Turold daydreamed through the rest of his meetings, so one tended to blend into another, especially as they all featured bottomless cups of tea. Indeed, the various members drained cup after cup while smoking pipes, dishing gossip, and falling asleep at the table. Each one ended fairly quickly (that is, once they ran out of tea) so Turold was dismissed for the day, though expected back early for the king’s pre-supper brunch. A coach had already been summoned to take him back to his apartment or wherever else he might prefer to go (a local coffee house was strongly recommended). However, he begged off his colleagues’ insistence on more caffeine, and gave the coachman his address on the opposite side of town, which made him grumble. A sizable tip would be in order.
The coach started off, rattling over the pock-marked roads, which made his teeth chatter and his hand-me-down wig come loose. He drew the shade and brooded on his conversation with Astrid. Had Hildigrim really chosen him over her? And more importantly, had he chosen a pupil over his wife? If so, why hadn’t he said anything, or even hinted at his disappointment? Unless…he wasn’t?
There were two ways to take this: with great flattery, as if his talent was sufficient to make him say, “to hell with love, I owe it to the very arts of sorcery to train this boy!” Or, with great humility, as if Hildigrim was looking for a way out of the marriage, and Turold simply fell into his lap as a convenient excuse.
Could he imagine Hildigrim being married to Sonya Vasilyevna? They were too alike, too demanding to tolerate each other’s peccadilloes (whatever those might be). He must have realized after the first flush of love, if they ever were in love, that one of them would inevitably have to sacrifice their ambitions for marital bliss. And it wasn’t going to be him. Truth be told, she probably felt the same way. Maybe asking him to take on Astrid was her own deal-breaker, knowing in the end he never would.
If so, Astrid had every reason to hate him, and his ignorance only sharpened the blow. The great ones were said to be eccentric, a word that excused acts of outright cruelty in the name of convenience. He tried to excuse Hildigrim’s worst offences, reminding himself of all the great deeds and adventures he undertook on behalf of the kingdom. Yet somehow, it didn’t balance out. Especially when all those great deeds could be seen in a different light, a more selfish one. Had Hildigrim ever done anything without discerning some private advantage for himself?
Speaking of advantage–Lord Gramsteed’s letter! It had drifted far down his sleeve and threatened to invade his hindquarters. Retrieving it, he broke the seal and rubbed his fingers over the silk-like parchment. He had never been able to afford paper of this quality, which the manufacturers boasted could actually enhance one’s spells. Doubtless mere hype, but he strongly considered reusing the paper. It was such a brief letter, after all.
My dearest Turold,
I fear an attempt on your life. Rumors are unreliable, but if enough of them point in the right direction, it’s best to be wary. I would advise you not to take the coach offered you home from Court. It may be marked.
If you do take the coach, instruct the coachman to take an irregular route. Avoid Celandine Court!
If you do find yourself on Celandine Court, exit the coach at once! Run for safety where you can find it. I’ll have men following from a distance, but they can’t act until the first sign of danger. And by then it may be too late.
Turold frantically opened the blinds, looking right and left to identify his location. A blur of horses and people and shops. And then—the ruined clock tower, burned in the siege of PR 842, one of the few things that survived. On Celandine Court.
“Driver! Turn down the next road!” Turold shouted.
Gunshots! A ball whistled through the coach and planted itself in the wood above his head (or where the head of a normal-sized gentleman would be sitting). The coachman shrieked and leapt off the coach, leaving the horses to run madly through the streets. Another ball smashed through a wheel, reducing it to a splintered shard that tilted the coach sideways. The horses, panicked, finally broke loose and disappeared into an open field. This left the coach to violently come to rest against the wall of an inn. The impact shattered the chassis and both windows.
Turold was thrown against the opposite seat, the glass raining over his wig and jacket. He could hear someone advancing, cries of “that way!” reaching his door. He didn’t have time to flee or defend himself; he would have to brace himself and home for the best. Then he caught a wisp of his shadow against the chair.
“Familiar! Out the door! Quickly!”
Without hesitation, the Familiar assumed his shape and threw itself out the door, tumbling violently in the road. Immediately, two men set upon it, wrestling it down and stabbing it repeatedly in the back. The Familiar made a good show of trying to fight for its life, as it could have easily throttled them both with a single blow. Finally, it collapsed on the ground and gave a feeble cry for help.
“Take that to your master!” one of them snarled.
“Hildigrim was a traitor! We’ll never see one of his like as Astrologer Royal! And you can tell Sonya Vasilyevna she’s next!”
Then, seeing the approach of Lord Gramsteed’s men, they took flight and vanished amidst a sea of on-lookers and beggars.
