The Child Eater (18 page)

“What do you mean, he just ‘fell over'? Is he hurt? Is he in pain?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think so. He just shakes his head when I ask him. But he feels hot, Jack. You'd better come.”

“I'm on the way.”

Could it be the cards?
Jack wondered as he drove through red lights to Carla's house. Did it happen when Jack burned them up? But that was crazy. How could—? It just didn't make any sense. Oh hell, what did he care if it made sense or not? If just destroying the cards could hurt Simon in some way . . .
Damn it
, Jack thought,
why didn't I realize?

He slammed the dashboard with the heel of his hand. No! If the cards could affect Simon that way, didn't that show what poison they were? Jack found himself furious at Rebecca all over again. He'd managed to save their son from the fire, but not from his wife's sickness.

Carla ushered Jack into the living room, where Simon sat curled up on the couch. He stared back at Jack with wild eyes. “Daddy?” Simon said. “What did you do?”

Jack bent down and pressed Simon against him. So hot—the cards flashed in his mind, burning and curling in the fire. He pushed the image away. “It's okay, baby,” he said. “Daddy's here.”

“I'm so sorry,” Carla said again. “They were just playing, I swear.”

“It's okay,” Jack said. “You didn't do anything.” He helped Simon get up. To Carla he said, “I'll come back and get Simon's stuff later, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Carla said. “Call me, please, when you get a chance, to tell me how he's doing.” Jack nodded.

He called Simon's doctor, Howard Porter, from his cell, and by the time they got home there was a message about bringing the fever down. It took Jack half an hour to give Simon a cold bath and a pitcher of iced water. As soon as he could, he called Howard, but even as they talked, he heard his son moving around overhead. He knew what Simon was
searching for. Should he run out and get a set of Tarot cards? No, he told himself, Simon had to get over this . . . this
thing
.

Oh hell, that wasn't it, and he knew it. If he really thought a set of cards would help his son, he'd track them down that moment, break into a store if he had to. Only they wouldn't be
hers
, would they?

Maybe he should get an exorcist, he thought. Can a dead woman possess her son?

The fever passed but not the agitation. Simon's nightmares came back, more frantic than ever. He cried out at night, flinging his arms around in his sleep. Jack never knew what Simon was dreaming, for now, when he woke Simon up, his son refused to tell him. Jack told himself it was early adolescence, but he didn't believe it. He had doomed his son and there was nothing he could do about it.

Jack took time off from work to be with Simon. When Charlie asked him, in between his sympathy and promises of any help he could give, if he'd looked at the files, Jack said he had no idea what they should do. “Listen to the lawyers,” was all he could say. The lawyers apparently told Charlie to offer Kransky a settlement, which they did, and which he refused. The case dragged on for months. Jack Wisdom hardly noticed.

Matyas the Young, they called him. Matyas the Bright. Some, enthusiastic apprentices mostly, even compared him to Joachim the Blessed.

Horekh called him Matyas the Measureless, though not to his face. The first time Matyas heard the term, it wasn't from Horekh himself but someone quoting him, and even though he was in his study alcove, with his back to whoever it was, he imagined he could see the roll of the eyes, the twist of the mouth.

Matyas' old anger surged in him. Did Horekh mean he was incapable of even the simplest calculations? He nearly stood up from his desk to declare the exact
measurements
of the retrograde dance of Venus and Mars in the night sky, or how to calculate the precise moment of the year at which it was safe to perform the rite of Opening the Mouth of the Tiger. But then he stopped and went back to his studies, for it was a curious thing, this anger. Once so dependable, his only real friend, it now appeared to come and go, and he found himself helpless to hold on to it. It was probably for the best, he told himself. What good had it done for him? But without his anger, who was he? Matyas the Unknown.

A few days later, he heard Horekh himself use the title. Matyas was sitting at his table, but now with a Cloak of Concealment cast around him. Though he would not have admitted it—if there'd been anyone
to ask—all the attention he was receiving made him uncomfortable in some odd way. So he used the “Cloak,” which was not an actual cape, or any
thing
at all, but a spell that made it nearly impossible for anyone to see him, even when they were looking right at him. It was an ancient spell, and Matyas wasn't sure how many people knew it, even among the Masters. He'd only found it searching through some very old papers high up in the archives. So it was that he could see Horekh, but Horekh did not know Matyas was there when he brought a visitor into the library.

The visitor, a thick-accented envoy named Ulanov from some far-off Academy, first spoke vaguely about the wonderful collection of rare works and treasured secrets, a polite discourse that bored Matyas, so long as the man did not try to make off with anything. Then Ulanov said, “And what treasures your precious Veil must have, eh? Ah, but of course they are all locked away in her famous tower. Where none may go, yes?”

Horekh said, “Veil sees those whom Veil wishes to see.” Matyas found himself smiling.

It was then that Master Ulanov said, “Then perhaps I could meet this wonder boy of yours. Matyas the Mighty, I believe you call him?”

