Jinx's Fire (11 page)

“What was the book?” said Jinx.

Wendell looked at the ceiling again. Then he looked at Sophie. Then back at the floor. “You shouldn't blame her for keeping secrets. She's been keeping secrets since
she was four. She's
good
at it.”

“Wendell, she chose to work for the Mistletoe Alliance,” said Sophie. “She—”

“Well, I mean. Maybe people aren't real good at choosing when they're four, you know,” said Wendell. “Which is when she started training. Same as you—”

“She can stop whenever she wants,” said Sophie. “No one has to stay in the Company.”

“
What was the book?
” said Elfwyn.

Wendell looked at his feet. “The Eldritch Tome.”

“What?” said Jinx.

“But I didn't bring it!” Wendell added hastily. “And we, um, disagreed, and she hasn't come back to the Urwald since then.”

“Ah,” said Sophie. “Then there's no harm—”

“But he's already got the Crimson Grimoire,” said Wendell.

Jinx woke up late the next morning. Sophie was sitting on the stairs, staring into the bottle of shadow-Simon. She was almost hidden in a deep gray cloud of gloom.

“What'd the council say?” he asked her.

“Oh.” She looked up, rather vaguely. “They agreed not to help the Bonemaster anymore.”

“But that's good!” What was the gray gloom about, then?

“Yes.” Sophie set the bottle down.

“So what's the matter?”

“They've already taught him KnIP,” said Sophie.

“What? How can they have taught him KnIP? I thought they didn't even know KnIP!”

“Some of them do,” said Sophie.

“Including Satya, because I taught her.” Jinx was catching Sophie's gloom in a hurry.

“I wanted them to tell me what the Bonemaster's been doing in Samara,” said Sophie. “And they did. The preceptors admitted him to the Temple. They were thrilled to have an Urwalder, and even more thrilled that it was a magician. They tried to get the Bonemaster to take them through your ward, but he couldn't or wouldn't—”

“Probably couldn't,” said Jinx. “You can't lead someone through a specific exclusion, I don't think.”

He hoped not, anyway.

“The preceptors want him to find the old portals,” said Sophie.

“What old portals?” said Jinx. Then he remembered. “You mean the ones that connected the Urwald and Samara? They were closed a century ago.”

“They couldn't really have been closed,” said Sophie. “Not completely. It's impossible to undo a KnIP spell, because—”

“Once someone
knows
the spell's been done, it's
impossible to unknow it,” said Jinx.

“Right. But in the case of the portals, since hardly anyone remembers they exist, they're effectively closed,” said Sophie. “Knowledge can die out.”

“Especially in the Urwald. Anyway, he won't be able to find the portals.” Jinx hoped this was true.

“The Mistletoe Alliance hasn't seen him since before you and Elfwyn reset the ward around the portal.”

“We trapped him in the Urwald,” said Jinx. That was something anyway. “But if he's got the Crimson Grimoire, that means he can bottle lives again.”

“And deaths,” said Sophie.

Rattling Bones

T
hey didn't see the Bonemaster, but they had news of him. It came about a week after they took the Eldritch Tome to Malthus.

More refugees kept dribbling into Simon's clearing. Most of them came from the west, where they reported attacks by King Rufus's army. They also reported that the paths were overgrown—completely gone, in some places.

One man arrived from the south. His skin was pale gray and his eyes stared at nothing, and when Jinx spoke to him all the man said was “
Rattling bones, rattling bones
.”

Loud noises, voices, children, and nearly everything else upset the new arrival, so Witch Seymour took him off to
the shed and gave him brews to calm him down.

The witch came into the kitchen a few hours later to report. A crowd gathered round him as he leaned back in his chair and prepared to tell the tale.

“He says his name is Mortimer,” said the witch. “Or anyway, somebody's name is Mortimer. One's not altogether sure it's his . . . and neither, one gathers, is he. He says he was out hunting with a companion—perhaps the companion was named Mortimer—and a wizard appeared out of nowhere and threw purple potion at them.”

“The Bonemaster,” said Jinx.

“One suggested that,” said Witch Seymour. “After which one got nothing but
Rattling bones, rattling bones!
for the next hour. So—”

“So the Bonemaster turned the companion into bones,” said Jinx.

“Young man, you're interrupting a perfectly good story.” The witch frowned until Jinx muttered, “Sorry.”

“The purple potion splattered the victim,” the witch went on. “It narrowly missed our friend. There was a sizzling sound, and then a bright purple flash, and then—”

The witch looked around and smiled in satisfaction at the rapt expressions of his audience.

