Bound (4 page)

The lamplit streets of London were a blessed relief from the cramped and artificial confines of airports and aeroplanes. Even in the comfort of ridiculously expensive seats the fluorescent lights, air conditioning and pressurisation all got under the skin after a while. Alex breathed deeply of the cold, polluted air. Only after flying for twenty-four hours would taking deep breaths in central London feel refreshing. However filthy it might be, it was real, with genuine smells and sounds carrying through it. He had insisted they get out of the taxi a few blocks early in order to stretch their legs and take in something tangible. Welby had looked as though he would never have considered such a thing, especially at night, but clearly appreciated it as he walked alongside, looking around as though seeing things for the first time.

Alex felt swollen from reading the grimoire. He’d been fascinated, unable to put it down. For hour upon hour he had consumed the knowledge in its pages, absorbed the fantastic things it had to say until he’d read everything. Then he read it again. Now he understood the elements in a way he could never explain. He knew them like close friends, understood their personalities and intricacies. He knew intrinsically their makeup, and more, the energies that bound them to each other. It frightened him when he considered how much understanding that tiny book had forced into him. How much stuff like that could a mind take? At the same time he felt invigorated by it, desperate for more.

After a walk not nearly long enough to really appreciate the freshness of an English autumn evening they arrived at Welby’s place — a tall three-storey Victorian house in a row of similar stately two-storey homes. The street was quiet and tree-lined, with flagstone pavements and high, rough-hewn kerb stones dropping into deep gutters. Crackling brown leaves like fragments of old parchment skittered across the ground in a chill breeze, the leafless fingers of the trees scrabbling silhouettes against the night-darkened sky. Dark but with a gentle orange sheen, cityglow from the bustle beneath.

‘Let’s get inside, shower and change,’ Welby said jovially. ‘The best way to recover from travelling is to wash off the experience.’

Alex had to agree. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘And then we’ll go and have a look at this book.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Certainly. We don’t need to worry about the opening hours of this particular shop.’

‘For a man who’s been around as long as you, you don’t seem to have much patience.’

Welby stopped, his key in the lock unturned. ‘I suppose it would seem that way,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ve looked for so long for someone like you.’ He twisted the key and pushed open the door, stepped back to let Alex through.

Inside the house was immaculate and elegant. Fine art and antiques throughout, leather sofas and armchairs. Extensive bookshelves, all bowing under the weight of books, seemed ubiquitous. It appeared to be a cross between a museum and a library, but it had the general feel of a home, lived in and cared for. ‘I spend as much time as I can here,’ Welby said. ‘This house has been the only constant thing in my life.’

They passed through a lounge room into a dining room and on into the kitchen. Turning, Welby led the way back through a hallway to the foot of the stairs by the front door. An informal tour of the ground floor. Welby took the stairs. At the landing he pointed to doors in sequence. ‘Bedroom, bathroom, bedroom. That one’s yours.’ Without waiting he headed up to the top floor, casting a strange smile back over his shoulder as he went. As they climbed, Alex shivered, static lifting the hairs on his arms and neck.

At the next landing Welby pushed open a door and stepped back. ‘This is my favourite place.’ The room was large and lined floor to ceiling with books. A desk with a computer stood under the only window, a large leadlight bay recess. In the middle of the space were more leather armchairs and sofas. ‘This is the actual library, my personal study. All the most important volumes are here.’

Alex opened his vision to see the magesign. Every shelf swam with it, the whole room seemed soaked in magical energy. He whistled softly.

Welby grinned. ‘This is a priceless collection, which is why it’s also protected. You felt the wards as we climbed the stairs?’

‘Is that what that was?’

‘Yes. Without a considerable ability to break the spells you wouldn’t even see those stairs leading up here. From the outside this appears as a two-storey house like the others. You’d never suspect anything more than the roof would be where we’re standing now.’

Alex didn’t feel like letting on that he had seen three storeys from the outside without even trying. ‘So much to learn,’ he said instead.

Welby nodded. ‘Indeed. That’s my bedroom over there. Go on back down, shower, change, whatever. I’ll meet you back in the front room in half an hour or so.’

‘Fair enough.’

