He quickly returned to his apartment, fearing the knife of a hired hand with every breath of wind at his throat. How much did Lord Gramsteed know? If he truly suspected him of having knowledge of the Codex, his eyes would be everywhere; he would know the color of his cravat before he even knew it himself. The spell was his only hope. But what a hope! A spell that had ended Hildigrim’s life and reeked of the blackest spellcraft.
If the shadow had defied his master, what chance did he have of controlling it or mastering his thoughts? It would read his fears and desires and act accordingly. And right now, his greatest fear was that Lord Gramsteed would kill him…or that his familiar would beat him to it. On the street, every second or third person seemed to stare a little too long, or turn away a little too quickly. Best to assume they were all spies and had been trailing him since morning.
Without hurrying, he reached the courtyard of the respectable (if only just) building at Fenugreek No.15 which he temporarily called home. His landlady was hanging washing on a line overhead, and called out to him in a shrill voice (he could never understand her). He waved to her and said “yes, at once,” which seemed to answer the question. A quick glance confirmed no one on the stairwell or landing; his way was clear. He skipped up the stairs and hastily unlocked his door, taking a half-glance behind him (still nothing) before locking himself inside.
He smelled it at once. The slightest odor of nightshade, and something else; pleasant, but unfamiliar. Someone had been here, or was hiding here still. No obvious signs of disorder, but if he looked closely he could see a faint speck of mud or a gently jostled tea cup. Lord Gramsteed worked quickly. He drew his blade, knowing that his best chance was to strike first and strike quickly. Of course, if the Council wanted him dead it was unlikely he would leave the apartment.
He stepped into the narrow hallway between rooms, sensing the slightest disturbance in the air. Luckily, his height, so often a drawback, proved a distinct advantage in a melee. They would strike high and usually above his head, while he would hit lower—and more effectively. He listened, hesitating before the next step, which would bring him squarely into the bedroom. No drawing of breath, scraping of boots, clenching of teeth. For a moment, he almost believed they had missed him and all was well…
“Turold!” a voice said, grabbing his arm.
He moved to strike but the arm held him fast, pushed him against the wall.
“It’s me—Giacinta!”
His body froze as he beheld the carnival mask and the familiar cloak. But how? She didn’t even know where he lived! And the door? The key? The smells?
“Don’t be alarmed, I’ve been waiting here for quite some time. I convinced Lord Gramsteed to let me in.”
“Lord Gramsteed?”
“Yes, I told him I wanted to surprise you; after all, it’s not every day you become Astrologer Royal,” she said, with the hint of a laugh. “He said he was much obliged, and that I saved him the trouble, as he planned to send his own woman over. So he brought me here in his coach, and unlocked the door—he claimed to have a key that opens every door in the city—and gave me this. He said it would heighten your pleasure.”
She held up an ornate snuff-box, reeking of nightshade and marjoram (a popular combination, called The Siren’s Kiss). Turold managed to relax his grip on the blade and slump against the wall.
“Did he suspect anything?”
“I think he was too amused to ask questions. Though he did ask how we managed, with you being so small.”
“Quite the gentleman, isn’t he?” Turold said, with a grimace. “So you heard the news? I’ve assumed your brother’s position.”
“Were you surprised?” she asked, taking a seat on his still-unmade bed.
“Completely! Sonya Vasilyevna says it’s to keep an eye on me. He thinks I have the Codex already.”
“Sonya-who?” she asked.
“Oh—the woman I said would help us. An important member of the Council, currently in prison, thanks to him. He’s planning something, and wants me out of the way—or thinks he can use me, one or the other. Thank goodness he doesn’t know how close he came this morning.”
“Closer than even he realized,” she said, and removed a small package from her cloak.
She handed it to him, gesturing meaningfully. Wordlessly, mouth agape, he took it and removed the covering, exposing the small, tattered volume within. On the cover, written in the ancient and largely-indecipherable script, were the words Codex Cinquefoil, in a series of swishing loops and underscores.
“You brought it here?”
“Wherever I go, it follows,” she said, with a nod of her head. “I couldn’t trust it anywhere else.”
“Wait—you had it with you all along? Even…”
“Yes, from our first meeting. It almost fell out when you tackled me to the floor. That’s why I fled in such haste. I wasn’t ready to trust you.”
“And you do now?”
“In my gut I always have. I just had to convince the rest.”
He flipped through the book, the freshness of the writing belying its age, though he couldn’t read more than a few words of its six hundred-odd pages. Even so, he could feel the weight of history fill the room, no longer abstract but a living, storied being. Suddenly the idea of rousing a buried god didn’t seem quite so improbable. He vividly recalled the vision from the coffee house, the melting of the silver goblet. The answer was here, in one of these pages; perhaps in every one.
“I can’t read any of this. It would take…years, maybe my entire life to figure it out,” he said, despairingly. “I fear your trust in me is misplaced.”
“Turold, I thought you understood. I can read it,” she said, leaning forward. “That’s why I saved it.”
“You–you’ve read the Codex? But how? Did Sir Otrygg teach you—“
“Actually, I taught him. Granted, he knew enough to decode the opening pages, which is how I came about. But it wasn’t enough. I had to correct his mistakes, which were costly.”
“Tell me…what does it say?” he asked, eyes aflame. “What’s it about? It’s the dream of every magician and astrologer. And you know!”
“Some knowledge is a curse,” she said, dismissively. “The Messengers gave you a taste of its power, but it’s only the beginning. The Codex is a book of doomsday. It has a single purpose, and that’s to bring the Fallen One to power, and whatever else suits his fancy. That’s why I’m here. I was raised from the dead, as are the Messengers, and a few others, who roam the city in worship.”
Turold almost dropped the book, for at that moment, he believed her. The feeling of the book, the curve of the words as they raced to the end of the page, it all spoke of destruction and prophecy.
“You say there are others? Who?”
“I don’t know, I just know I wasn’t alone. Others came with me. I felt them, briefly, before we went our separate ways, into separate forms. That’s why I destroyed all the manuscripts I could; I hoped we could cut them off, send them back to sleep, even quiet the god himself. But it wasn’t enough.”
Her voice cracked with a sob that couldn’t find release in her tears. She laughed instead, though that, too, rang hollow.
“I remember crying, the feeling of warm tears on lifeless bone. More than anything, I wish I could feel it against my cheeks,” she said.
“Giacinta, I know someone…who could do that,” he said, cautiously.
“Why should I need a face? I have no purpose here. I don’t belong, and the sooner I finish our work, the sooner I can…”
“You can’t wear that mask forever. Besides, this might take some time…wouldn’t you be more comfortable?”
“It’s not about comfort,” she said, after a pause. “We have work to do. That’s all that concerns me.”
“Then tell me where to start,” he said, handing her the book.
“No, it’s yours now; it was meant for a magician, not…not me,” she said, waving it off.
“And yet you’re the only one who can read it. No other magician.”
“It’s a gift I would gladly relinquish. Speaking of magicians, what about Lord Gramsteed? Won’t he come looking for you?”
“Ah, I almost forgot!” he said, leaping up in fright. “Hildigrim’s spell!”
“You have an idea?”
“Yes, and I’m glad you’re here. I’ll need your assistance,” he said, unfurling the spell. “If it turns out to be murderous, we have to be ready to kill it. It happened once with my master; in fact, it took him three tries.”
“Kill…who?” she asked, looking around.
