‘Aye, you’ve left a nice meal for the rats outside,’ Berdon called from the forge. ‘I’ll fry you up some pork sausages and collect some ice-cold water from the well.’
Fletcher felt ill at the thought of food, but decided it would do him some good. He rolled over to go back to sleep and lay in the comforting warmth of the fresh furs for a while. The sizzle of frying sausages began and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.
There was something under him, digging into his side. He reached down and pulled it up to where he could see it.
A sack had been left amongst Rotherham’s furs, with a piece of parchment affixed to the outside. Fletcher tore it from its purchase and squinted at the near illegible scrawl.
The soldier had not been lying when he said he didn’t know his letters, but Fletcher understood it well enough. The wily old man had slipped away in the morning, but had left Fletcher a gift in lieu of a farewell. Fletcher didn’t mind. He was sure he would see Rotherham soon, although he was not exactly sure what he would do with a gremlin’s loincloth, if that was what he had been left with.
He pulled the drawstring of the sack open and his hand felt something hard and oblong. It couldn’t be . . . could it? He shook the contents of the sack out and gasped with disbelief, clutching the object with both hands. It was the summoner’s book!
He stroked the soft brown leather, tracing his fingers along the pentacle etched on the front. Strange symbols dotted the corners of the star, each one more alien than the last. He flicked through the pages, finding every inch filled with finely scribbled handwriting, broken intermittently with sketches of symbols and strange creatures that Fletcher could not recognise. The book was as thick as an iron ingot and weighed about the same as well. It would take months to go through it all.
The sound of Berdon plating up the food reached his ears, and he rushed to hide the book under the furs.
Berdon brought the sausages in and laid them on the bed with exaggerated care. Fletcher could see they were perfectly browned on all sides and seasoned with rock salt and ground peppercorns.
‘Get this down you. You’ll feel better soon.’ Berdon gave him a sympathetic smile and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Despite the delicious smell that filled the room, Fletcher ignored the food and uncovered the book once again.
A single page slid out from the very back of the volume, the paper made from a strange, leathery fabric, different from the rest. Fletcher opened it at the place where it came from and read the words inscribed in the book there.
The last few words were an untidy scrawl, as if the writer had been in a hurry. It was clearly a diary of some sort. Fletcher flicked to the front to see if there was a name and indeed there was; inscribed in golden letters were the words The Journal of James Baker.
Fletcher recognised the common surname. The man must have been one of the few commoners who had the ability to summon, an occurrence discovered purely by chance when a nosy stable boy had read something he was not supposed to and summoned a demon by accident. With that revelation, most boys and girls of around Fletcher’s age from the big cities were now tested for the tiny trace of summoning ability required to control a demon. But Pelt was too small and secluded to warrant a visit from the Inquisition.
He inspected the loose sheet, pulling a face as he realised what the material was made from. Barbaric runes scarred it, with the summoner’s neat handwriting below spelling out their pronunciation phonetically.
Fletcher grinned and began to eat his sausages, savouring every slice. It was hard to keep his eyes from straying back to the grisly page. He knew what he was going to be trying his hand at tonight . . .
9
Fletcher was not sure why he had bothered sneaking to the graveyard. It was not like anything was going to happen, after all. For one thing, he knew that most commoners found to be adepts exhibited small signs of special abilities even before they were discovered, like the ability to move small objects or even generate a spark. He was pretty sure that the closest to a special ability he had was a talent for rolling his tongue.
It was exciting nonetheless and perhaps, once he had read the incantation, he would be able to sell it on his next trip to the elven front, with no regrets at not having tried it. He would find Rotherham and split the profits with him, of course. After all, it had been a generous gift and, if anything, it had been Fletcher who was in his debt and not the other way around.