The taxi ride to the bookshop was entertaining, Welby almost buzzing with excitement. Alex used the time to centre himself, take back some kind of control. He lived life according to his own plans, but this whole bizarre adventure had become a game for which he had no rule book. If everything this evening turned out to be too complicated, if he felt as though his grip slipped on what little authority he had left, he would walk away. If Welby was so desperate for help, then Alex could dictate his own terms. And after that unfortunate event when he had stripped Welby’s defences away he felt as though the old man acted slightly less confidently anyway. There had been a distinct power in what he had done. He regretted it. Valuing his own privacy so highly left him under no illusions about what a violation his act had been, unintentional or otherwise. But he remained glad of the control it gave him, the small sense of power over Welby in an environment where he would have been otherwise powerless. He might be a stranger in a strange land, but he would not be lost.

The shop itself looked like something from a storybook. Down an old cobbled lane, ancient buildings of worn stone with lattice windows and heavy wooden doors. They walked past a coin collector’s emporium, a boutique clothing store and stopped by a black door with BOOKS painted on it in peeling gold, the word repeated above the multifaceted window. Nothing else. No names, no open or closed sign. Shelf upon shelf stood visible in the dim interior, watery light leaking through from a curtained-off area at the back. Welby rapped on the door.

After a few moments he tried again. ‘He’ll take a while to respond. Stubborn bugger, he is.’

‘Looks like he relies on reputation for business, rather than passing trade,’ Alex said.

‘Yes. He’s been around a while. He has an established clientele.’

‘Been around a while like you have?’

Welby gave him a wry look. ‘Yes. But he’s something of an adept rather than a magus. His skills are very limited though he thinks he’s something special. He’s actually incredibly irritating.’

‘I’ve met people like that in my game.’

Welby rapped on the door again.

‘What’s the name of this guy anyway?’

‘Mr Peacock,’ Welby replied, deadpan.

Alex laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. That’s what he insists on being called by everyone. Refuses even to admit to having a first name. Like I said — irritating. Here we go.’

The curtain whipped aside and a tiny, wrinkled man peered towards the window. Welby tapped on the glass. ‘Open up, Peacock, it’s Patrick Welby.’

Peacock waved a hand petulantly. ‘Come back tomorrow, you old fruit. I’m closed up, can’t you tell?’ His voice was high, harsh.

Welby gave Alex an apologetic look. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he called out. ‘Open the bloody door.’

Peacock stomped heavily through his shop, theatrical exasperation. He made a meal of sliding bolts, turning keys. When the door swung in he opened his mouth to bark at Welby then stopped dead when he saw Alex. His eyes roved down and back, his mind probing instantly, rudely. Alex let a pulse of anger wash through his tightly held shields for a fraction of a second, a magical bitch slap. Peacock staggered a pace backwards as Welby snorted with mirth.

Peacock was suddenly politeness personified, curiosity drifting off him like cheap cologne. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. What brings you here at this strange hour?’

‘This is Alex, a friend of mine. He’s going to read the book.’

Peacock’s eyebrows leapt skywards. ‘Is he now?’

‘He is.’

‘He’s going to try, you mean?’

‘No, he’s going to read it.’

‘Hmm. Well, you’d better come in.’

The inside of the shop was soaked in magesign. The books on the shelves swam in a mist of it, most of them simply old, beautiful things. Some, hidden here and there, were clearly something more. Not as powerful as Alex’s elemental grimoire, though similar. But the sensation from the back of the shop, seeping past the curtain like blood swirling in clear water, was far more compelling. It exuded a pull, a mental magnetism, the desire to stride in almost overwhelming.

‘He going to be all right?’

Peacock’s high voice pushed a cold knife through Alex’s thoughts.

Welby patted Alex on the shoulder. ‘Yes, he’s fine. Just very sensitive. Lead on.’

When Peacock pulled back the curtain it felt as if a furnace door had opened, blasting arcane winds. ‘Deep breaths, Alex. Relax and let it drift by you.’ Welby kept his voice low, whispered close.

Alex rubbed one hand over his face. ‘So much magic here!’

‘I know. Trust me, you’ll get used to this.’

Peacock turned. ‘What are you two whispering about?’

‘Nothing, old chap.’