“Bones,” said Jinx.

The witch looked annoyed. “A skeleton. A skeleton which took a step toward our friend, and then another.
Our friend very naturally turned and fled. He thinks he ran for hours along the path. Maybe days, he doesn't know. And all the time he heard the bones behind him, rattling, rattling, rattling as they ran.”

Silence greeted this. Jinx pictured the skeleton chasing the man down the path, and then very much wished he hadn't.

“And then what happened?” said small Silas.

“The skeleton began to lose bits of itself,” said the witch. “A fibula here, a scapula there. Finally it was just a thigh bone and a rib or two in the lead, with a skull and a few phalanges scurrying along behind. After that our friend found a treehouse and stayed in it until the remaining bones lost interest and wandered away.”

“Do you think he's telling the truth?” said Jinx.

“
He
certainly thinks he is.”

Jinx nodded, digesting this. It sounded like the Bonemaster was learning some new tricks. Including—

“‘Appeared out of nowhere,'” said Sophie. “Is he sure about that?”

“Madame, he's not even sure of his own name,” said the witch.

Jinx knew what Sophie meant. “Where did this happen?”

“For all I know, only in our friend's imagination,” said Witch Seymour.

“I don't think so,” said Jinx.

“So the Bonemaster's learned to use the doorpaths,” said Elfwyn.

Jinx had been hoping no one would actually say it. It caused flaming billows of red horror in everyone who hadn't already figured it out, and then a hubbub of panicked cries.

“He can't get in . . . shut up!” Jinx shouted. Most people did. “He can't get in here. The ward around this clearing is really strong. But some of the wards are weak, especially in the west. We're going to need to evacuate everyone from those clearings into the clearings with stronger wards.”

Blast. And a selection of Jinx's favorite swear words. They were going to have to abandon the west.

Jinx sprawled among the crawling roots of a large willow and leaned his head against its cold trunk.

Trees are dying,
said the forest.
The Restless are cutting trees. And we cannot take revenge, because the power slips away.

Where are they cutting?
Jinx asked.

Toward the evening sun.
That was what the trees called the west.
The Terror.

It's King Rufus of Bragwood,
said Jinx.
His soldiers must be making camp. Where are they?

The trees gave him some idea of where, but they weren't interested in who King Rufus was. King Rufus might as well have been a porcupine or a raccoon as far as they were concerned: He was one of the Restless. If he harmed trees, he was the Terror.

King Rufus isn't even an Urwalder,
Jinx explained, irritated.

Something warm and rather nasty dripped on his hand. With it came a strong canine smell of dirty fur.

A werewolf's face was inches from Jinx's own, all fangs and drool. This werewolf was not Malthus. Its thoughts were full of fresh-caught meat.

“I see what they mean about you,” said the werewolf. “You
are
easy pickings, aren't you? You just sit off the path dreaming away. I'm surprised no one's eaten you yet.”

Jinx scrambled to his feet and pressed back against the tree. “I'm the Listener! Malthus knows me.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The werewolf made an impatient gesture. “Ever-so-civilized Malthus. We're not all like Malthus, you might as well get that straight.”

“I know that,” said Jinx. “Werewolves killed my father.” He clenched his hand around his knife, and reached for the fire inside him.

“Let's skip the sob stories, shall we?” said the werewolf. “Humans killed my mother.” It stuck out a clawed hand. “I'm Leisha.”

“Leisha?” Jinx let go of his knife to shake the hand, which was matted and dirty. He somehow had always thought of werewolves as
he
.

“Yes, and you're Jinx. I've been sent to take you to Salt City. You and that other slab of meat. The one with all the book-learning.”

“Sophie is not a slab of meat,” said Jinx. “Salt City? Who sent you?”

“Malthus.”

Jinx wasn't sure if he believed Leisha or not. She was nothing like Malthus. She was much more like people's idea of a werewolf, which was a hairy clawy fanged thing that would sooner eat you than talk to you. Jinx could see she was thinking about eating him, right now. “Why didn't Malthus come himself?”

“How should I know? Busy, I suppose. Said it's about the—what was it, some kind of gnome?” Leisha twitched an ear. “No, dome. That was it. The Elvish Dome.”

This did not sound very convincing. “Are you talking about a book?”

“Probably. Malthus likes books. I don't know why. Can't eat 'em.”

“And where's this Salt City?”

“Can't tell you. Have to just take you there.”

“Don't you think that's an awful lot of me trusting you for no reason?” said Jinx.

