Knucklemeat whistled, peering at the blade. “Is that giant-forged? I never seen the stuff up close. Definitely valuable. Wonder if it’ll hurt when I cut it off.” He grabbed a pile of shackles that lay in the bed and slung it over his shoulder. “Onto the ground, all three of you—we’re taking a little trip.” He stepped back from the gate. “Hands nice and high.”
Sophie approached the edge of the wagon, but Peter did not move. He was facing the man, his jaw clenched, his breathing shallow. Sophie put a hand on his sleeve. “Peter, don’t . . .”
The boy did not seem to hear her at first but then lowered his blade. “You really think thieves are that horrible?” he asked.
“I think dying is horrible,” she whispered. “So let’s listen to the man and get down from the wagon. Please? For me?”
“That’s right, loverboy,” called Knucklemeat. “Listen to your girlfriend and get down here.”
“I told you, I’m not his girlfriend!” Sophie snapped. She picked up her skirts and climbed off the back of the wagon. Between the book and her dress, it was hardly graceful, but at least she made it without falling into the mud.
Sir Tode hopped down with little trouble and joined her side. “Stay back, Sophie,” he said under his breath, so quiet that Knucklemeat could not hear. “And whatever you do, don’t make any sudden sounds.” The knight was watching Peter with a look of intense concentration.
Sophie looked up at Peter, who was still on the wagon.
“Fine,” Peter said with a note of resignation. He raised his hands in surrender and jumped down from the bed. His feet hit the mud, and he slipped forward. “Whoa!” he cried, colliding straight into Knucklemeat.
“Watch it!” the man shouted. He grabbed Peter by the coat and shoved him hard against the wagon gate. He pressed his arm into Peter’s neck, choking him. “You think it’s smart to test a man with a gun?”
“Guns are a coward’s weapon,” Peter said coldly. “They’re for people too afraid to get their hands dirty.”
Knucklemeat struck Peter across the face with the handle of his gun and then pressed the muzzle against his cheek. “Do I seem afraid to you?”
“Peter!” Sophie tried to run toward him, but Sir Tode held her back.
“He knows what he’s doing,” the knight warned.
Sophie, however, was unconvinced. Knucklemeat had Peter pinned against the wagon, a loaded pistol aimed at his face. The boy, for his part, looked utterly unafraid. She heard a soft click as Knucklemeat drew back the flint hammer with his thumb. “Any last words, hero?”
“More of a question.” Peter cleared his throat. “How do you plan to shoot me with an unloaded gun?” He held out his open hand—
A small lead bullet lay nestled in his palm.
“How . . . ?” Knucklemeat pulled the trigger on his weapon, but it responded with a dull clack. “That’s impossible!” He pulled the trigger again and again, refusing to believe. “How . . . ?”
Sophie could not have said it better herself. She stared at the boy, her mouth open. “You . . . you stole a bullet out of a loaded gun?” She had seen Peter do incredible things, but this was entirely too much.
Peter grinned at her. “Maybe thieves aren’t all bad?”
Knucklemeat stepped back from Peter, his face bloodless. “A neat trick, but there’s a reason I keep spares at the ready.” He threw his useless weapon aside and reached for another pistol.
What happened next was very hard for Sophie to understand. In a heartbeat, Peter had somehow leapt onto the wagon gate and then flipped over Knucklemeat’s head. In a single, singing motion, he whipped his blade down the man’s back—cutting clean through his gun belt, which fell to the ground, leaving the man unarmed. He kicked Knucklemeat square in the rump, and the man tumbled down to his knees and into the mud with a tremendous squish.
“Bravo!” Sir Tode cried, then turned to Sophie. “Told you he knew what he was doing.”
Knucklemeat lay on the ground, helpless, Peter’s silver blade pointed at his throat. “What now, boy?” he growled. “You going to gut me?”
Peter stepped back and picked up the shackles that Knucklemeat had dropped when he fell. “No, now we’re going to the baron’s castle.” He threw the chains into the man’s lap. “And you’re going to take us there.”