They entered a room lined with more shelves, enclosed behind glass. The books were all grimoires of some description, every one heavy with magic. Alex felt the wards and shields as Peacock dropped them to allow entry. He got impressions of not only intruder shields, but fire, water, all manner of protection. He knew some of the methods used from his recent reading. The collected works here must be priceless. So much knowledge, so much power. He became dizzy. Peacock sat behind a huge mahogany desk, waving one hand impatiently at them.

An empty chair stood before the desk. Welby dragged another over from a corner. Seated at the dark wood, the three men observed each other. Peacock’s desire to look into Alex was obvious, though he wisely resisted the temptation. Alex scanned the bookseller’s shades and saw a variety of conceits, arrogance and superiority. Welby was right that Peacock thought himself something special. But his colours were dull. Alex knew better than to trust that now, having learned that a skilled magus would use such shades as a shield to their true self. He kept an eye on the small man anyway, watching for any slip. Several uncomfortable moments passed.

‘Well?’ Welby said eventually.

Peacock sank his chin into one gnarled hand, fingers seeming too long for his diminutive frame. He stared, brows knitting in a frown.

Welby made a sound of exasperation. ‘What?’

‘I’m not sure I should show you the book.’

‘I’ve seen it a hundred times.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Ah, you fear Alex here may actually be able to read it?’

Peacock harrumphed. ‘Fear, no. But
if
he can, what’s in it for me?’

‘Well, you’ll get an idea of what the book is about. Anything Alex reads he’ll read aloud. Right?’

‘If you say so,’ Alex said. ‘You’re both a lot more convinced I’ll be able to read this thing than I am.’

Welby opened his palms on the desk. ‘Come on, show us the book.’

Peacock, still frowning, fumbled in a drawer then leaned down out of sight. A sound of metal on metal and he sat up again soaked in swirling ’sign, wrapping itself around him like a hundred tiny smoke dragons. Alex was unsure what he had expected, but visions of some giant leatherbound tome were in his mind. A magnificent book with heavy parchment pages. What he saw seemed ridiculous. No more than four by three inches, maybe half an inch thick, like a pocket notebook, the cover stiff leather, tooled around the edges in an intricate design. It looked like something you’d buy in a shop that sold incense and ‘Protected By Angels’ stickers, though the power swelling off it was undeniable, almost pulsing with a sense of desperation to be out. The book begged to be opened, consumed.

Peacock turned it and placed it on the desk in front of Alex, leaving his hand on it a moment before sitting back, eyes suspicious. The old men sat with a sense of urgent expectation. The book was dark crimson red, almost black. Strange symbols were faint on the cover, pressed into leather worn shiny smooth with years. Leaning forward, staring at the alien shapes, realisation dawned. Simply by wanting to decipher any meaning in the design Alex read it as easily as reading his name. ‘Darak Uthentia.’

Peacock sat up in his chair like he’d been shocked. ‘What?’

Welby smiled.

‘It says “Darak Uthentia”. Those are the words, but I don’t know what it means. The symbols kinda impart the sound of the words, but the words are … I don’t know, they don’t make sense.’

Peacock turned on Welby. ‘Who the fuck is this whelp, Patrick?’

Welby held up one hand. ‘No need for anger.’

‘He can read it and not know what it means?’

‘Apparently.’

Realisation dawned on Alex. ‘Oh, they’re names. Proper names, that’s why.’

Peacock fumed. Patrick sat smugly confident, clearly waiting. Alex felt trapped between them. For want of anything else to do he picked up the book, opened it. Peacock’s and Welby’s attention became avid, intense.

The pages were dry and slick to the touch, some kind of ancient vellum. The age of this thing was hard to imagine. The script appeared similar to that in his grimoire, though more complicated, somehow denser. Alex focused on the first line, let his eyes slide around the writing, trying to peer past the indecipherable lettering and seek the meaning within. ‘“Darak was broken before history began, nature of the universe changed,”’ he read quietly. ‘“The Eld split the rock, the King betrayed and trapped. Nothing ever the same again.” Sounds like a bad epic fantasy novel,’ he said with a smirk. He looked up when there was no reply. Welby and Peacock sat open-mouthed, Welby entranced, though the old bookseller seemed furious. ‘I can read on …’ Alex said.

