The Book of Secrets

by Tom Harper

  ‘Your master must keep you busy.’ The paper maker took the coins I gave him.

  I shrugged. ‘We sell salvation to sinners and knowledge to the ignorant. We never want for customers.’

  I carried the paper back to our workshop, across the bridge so thick with houses you never saw the river. The only sign of water was the grumble of the milling wheels in the arches below. I passed under the watchful gazes of the twenty-four kings of Israel carved into the face of Notre-Dame cathedral, and crossed the invisible river again into the warren of streets around the church of St Severin, in the shadow of the university. This was my home. Goose down and parchment shavings drifted in the air like snow; even to breathe was to take in great lungfuls of them. Copyists sat by open doors and windows with books propped open on stands beside them; illuminators called new and fabulous beasts into being in the capitals and margins of their manuscripts, and students in threadbare finery haggled with the stationers, trying to save their coins for the whores across the rue St Jacques.

  The shop was about halfway down a lane, with a cloth awning and a few battered books laid out on a table in front. A large poster nailed next to the door advertised the stationer’s many hands: heavy blackletter with ornate initials; fine cursives whose stems twined like a tangled garden; thickset minuscules that only a glass could read. On the corner of the house, the figure of Minerva sat atop a pile of books and peered down at the street.

  ‘There you are.’

  Olivier de Narbonne – stationer, bookbinder, my employer – looked up from the Bible he had been poring over with a customer. I was about to sidle upstairs to begin work on a piece I had promised him that day, but he beckoned me over, steering his customer so that he could introduce us.

  ‘A countryman of yours. Allow me to present Johann Fust. From Mainz.’

  I knew where he came from. I knew where he had lived, where he had attended church and where he had gone to school. I knew he was two years older than me, though with grey already flecking his dark hair it looked more. I had fled the length of Christendom to escape my past, each calamity toppling into the next like dominoes. Yet here in Paris a face from my childhood stood in my shop, smiling curiously.

  And he knew me. ‘Henchen Gensfleisch.’ He crossed the room and embraced me awkwardly. I held back, searching his face for any sign of what he knew, trying to hide my panic from Olivier, who was beaming with surprise. After I fled Cologne I never knew what was said about me, how widely my crime was reported. Perhaps Konrad had kept it secret to protect his son. Certainly there was no hint in Fust’s face that he had heard of it – only honest shock at finding an old acquaintance so far from home.

  I returned his embrace. ‘It is good to see you.’

  We had never been friends. Fust, ambitious and clear-sighted, attached himself to boys of untainted patrician stock, boys who were not descended from shopkeepers on their mother’s side. He must have prospered: his blue coat was of a rich cloth, trimmed with bear fur and golden thread. It was not the fashion of the day, but the sort of coat an older man might wear, the dress of a man impatient with his contemporaries.

  ‘Why are you in Paris?’ I asked.

  He lifted up the little Bible. ‘Buying books to take back to Mainz.’

  ‘I did not expect to see you as a bookseller.’

  He gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘I earn a living here and there. I have several ventures. But what about you? The last I heard you had gone to Cologne to learn goldsmithing.’

  ‘The wrong craft for me.’ I smiled blankly. ‘I came to Paris to work as a copyist.’

  ‘There is nowhere better.’ Fust seemed genuinely enthusiastic. ‘So many books, and such quality. I buy everything I can.’ He pointed at the dog cart outside. ‘I will fill that by tonight, and soon come back for more.’

  ‘And you must take that Bible,’ broke in Olivier. ‘To anyone else I would demand seven gold écus, but as it was copied by your friend I offer it to you for four sous less.’

  ‘As it was written by my friend I will pay you the seven écus – if the balance goes to the scribe.’

  ‘Of course. Indeed, he has copied many other works for me. Perhaps I could show you-’

  ‘Not today.’ Fust closed the book. ‘I must go. I have other appointments before dusk, and tomorrow I set out for Mainz.’ He turned to me. ‘I will be back in the spring.’

  ‘Perhaps I will see you then.’