Gravely, with no trace of scorn, Horekh said, “Matyas the Measureless.”

“I see,” Ulanov said, though clearly he didn't. Matyas, however, did. He realized now that Horekh meant to honor him, and the idea that this wise man, whom Matyas considered second only to Veil, should consider young, stumbling Matyas
beyond measure
both thrilled and scared him.

Horekh said, “If he chooses to meet you, no doubt he will present himself.” He did not look in Matyas' direction and there was no reason to think the Cloak had failed, but Matyas still shrank down in his seat.

Puzzled, Ulanov said, “But he's only a boy. An apprentice.”

Horekh laughed, as if Master Ulanov had said something foolish.

They moved on, both physically, as Horekh led his guest up to the higher levels, and in their conversation, now talking about the role of wizards in advising their respective monarchs, a subject that did not interest Matyas at all.

He tried to return to his manuscript but found himself unable to concentrate. Suddenly chilled despite that the day was actually quite warm, he pulled his jacket tightly around him. “Measureless,” he whispered. Beyond measure. Something he himself might have said about Florian.

If the Master of the Archives spoke without sarcasm, that was not the case with Lukhanan and those loyal to him—a group that consisted primarily of his faction within the Council of Governance and anyone who aspired to it. They called him Matyas the Magnificent, with a knowing laugh or a twist of the lips. The expression didn't last long. Matyas first assumed that it was because no one paid them much attention, but then he walked past an apprentice who shrank back from him and muttered, “Magnificent,” clearly with no idea the term was meant to carry scorn. Matyas did his best not to laugh. And then he just forgot, for as with anger, pride had become slippery. There was so much to think about, to read, to study, so many experiments to perform and spells to master.

He divided his time, without plan, between the tower and the library, sometimes staying in one or the other for days, only leaving the library to see if Veil needed him, leaving the tower only to bring her some firewood or a block of cheese from the market. For yes, he still did her chores, though often with helpers made of straw or mud and brought to temporary life, or by animating a few of the carved figurines—men, women, animals, angels—scattered among the books and scrolls. He roused them to action just long enough to tend a fire or cut radishes, then ordered them to return to their original place and position. The first time he tried it, he was terrified that Veil might catch him and accuse him of laziness, or cheating, or (worst of all, somehow) ingratitude. And yet he could not help but laugh and clap his hands as a naked man and woman, each about six inches high, labored to chop carrots, then hand them up to a golden-haired angel, all of eight inches tall, whose purple wings fluttered mightily to carry the pieces over to the stew pot, where he dumped them in boiling water and came back for more. As soon as they were done, Matyas hurriedly reversed the spell and returned them to immobility, still fearful Veil would burst in on him. As time went on, however, and Matyas used similar tricks more frequently, he began to relax, for somehow Veil never seemed to walk in at the wrong moment.

The old woman never asked him about his studies, at least not in the usual way of a teacher testing a student, or even, for that matter, a curious parent. At times Matyas thought she didn't care.
Now that I've gone past her—I'm not her performing monkey anymore—I
know
things—she's not interested
. But then, without warning, she would say something like, “Matyas, where do butterflies come from?” and Matyas, thinking of
Florian's teachings on the Lesser Origins, would say, “They arose when Mercury penetrated the second darkness of Venus.”

“Ah,” she would say. “Thank you.”

He wondered, should he wear the robes of a Master? He remembered when Medun had appeared in the doorway of the Hungry Squirrel, how astonishing he looked in his long thick robe braided with gold, how Matyas' father had bowed to him, terrified as much as impressed.

Matyas had been so excited when Veil gave him his fine jacket and pants, almost embarrassed to wear them. Now he understood they were still the clothes of an apprentice—even if they never wore out, and somehow always fitted, despite that he'd grown a couple of inches since he started wearing them. Should he dress more properly? Some Masters wore heavy robes so thick the Master could fall asleep and his clothes would hold him up. Others wore fabrics that billowed behind them as they moved through the courtyard.

One evening he was walking through the city, far from the places Veil might send him, through narrow streets between houses held together with mud, streets full of loud children and angry mothers trying to control them. This was something new for Matyas—to leave the Academy, sometimes for hours, just to experience the city. Everything he saw fascinated him—the markets that ranged from stolen trinkets on filthy blankets all the way to carved and varnished stalls bearing the shields of the great guildhalls; the occasional platoons of soldiers in bright helmets and breastplates; the taverns, the churches, the shops of craftsmen and artisans.

On a street of narrow wooden houses with ornate carvings over the otherwise simple entrances, he noticed a simpler marking, of just a pair of scissors and a needle, above a polished door. He hesitated then walked up and knocked loudly. A young woman's voice called out, “Come in, please. It's always open for
you
.”