Turold couldn’t risk Lord Gramsteed learning about the Familiar: he leapt out of the coach and crept to his Shadow’s side.
“Are you alive? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m a shadow, Master Turold! What could they possibly do to hurt me? On the contrary, I eagerly await my next task. Would you like me to hunt them down? Strangle them within an inch of their lives? Hang them from the clock tower by their toes?”
“No, no, come back, before someone sees you!” he commanded. “I’m supposed to be half-dead, remember?”
The Familiar made a sour face but complied, leaving Turold to rip and rustle his clothes in a hasty facsimile of assault. He then sprawled in a senseless position on the road to await his rescue. The first soldier to reach him cried, “we’re too late, the pipsqueak is dead!” But Turold’s groan of annoyance convinced him otherwise.
“Dead?” a second replied, kneeling beside them. “He hasn’t got a scratch on him! I thought you said they shot him.”
“I thought they did!”
“If so, they were lousy shots! Or else his height threw them off. Damn lucky to be such a midget!” the first said.
“Or perhaps they thought him a child and so hesitated at the last second? If I were told to kill a small boy, well, I would quake in my very soul, and probably be unfit to the task.”
“Unless I were well paid,” the first shrugged.
“It would have to be a considerable sum. Would you kill a child for less than four hundred fobs?”
“Maybe three hundred, depending on the child. Not a girl.”
“Oh no, goes without saying. I have a little girl myself.”
“If you could help me up,” Turold groaned.
“Our apologies, Master Astrologer!” they cried, setting him on his feet. “We’re sorry we came too late! Though you’re none the worst for wear, it seems. Damn lucky if you ask me.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“No, Master, though they looked like typical mill-kens and bagshots, hired for the job. Lord Gramsteed will root them out, mark my words.”
“We should return to the Court, Master Astrologer,” the first said, supporting him. “Lord Gramsteed will want to be assured of your safety.”
“Actually, I think I should return to my apartment in case it’s been burgled, too. I have valuables there. Besides, my nerves…I could use some rest.”
“Lead the way, Master, and we’ll follow,” he said, sword at the ready.
It took the better part of an hour on foot, but at last Turold spied the crumbling spires of his building through the late-morning drizzle. Thanking the soldiers, he crept up the stairs, expecting a trap. Whoever hired the assassins wouldn’t have hired a single ambush; no, others would be waiting here, in case the first ones failed. And unless they received word of the others’ success, the back-ups would be ready to stab, shoot, and garrote the Astrologer Royal.
As he approached his apartment, he found a trail of ants streaming in the opposite direction. These were soon joined by a helter-skelter flight of cockroaches, beetles, and spiders, like sailors deserting a sinking vessel. He reached the apartment and found dead insects everywhere, most of them massed at the very foot of the doorway. A few wasps buzzed angrily, drunkenly, over his head but collided into the walls and each other.
“Giacinta!” he cried, terrified to open the door.
No response. He had arrived too late to save her. Even now, the Messengers were in full retreat, either having been spooked, or having retaken their prize. Turold threw open the door, finding tables overturned and vases shattered; more dead insects, and a shattered mask.
“Giacinta!”
“In here!” she cried, from the bedroom.
As he raced in, he found her barricaded behind an overturned mattress, her cloak torn and her face unmasked, but otherwise unscathed. Seeing him, she quickly covered her face and turned away, sobbing with relief.
“Oh, Turold! The Messengers—they came for the Codex. I couldn’t stop them.”
“But you did—they’re dead all over the place. How…”
“Sir Otrygg taught me the spell, the one he used to repel them. I tried to save the Codex, but there were too many, all over me…I had to retreat.”
“They destroyed it?”
Still turning away, she nodded.
“The swarm consumed it; not even a page remains. The Messengers must have guessed our intentions.”
“But you…you’re not harmed?”
“My mask,” she said, voice cut with a sob.
“I can get you another mask—an entire wardrobe of masks!” he said, with a laugh. “I mean you, they didn’t hurt you?”
“Not much. They weren’t interested in me. But what can we do now? The book—it’s the only way to send him back. He’s not yet awake, but he’s aware, he’s trying to reach us.”
“You’ve read the book, yes?” he asked her.
“Yes, but I don’t remember it all, only vague impressions. Not entire spells or enchantments.”
“It might be enough. Besides, I have this,” he said, digging for the fragmentary spell. “With your knowledge you can help me understand it. Did you translate this? Have a look.”
But she refused to turn around, still covering her face in both hands. It was a strange juxtaposition: the dark olive fingers against the snow-white skull. Turold tried to coax her, but nothing he said would convince her that he didn’t care, that he no longer saw her face the way she did.
So he took her hand and sat with her for the rest of the afternoon.
