Turold yelped and leapt for his knife while Giacinta hid beneath Turold’s cloak. Dimly, they made out a shape in a chair in the far corner of the room. It didn’t get up or do anything other than cross its legs.
“I’ve been here the entire time, though you didn’t bother to notice. To be fair, I was sleeping…I had a miserably long day. Thanks for asking.”
“Familiar?” Turold said, lowering the knife.
“Didn’t you expect me? I snuck away as soon as I could, but that damned monarch will go on and on…”
“I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. We were just…”
“Really, Turold, of all times to hire a courtesan. Though she is attractive, I’ll give you that. Strange coloring, though. Is she Turkish?”
“I’ll thank you not to call me a whore, or…whatever that other thing is,” Giacinta said, fastening her bodice.
The Familiar leapt up, squinting at her through the darkness.
“Wait…is that her? The skeleton? You gave her a face?”
“Her name is Giacinta, as you well know,” Turold muttered. “So what happened tonight? Anything of interest?”
“I just can’t believe it…she looks completely different! I didn’t think it would work,” the Familiar continued, returning to its seat. “A thousand apologies. If you want me to leave, I can return in a few minutes, an hour, whatever you like—”
“Just get on with it.”
“In that case, I have some rather unsettling news about the fire. I know who started it.”
“There’s been a fire? Where?” Giacinta asked.
“The Archives. Ah, I meant to tell you,” Turold said, sheepishly. “Someone tried to kill me, someone who looked exactly like Lord Gramsteed.”
“Though we can’t rule him out,” the Familiar noted.
“Someone set fire to the Archives!” she repeated, going white. “Turold, why didn’t you tell me? Here we were, doing…that, and you knew that all along? Don’t you know what it means?”
“I assume they were trying to get at copies of the Codex,” Turold ventured. “But now I’m not sure there were there to begin with.”
“Sir Otrygg warned me this might happen,” she said, pacing wildly. “But this has nothing to do with the Codex. The Archives were built on the very spot where the legends said they killed him.”
“Killed who?”
“The God. It’s where they killed him and buried his heart.”
“His heart? Where did they rest of him go?” Turold asked.
“All across the city: his head, his arms, his legs, the rest of him. Sir Otrygg knew, he showed me books, charts–and had me burn them. The heart is the central portal in the city. If they can open that it would allow them to bring in the rest.”
The rest? What else is there?”
“No idea,” she said, grim-faced. “But clearly we’re dealing with more than insects now. The Messengers have become larger, more ambitious. Much more dangerous.”
The Familiar began nodding anxiously, removing something buried deep in its coat.
“Like the one who tried to kill you. I think we finally met,” it said, revealing a short, jagged blade. “I was leaving dinner to relieve myself, when a footman came out of the shadows. He said, “Turold, the cat with nine lives.” Before I could answer, he garroted me like an expert.”
“Garroted?” Giacinta asked.
“Strangled from behind with a cord, a typical means of assassination,” Turold explained, turning over the blade. “How did you get this?”
“He thought I was you, so I played along. When I was ‘strangled,’ he left me for dead. I waited a minute, then drew my blade and went after him. Got him straight in the back before he realized what was what.”
“You killed him? Right there—in the king’s palace? Did anyone see?” Turold exclaimed.
“No, no, it was dark, we were beneath the stairs,” it said, waving his hand.
“What about the body? You just left it there?”
“Of course not! Who do you take me for?”
“Then what did you do with it? Are you sure it’s safe?”
The Familiar made a face, obviously wanting to gloss over this part of the story.
“Naturally, I would have buried it someplace discreet if I had the chance. But as it happened, the body disintegrated as soon as I stabbed it. Melted into a pile of legs, wings, and antennae. They all scrambled away before I could squash them.”
“Great, so he’s still out there,” Turold said, with a sigh.
“Sir Otrygg told me they would grow stronger,” Giacinta said, alarmed. “The longer the portals are open, the more will come out. This is just the beginning.”
“There’s writing on the blade,” Turold said, holding it before a candle. “In the same language as the Codex. Giacinta, can you read this?”