  ‘I hope so. It is always good to see a familiar face.’ He started for the door then paused, remembering something. ‘Forgive me for being slow – I should have said at once. I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’

  I was so eager for him to go that I heard the words without the meaning. ‘My mother?’

  ‘She was a good and Christian woman. There were many mourners at her funeral. God speed her to Heaven.’

  *

  I sat at my desk and willed the tears to come. My soul ached, but my body was too numb to answer. I had not seen my mother since the day I went to Cologne, a stiff figure in a grey cloak on the riverbank. I had thought of her in the intervening decade, but not often. If I had not met Fust, I could have lived for years happily believing she was alive. I did not even know if it was her I mourned, or the reminder of a life I had lost long ago. I felt a great well drain inside me.

  Too many thoughts crowded my head. I looked back down at the desk, at the parchment, ink and book waiting for me. Work would not heal me, but it would bring the comfort of distraction. I rubbed the parchment with chalk to make it white, then ruled it, scoring heavy lines with my lead to show it had been done with care. I blocked out a box for the first initial and left two lines for the rubric.

  I positioned the book on the reading stand. It was a slim volume: it would not take me long. I sharpened my pen, turned to the first page and received my third great shock of the day, another fragment of a long-lost life: a belligerent dwarf and the book of marvels he had sold Konrad Schmidt.

  I have opened the Books of the Philosophers, and in them learned their hidden secrets.

  XIX

  New York City

  Download complete

  Nick glanced at the screen as he swirled the last piece of waffle around his plate, soaking up as much syrup as he could. He was back in the diner’s neon cocoon, eating his first proper meal of the day just as night fell. He’d taken a corner booth near the back, keeping a wary eye on the customers coming and going. It was the usual after-work crowd: finance types in suits, secretaries, a few students. Nobody stayed long. By the counter, the Charlie Daniels Band played ‘The Devil Went Down To Georgia’ out of the jukebox.

  He licked the syrup off his fingers and pressed a button on the laptop.

  Are you sure you want to install Cryptych?

  Yes

  It was the third program he’d tried, another free one. He chewed the end of his straw while the progress bar inched across the screen.

  What could have driven Gillian to do something like this? When he’d known her she’d been… not a Luddite, but someone who pulled a face whenever the conversation got too technical, who wanted computers to work without wanting to know how. Now she’d found ways to encrypt data that even Nick was barely aware of.

  Would you like to launch Cryptych now?

  Yes. A new window opened on screen, a simple interface of three white boxes in a row. Nick clicked in the middle.

  Please select a file to DeCrypt

  Another couple of clicks brought up the card, eight animals penned in the centre box. That was the easy part.

  With a deep breath, Nick clicked once more. The screen blinked.

  Enter Password:

  It worked. Nick punched the table in his elation. The empty plate rattled on the Formica. At the next table, a little girl looked up in surprise before going back to her ice cream. Nick tried to fight back the hope that raced through him.

  Bear is the key.

  Here goes nothing, he thought. He pushed the plate aside, pullin
g the computer in front of him so that there was no danger of misspelling. B E A R.

  Password incorrect

  Enter Password:

  He tried again, lower case this time. His anxious fingers scrabbled on the keys; he had to repeat it three times before he could be sure he’d got it right. Each time, the same rejection.

  The hope was unbearable. The password prompt sat there, an empty space, a keyhole waiting for the right key. If he could only unlock it… He tried again and again, changing capitals, adding numbers – Gillian’s birthday, even (though he felt pathetic) their anniversary. He wanted to punch a hole in the screen, to reach through the pixel wall and snatch the secrets within. Find reasons for all the questions that had turned his life inside out in the last thirty-six hours.

  He plugged in his headset and logged back in to Gothic Lair. Randall must have been looking out for Nick. He appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of sparks a second after Nick arrived.

  ‘It’s Cryptych,’ Nick said at once. ‘The program,’ he clarified, in case Randall had misunderstood.

  ‘I know. I took a look.’

  ‘Is there any way to crack it?’

