Marsh felt the distance between him and Elle grow. Three hours. A lot could happen in three hours.
“I have already given my statement,” he said. “I don’t have anything to add. The disappearance of Miss Chance is a matter for the British High Commission and I have already sent a man with a dispatch. There is nothing more to be done until I get to Constantinople.”
“Yes, of course, my lord.” The conductor cleared his throat. “Perhaps it might assist in passing the time to take in some of the sights of the city. Bucharest is very beautiful. Some fresh air perhaps?”
Marsh resisted the urge to shake the man. Instead he simply nodded. “Yes, I think you might be right.” He rose and picked up his hat and gloves. With a determined tug, he pulled his new black carriage coat over his shoulders and stepped off the train.
He walked slowly. The pain in his side felt unwholesome and corrupt and it worried him. He needed help.
On the street, he stopped to focus. Bucharest, he thought cynically. Another city that was doing its best to be Paris. Filigree spark lamps lined wide boulevards. Everywhere buildings were going up in the New-Baroque Parisian style. He hunched himself up inside his coat against the cold wind that tugged at his clothes. The new Bucharest would be of no assistance to him. What he needed would be in the back streets.
He turned off the boulevard and walked down one of the cobbled lanes. The face of the city changed instantly. Hollow-eyed children stared at him from the porches of adobe houses made in the old Wallachian style. Here and there a brightly painted onion dome poked out from between the rooftops. Horses with red woolen tassels on their harnesses ambled by, their haunches steaming in the morning cold as they pulled wooden carts loaded with everyday things. Wisps of smoke from cooking fires stole around corners.
It took him about half an hour to find the first marker. They were not that hard to find if you knew what you were looking for, but in this strange place, even he struggled. This marking was on a drain cover. The Warlock triangle with the eye in its apex was cleverly worked into the grooves of the metal. He stood on the cover and closed his eyes. The tiny flecks of power left inside him flickered faintly, and he shook his head in frustration. It was not enough to find the next pointer.
He shivered and closed his eyes, concentrating energy inside him. This time, he felt another flicker, showing him the direction.
Two streets down, he found the small shop. The faded Warlock symbol of the triangle was on the sign jutting out above the door, inside a winding pattern of leaves. Warlocks had not always been allowed to conduct their business in the open. Many of his kind had met their death quite brutally in centuries past. Here in the more remote countries, where superstition ran deep, creatures of Shadow were still treated with suspicion and so the evidence of the otherworldliness was often disguised.
He peered in through the dirty glass panes of the shop. Dusty bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling and the shop was lined with cabinets containing many little drawers. He had found what he was looking for. He was outside the doors of a Warlock apothecary. Every city had one, although many had taken to the road in recent years, selling their jars and potions from horse-drawn wagons. Snake oil was apparently a big seller for many of his commercially minded brethren. A grubby sign in Cyrillic script in the glass pane of the door hinted that the shop was open.
Had his noble order come to this? The emptiness inside him ached. Without power to fuel the Craft, he knew the answer to his question.
He pushed the door and stepped inside. The astringent smell of tinctures and herbs hit him as the door closed behind him. A man with a long beard looked up from behind the counter and nodded. Marsh wanted to laugh. His Warlock brother looked like something out of a children’s book. He wore a gray smock that matched his beard. On his head was a pointed cap that flopped over to the side.
The man said something in Wallachian that Marsh could not follow. When he did not respond, the man shrugged. “Yes, how may we help?” he tried again in French.
Marsh walked up to the counter. “Good morning, Brother. I wonder if you could … ” He used the old language and made the sacred sign.
The man’s eyes widened.
“My lord. Forgive me, but we were not expecting anyone from the Council to visit.” He bowed.
Marsh shook his head. “I am not here on official business. I am just a travelling Warlock in a strange city seeking out a friendly face.”
The man’s beard separated into a smile, but his eyes remained wary. “Then welcome, Brother. My name is Vasili.” He took off his cap and gray smock. He was wearing a respectably clean waistcoat underneath.
