First things first: if Sir Otrygg sold it, the book would have wound up with one of the illicit booksellers in the forgotten streets of Old Town. Unlikely, but worth a look. Turold knew them all, and had sold his share of curios and quartos filched from the connoisseurs in town. They never asked questions and always paid handsomely, if only a fraction of the auction price. He wondered what something like the Codex would sell for…assuming, of course, they even knew what it was.
It would be easy to miss: only three people had seen the actual text, and even his master had only glimpsed a hastily-produced facsimile; the actual book might look nothing like he expected. Would it look like a museum piece, knowledge gleaming off the spine like starlight? Or would it show all the signs of its age—torn binding, faded words, rotting pages?
Perhaps it was as simple as that: Sir Otrygg couldn’t translate it because it could no longer be read? Had he spent the intervening years trying to resurrect the text, never mind what the words actually said? Had that been his greatest defeat: time, and not magic? Something he could never control or make sense of?
Turold turned down a nameless street into a smoky outdoor market. Vendors sold passed-over fruits and vegetables, bones and skins for enchantment; but despite considerable foot-traffic, little of the goods changed hands. Clearly something else was being sold, and everyone present was biding their time, trying to out-feint the others in the hopes that they would give up and try other markets. Turold found the one person he recognized, an old thief named Churkov, distractedly polishing weeks-old apples.
“Business is good?” he asked.
Churkov looked up at him, squinting. Then gave a shrug.
“That’s up to you.”
“I am here to buy. Though I expected a warmer welcome, given our history.”
“Our history, sir?” he said, feigning disinterest.
“Three words, Churkov: Barberry, bribes, Blackbeard. Arrange it however you like.”
His face paled as his teeth clenched. Churkov looked up at Turold with resentment, though recognition clearly flashed in his eyes.
“I did pay the bribes,” he whispered. “It’s not my fault they were tipped off. I told your master I would make it good. Ask me again sometime, I’ll get all the barberry you like.”
“That’s what I’m doing: asking you again.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, but this time I’m not interested in barberry. I’m looking for books.”
“What’s wrong with the other 23 letters?” he said, with a laugh. “Forgive me, what sort of books?”
“Anything you’ve received within the last month,” Turold said, glancing around the stalls. “Something rare. Very old. Especially in another language.”
“What if I told you I don’t deal in books?”
“Then I might suggest other words with ‘B’ that are far less pleasant.”
“Are you threatening me?” he said, dropping the apple.
“As a courtesy. I thought we were being polite.”
Churkov nodded glumly.
“So what of it? Old books? Anything come up for auction?”
Churkov stared petulantly at Turold, as if trying to think up a suitable response, a nasty bon mot that would make the sorcerer think twice about disturbing his business. But either nothing came or he knew Turold could make good on his threat (as he had seen him do before).
“I always have a stockpile…a few of them quite ancient. An astrologer sold them to me; fallen on hard times.”
“Astrologer? Sir Otrygg?”
“I didn’t look at his face. Only the books were of interest. One I already sold, a book of prophecy. In poor condition, but apparently still of value. The others I still have with me. However, the auction has started; you’ll have to bid.”
“Bid without seeing the books?” he scoffed. “Not likely!”
“These are too valuable, too rare,” he said, a hint of fear clouding his voice. “I don’t dare show them in public. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“How old are these books? I’m looking for a very specific one.”
“I have one that is very old indeed, can’t understand a word of it (though I’m no scholar, like you). Should fetch a good price,” he said, thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, exactly, but if I had to bid on something…”
“What’s the highest bid?”
Churkov turned away as a tall gentleman approached his stall and made a curt greeting. The man lazily inspected his apples, and after each one oozed messily in his hands, bought the foulest one. Turold noticed that he paid far more than he needed to and departed without collecting his change. He was about to run after the gentleman when Churkov grabbed his coat.
“Ah, the bid just went up: twenty thousand.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“Evidently he really wants it,” he nodded. “Be a shame if he got it first.”