‘Could it really be a history of the Darak?’ Welby asked quietly.

Peacock shook his head, suddenly agitated. ‘I don’t know what to think. It’s all just legend and bollocks anyway. Isn’t it?’

Welby stood, paced back and forth. ‘Well, who knows anything for certain? Let him read more.’

Peacock snatched the book from Alex’s hand, diving under the desk with it, a clang as his safe door closed heavily.

‘What are you doing?’ Welby cried.

Peacock still wore a livid expression. ‘I don’t like any of this. I don’t like that you’ve just brought this boy here. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘Peacock, you’re being irrational, man! Let him read it. The things we could learn!’

‘No. I need time to think about this.’

Welby pulled a cheque book from his pocket, slapped it on the desk. ‘Name your price.’

‘What?’

‘Name your price. Absolutely any price you can imagine. Name it. I’ll pay it. That book is useless to you without someone to read it. If you won’t let him read, then sell it to me and you’ll be richer than you could possibly imagine.’

Peacock’s mouth worked like a beached fish. ‘Are you mad?’ he managed eventually. ‘I’m not selling it, especially now. It’s worth more than even you have squirrelled away. Maybe I’ll get the boy to read it to me and then I’ll decide on a price to tell
you
what it says.’

Welby sat down, steepling his fingers. ‘That’s a ridiculous suggestion. I found the boy; I’m hardly going to let him work for you.’

Alex had heard enough. ‘Who the fuck do you two think you are? I’m not some servant to be bartered over. Some “boy” for your uses. You can both fuck off.’ He stood and turned to leave. The pull of the book, even locked away under the desk, was strong. He was desperate to read more, to simply hold the thing, feel its power. But he refused to sit there and be argued over like a commodity. He strode off through the shop. He heard Welby curse the old bookseller and jump up to follow.

Alex didn’t look back. He headed down the cold cobbled street, hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. He could hear Welby puffing as he caught up. ‘Alex, please, I’m so sorry.’

‘Whatever.’

‘No, really, please forgive me. That vile man never fails to bring out the worst in me.’

Alex looked over his shoulder, pinning Welby with his gaze. ‘I’m not your property.’

Welby shook his head, wringing his hands. ‘No, please, it’s this bloody book. I’ve tried for so long to fathom something about it. When you started to read it like that, well, it was overwhelming. Alex, we really need to read it. Surely you can feel how magnificent it is. Don’t you ache to know?’

Alex stopped dead, turned to face the old magus. ‘I’m learning more and more by the minute since I met you and I’m not sure how far I want to take that. All this is pretty fucked up.’

Welby put a hand on Alex’s forearm. ‘But you do want to know about the book, don’t you?’

Alex ground his teeth. Of course he did. He had never wanted anything more in his life. There was something primordial, commanding, seductive about that tome and he was desperate to hold it, read it, absorb it. He had no doubt the thing contained incredible power. And he could read it when it appeared no one else could. Welby smiled. Alex wanted to punch him.

‘Let me buy you a drink and tell you a little bit about what you read,’ Welby said. ‘At least understand better what you’ve revealed already.’

Alex sighed. He could certainly use a drink.

A pub was never far away in London. As Welby led him into the warm, wood-panelled comfort of a traditional ale house, Alex paused. He felt something. Turning slowly, his eye fell on a beautiful blonde across the road. She seemed to be in her mid or late twenties, fit and lithe, eyes smouldering as she watched him. She wore tight jeans and T-shirt, short leather jacket, practical boots. He let his vision expand, wondering if he sensed more than simply the stunning good looks. Something lurked beneath her passive exterior. The everyday presence she maintained appeared almost flawless; he couldn’t see through it without forcing the issue, but he knew there was something else there. The blonde tipped her head to one side.

Alex blinked, confused. Too much happening too fast. He had no idea how to respond to anything any more. Was this girl hitting on him? She smiled crookedly. It was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen.

‘What are you doing?’

Welby’s voice broke his concentration. Looking at the old man, he smiled ruefully. ‘Just distracted by …’ He stopped, mouth slightly open, leaning to look down the road.

‘What?’

‘That blonde over there,’ Alex said quietly.

‘What blonde?’

‘Exactly. She was right there. I’ve never seen anyone so dazzling.’