“Sure. But Malthus said you were kind of crazy,” said Leisha. “Are you going to go get the meat?”

“I'll
ask
Sophie what she thinks,” said Jinx. “Wait here.”

Sophie, Jinx, Elfwyn, and Wendell all went, in case there was safety in numbers.

Salt City was underground, and full of werewolves. It was not the kind of place you could go into with a calm mind, because every Urwish human instinct screamed at you not to go in there at all. It was down a wide staircase carved of salt, which ended in an underground street carved of salt, lined with buildings carved of salt.

The humans had never seen anything like it before. They stared around in wonder.

“Werewolves built this?” said Sophie.

“I believe not,” said Malthus, and tactfully left it at that.

“It's probably the entrance to an old salt mine,” said Wendell.

“Werewolves mine salt?” Sophie was being unusually slow on the uptake.

“No, humans mined salt, I'm sure,” said Jinx. “And werewolves came along and ate them. They probably had a nice salty flavor.”

“Perhaps.” Malthus gave a sigh, apparently at having missed the treat. “But it was long ago, and the story is lost in the ancient mists of the dawn of time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jinx skeptically. Salt City didn't look all
that
old. He'd never heard of it before, but that wasn't too surprising. The Urwald didn't really have much of a history. People didn't generally live long enough to pass any along.

The other werewolves were moving through the street and in and out of the buildings with a studied air of not noticing the visitors. But Jinx could see that every single one of them was aware of every move the humans made. And that most of them were feeling rather hungry.

Malthus gave a long, low growl that ended in a sharp, snapping bark.

The other werewolves moved further away, with an air of doing it because they felt like it and not because of anything Malthus had said. Malthus nodded satisfaction and turned to Sophie.

“If you'll step into my study, we can discuss our thoughts and ideas. And perhaps avoid causing any disturbance in the streets.”

They went into the nearest salt building. Jinx thought it would be Malthus's house, but instead it appeared to be a library. Bookshelves lined the walls. It almost reminded Jinx of the Temple of Knowledge. But many of the shelves were empty.

Jinx went over and looked—the books were in several different languages, but all looked very, very old.

Malthus sprawled on a heap of bearskins on the floor, in the midst of which the Eldritch Tome lay open.

“Do lie down,” he said.

Feeling rather nervous, and with a lot of glances at the door, they sat.

Malthus had the book open to the line that had always bothered Jinx the most. He ran a claw along it.

“Nadir of all things,” he said. “I think yes, we can assume that refers to the bottommost reaches of the two paths.”

“And that's underground?” said Sophie. “Literally underground, not figuratively?”

“Oh yes,” said Malthus. “I'm sure you've noticed the essential schema of the Tome—things are stated abstrusely, but never figuratively.”

“And do you agree that the seal is likely to be my husband?” said Sophie.

“From what Jinx describes of him, yes. He's dabbled in all sorts of magic, hasn't he? Lifeforce and deathforce. Such a magician could touch both paths, and would form an adequate seal if properly applied.” Malthus tapped a fang thoughtfully with his pencil.

“That's why Jinx can't use the Urwald's lifeforce power,” said Elfwyn. “The Bonemaster's drawing it away. He's pulling it through the seal.”

Jinx remembered what Simon had said to him in a vision he'd had.
The Bonemaster can strike at you through me
. By taking Jinx's power, of course; drawing the Urwald's power right through Simon and up the Path of Ice to himself.

“If the Bonemaster's doing that,” said Jinx, “then he
must be hugely powerful by now. Why hasn't he attacked us yet?”

“I don't know,” said Sophie.

She turned to Malthus. He shrugged his furry shoulders.

“I wonder,” said Wendell, “if this has anything to do with the weather.”

“Perhaps,” said Malthus. “There is usually a thaw in January. Little creatures come out of hibernation for a few days.” He licked his lips with a long, pink tongue. “But this winter has a strong grip.”

“As though it's not just heat that's left the Urwald, but lifeforce,” said Sophie musingly.

“So the winter could go on forever,” said Wendell.

Jinx hadn't even thought of that as a danger. “That's not possible! Winter always ends!” He turned to the werewolf. “It can't happen, can it?”

“I don't know,” said Malthus.

“If we take the seal out,” said Sophie, “then the Bonemaster won't be able to draw on Jinx's power anymore.”

“It's not my power, it's the Urwald's.”

“
Can
we take the seal out?” said Sophie. “Or would—it—have to be . . .” She swallowed, then went on, “. . . destroyed?”