by Cate Cain
Jem suddenly realised he mustn’t give away that he already knew Ann.
“I– I… She’s very, er… pretty, sir.”
The man continued to stare and Jem felt the most tremendously painful burning sensation in his heel where the nibbled Eye of Ra was hidden. The sensation strengthened and it was all Jem could do to stop himself crying out.
A look of fury crossed Cazalon’s face. Just as they had before, the man’s eyes blackened completely, so that the iris and pupil appeared to bleed into the white. Then, just as quickly, the count’s expression changed, assembling itself into something more pleasant.
“She is Elizabeth Metcalf, the mother of my ward, Ann.”
He stared intently at Jem, his eyes flickering over the boy’s face as if searching for something. After a moment he continued. “This portrait was commissioned on the eve of her thirteenth birthday – a very significant age for Metcalf girls, as it marked the time when they came into their… inheritance, shall we say?”
Jem nodded, unsure what to say.
Cazalon smiled. “It was painted in 1643 – not a happy time for people like Elizabeth. I believe that the Eastern parts of this land were not always hospitable to families like the Metcalfs. You’ll note the gloves. A symbolic gift I imagine. The serpent represents wisdom, and Elizabeth was on the verge of inheriting a wisdom that most would never have in their entire lifetime, never mind as a thirteen year old.”
Jem looked up at the painting. Ann and her mother were identical.
“Remind me,” Cazalon’s voice was smooth and lazy, as if he didn’t really care about Jem’s answer. “How old are you, Jeremy?”
“I will be thirteen this year, sir.”
Jem remembered their first meeting, when the count had asked the same question.
Cazalon continued to gaze at the painting. “Such an interesting number, thirteen,” he said after a moment. “A number of endings and of beginnings. The end of childhood and the beginning of manhood, Jeremy.”
He looked closely at the boy before continuing.
“Thirteen lunar cycles in a year, thirteen signs of the true zodiac. The thirteenth rune of the Norse alphabet is called Eiwaz, and it represents the point of balance between the light and the dark, between life and death. And, of course, there were thirteen present at the Last Supper. Now, why do you think that is?”
“I– I have no idea, sir.”
“Then I shall enlighten you. Thirteen is a number of power, a number of magic and a number of… completion. When is your thirteenth birthday?”
“September, sir.”
“Ah yes. Now I remember. The date again?”
Cazalon continued to sound bored, but Jem sensed that the man was actually intensely interested. He wondered why.
“September the fourth, sir.”
Cazalon smiled. He looked back at Elizabeth’s portrait for a moment. “My ward will celebrate her own thirteenth birthday next year. They are most alike – do you not think so?”
Jem winced as a red hot pain from his heel shot up through his leg. It was a warning.
“I– I cannot tell, sir.”
“Of course. How forgetful of me. You have not been introduced.”
Cazalon laughed and then clasped Jem’s shoulder. As his grip tightened, the burning pain from Jem’s heel became so acute that he thought he might actually faint.
Suddenly Cazalon let go and stepped back. He stared at his gloved hand and then back at Jem. For a second he looked confused. The count tightened his hand into a fist and turned away so that Jem could not see his face. After a moment he said hoarsely, “Come.”
He limped away up the corridor, his cloak rippling behind him like a stream of black water. Jem followed, the pain in his heel now easing, until they reached a pair of massive double doors that seemed to be formed from cast metal.
Cazalon clapped his hands twice and the doors swung back soundlessly to reveal the most extraordinary room that Jem had ever seen. Or heard.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first thing Jem noticed was the noise – thousands of voices seemed to be talking, singing and chanting. Just occasionally he thought he caught snatches of sobbing, too – and something that sounded like wailing.
Despite himself, Jem couldn’t help letting out an exclamation of wonder.
This was clearly the library of Malfurneaux Place, but it was the most stupendous library Jem had ever seen. The duke was proud of his much-admired collection of books at Ludlow House, but that paled into insignificance compared to this room. If you could call it a room.
Jem found himself standing on a broad gallery that ran around five book-lined walls. He took a couple of steps forward, to peer over the polished rail in front of him, and saw that above and below, as far as he could see, rows and rows of books and rolls of parchment were ranked on shelves around similar galleries, all connected by a single spiralling staircase that appeared to have no bottom and no top.
Around the walls, hundreds of candles shed a cold light that was tinged with purple.
He peered down into the well of the library and felt a prickling sensation in the back of his legs and a fluttering in the pit of his stomach as he realised that he was so high up he couldn’t see the floor.
Dizzy and slightly nauseous, Jem shrank back from the rail and leaned against the solid shelves behind him. The babble of noise continued to fill the air and Jem looked about to see where it was coming from.
Cazalon regarded him narrowly from the other side of the gallery and smiled at his confusion. He raised his hands, clapped slowly three times and the sounds ceased immediately.
Jem was even more confused. He took a step forward and nervously looked over the rail again, then up at the galleries overhead, but there was no one else in the room.
“My children can be so noisy.” Cazalon stared expectantly across at him. Now Jem was completely thrown.
“Er… your children? Where are they, sir?”
