The Crafters Book Two (21 page)

And besides, stopping to talk to John, now he thought of it, was a very good notion. John had gone through enough arguments of his own with their father to understand how Davy felt; he’d never try to turn his youngest brother from his present course. And John lived near enough to the shipyards and docks; he might know which of the frigates was in port, or, if there was more than one, which was the best. One couldn’t hope to find a berth with the great Captain Decatur, of course. But a ship, any of the frigates which might take him into the open sea, and perhaps set him upon a course against those arrogant English ... .

There was only one small problem: While he’d heard indirectly from John the past winter—a short note to Davy had been enclosed in a letter to their sister Lucy, congratulations on her marriage—he knew only that John had a small acreage and a furniture shop outside Annapolis.
Somewhere
outside Annapolis. Davy scowled at the sprite. “I don’t suppose
you
would know how to find my brother’s front door on a night such as this?” he asked belligerently.

The strap of the heavy bag slid from his arm and rose into the air, began moving uphill in the midst of a faint, greenish light.

“Happen,” came the rather smug response from the center of that light, “that I do.”

* * *

It shouldn’t have surprised Davy when he, the spin of green light and his bag—floating at an unnerving knee-height off the road—came to the end of a narrow side lane some time later to discover John sitting on the stoop, the light of a dying fire visible through the open door.
John might well have felt my presence, if this
—
this well-nigh-invisible porter did not simply inform him when he persuaded me to come this way,
Davy thought peevishly.
I could almost envy them that. Think how wonderful to bespeak anyone else with the Talent, anywhere.
Think—to know at once what his uncle Jeb was doing, how his sister Jemmy was settling into her new life in Boston. Of course, it would also mean that, like with Jemmy, there’d be no escape from his mother’s rather high-pitched and near-constant reproaches... .
Doesn’t matter; I cannot manage it anyway. They can, and all I can feel is a certain envy and a good deal as though my mind has been invaded against my will.

He had to swallow anger, then; he didn’t want to growl at John, after all, and it wasn’t really the sprite’s fault he was tired, footsore, cross—and suddenly not certain he’d done the right thing, now his goal was so near. Be blessed if he’d let either of his companions know
that,
though. He dropped onto the stoop with a heartfelt sigh and clasped John’s arms, hard.

“You’ve grown considerably,” John said, and drew him close for a hard embrace before leaning back to eye him critically in the fading red light. “Enough to scramble into a frigate’s sheets, I suppose, but not so tall as to tangle up in them.” Davy opened his mouth and shut it again without saying anything; his elder brother laughed quietly. “Come, now. You can’t be surprised I know why you grace my doorway at such an ungodly hour. But, come in, it’s grown cool this past hour or so and there’s a bucket of hot ale and a loaf on the hearth.” He scooped up the bag the sprite had dropped just inside the room and let Davy precede him. “Here, take the settle close to the fire, doff your outer things and your shoes. So, Mother won’t have a doctor in the family after all?”

Davy laughed sourly for reply, took the thick, warmed mug and gratefully inhaled steam. “As likely Father will have a partner in either of us to hand him nails.”

“A pity,” John said quietly. “All the same, I learned a good deal from both of them, things I can use now I’ve been a year or so away from the constant arguings. This house and all its furnishings are my work, and I make enough from the sale of my tables and the like that next year I’ll be able to wed my young woman and build her a better and larger house.” He sipped at his own ale, set it aside. “You might have gone to join our uncle out West, you know; the sea isn’t precisely a safe profession just now.”

“But, that’s the entire point, isn’t it?” Davy rested his mug on his knee and leaned forward. “To teach the English and the French a lesson, that we won’t be pushed about. And the sea wasn’t safe when Uncle Jeb went against the Barbary pirates, was it? Or don’t you remember the things he told us of that war?”

John smiled, shook his head and reached for the mug, which he set in his younger brother’s hands once again. “I’ll not argue politics with so avid a supporter of the Young War Hawks. I know better. Your mind’s clearly made up, and you’re old enough to have a right to your own choice.”

Davy heaved a quiet sigh and drained his cup. “Thank you, John. I knew you’d be sensible.”