She peered into the blade and caught the reflection of her eyes and face in the metal; it gave her a flush of pleasure. She quickly recovered and translated the approximate meaning, which read, “With Wind and Flame, with Smoke and Storm.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“No idea…but look: the grooves of each letter are encrusted with blood,” she said. “They used this blade to perform a sacrifice. That’s how they opened the portals. Each one must be opened with blood.”
“So the new Messenger is out there, trying to kill anyone who gets in the way,” Turold said, pocketing the blade. “Do you think there’s more than one of them?”
“Yes, and they could be anyone, not just Lord Gramsteed or this footman,” Giacinta agreed.
Not just Lord Gramsteed. Suddenly the threads of Astrid’s conversation came into startling focus…preferring pickles over peaches. No one changes overnight, and certainly not a firebrand like Sonya Vasilyevna. So who was she? And where did the real one go? Suddenly he remembered the story the coachman told him about the strange visitor to Sonya Vasilyevna. Not a visitor, a Messenger.
“I know where another one is,” Turold said, almost spitting it out. “We have to warn Astrid, it’s worse than she thought.”
“Who’s Astrid?” Giacinta asked.
“Sonya Vasilyevna pretty assistant,” the Familiar chimed in. “She really hated Turold at first, but she’s coming around. I think she’s impressed after she saw what you did with me. And I am pretty impressive.”
“So, you’re working with her, too?” Giacinta asked, crossing her arms.
“Out of necessity, yes,” he said, scratching his head nervously. “She was sent by Sonya Vasilyevna to watch over me, but she learned she couldn’t trust her—she was holding things back. They’ve been trying to close the portals, but I think the Messenger got her first.”
“Got the girl?” she asked.
“No, er, Sonya Vasilyevna. Astrid’s still perfect—er, I mean, normal, the same.”
“Too bad,” Giacinta muttered.
“So where’s the real one?” the Familiar asked.
Turold was about to say “I have no idea,” when he suddenly did have, or at least an inkling. The pieces began to form a pattern now, incomplete, elusive, but of formidable logic.
“To open the portals, you need a sacrifice?” he asked Giacinta.
With a frown, she nodded. Her arms were still crossed. She wanted to know more about Astrid. He understood but knew there wasn’t time, as much as he wanted to reassure her (he and Astrid! Please).
“And to open a portal to the god…how much blood?”
“I don’t think it’s a question of how much, but what kind,” she answered. “It would have to be someone of sufficient power, whose blood could enrich the words of the spell. At least, that’s what Sir Otrygg told me about the legends of old, how the portals were opened in the past. Something about a Touchstone.”
“Ah, now it makes sense: they’ve taken Sonya Vasilyevna— she’s to be a sacrifice!” Turold said. “And possibly Lord Gramsteed, too; the Messengers must have taken their place. Was he still in the palace when you returned?”
“Not once I returned, no,” the Familiar said, shaking its head. “His absence was noticed by more than a few.”
“It must have taken him while you were gone. We have to find him—figure out what he’s up to! But if he wanted to keep the portal open, why burn the Archives down?”
“We’re wasting time, Turold,” Giacinta interrupted, throwing on her cloak. “If the Messengers are out there, picking off important people, then we should move now. The cellars.”
“Now? Tonight?” he repeated.
“Immediately.”
“Hmm, it’s past one already,” he said, glancing out the window. “The palace will be up soon. But you’re right. If Lord Gramsteed has the Codex, then they’ll find their way to the cellars. And they might have more than a cryptic poem.”
“But your vision—they don’t have that,” she said. “That’s how you deciphered the verse. They could read the Codex in vain for such an insight!”
“Unless it speaks to them, too,” he mused. “Familiar, can you meet Astrid before your duties at the palace? She’s expecting me in the Gardens.”
“I think so. How much should I tell her?”
“Everything. We can’t afford to keep anything from her. She’s the only one we can trust.”
Turold tried to ignore Giacinta’s look of distaste when he said it. But it was true, and he couldn’t afford to keep her in the dark; she might be the only one who could protect them if Sonya Vasilyevna was no longer an ally.
“Now to see if the legends are true, if a god actually sleeps at the heart of the city,” he said.
“Careful, he might be a light sleeper,” the Familiar said, with a grin.