  A pause. ‘That program’s pretty solid. You won’t get it out of there in a hurry without the password. Didn’t Gillian send you anything to unlock it?’

  ‘She said, “bear is the key”.’ Nick typed it out. In the moonlit chamber, the Wanderer took a sheet of parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the Necromancer.

  ‘There’s four bears in the picture. Maybe that’s what the clue’s about?’

  Nick swapped programs. Four bears cavorted with the lions in their digital box. One seemed to be digging an invisible hole. He clicked, and received the dreaded password prompt.

  He typed: f o u r

  Password incorrect

  Enter Password:

  ‘How about…’ Randall thought for a moment. ‘You said these cards were from the Middle Ages, right? Didn’t they speak Latin back then?’

  ‘What’s the Latin for “bear”?’

  Urthred walked to a dusty shelf and opened up a large, iron-bound book resting on a lectern. He studied it. On Randall’s machine, Nick knew, the action would have opened up a window on the Web.

  ‘Ursus.’ Randall spelled it out. ‘Any good?’

  Nick tried it: capitalised, lower case. ‘Nope.’

  ‘How about-’

  The muffled bleep of Nick’s cellphone penetrated through the headphones. ‘Hang on.’ He unhooked the headset and picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nick, buddy.’ Royce, as ebulliently unpleasant as ever. ‘We got a few more questions for you. You want to come back in?’

  Nick looked at his watch. Almost as if he could see him, Royce added, ‘Not now. I’m heading out. Tomorrow morning. Bring a friend.’

  When Nick went back into the game, Urthred was gone and the Wanderer held a new parchment scroll.

  Had to go. Good luck hunting bears.

  Nick didn’t smile. He ordered another soda and reopened Cryptych. He tried every variant of ‘bears’ and numbers he could think of, every combination of dates. In the corner of the screen time moved on, the seconds tapped out by the click of keys. He wondered if ‘bear’ was a mistake Gillian had mistyped in her panic. Beat? Neat? Near?

  ‘Nowhere near.’ Nick slammed the lid of the computer and waved to the waitress for the bill. He tossed his credit card onto the plate and stared into neon-lit space while she ran it through the machine. The password prompt had branded itself onto his brain: he knew when he went to bed he would see it in his sleep, dancing in front of his eyes.

  ‘Sir? Excuse me, sir?’

  The waitress had come back with his credit card. He reached for the pen to sign, but there was no slip.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Your card was declined.’ Her tone was so bored she could have been listing the specials. Nick was bewildered.

  ‘Can you try it again?’

  ‘Three times already. You should call your bank. You got something else?’

  ‘How much do I owe?’

  ‘Twenty-seven seventy-five.’

  He peered inside his wallet. A twenty and a ten. He pulled them both out and laid them on the table. The waitress saw the tip and popped her gum in contempt.

  ‘Have a nice day.’

  The moment he was back in his hotel room he rang the phone number on the back of his credit card. He punched in the card number when the computer asked for it, then settled back on his bed for the long, on-hold purgatory. To his surprise, an operator picked up almost straight away.

  ‘How may I help you today, Mr Ash?’ she asked, after the usual security checks.

  ‘I just tried to pay for a meal with my card and the waitress said it was declined.’

  ‘That card’s been cancelled, sir.’

  ‘Cancelled?’

  ‘It was reported stolen three hours ago.’

  ‘Stolen?’ Nick’s mind spun. ‘Who told you that?’

  A hollow clacking of keys on the other end of the phone. ‘You did, sir.’

  Nick lay flat on the bed. He felt weak, a shadow snatching at things he couldn’t grasp. ‘I, uh, the card wasn’t in my wallet so I assumed it must have been stolen. I guess I panicked.’ How guilty did he sound? ‘But I found it again now. Can I get it reactivated?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s not possible to reactivate a cancelled card. You should receive a replacement within seven to ten working days.’

  Nick ended the call. He was shaking. How could they do that – whoever they were – just phone up and cancel a part of his life?