“It’s been years since I’ve seen any of us in traditional medieval dress.”
“Oh, I wear that for the street customers and for tourists. The novelty gives my wares some authenticity,.” Vasili said as he stowed the bundle under the counter and gestured to the back. “Come, will you take some tea?”
Marsh nodded. “Thank you, that would be most agreeable. And perhaps we could talk. You see, I might be in need of a favor.”
“Hmm.” Vasili sniffed and looked at him with some concern. “Forgive me, I am not trying to be rude, but is that Alchemist and perhaps Nightwalker I smell?”
Marsh nodded. The man was more competent than he had hoped. “It is a very long story, but you are quite correct, Brother. I’ve run into a few rather unfriendly people of late. Except the Nightwalker. She is a friend.”
Vasili nodded and his beard jiggled. “Well, then I suppose you are fortunate to have found the right place. Let me close the shop and we can talk.” He walked to the front door and locked it. He turned the sign over to show closed.
“This way.” He led Marsh to the back. In the narrow hallway, he called out something in Wallachian. A small woman in an apron appeared from the back. She assessed Marsh with her sharp black eyes and then disappeared.
“My fifth wife.” Vasili winked at Marsh. “She cooks nothing but cabbage. Come, let us go to my study.” He led Marsh to a room off the corridor. Away from the herbs in the shop, the house did indeed bear the distinct smell of slow-cooking cabbage.
Vasili’s study was a revelation. Every conceivable space was filled with glass jars and other bits of apparatus. Plants in terra-cotta pots spilled out from everywhere.
“I specialize in herbology,” he said in answer to Marsh’s curious glances. “I have been trying for years to extract the minute particles of magic held in plants into making cures. Some I have been successful with, others not so much.”
He moved a glass jar with a withered-looking plant inside onto another counter and gestured for Marsh to sit. Mrs. Vasili bustled in with a tray, which she set down without a word. She gave Marsh another sharp look before shuffling out again.
Vasili poured them each a cup of the strong black tea from the a metal pot. He dropped a sugar lump into the bottom of each before handing one to Marsh.
“So, how has the Craft been in these parts?” Marsh asked as he took a sip of the tea. It was strong and sweet, made in the way that most of the Eastern peoples preferred. It was drunk from the saucer after it had cooled rather than the cup, a practice he had never quite managed to become comfortable with.
Vasili rolled his eyes. “Ah, don’t talk to me about the Craft. We’ve not seen any proper power flow of the Shadow realm in these parts for years. Not since I was a boy. But we make do with what we have. A dash of inferior spark here, a sliver of essence distilled from plants there.” He paused to slurp his tea from his saucer. “Mostly we do only enough to reassure the people. As the Council decrees.”
Marsh nodded and raised his cup. “As the Council decrees.”
“So what brings you to my doorstep, Brother, if I might be so bold to ask?”
“I’ve had a few … shall we say … unfortunate accidents in the last few days.”
Vasili merely stroked his beard. “My eyes and ears are closed. Many come to me because they don’t want the world to know about
whatever proclivities they might have and I speak of it to no one.”
Marsh cleared his throat at the thought. “Quite.” He took another sip of tea. “Last night, I literally had the Warlock knocked clean out of me. I was hoping you might have something restorative. To keep me going until I am healed and my own levels can be replenished. I barely managed to find the markers to your place.”
Vasili looked at Marsh in alarm. “But the markers are in plain sight.”
“I know.”
“Well, I suppose I could have a look, but I have so little power myself. I may not be able to do much.” He regarded Marsh. “What we need is another Oracle. That’s what we need. Someone to open the pathways for us again. These are dark days for our kind, my lord. Dark days indeed. Pretty soon there will be nothing left of our Craft and we will become ordinary mortals, like everyone else. Who knows how the Shadow will react to the shift in balance.”
Marsh nodded. “Who knows?”
“Would you mind if I had a look?” Vasili asked. He gestured at Marsh.