Turold feared he was being played…it all seemed too convenient. However, as he inspected the crowds, he noticed that many were paying for rotten fruit or buying overpriced trinkets, then hanging around. He stared down Churkov but the wily merchant didn’t budge. His hands hovered over the fruit, suggesting he make an offer while he still could. The auction might end any minute.
Turold made an extravagant bid, hoping that Sonya Vasilyevna could reimburse him upon receipt of the Codex. Churkov smiled, plucking a semi-rotten apple from the bunch and presenting it to him as his ‘purchase.’
“How much longer?” he asked.
“You’re in luck; I’m ending the auction in twenty minutes. Still, it’s a popular item. Many eyes are watching us. Anything could happen.”
Turold paced the stalls and followed every newcomer with his eyes, terrified lest they make a bid to overshadow his own. Strangely, no one else made an offer, and Churkov languidly inspected his pocket watch, letting ten…twenty…now thirty minutes slide past. Just as Turold was losing his patience, Churkov made a signal that the auction had concluded. He quickly tossed the remaining apples and pears in the street and closed up his stall, signaling for Turold to follow. From a distance, he followed him down a few alleyways and up a broken stairwell to the merchant’s apartment, which overlooked the old execution grounds (stained crimson even after a century of pardons).
“Come in, come in, better you claim it now than I have to send it through the post. Notoriously unreliable,” he said, kicking over crates crammed full with rubbish.
“You keep it in here?” Turold asked.
“I have everything organized according to a very strict system–it looks far worse than it is,” he chuckled.
On his hands and knees, Churkov overturned boxes and ripped open sacks and buried himself in papers and objets d’art. Turold suddenly had a sinking feeling that what he had purchased was as far from the Cinquefoil Codex as his boots from the moon.
“Here it is! None the worse for wear…or not much,” he said, dusting it off.
Turold eagerly took up the book, which appeared to be a worn, faded, torn, soiled, and water-damaged diary from the last century. Flipping it open, he read, “Monday, June 5th. Ate a large breakfast. Slept until noon. Then went with Lord Halek to His Majesty’s cellars and drank a copious amount of ale. Always cold as the devil down there! But too drunk to notice. Lord Halek forgot the code to get out (also too drunk). Locked in for the night. Drank another round and fell asleep.”
“This isn’t the Cinquefoil Codex!” Turold said, stamping angrily.
“I never said it was! I’m ruthlessly meticulous when it comes to listing my wares,” Churkov said, defensively. “I merely said it was a very old book, in fair to middling shape, and that it was going for twenty thousand krouck.”
“Krouck? You said fobs!”
“I did not! I said twenty-thousand. You inferred fobs. I just failed to correct you. Good business, after all.”
“So this…is worthless? Just some rotten diary?”
“I’m no judge of literature or spellcraft. I merely provide goods to paying customers,” he said, shoving items into a crate. “I do have other merchandise if you’d like to examine my wares.”
“Do you have anything that might resemble the Codex? Or are they all like this?”
“Let’s see, I have another diary…a manual on military installations, probably not your taste…and let me see, I know I have something else,” he said, digging through a box. “Yes, here it is: a Diverse Magickal Atlas, c. 499 BPC. I can let this one go for only ten thousand…krouck.”
“I’ll make you a better offer: I’ll pay you five hundred krouck to keep all of them out of my sight, including this madman’s itinerary,” he said, tossing it in a box.
“Very well, fair enough, five hundred is ample payment, considering the bidding never reached a hundred,” he said, with a guilty smile. “But do keep the book; you may find it entertaining in the wee hours. Take it with my compliments.”
In the end, Turold paid the money and agreed to keep the diary, though he vowed to toss it off a bridge or into the fire for kindling. He couldn’t risk Sonya Vasilyevna hearing about his humiliation so early in the investigation. He could just imagine her response: “like master, like apprentice.”