  Maybe it wasn’t anyone. Credit card companies make mistakes, the wrong cards get cancelled…

  What about the hotel? They’d swiped his card when he checked in. Would that show up on his statement? If it did, they’d know where he was. And his cellphone. Was that safe? There were so many base stations in New York City they’d get a fix on him in an instant, if they had that kind of access.

  They.

  He jumped off the bed. He had to get out of there. There was nothing to pack except his laptop and the previous day’s clothes still balled-up damp in a corner. He stuffed them into a laundry bag he found in the closet and turned out the light, then turned it back on again in case anyone was watching.

  He let himself out into the corridor. At the far end, by the elevator, a bellboy with a room-service trolley was waiting outside another room. He heard Nick and glanced up, watching him for a second longer than was necessary.

  Is he one of them? Did he recognise me? With a spurt of embarrassment, Nick realised what he must look like: unshaven, unkempt, with a laptop slung over one shoulder and a laundry bag in the other. No wonder the guy looked suspicious.

  An invisible guest opened his door. The bellboy pushed the trolley into the room, shooting Nick another doubtful glance. The moment he was out of sight, Nick ducked back into his room. He leaned against the wall, shivering as sweat beaded on his forehead.

  He couldn’t check out of the hotel without paying. Then Royce really would lock him up. But he couldn’t pay without the card – and if they were monitoring it, they’d know at once he was on the move. Where would he go? He had friends, but each time he thought of them he imagined them like Bret, slumped dead in a chair. He couldn’t do that to them.

  He double-locked the door, shot the chain and put a chair under the handle. He checked the windows didn’t open. Then he stripped off and crawled into bed.

  It was a long time before sleep came, and when it did it brought no rest. He dreamed he was running through a forest, thick and tangled like something from Gothic Lair, chasing a creature that crashed unseen through the undergrowth ahead. However fast he ran he never seemed to get closer. The forest was filled with noise, other hunters chasing the same animal – or were they after him? He knew Royce was among them. He ran faster, tripping on rocks and tearing his face on branches.

  He came out into a clearing, a long meadow that end
ed at the foot of a sheer cliff. Now he could see his prey, a black-backed bear breasting through the high grass in long, sinuous bounds.

  ‘Shoot him,’ said Gillian, next to him. He hadn’t seen her come. ‘Bear is the key.’

  He looked down and saw a gun in his hand. It was surprisingly heavy. He had the terrible feeling he was doing something wrong, but he didn’t know what it could be. He lifted the gun and aimed it at the bear, who had rolled into a ball and seemed to be tickling itself, oblivious to the danger.

  ‘Poor bear,’ said Emily, who had appeared out of nowhere. But it was too late: Nick had already pulled the trigger. Except that the bear wasn’t a bear any more – it was Bret. It slumped against the cliff, drowning in blood.

  When daylight finally dawned outside he’d already been awake for hours. And he still had no idea what the password might be.

  XX

  Paris, 1433

  The cloaked man stood in the churchyard, glancing between the arch above him and the book in his hand. To anyone watching – anyone but me – it must have seemed some sort of piety, the book perhaps a Bible or a book of hours. I knew better.

  I had spent half the night copying the book by candlelight, thrilling to the phrases that flowed through my pen. I should have abandoned it to another scribe – told Olivier I did not have time and forfeited the fee. But I could not. The words crept into me, seizing me the same way they had that night in Cologne. I had found out the customer’s name from Olivier: Tristan d’Amboise. When he came to collect his manuscript I lingered on the stairs at the back of the shop, and the moment he left I followed, all the way to the churchyard.

  I stood behind a gravestone and watched. The sun setting behind the spire of St Innocent’s flung a long shadow across his shoulders. Above him, seven painted panels adorned the great arch over the churchyard gate, set there by Nicholas Flamel, the magician who crossed Mercury with the Red Stone and produced half a pound of pure gold. The pictures returned to me like a long-forgotten dream: the king with the sword, the cross and the serpent, a lonely flower on the high mountain guarded by griffins. Flanking the arch, painted on the walls, two lines of women in coloured dresses processed solemnly towards the gate.