“Ah, yes. It’s this pain here, in my ribs.” Carefully, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and opened his shirt. Vasili gasped in surprise as the bandage came away in his hand. “Oh my.” He leaned in to have a closer look.
Marsh looked down at his side. An angry raised scab ran across his rib cage. Dark blue, purple and yellow bruises spread across his side in a mottled blotch. In a few places where the Nightwalker blood had touched him, the dark blue skin was raised and blistering.
“Oh my,” Vasili said again. “Look at the reaction. I haven’t seen an injury like this since the wars.” Marsh winced as the apothecary touched the tender skin. “Too many different types of power in one place. You will be lucky if this ever heals, I’m afraid. What kind of alchemy was it? And be sure to tell me the truth. Your recovery depends on it, you know.”
Marsh nodded. “It was yellow with a strong sense of sulfur. It packed quite a blast. Nothing like it was in Napoleon’s wars, but the composition felt sophisticated and it was strong.”
“Good heavens, they could have killed you!” Vasili exclaimed. “I thought we had a non-aggression pact with the Alchemists.”
“We do. This is different, though. They took something—someone—important away from me.”
“Lift up for me, please.”
Marsh gasped as he raised his arms. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is.” He winced as Vasili poked a particularly painful bit of skin with his finger.
“Hold still, I might have something that will help.” Vasili bustled off down the narrow passageway that led to the shop and came back with a tub of grayish-looking ointment. He opened it and dug his fingers into the pot. “This will tingle.” He slopped the ointment onto the wound.
The astringent smell of herbs filled the air. “What is that?” Marsh asked. His rib cage felt like it was on fire.
“Witch hazel and hemlock. And a few other ingredients you might not know. It’s made with my own method. You see, I think I have found a way to extract the Shadow forces from these plants. They are their own healing spell.”
Marsh winced again. It felt like an army of ants were crawling over his skin.
“Does it tingle?” Vasili asked.
“Yes,.” Marsh responded with let out a little hiss of air.
Vasili nodded, pleased. “That means it’s working.” He stopped applying ointment and studied Marsh’s rib cage. “Hmm … might not be strong enough to heal the wound completely, but you’ll live. And it will certainly hurt a lot less. That wound was about to start dissolving you alive, Brother.”
“I had feared that,” Marsh said quietly.
Vasili started wrapping strips of cotton bandages around Marsh’s chest. “Now, keep these bandages on. I’ll give you a tub of the ointment to take with you. You need to put it onto the area twice a day until the bruising is completely gone.” He looked at Marsh. “But know that it is going to take a long time to get better.”
“I understand.”
Vasili tied off the wrappings with an expert knot. “You are lucky you found me when you did.” He patted his own chest. “I was a medic in the war. Saved many a soldier with my skills, I did. Now, remember, another blast like that and you will be dead for sure. Your body won’t be able to survive another. Do you understand?”
Marsh nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
The older man returned to his seat and poured himself another cup of tea. Carefully he picked up a sugar lump and dropped it into his cup. They both watched the lump disintegrate, the slick of sugar settled at the bottom of his glass. “I am sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, and you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it is an interesting situation, you know. And it’s not often someone like me gets to speak to someone from the Council.” He eyed Marsh.
Marsh looked at him in surprise. “How so?”
“Well,” Vasili nodded. “Far be it from me to tell a Council member how to practice his craft, but surely you would know that you are on the cusp?”
“The cusp?”
“Yes, my boy. The cusp. All writings about the bleeding-off of power were banned many centuries ago. Probably before your time, I’d guess. Normally if a Warlock is drained of his power, he dies. But if done correctly, the magic leaves the body and an ordinary man remains. In the old days, when a Warlock became tired of living, he would slowly allow his power to drain away so he could live out his days in peace as a mortal. They say it takes a very fine control to get to that point.” He chuckled, “Or in your case, the right dose of fighting.” The older man looked at Marsh for a long moment. “Please forgive the blasphemy for saying so, but have you ever thought of just letting it all go?”