The journey through the Grimmwald took longer than Sophie anticipated. The forest seemed to grow wilder with every passing mile. The paths through the forest were muddy and narrow, many of them choked with ivy and weeds.
Knucklemeat sat beside Sophie on the driver’s bench, clutching the reins, shackles jangling from his hands. He was singing a disgusting tavern song called “The Maggot and the Corpse”—a song whose length seemed to be limited only by the number of body parts the singer could call to mind. Sophie, meanwhile, passed her time browsing through The Book of Who, reading various entries about fantastical people long forgotten. Despite what Professor Cake had told her, she found it difficult to reconcile the notion that these were not merely storybook characters but actual people who had lived and walked upon the earth.
She happened—by chance, really—to turn to the entry on Peter Nimble, which she had first read in the shop. One line in particular leapt out at her:
. . . Wielder of the Fantastic Eyes . . .
She looked back at Peter, who was crouched in the bed of the wagon, keeping a careful watch over Knucklemeat—watch, in this instance, being a term of art. Or was it? She stared at the blindfold wrapped tightly around his eyes. “Peter?” she said, closing the book. “Can I talk to you about something . . . personal?”
Peter shifted slightly. “If it’s about how much you despise thieves, I’d rather you didn’t.”
Sophie ignored this comment and continued. “When I first opened The Book of Who, I found an entry about you in it. The book said you had ‘fantastic eyes.’ And then later, in the Professor’s library, you made it sound as though you weren’t blind at all . . .” This was not exactly a question, but her meaning was clear.
“That’s because I’m not blind,” Peter said, still facing forward. “Not anymore, at least.”
Sophie noticed that Sir Tode had turned around to listen to the conversation. Perhaps he, too, was curious about Peter’s answer.
“My eyes were pecked out by ravens when I was a baby,” he said after a moment, and Sophie could tell that the memory still pained him. “I grew up completely blind, and that was all I knew. But then I met Professor Cake.”
“The fantastic eyes,” she said. “The Professor restored your sight?”
“It was a bit more complicated than that,” he said, scratching Sir Tode between the ears. “Maybe Sir Tode can tell you about it when you’ve got the time. And knowing the way he goes on, you’d need a lot of time.”
Peter had said this as if he were hoping to change the subject, but Sophie was not ready for that. “I don’t understand,” she said. “If you can see, why do you still wear a blindfold?”
Peter shrugged. He looked to be considering his words very carefully. “I’m not ungrateful for what the Professor did. I just feel more comfortable this way. I feel more like myself.”
“Fantastic eyes,” Knucklemeat muttered next to Sophie. “Shoulda known it wasn’t no ordinary blind boy who swiped my bullet.” This was meant as a gripe, but Sophie thought he looked considerably comforted by the thought that he had been bested by some magical force.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BOOK of WHAT
While Sophie and her friends were venturing ever closer to Baron Magpie’s castle, they could hardly have imagined that Madame Eldritch was already there, comfortably installed in the man’s parlor.
“You can imagine my surprise, Madame,” said the baron as he poured two glasses of a glowing amber liqueur, “when I found your valet at my door holding your calling card.” He handed a glass to Madame Eldritch, who sat on the edge of an eft-hide divan. “I am not accustomed to visitors, even less those who can navigate my qu
ickbramble.”
“Perhaps you forget that it was I who sold you the saplings?” Madame Eldritch brought the glass to her lips in a manner that thoroughly suggested drinking. She, however, knew better than to drink things offered to her by men like the baron.
Baron Magpie laughed, downing his own drink with hasty relish. He was a tall, fleshy man with a thin mustache, silver wig, and surprisingly small eyes. Though he claimed not to have been expecting company, he was smartly dressed in a violet waistcoat. “Yes, well, I’m a man who values his privacy. This tower was a lost ruin when I found it—parchments and books strewn everywhere. As you can see, I’ve put quite a bit of work into the place. I’m sure you recognize more than a few artifacts on the walls.”