“They are everywhere. Look about you, Jeremy.” The man made a sweeping gesture to the bookshelves. “These are my children – thousand upon thousand of them. And I care for them well.”
Dumbfounded, Jem looked at the count and then at the books around him.
Cazalon grinned.
“I should explain to you, boy, that I have made it my life’s work to collect the unusual and the extraordinary, and these volumes are most certainly that.”
He turned to stroke the spine of a particularly thick and ancient leather-bound tome on the shelf behind him, before continuing softly, “Magnificata Trismegistus – do you know what that is, Jeremy?”
Jem shook his head.
“It is one of the most powerful and ancient books of magic ever written. This, I believe, is the last copy in the world. I found it, several years ago now, in one of the monasteries despoiled by that fat king of yours – he was a most disagreeable and odious man, so very… pungent. I couldn’t bear to be near him for long. Henry, wasn’t it? The eighth monarch of this grim little country to bear that name I believe?”
Utterly bewildered, Jem stared across the gallery.
Had Cazalon just implied that he’d actually known King Henry the Eighth? That was impossible – Henry had been dead for more than a hundred years.
Cazalon continued. “Always grubbling about for gold and silver, when, of course, the treasure was right under his nose in the monastery libraries. But that’s always the way, I find. From Babylon to Rome and from Jerusalem to Constantinople, the barbarians always miss the real prize. Knowledge.”
He stopped for a moment and ran a hand over the volumes on the shelf below the Magnificata. “Even in my own beloved Thebes…” He trailed off, then turned to face Jem. “These are books of magic, mathematics, medicine, astrology, astronomy and philosophy taken from every corner of the known world and from every civilisation since the dawn of recorded time. I have travelled the earth in search of knowledge and the power that knowledge can bring. These books are my children,
Jeremy Green… and my insurance.”
He raised his hands and the noise began again, building and building until Jem had to cover his ears. Cazalon laughed, clapped three times again and the room fell instantly silent.
“When books contain such power they develop a life of their own. I suppose you might even call it soul.” Cazalon sounded the last word with a bitter hiss.
“Some of the souls here are children of light and some of them…” he pulled down a large, ragged black volume that appeared to be covered with spots of mould, “are the sons and daughters of darkness.”
He began to leaf through the stained pages and didn’t look up as he spoke again.
“Now, to the errand that brought you here. Would you please fetch me the book just behind your left foot.”
Jem looked down and saw a single volume on the bottom shelf near his foot.
“Yes, that’s right, the red one. It is for the duke. Bring it to me.”
Jem bent down to retrieve the book. Although it was small, it was incredibly heavy. He tried to lift it with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge.
“I haven’t got all the time in the world, boy!”
Jem got down on his knees and tugged hard. Suddenly the book shot out of the shelf and into his hands.
“Perfect. Now hand it to me.”
The voice was suddenly very close. Too close. The Eye of Ra burned on his heel but the warning was too late.
Jem twisted round and was horrified to find that somehow, he was kneeling at Cazalon’s feet.
A harsh cry came from somewhere high above and Jem heard a swooshing sound like the beating of huge wings. He looked up and saw a distant white blur spiralling down towards them. The shape grew larger and larger until Jem recognised the horrible form of Osiris.
With a loud ‘kraak’, the raven settled on Cazalon’s shoulder. The air around the count shimmered and wrinkled, and Jem had the strangest impression that the man and the bird were one. Cazalon seemed to grow even taller and his outline pulsed in the eerie purple light. A pair of distorted wings unfurled from his cloak and his face lengthened and blurred so that, for a second, Jem felt that he was in the presence of a gigantic bird.
Jem clamped his eyes shut, shook his head and looked again.
Osiris was sitting on the count’s shoulder.
As he had when Cazalon took the bloody bandage from Jem, the raven performed a vile head-bobbing dance of victory. His ghastly beak was wide open and his pink eyes locked onto Jem’s.
“Thank you, Jeremy.” Cazalon’s slanted eyes returned to normal again, although they glinted with unmistakable triumph.
Jem’s heart stopped. Ann had specifically warned him to be on his guard, but now he had been tricked again into fulfilling another the rites of binding.
“You must not kneel to him,” she had said.
He felt sick and scared, but forced himself to stand up so that he was almost on eye level with Cazalon.
The count began to laugh and the noise whirled around the gallery and library. Jem clenched his fists and blood pumped through his body. More than anything he wanted to destroy this man. But how?
“You certainly have spirit,” Cazalon smirked. “It is most impressive for the bastard son of a k… kitchen hand.”
Jem took a step forward. His fear was forgotten, replaced by fury.
“How dare you! My father was not a kitchen hand, he was a soldier.”
“Was he now? And how do you know this, Jeremy? What, pray, has your pretty mother told you about your father?”
Cazalon waited for a reply that never came, before continuing.
“So, we can deduce, can we not, Jeremy, that the reason your mother never mentions your father is that she has something to be ashamed of? And every time she looks at you she is reminded of her shame.”
Jem lashed out, but his hand passed through nothing but shadow.
From the far side of the gallery, Cazalon clutched the rail to steady himself and laughed. Osiris took flight across the library to join him.