“Let it go?” Marsh looked at him.
“Yes!” Vasili nodded. “Let go of the Craft. Become an ordinary man with no powers. Marry, have children and grow old gracefully. Die. All the things a man should do.” He grew nostalgic. “I have had many years to think about my mortality. Living a long life is not all it is made out to be, I can tell you. I have now outlived four wives, and the fifth, as you can see, is on her way. My children are all dead, so are their children. The family tree I started now barely knows me—so far are the shoots from the trunk these days. There is no one in my line who carries my ability to take up the Craft. And so I will die alone one day.” Vasili sighed. “It is a lonely path, the one we take in the end.”
“Indeed it is,” Marsh said.
Vasili gave him a friendly pat on the arm and without a word he wandered off into the shadows of the hallway. Marsh had started buttoning his shirt and waistcoat when the old man reappeared. He held out a parcel wrapped up in brown paper. “More ointment. And this.” He handed Marsh a little bundle of leather.
Marsh untied it. “Mandrake root?”
“Do the ritual. You know which one. Your power will seep into the root. Bury it under an oak tree. And as the root rots and returns to the earth, so your power will disintegrate and return to the realm of Shadow. You will be free of this terrible burden. But only if you want to. Or not. I don’t care either way.”
“Thank you. What do I owe you for the ointment?”
Vasili shrugged. “No charge. Look after yourself, my boy. The world is a dangerous place.”
Outside the shop, Marsh carefully stowed the parcel inside his cloak. The wind had picked up and he felt cold. He could smell snow, even though it was still early in the year for it. He tightened his cloak around him and started walking in the direction of the station. The old man’s ointment seemed to be working and— as he walked, his constricted chest opened up a little.
He let his thoughts wander. Give it all up? He knew the ritual the old man had spoken of. It was a suicide ritual. Once used by the Brotherhood in cases of extreme dishonor. He had never thought of using mandrake root with it though. The solution seemed so simple it was inspired.
And Elle? It always seemed to come back to her. He quickened his pace as he reached one of the fancy French-looking boul
evards. He needed to more time to think. And time was the one thing he didn’t have right now. He had an important train to catch.
CHAPTER 40
The girl with no shadow was in trouble and it was my fault. I should have shown myself to help defend her. I should have come forth to help her escape, but we were bound so tightly as we were carried away into the night that there was nothing I could do. I had left Paris because the girl had given me a way of escaping that terrible iron staircase that had held me prisoner for so long. I had never dreamed that this quest for freedom would become so large.
And I was afraid, for fairies are cowards more often than not. The temptation to spirit away and hide is far stronger than the need to stand and fight. When I finally crept from my diamond-hard fortress, I found the girl on her side with her hands shackled. Her long hair was loose, streaming over her awkwardly turned shoulders.
We were in a place of darkness. I could smell evil seeping from the dust and stone around us. There were others in this place; I could taste the rage and anguish of their captivity and desperation in the air around me. This was a place beyond the Shadow. We were on the verge of darkness.
Silent as thought, I stole across the floor. I felt myself tremble slightly as I moved. The lack of absinthe had made me weak and feeble, unable to defend us. I reached for the door but drew back. The door was banded with pure iron and there would be no escape through it. The terrible realization that I had tarried in the safety of the diamonds for too long enveloped me. They were coming. They were coming for the girl.
Although I had failed and almost all hope was lost, I would protect her from these monsters somehow. There was little point in mindless bravery though, for sometimes victories were won by small increments. As the mighty pine rises up from one tiny seed, so our escape plan would grow.
I sensed that there was still time. And so I slipped back into the diamonds and waited for the moment to come to pass.
It was the pain in her shoulders that finally made Elle drift up from the deep slumber that held her. Everything felt heavy and swollen. She opened her eyes and the world shifted into focus. She was lying on her side with her cheek against cool stone. Her arms were tied behind her back. She struggled to sit up, but a thick wave of dizziness flooded her.
A Conspiracy of Alchemists Page 24