Matyas frowned with his hand on the latch, then turned it and stepped inside. The room was not much wider than the entrance and long, running the length of the house. The only sunlight came from a window in the back wall. A young woman with long yellow hair sat at a table surrounded by fabric and oil lamps. Though most of the fabric was brightly dyed, much of it flowing silks or soft linens, she herself wore a plain white dress, long and unadorned and fitted to her body, which
appeared graceful even as she simply sat with her work. She looked about fifteen, Matyas thought. His age. Royja's age.

“Just a moment,” she said, with that slight lilt. With a flourish she finished a stitch then snipped the end of the thread with a pair of scissors shaped like a swan. “There,” she said, and lifted her head, smiling. “Oh!” she said suddenly as she saw Matyas' curious stare. “Oh, I'm sorry! I thought you were—” She stopped herself, as if afraid to continue.

“Who?” Matyas asked. He found himself strangely annoyed at this unknown man who had inspired such anticipation.

She shook her head, then said tightly, “Please. I didn't mean any harm.”

“How would you harm me?”

“Please, Master. Please don't hurt me.” She shrank back on her stool, arms crossed over her chest.

Matyas said, “How do you know I'm a Master?”

Startled out of her fear, she said, “You're Master Matyas. Everyone knows you.”

Matyas' mouth could not decide whether to grin or gape in astonishment. He thought about the way people stopped talking when he passed them, or moved away from him on the street. He'd never paid much attention, for why would he think anyone outside the Academy would recognize him?

He said, “Well, good,” then stopped, waiting for a reply until he realized he needed to say why he was there. He pitched his voice a bit deeper than normal as he added, “I would like you to make me a robe.”

Her eyes widened, whether from honor or fear he couldn't tell, but it seemed to take her a long time before she answered. “Yes. Yes, of course,” she said. “Umm, what sort of fabric would you like? Of course, if you have your own, I mean, something special, something, you know, for a Master—”

“No,” Matyas said. “No, I don't have anything.”

“Of course. Of course. That's . . . that's good. I mean, fine.” She swept her arm at the bolts of cloth. “I have . . . there are many—” Suddenly she began to cry. “Oh God,” she whispered, and then, with her face turned away, “Please don't hurt me.”

Matyas wondered if he should run from the place. Instead he just said, “Hurt you? What are you talking about?”

“Why me?” she burst out. “Why would you come
here
?” She fell to her knees. “There are . . . great artisans on Lokara Street. The king's
own tailor would be honored to create a robe for you. I'm nobody. I'm nothing.”

Matyas stared at her, wondering if he should cast a spell to dry up her damn tear ducts. For a moment he played with the thought of turning her into a cat. That's what she sounded like, a wailing cat. Finally, he said, “I don't know. It's just . . . I was walking . . . it felt right—your sign. Above your door.”

It struck him suddenly that he needed to put her at ease, that she was somehow his responsibility. The thought excited him and made him very uncomfortable at the same time. “Will you please get up?” he said angrily.
Wrong
, he scolded himself. She stood—of course she did—but her whole body shook.

“Please,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing tone, “I don't mean you any harm. Really. I just want to hire your services.” It struck him that he would have to pay her, and wondered exactly how he would do that. Veil never gave him any money, and while some of the Masters—the
other
Masters—took on paid tasks for the king or the army or rich merchants, Matyas had no idea how he would even set that up. Maybe he could do something for her.

His reassurance appeared to work, for she took a breath then said, “All right, then. Very good. We need . . . we need to start with the fabrics. And then the design. But first the fabric.” She waved hesitantly at the only halfway decent chair in the house, made of some light-colored wood with the back cut crudely in the shape of a rose and lily. “Please, Master,” she said. “It is all I can offer.” Matyas thought of telling her about the rough benches in Veil's tower, or even the corner of the kitchen in the Hungry Squirrel where he used to sit sometimes when he'd finished his chores and his father hadn't spotted him doing nothing.

For the next hour or so, she laid out fabric after fabric on her work table, a process Matyas found surprisingly pleasant. At first she said nothing, only stammered that one was wool, another linen, but as Matyas became more interested she began to make cautious suggestions, saying for instance that blue might look better on him than green. Matyas thought of telling her how Florian wrote of blue beyond blue, of Blue Transcendent as the lover of red. Instead, he just let her show him the blue she thought would suit him.

They were a good half an hour into it when a knock came at the door. To Matyas' surprise, the seamstress put a finger over her lips, smiling as
she did it. “Hello?” a man's voice called. Matyas couldn't tell how old it was. “Lahaylla? Are you there? It's me.” Matyas could see
Lahaylla
—he realized he hadn't asked her name—suppress a laugh and found himself grinning. After a few moments, they heard someone walk away, and now both of them laughed, softly, and went back to studying fabrics.

They settled finally on a light shimmering blue in a pebbly fabric she called “raw silk.” Next came what she called the “enhancements,” trim to be used for patterns and designs. Here she brought out purple braiding and gold foil, and Matyas could only nod in appreciation.