“Such a fine and brave young man. If I did not have another purpose in mind for you, Jeremy, I would be tempted to find a place for you here. You would be a pretty toy. Perhaps I could play the father you have never known.”
At these words all the fight suddenly seemed to evaporate from Jem and he crumpled against the shelves. The count obviously knew everything about him and his life; how could Jem possibly imagine that he could defeat this monster?
Cazalon regarded him with a calculating gaze and after a moment he spoke in a bored tone. “Now to other matters. The duchess will be expecting her medicine.”
He limped over to a large golden box that stood upright on the gallery behind him. The box was taller than the count and painted to resemble a man.
“Do you know what this is, boy?”
Jem stared at his feet. He would not answer. Cazalon smiled.
“Well, despite your bad manners, I shall tell you. It is a sarcophagus made for a dead Egyptian king. It is nearly three thousand years old… as is the body inside it.”
Jem’s eyes widened as Cazalon swung back the painted front of the sarcophagus to reveal a shrivelled, blackened corpse. Tattered grey wrappings hung loosely from its head, revealing a grinning skull covered with shreds of tight, parchment-thin skin. The mummy’s eye sockets were huge and empty.
With one quick movement, Cazalon wrenched the mummy’s left arm from the bandages and Jem heard a sickening crack. He watched, revolted, as the count took a small knife from his sleeve and began to scrape little strips of dust-dry, powdery flesh from the arm of the mummy into a leather pouch.
When he was finished, Cazalon dropped the filled pouch to Osiris, who caught it in his beak. The raven flew across the gallery and deposited the pouch at Jem’s feet. Osiris clung to the rail and bobbed his head for a moment before flying back to his grinning master.
“I think that is all for today, Jeremy. You will now take my treasures back to your master and mistress. I trust the duchess has made it most clear that you are not to speak of her medicine?”
Jem gave a curt nod.
“Good. And I have a message for her. This new supply is particularly fresh and potent. It is most important that she uses no more than a pinch of powder each day. Is that understood?”
Jem nodded again.
“There is enough in that pouch to last for more than two months. I am travelling to Paris on business tomorrow, so she must make that quantity last through the summer. You will tell her that.”
Jem gave another small, surly nod.
“Excellent. You may go now, Jeremy.”
The great doors to the library swung soundlessly open. Tapwick was waiting in the candlelit passageway.
“Don’t forget the duke’s new treasure.” Cazalon hurled the small red book across the gallery. It fell open at Jem’s feet, revealing a lurid image. Jem blushed, closed the book hurriedly and stuffed it into his pocket.
Cazalon laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, and he gripped the rail to steady himself. Suddenly he looked terribly old. He fell silent, staring across at Jem. His lips curved into a smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
“You will leave me now, boy, and you will return to Ludlow House immediately. There will be no time for… exploring today. The duke will want to examine his book.”
With a weary flick of his hand, Cazalon dismissed him and turned his back. Jem saw the count’s hand quiver as he reached for a roll of paper on a high shelf.
“Go boy. Tapwick will be waiting for you.”
The great library doors swung back and Jem stepped into the odd light of the passage.
As the doors closed behind him, two things blazed like brilliant fireworks through his mind. By kneeling to Cazalon he had completed yet another of the rites of binding, and the count had talked about performing his terrible experiments on Tolly and Cleo.
He had to tell his friends, as soon as possible.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Jem!” Sarah’s voice came from above. He looked up and saw his mother leaning over the first gallery. She propped the bolt of cloth she was carrying against the rail and hurried down. “How did you fare with Count Cazalon?” she asked eagerly.
Jem thought about the man’s taunt, “Every time she looks at you, she is reminded of her shame.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “It was fine, mother,” he grunted.
“I hope you acquitted yourself well. He has connections that could be very useful to a boy like you.”
Jem gritted his teeth and spoke without thinking first. “And what exactly does that mean, mother? What sort of a boy am I?”
Sarah froze. Her face set hard into a pale mask.
Jem shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. After an uncomfortably long silence, he continued, “I think you’ll find I did exactly what the count wanted, mother… and I have the book for the duke.”
“Then you must take it to his room immediately,” came the duchess’s voice from above. “Immediately!”
She rustled down the staircase. “I know exactly the place where His Grace will expect to find it, Jem. Come.”
Sarah made to accompany them, but the duchess raised her hand. “I left my needlepurse in my bedchamber. Would you bring it to me in the blue salon?”
An odd expression crossed Sarah’s face as she looked from Jem to the duchess, but she nodded curtly, dipped the faintest of curtseys and turned towards the stairs.
The duchess led Jem directly to her salon. When they were alone together she gripped his arm.
“Give it to me.”
Jem felt in the pocket of his coat and handed her the leather pouch full of mummia.
She looked disappointed. “But there is even less here than before. This is not enough. I must have more!”
Jem looked up. The duchess’s eyes were gleaming with a feverish brilliance and her skin looked tight and sallow. Purple bruises bloomed beneath her eyes. Far from looking youthful, today she looked old and sick. The duchess noticed his stare and took a step back.
