Turold returned a few hours later with Lord Gramsteed, a few minor astrologers, and Sonya Vasilyevna, the sorcerer formerly known as Lady Glinka (but he never called her that). As the minor astrologers made an inventory of every object and stain in the room, the three of them inspected the few tangible notes that had survived the bonfire. Most were random phrases, but some were semi-complete poems like the one from Lord Gramsteed’s apartment. Not as good, and not as complete, but similarly cryptic.
“I think he went mad, found himself not up to the task,” Lord Gramsteed observed. “This is worthless.”
“Do we know where the book is?” Sonya asked Turold.
“I haven’t seen it, though I didn’t make a thorough inspection,” he replied.
“I fear he may have burned it with the rest. Perhaps you’re right, Lord G? He wasn’t up to the task and feared the approach of younger, fresher eyes. Better to destroy it rather than wait for posterity’s verdict.”
“He should thank the gods he’s dead. Otherwise, we would have watched him die by slow degrees in infinite pain,” he muttered. “It’s one thing to betray our trust, to waste our money…but to rob us of a priceless artifact! The only copy of the Codex!”
“Not the only copy, we have copies,” she clarified. “But yes, we’ve lost the original. And even the most dutiful copy might have missed something, some clue in the original, which might hold the key to translation.”
“Do you think he found something? That he translated more than we think?” Lord Gramsteed asked, tossing aside the papers.
“It would explain the secrecy, his silence,” she nodded, looking around. “But there’s something not quite sensible about all of this. If he meant to destroy it, why not destroy it all? He’s had years to cover his tracks. Why does this look so last-minute? I wonder…did he have an accomplice? Did you find any servants, evidence of someone else in the room, Turold?”
Instinctively, a lie raced to his lips. There was no reason to do so; in fact, it might explain everything and lead them to a clearer understanding of his madness, his murder (if murder it was). Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to divulge what he knew of the faceless woman or her desperate struggle to escape. He wanted to know more, but only for himself. For some odd reason he felt they owed him.
“No one,” he shrugged. “Just the body.”
Sonya Vasilyevna seemed to give him the once-over, suspecting him of holding something back or twisting the truth. She may be the twice the sorcerer he was, but Turold had grown up stealing and lying on the streets of Burdock Lane. He defied even her to see through his deception, or to make him admit it. For the moment, he could tell she was satisfied, even if she still didn’t trust him. She and his late master never got along, and anyone Hildigrim called “my spiritual offspring” would naturally make her suspicious.
“Unless they uncover something, I don’t expect any major revelations,” Lord Gramsteed said, with a snort. “Perhaps the next Astrologer Royal will have better luck. We’ll certainly keep him on a shorter leash.”
“Him?” Sonya asked.
Lord Gramsteed looked surprised; then gave a muffled laugh.
“Still think you have a chance?”
“There are many capable women these days: Sveta, Gulnara, Lady Foxglove, myself. It could fall to a woman just as well to another man,” she clarified.
“Whoever gets it, they’ll have to wade through this mess on the off-chance he left something coherent. Such a shame; we had high hopes for Sir Otrygg. That’s what happens when you dip into the black arts too early. Can’t say I didn’t warn them.”
He made a dismissive gesture and strolled out of the room, presumably to enjoy his snuff in private. Turold found himself alone with Sonya Vasilyevna—an alarming prospect, as she was the kind of person who took silence personally. He ran through various things he might say to her, but came up with nothing better than, “good luck, I hope you get it.” Though truth be told, she wouldn’t be his first choice for the post (nor his fifth).
“Can we be honest with one another?” she asked him, after a very long pause.
“Of course,” he said, flatly.
“Your master was a crook. He stole, he lied, he broke the rules when it suited him. I suspected him of having very loose morals; I often wondered if he had any morals at all.”
“He is dead, you know,” Turold reminded.
“All this to say, that he was a first-rate sorcerer,” she said, relaxing somewhat. “He’s the only man I ever envied. And I like to think we had an understanding. A mutual dislike, yes, but tempered by a grudging respect. No, more than grudging, sincere. If he was awarded the position of Astrologer Royal over me I would submit with a good grace. I would even applaud him.”
“Not Sir Otrygg?”
“Dying alone in his apartment was too good for him,” she said, with a hiss. “I knew no good would come of his appointment. But I also know he didn’t destroy it. The Codex? Impossible.”
“So where do you think it is?”
“Not here, he’s taken it elsewhere. And I want you to find it.”
“Me?” he said, taken aback. “But Lord Gramsteed—”
“An oaf with a title. A sopwit. We’re lost if he takes charge of the investigation. Besides, I don’t trust him. I don’t trust you, either, but I did trust your master. And he trusted you, so…”
“You want me to keep looking? And if I find it?”
“Tell no one but me. Can you do that? Would you?”
It was a valid question. In truth, he didn’t know what he would do if he found it. Give it to her? Why, so she could take charge of it, and hoard away its secrets (and frame him for its theft)? Still, she was right. Hildigrim did respect her; he trusted her, too. Turold suspected they once had even stronger feelings for one another, but something happened, or maybe she didn’t entirely reciprocate them, or he said something rash (as he often did). Who would Hildigrim rather work for? Her, or Lord Gramsteed? Let everyone think you’re working for them; then work for yourself, he would have said. And he was right: why couldn’t he work for Sonya Vasilyevna and keep a few things tucked aside for himself, like the faceless woman, and if he found it, a few pages of the book?
“I will, I promise,” he said.
“Good. Together, perhaps we can translate it, make the old words speak at last?” she beamed. “I’d give you full credit, of course…perhaps enough to advance you to the Second Circle?”
“But why me? Why not simply look for it yourself?” he asked, cautiously.
“Turold, I know all about you, your background,” she said, taking him aside. “A cutpurse and an assassin. You’d find your way around the city far better than I could. Because doubtless he’s squirreled it away in the lower depths, or sold it to someone important.”
“You’re mistaken; I was never an assassin. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Save the lies for your more credulous acquaintance. There are some things I can always tell; I have a nose for the truth. But I won’t pry, let it be your secret. Just use it to find the book.”
“But I wasn’t—”
She gave him a stare that effectively concluded their conversation. He bowed and scampered out of the room, hurling a few choice epithets behind him—in silence, of course.