“I’m not so certain that’s what I’m being; still, it’s your decision. I’ll go down to the docks with you tomorrow if you like, and see if I can be of any use. They say the
Constitution
is in port just now. No doubt her berths are full but—well, perhaps not. And I do know her captain.”

Davy’s fingers tightened on the mug and he bent over his empty cup to hide the sudden grin. The
Constitution!
Stephen Decatur no longer sailed her, but she’d been his flagship when the great Captain defeated the Barbary pirates in their own harbor! He brought his head up, blinking; John had been speaking and he’d missed a good deal of what his elder brother had said.

“Never mind.” John laughed briefly and waved a hand. “I can see your thoughts are all for a frigate and sails and cannon. I would not trade with you for the world and all in it. But I do worry that you will have no contact with any of us—myself, the sprite, Mother.” As Davy scowled and shifted, John waved his hand again. “No, don’t say it. I know you will have it the family Talent never found a seat in you.”

“More fool he,” came a faint, whispery voice from somewhere along the shadowy mantel. Davy transferred the scowl to the least greenish light there; it faded. “Happen he’s wrong,” the voice added in the tone of one getting in the last word.

“I am not,” Davy snarled. He managed a rueful grin and shrugged then as John caught his eye and winked. “John, I’m sorry; I’m tired from so long a day and night, and truly, didn’t I try to learn from Mother?
You
know I did. And what did I accomplish, save to break her favorite alembic, and to spill something that made a hellish smoke and roused Father’s displeasure to a fever pitch?”

“That you cannot work with Mother means nothing,” John said. “Didn’t I say? I broke enough things, trying to deal with her, and it was purely impossible. Fortunately, I was sensible enough to bring a copy of the book with me, and I did have the additional sense to try certain things for myself once I left home. You cannot think how much simpler it all was.” He tossed the still dark mantel a grin. “I did have help, of course.”

“Happen you had Talent as well.”

“Thank you, my sweet.”

“Yes, but what is it good for?” Davy demanded irritably.

“It seems to accomplish nothing save to band witch hunters into vicious packs, or to create dreadful smells and suspicious neighbors, or to anger people like Father, who want none of it.”

John sighed. “I know. I felt that way once. I still wonder why he wed Mother; doubtless he thought she would give it all over once he had her safely in his house and bed.”

“I wonder one hasn’t murdered the other,” Davy grumbled into his empty mug. John took it from him, refilled it and handed it back.

“A mystery not discoverable by science,” he agreed. “I often wonder why the sprite remains with Mother—”

A low growl came from the mantel. “Happen
I
have no choice,” it said.

Davy considered this, sipped gingerly at the hot, spicy ale.

“Oh,” he said finally. And, after another long, thoughtful pause, “I’m sorry.”

“Happen I take enough pleasure with others in Family. Amanda can be borne.”

“Don’t get involved in a discussion with the sprite,” John suggested. “Or you’ll be the rest of the night trying to sort it all out, and you’ll come out feeling confused, to say the least. And sleepless.”

“And I do need to be alert.” Davy drained his mug, set it aside and impulsively held out his hands. “John. Thank you—”

“Don’t say it,” John broke in. “Give me a real proof of your gratitude, why don’t you?” He got to his feet and beckoned as he moved into shadow. Davy followed cautiously, shuffling his feet in case of furniture hiding in the gloom. John was a darker shadow against a small window; then the window was blocked and a moment later he struck a light. He beckoned again; Davy came up to lean against a woodworker’s bench, with tools neatly placed on the far end and two half-turned chair legs placed across them. The rest of the surface was neat and barren, not so much as a speck of sawdust or a wooden peg anywhere in sight. All along the back of the bench were closed cabinets, many of them locked. John tugged one cabinet door open, bringing out several glass containers and a burner. The cabinet next to it held bottles and boxes of chemicals, neatly marked, with John’s heavy, leather-bound copy of the family notes set into a niche above them, which he pulled out and began to page through. Davy repressed a sigh, rolled his eyes ceilingward, and clasped his hands behind his back, watching in silence as his elder brother apparently found the page he wanted. He studied it for several moments, then lit the small burner and began mixing certain powders and poured them into a long glass tube. When he added liquid to this, it began bubbling even before he moved it above the flame. Davy eyed it warily and took a step back. John saw that and cast him a quick glance and a smile.

