The Blackthorn Key (15 page)

Oswyn frowned. “That's not Stubb's apprentice.”

“He called Stubb ‘master.' And he was wearing the blue apron.”

“ ‘Master' is a common title. And anyone can wear a blue apron.”

“But—”

“Nathaniel Stubb has two apprentices,” Oswyn said, irritated. “Edgar Raleigh and Adam Horwath. Edgar's the right age, but his hair is black, not red, and ‘muscly' is not how anyone with eyes would describe him. Adam's a year younger than you, and half a head shorter. Stubb has no other apprentices. I know this for a fact, since—as I'm sure you recall—I've personally tested every candidate for apprenticeship in the past ten years. Who told you this nonsense?”

“I heard them,” I said. “Last night. In my master's shop.”

“What on God's blessed Earth were you doing in your master's shop?”

My cheeks flushed. I tried not to look down at the bulge in my pocket. Or the sash under my shirt, which was looking pretty bulgy itself.

It didn't matter. “You went back for that cube, didn't you?” he said. I responded by looking guilty. Oswyn sighed. “Oh, Christopher. What am I going to do with you?” He waved for me to sit. “All right. Tell me.”

I described our ransacked shop. He didn't care about our lost birds. He did care about the conversation I overheard.

Oswyn was stunned. “Why would Nathaniel kill Benedict? Had things really got so bad between them?”

“He was looking for something,” I said. “Wat called it the ‘fire.' ”

“The fire? Is that one of your master's remedies?”

“I don't know,” I said. “He never mentioned it.”

Oswyn looked puzzled. “There's
Greek
fire. But every apothecary knows that recipe.” He tapped his chin, thinking. He frowned. “Hmm.”

“Master?”

“Benedict's will is missing,” Oswyn said. “He registered
a new one with the clerks three months ago. Someone's taken it from the vault.”

Another outrage. “Why would they do that?”

“I assume they didn't like what it said.”

“But then what's going to happen to the shop?”
Our
shop!

“Benedict bought the property from the Guild some thirty years ago. With no will, and no family, the shop will revert to the Guild. Stubb's claim against its assets will likely be rejected, but he was Benedict's closest competitor, and he has more than enough gold to buy it. If he wants Blackthorn, he'll get it.”

I felt sick.

“But money is all Stubb's ever cared about,” Oswyn said. “Are you sure he wasn't looking for that? A stash your master kept hidden somewhere?” I shook my head. “Then we have to consider that this really was another strike by the Cult of the Archangel.”

“Master Benedict told me there was no such thing as the Cult,” I said. “But there is, isn't there?”

“Oh, yes. Although, Stubb, in the Cult . . .” Oswyn blinked. “I can't even imagine it.”

“Why are they doing this? What do they want?”

He shrugged. “The same as everyone else. Power.”

“I don't understand.”

Oswyn straightened in his chair. “Tell me. From where does the healing force of our remedies come?”

I felt like I was eleven again, sweating through the Apothecaries' entrance exam. “From God.”

“Correct,” Oswyn said. “The herbs and oils and ointments we mix have no power of their own. They're merely the channel through which God's holy blessings may work. But our remedies, though miraculous, are drawn only from the truths that God has given to man. There are other truths, greater truths, that Our Lord reserves for His heavenly host alone. And those wonders, Christopher, would make our earthly miracles hide in shame.

“That's what the Cult of the Archangel is looking for,” he said. “The power of God Himself. Whatever this ‘fire' is, clearly, they believe it's the key to unlocking it.” His eyes narrowed. “So
that's
why the Cult is torturing its victims. These aren't sacrifices, they're interrogations. They must think these men know where the fire is.”

“But what will they do if they find it?” I said.

“What anyone would, with such power in their hands. Shape the world as they see fit.”

Shape the world
, I thought.

I remembered the madman, back on Oak Apple Day.
The Cult of the Archangel hunts. Who is its prey?

I remembered Lord Ashcombe, interrogating me in the shop.
And how did Master Benedict feel about His Majesty?

Now I understood. “King Charles,” I said. “They're trying to overthrow the king.”

Oswyn nodded. “There's always been a struggle for the Crown, and as you're well aware, it's been particularly contentious of late. Kill the king, force Parliament to fall in line, and England will be theirs.” He sighed. “It's not so difficult to understand, really. You and I may be loyal, Christopher, but this nation is hardly paradise. Your master was a good man, with no patience for scheming nobles, so you've been shielded from the worst of them. But you can't imagine the corruption that inhabits the ruling classes. Even our own Guild—which is supposed to be about knowledge and healing—isn't free from such things. It's no surprise there are men who believe they can do better.” He arched an eyebrow. “Oftentimes, they're the ones who profess their loyalty the loudest.”

I thought about Master Benedict. He was faithful to God, and he'd sought deeper truths, too. But he'd never
wanted power, never wanted to rule over others. He'd loved knowledge for its own sake.

I missed him.

“Regardless,” Oswyn said, “we have more pressing matters. We need someone who can verify your story.”

I couldn't tell Oswyn about Tom. It would make him as much of a target for the Cult as I was. It wouldn't help, anyway. Oswyn needed an adult witness, not a baker's apprentice.

“I was alone,” I said.

Oswyn pursed his lips. “Then we have a problem. The first time we met, I told you the Guild needed more men from humble backgrounds. Not everyone shares that view. The Grand Master's an honest man, but he's a bit blind when it comes to seeing the truth about certain members. Plus, there's the shame that such a discovery will bring. He simply won't want to believe an apothecary is in the Cult of the Archangel.

