they crowded in until they formed a claustrophobic leafy archway over our heads that shut out the sun and made everything very gloomy.

  “I wonder why they call it Bent Lane,” I said. “It’s not the slightest bit crooked.”

  The Spook nodded. “You seem very interested in words and their meanings today, lad.”

  “I do find place names interesting,” I told him. “Especially County ones, and the way their meaning sometimes changes over time. It’s funny how the word Pendle once meant hill. But now we use that word with it and call it Pendle Hill.”

  There was another place name that had been lurking in my mind since I first read it in Mam’s instructions—the Wardstone, a hill that lay to the east of Caster. I hadn’t even known it existed. Why did it carry my name? Was it just a coincidence that the ritual to destroy the Fiend had to be carried out there? My mind immediately turned to Alice and the terrible things that had to be done to her. Shuddering, I thrust the thought to the back of my mind and forced myself to concentrate on what the Spook was saying.

  “That’s true enough. And you’re right—places sometimes have very old names, from an era when the word meant something totally different. Their origins are lost in the mists of time.”

  Suddenly I realized that it was very quiet, unnaturally so. I was about to mention it to my master, but before I could speak he halted and pointed ahead to what must surely be the home of Mistress Fresque.

  “Well, lad, I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. I’m no architect, but I know what’s pleasing to the eye, and that house is a very odd mixture of styles.”

  It was large, with the central part built in the shape of a letter E, like many grand County mansions. But other sections had been added in a higgledy-piggledy manner, as if each new owner had felt compelled to build on, giving no thought to what already existed. Many different types of stone and brick had been used, and the towers and turrets lacked any symmetry—there was no sense of balance and harmony at all. But there was something else that added to my sense of disquiet.

  It was the trees, which crowded in around the house as if demanding entry. Most people would have cleared the saplings when they first started to sprout, or at least cut them back. But nothing had been done at all. Trees draped their branches over the roof or leaned against the walls as if trying to push them over. One had even grown right out of the path outside the front door. Anyone leaving or entering the house would have to step around it. It was gloomy too; the sun could not find a way through the leaf canopy.

  “The place has been badly neglected,” said the Spook. “I hope the library is in better condition! Anyway, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  It was surprising to see the house in such a state. Judd had said that Mistress Fresque was a practical woman. So why would she allow the trees to grow up like that? It didn’t make sense.

  There was no surrounding wall or gate; the path we’d been using continued right up to the front door. Walking around the tree that blocked his path, the Spook went up and rapped on it twice.

  There was no answer, so he tried again. Once more I noticed how quiet it was. It was a real contrast to my master’s house at Chipenden, which, at this time of year, was surrounded by birdsong. It was as if something huge and threatening was lurking nearby, sending all the forest creatures into hiding.

  I was just about to comment on this to my master when I heard footsteps approaching the door. Then a key was turned in the lock, and it slowly opened inward. A girl was standing before us, holding a candle in one hand and a big bunch of keys in the other. She was slim and pretty and couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. She was dressed simply in a black dress that came down to her ankles; it contrasted with her long, reddish fair hair, which was pulled back from her forehead by a coronet in the current fashion of well-to-do County women. Her face was very pale, but her lips were painted red, and at the sight of us they widened into a smile and all my former unease evaporated away.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in greeting. “You must be John Gregory and his apprentice, Thomas Ward. I have heard so much about you. I am Mistress Fresque, but please use my first name. Call me Cosmina.”

  I was immediately struck by her accent. She spoke English well but undoubtedly came from Romania, as Judd had explained. And despite her obvious youth, her eyes seemed to hold the experience and assurance of a much older woman.

  “We are pleased to be here,” said the Spook, “and are very much looking forward to examining your store of books. Judd Brinscall guided us here but had to leave on business.”

  “Well, he is my guest, so we’ll see him later—and you are most welcome. I bid you enter.” With those words she stepped aside, and the Spook and I crossed the threshold into the gloomy interior.

  “Come with me,” she said. “I will show you to the library.”

  She turned on her heel and led us down a passageway lined with a wainscot painted a dark glossy brown. Right at the end, directly facing us, was an oval door. She selected a key from the bunch and turned it in the lock, and we followed her inside. Immediately I heard the Spook gasp in astonishment.

  We were in a vast round tower, and its walls were fitted with curved wooden shelves whose every inch was occupied by books. In the center was a round oak table, its surface highly polished, and three chairs. There was another door directly opposite the one we had come through.

  This was an atrium, a circular space that extended right up to the conical roof. I glimpsed other floors—maybe six or seven—each furnished with books in the same way. The library must have contained thousan
ds of books, and it was many times larger than the Spook’s one at Chipenden.

  “You are the owner of this vast library?” he asked in amazement.

  “Nobody can ever truly own a library such as this,” Mistress Fresque replied. “It is a legacy from the past. I am just its keeper and preserver.”

  The Spook nodded. He understood that. It was exactly the position he had taken toward his own library. It wasn’t about ownership; it had been about keeping it safe for the use of future generations of spooks. Now it was gone, and he felt its loss keenly. I was really pleased for my master. He might be able to start restocking it.

  “I am the librarian, but I have the right to lend books or sell any that I consider surplus to requirements,” the girl went on.

  “May I ask what percentage of this large collection of books actually relates to the dark?” asked the Spook.

  “Approximately one seventh,” Mistress Fresque replied. “In fact, the whole of this lowest floor. Why don’t you examine the books at your leisure? I will bring you some refreshments.”

  With these words she gave a little bow and left the room by the second door, closing it behind her.

  “Well, lad,” said the Spook enthusiastically. “Let’s get to work.”

  So we went to opposite sides of the circular room and began to look at the titles on the spines. Many were intriguing. A large leather-bound tome caught my eye—Speculations on the Dark: Its Achilles Heel.

  I knew that Achilles was a hero from Greek history. At birth his mother had dipped him into a cauldron to bestow upon him the gift of invulnerability. Unfortunately she had held him by the heel, so this part was not immersed in the liquid. In later life, an enemy had fired an arrow into that heel and he’d died. So this book probably told the reader how to find the secret weaknesses of creatures of the dark, which could lead to their destruction. I thought that might be well worth dipping into.

  I was just about to lift it off the shelf when the Spook called me over. “Come and look at what I’ve found, lad!”