“It’s safe enough—or will be. Can you spare me a drop of your blood for it, though? There’s a clean pin stuck in the inside of the cabinet door—there, pushed into the wood. Just one drop—careful!” he added as the younger man jabbed the end of his smallest finger and pressed, forcing a thick red blob to the surface.

“What is it?” Davy asked nervously. The bubbling liquid was now hissing and spitting, and the smell, though faint, was unpleasant. “I hope you don’t intend that I drink that!”

John laughed. “Don’t worry. No, it’s a charm of sorts, a protective thing. Something to do with the notion of your blood being protected from harm; at least, Uncle Jeb has used this one before. He had one aboard ship when they went against Tripoli, or so he says, and he claims it turned a sword or two pointed his way.”

“What, did he rub it on?” Davy’s nose wrinkled. “I can readily see it would turn away the ladies.”

John laughed again and shook his head. “You must have paid less attention to Mother than I did. When was there ever such a spell in this book? Silly, it goes into a little brass bottle with a spoonful of whale oil atop the liquid, and you
wear
it, either about your throat or in a pocket. A stoppered bottle, before you ask. The bottle gets a coating of whale oil. You’ll have to rub it in well, repeat it now and again. The drop of blood is in a watery liquid, the brass and oil surround it. And oil and water don’t mix, so your blood is doubly protected—and, therefore, so are you,” John finished cheerfully.

Davy’s forehead puckered and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s not making any sense at all, John.”

“Wait.” John closed the book and returned it to its niche before he reached for a small brass bottle, a larger bottle filled with liquid, a copper funnel and a soft rag. He closed and locked the cabinet on the book, then transferred the spell-stuff into the little brass container, added a little liquid from the large bottle before stoppering the brass one. He set it aside, poured liquid from the large bottle onto the cloth and handed cloth and brass bottle to his younger brother. “Here. Rub that in well. You won’t want it all over your clothing.” Davy’s nose wrinkled involuntarily; the oil was particularly fishy-smelling, not a particularly well-rendered batch of blubber. “Come now,” John went on. “Don’t you remember one of the first things Mother taught us? The symbol is the referent.” And as Davy shook his head he added, “You must remember, surely. You create a symbol—the liquid with your blood in it, representing you—then you do something to it—protect it in a hard shell, like this brass bottle—and so long as the symbol is safe, so is the referent. Simple, yes?”

“Bah,” Davy said. “But it won’t work at sea—will it?”

“Uncle Jeb said
his
did. Though nothing else of the family knowledge did, try as much as he might.”

“Well.” Davy continued rubbing. The small bottle shone nicely now. He could wish it didn’t smell quite so awful, but perhaps John had a purpose to using what had to be badly rendered whale oil. “At least this is small enough no one will notice it. As to the rest, how would Uncle Jeb have managed something like this” —a sweep of Davy’s hand took in John’s laboratory— “aboard a ship, where a man has the space of his hammock and not much else to call his own? Of course he had no recourse to the family Talent!”

“There are ways; you haven’t read enough of the book, have you?”

“As little as possible, John. As you well know. All the same, I don’t remember any way for one of us to set up a laboratory in the midst of outsiders. And if it is there, it is knowledge I will
not
need, John. Any more than I will need our mutual small friend. Besides, it’s already warned me often enough the past hours that it can’t come to my rescue once I’m at sea, or even talk to me.”

“Do not look so pleased,” came a small, peevish voice from somewhere above the bench. John took the bottle, examined it briefly, then bent down to rinse his funnel and the glass tube in a bucket under the bench. He dried them on an unoiled comer of Davy’s cloth before returning everything to its proper place. When the wooden doors were closed once more, he turned and handed Davy the bottle and a long leather thong to tie around his neck.

“Here. Return my favor at the docks tomorrow by swearing you will keep this on you at all times.”

“I—well.” Davy turned it over thoughtfully. “Well, all right, I swear.”

“There are odd things on and under the sea,” John went on. “Remember some of Uncle Jeb’s stranger tales. Not so much the fighting at Tripoli, but some of what he swore he saw not so far off our own coast.”