“Indeed, I do,” Madame Eldritch said. The baron was one of her richest and most loyal customers. But he was also reclusive, and until this moment, she had never actually met him in person. “As for why I have ventured so far to meet you, call it a weakness of curiosity.” She slowly traced one silk-gloved finger around the rim of her glass. “After so many years of doing business with the famous Baron Magpie, I found myself wanting to see him in the flesh.” She did not so much speak this final word as carve it up on a platter.
“Famous?” The man wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being known in Bustleburgh. It’s a bad business up that way—what with all that No Nonsense nonsense.”
“Perhaps my private fascination has clouded my perception.” Madame Eldritch rose from her chair but not before making the calculated move of unclasping her cloak, which fell from her neck to reveal her bare, perfectly smooth shoulders. “And now that I have seen your magnificent home, I can understand your desire to keep it a secret.”
The baron’s eyes widened ever so slightly, as if he were appraising a piece of art. “More ambrosia?” He took her glass, which had somehow emptied itself, and turned to refill it.
Madame Eldritch walked the length of the room, examining the vast assortment of rare and valuable objects: moon clocks and ebony urns and miniature fig trees and an entire cabinet dedicated to teaspoons. She wondered if this man even knew the power of the things he had purchased. She suspected he did not. Men like the baron were all about the pursuit. Give them a thing they desire, and all they can think to do is preserve it under glass.
“How are things in Bustleburgh?” the baron called, fresh drinks in hand. “Rumor has it, the whole city’s been taken over by some pyromaniac zealot—Pigg, or some such—who’s obsessed with burning magical artifacts.” He offered her a glass. “A terrible waste.”
Madame Eldritch did not share her own thoughts on the matter, which were complicated. She did not approve of Inquisitor Prigg or his ilk, but she very much liked watching things burn. “It is, at least, good for business,” she said. Her gaze landed on something mounted high on the wall. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, her lips slightly open.
“The jewel of my collection,” the baron said with no small amount of pride. “A gelding—perhaps the last of its kind.”
Before them hung the head of a unicorn. Its horn was narrow and slightly twisted. Its eyes were wide and glassy. Its skin was pulled tightly around its jaw to reveal a row of small teeth. A cluster of brittle white hairs clung to the chin.
“Cost me more than I’d like to admit,” he said. “I tried to keep him alive, but he was quite old, as you can imagine. Couldn’t bring myself to dispose of the carcass, so I had him stuffed.”
Madame Eldritch stepped closer to the creature. “He is magnificent . . .” This woman who made a practice of letting nothing surprise her was genuinely awestruck. She wet her lips. “And the horn?”
“There’s no magic in the horn, if that’s what you’re wondering. Apparently all that stuff about eternal life was just a rumor. Still, it’s a remarkable specimen.”
Madame Eldritch raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.” The word specimen in regard to such a noble creature disgusted her. For all his wealth, Baron Magpie was still a fool. Of course unicorn horns could extend life, if prepared correctly. She herself was proof.
The baron smoothed the curl of his mustache. “Speaking of specimens, that’s one I’d like to add to my collection.” He regarded Taro, who was patiently sitting on the divan. “What is it, exactly?”
“His name is Taro,” Eldritch said. “He is Mandragora.”
“A mandrake! I’ve never seen one so large.” The baron removed a monocle from his waistcoat and notched it under one eye. “Is it true what they say about the scream?”
“He is not for sale,” Madame Eldritch said.
The baron laughed, clapping his hands. “You know me too well!” He leaned closer to her, lowering his voice so that Taro could not hear. “But perhaps I could change your mind . . .”
“I don’t change my mind,” she said coldly. “Ever.”
At these words, Taro bowed his head and closed his eyes.
The baron laughed again, though this had not been a joke. “Don’t sound so sure, Madame. In my experience, everyone has his price . . .”
Madame Eldritch noted his hungry expression and wondered if it had been a mistake to come to this place. She had learned some years before to always demand payment upfront from the baron, for every time she sent him a delivery, the courier always mysteriously disappeared. Perhaps the disappearances were not such a mystery after all?
