Mora said, “The symbols are not Lemurian or Mu or proto-Cimmarian, or any other language Mum or I can recognize. We have taken photographs and rubbings. Mum believes the identification and translation of the writing will provide the identity of the artisan.”
The last fold of black silk dropped to the floor, exposing a bronze-shod walking stick with a bronze handle etched in the same glyphs that covered the shaft.
Mora took the stick by the shaft where black wood met the ornamental bronze, closed her hand around the handle and pulled sharply. Something clicked, and a blade slid from the wooden hilt on a whisper of negative air pressure. Having grown up steeped in Alistair’s romantic ambiance, I had spent many of my off hours in the army learning to use a sword. I took it from her and turned it in my hand, a straight saber an inch wide and twenty-five inches long. Sunlight slipped up and down its length like reflections on still water. I stood and turned the blade through a few slow moves, testing the balance.
One two, one two, and through and through, Little Samoth sing-songed from under the bed.
“What was a sword-cane doing in your attic?”
“Great Grandad Keogh possessed a collection. Most were sold when he died, but Grandpa Keogh kept a few, and Mum inherited them.”
I returned the blade to its sheath and tried to hand it, hilt first, back to Mora. “I can't keep it.”
Her arms tightened around her knee. “If Mum needs to examine the writing again, she can apply to you.”
“I mean it should be in a museum.”
“That would be inconvenient if Mum wants to engage in additional study,” she said with perfect Mora-logic.
I tried the length of the stick. It might have been cut to my height, and the handle precisely matched the shape of my deformed hand. It fit as if I had grown a new limb.
I said, “So my job is to sit around and wait for something to come along that needs bashing with a sword-cane?”
“That is approximately the case.”
My pink-eyed familiar demon giggled. I’ll see you soon, Hal darling. I remembered a straw hat floating on foul water, and I thought I wouldn’t have to sit around and wait for long.
The End
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The Blackwood Curse: Queen of Corruption Page 20