“And you've already dug yourself quite a hole. Sir Edward was
not
impressed when you spoke without permission yesterday. Cursing a master was even worse. Valentine thinks you should be flogged.” He looked at me warily. “Please tell me you haven't further blackened Stubb's name.”

Not
after
the murder, I hadn't. “No, Master. I promise.”

“Then we may salvage this yet.” He stood. “I'll send someone to look over Benedict's shop. And I'll speak to Sir Edward—without Valentine—this afternoon. That should be around four o'clock. If the Cult really is after you, you'd better keep off the streets until then. You may hide in here.” He pointed a finger at me sternly. “And I mean
here
, Christopher, in this office. Don't wander the grounds. If Stubb is looking for you, he may very well come to the Hall.”

I swallowed. That hadn't even occurred to me. “Yes, Master.”

“After I've spoken to the Grand Master, I'll ask you to tell him your story. Be brief. Be respectful. Don't say anything that isn't plain and simple fact. And for the love of Our Blessed Savior, keep your temper under control this time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

He turned to go. Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes narrowed. “If you're lying to me, boy . . .”

I held up my hand. “I swear, Master Colthurst. Everything I said is the absolute truth.”

All right. So.
One
little lie.

ACTUALLY, TWO.

Head peeked out the door, I watched Oswyn go. He stopped at the steps in the courtyard to speak to the clerk who'd let me in. The man nodded, then went upstairs. Oswyn left through the main entrance. I waited as long as I could stand it—which was somewhere less than a minute—then ran after him into the street.

Forget what I'd promised Oswyn. The streets might not be safe, but the Hall sounded even worse. I couldn't believe I'd come here without realizing Stubb might show up, even on a Sunday.
He's an apothecary, too.
I cursed myself.
He has more right to be here than you.

Besides, it was midmorning. It would be at least six hours before I had to meet Sir Edward. And I still had a job to do.

•  •  •

The Baileys returned home from service to find me sitting on their stoop. The girls were happy to see me, the younger ones twirling to show off their Sunday dresses, but Tom's mother wasn't pleased. “I don't know what your master got up to, Christopher, but if you're staying in this house, you're going to church like a proper Christian.”

“Sorry, Mistress Bailey,” I said. “I had to report to the masters at the Guild Hall. I'm going to the twelve o'clock service at Saint Peter's. May Tom have permission to come with me?”

She seemed satisfied by that. “Of course. A second helping of the Lord's wisdom would do him good.”

Tom frowned. When we were alone, he said, “I don't want a second helping. Reverend Stills is so
boring
.”

“We're not going to church.” I prayed a silent apology, hoping the Lord would understand. “We're going back to Master Hugh's.”

•  •  •

Hugh's home was locked and shuttered, same as yesterday. I'd hoped he'd returned, but I hadn't really expected it.

“Then why are we here?” Tom said.

“We need to search his place,” I said.

“But nobody's—” He folded his arms. “Christopher. We are
not
breaking in there.”

“Is it really breaking in if we have a key?”

“Yes!” He frowned. “Wait. When did we get a key?”

We hadn't. But we were about to. I took him around the back corner of the house, where the brick from the chimney ran up the side. I peered at it, running my fingers over the pattern until I found it.

Just like my master's shop. I took the key from behind the brick and held it up to Tom, triumphant.

He wasn't nearly as pleased. “What if Master Hugh comes home?” he said.

“I think he left the city.”

“You think. What if he's—” Tom's eyes went wide. “Oh, no. No, no. No, no, no.”

“Calm down,” I said. “He's not in there. I'm sure of it.”

Well,
almost
sure. It was possible that Hugh had been murdered. Yet I didn't think he had. The Cult's murders were . . . showy, I guess. As if they wanted everyone to see
what they'd done. If they'd killed Hugh, they would have left a grisly sign of it, as with all the others.

Or so I believed. As much as I tried to hide it from Tom, I was just as scared. I didn't want to find another body. I . . . couldn't. But I didn't have any choice.

I dragged Tom to the back door. I had to drag myself, too.

•  •  •

The house was dark. Slivers of sun slipped through cracks in the shutters, letting in just enough light to see. There was no front or back room on the ground floor, like there was in our home. Just one long, cluttered space for Hugh's workshop.

It hadn't been ransacked. And, praise the Blessed Baby Jesus, there was no butchered body to find. Otherwise, the workshop was laid out exactly the same as Master Benedict's, right down to the onion-shaped oven in the corner. I thought about the future I'd dreamed of, owning my own shop. Of course I'd set it up the same way.
If I still have a future
, I reminded myself.

No one had worked in here for a while. Both fireplace and oven were stone cold.

“What are we looking for?” Tom said.

“Hugh's fourth.” I pulled the ledger page from under my master's sash. “Like it says in the message.”

“His fourth what?”

I didn't know. Master Benedict had clearly expected me to figure out the answer, but he was a genius at this sort of thing. Sometimes he forgot that others—namely, me—weren't quite as good at deciphering puzzles as he was. Worse, his brain worked in odd ways. I was hoping that once we'd got inside, the solution would come to me. But other than the somewhat jarring feeling that I'd been here before, all I could see was a plain old workshop.

With nothing leaping out at me, we went upstairs. The second floor held Hugh's wife's parlor. There was also a kitchen, a half-stocked pantry, and a dining room. On the dining table, a single bowl rested, crusty streaks of brown stew congealed with the spoon at the bottom. The stub of a candle remained; its purple wax bled over the polished walnut below.