“It is time we put aside pleasantries,” she said, stepping back from him. “You asked before why I had ventured so far from Bustleburgh to visit you.”
He nodded. “And you changed the subject.”
She smiled, as though pleased with his observation. “As you know, I make it my business to find things that people desire.” She walked past him, her fingers absently playing on the edge of a pedestal bearing a coin-encrusted skull. “I have recently encountered a certain book—a book that I believe might be of great interest to you.”
The man arched an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“It is an old book and looks very much to be out of use. The cover is animal hide of indeterminate origin, though I suspect salamander. On the spine is a curious mark.” She stopped at a small window, which was foggy from the cold autumn air outside. Slowly, she drew four converging question marks on the glass.
The man stared at the mark, his eyes now very wide indeed. “And the title?”
Again, Madame Eldritch raised an eyebrow. “Judging from the look on your face, I think you already know the answer.”
He set down his glass. “Come with me, please.”
Madame Eldritch and Taro followed the baron down a series of corridors, each one secured by doors that opened by lever. “You may have noticed that I keep few servants,” he said, mounting a curved marble staircase. “Truthfully, I prefer my own company. I had an engineer from Bustleburgh run cables and clockwork through the walls of the entire castle—that way I can open doors and get about quite effortlessly. More important, it assures that none of my collection goes running off.” He pulled a golden lever at the top of the stairs, and the door before him swung open.
He led Madame Eldritch along a narrow balcony that overlooked a ballroom with polished marble floors. The air was filled with a pungent, musky odor. A hundred different creatures growled and cooed and hissed and chattered below. “This,” he said over his shoulder, “is my private zoo.” From end to end, the hall was lined with tall golden cages arranged very much like pillars. Within each cage was a different type of animal, each one unique. There was a weeping rhino-saurus, a squawking dodo, a singing mouse, a slithering basilisk, a brooding ape, a silver goose, a shivering mooncalf, a three-headed dog, and even a small, emaciated griphon. The cage doors had no locks and instead seemed to be controlled by long chains connected to levers along the balcony—no doubt allowing the baron to open the cages without endangering himself.
Madame Eldritch walked the length of the balcony, peering at the hungry creatures beneath her. “Taro, stay close,” she whispered as they
followed their host down a narrow stairway.
The baron led them down several more hallways until they reached a pair of heavy wooden doors. “Here we are,” he said, teasing the ends of his mustache. “The library.” The doors swung wide to reveal a dimly lit room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on every wall.
Madame Eldritch had, of course, heard of the lost library of the Ivory Tower, and, seeing it now, she was not disappointed. A casual inspection revealed thousands of ancient volumes, many thought to be lost forever, any one of which would have commanded a handsome price in her shop. The most unusual touch was an enormous silver tigress that lay curled up in a back corner. The moment Madame Eldritch passed through the doorway, the beast sprang to her feet and lunged toward her. A golden chain around her neck stopped the creature mere inches from Madame Eldritch’s face.
Taro grabbed the tigress by the leash and threw her backward across the floor. The cat was on her feet in an instant. She roared and charged toward him.
“Down, Akrasia!” the baron said sternly. “Madame Eldritch is our guest.”
The tigress stopped at his command. She growled and licked her teeth, pacing back and forth, her yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Madame Eldritch, who had very nearly been devoured, trembled at the not-unpleasant tickle of actual fear that had briefly seized her. “She is a magnificent pet. How long have you had her?”
“She came with the library,” he said, laughing. “I’ve tried to get rid of her, but there’s no getting past that chain.”
The baron peered at his bookcases. “Ah! Here it is.” He slid a book from his shelf and brought it to Madame Eldritch. It was an old volume with a dark green cover, iron furnishings, and a familiar mark on the spine. “The book is terribly damaged but priceless nonetheless.”
Madame Eldritch took the book in her gloved hands. She opened the clasp and turned to the title page:
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 13
