Simon continued, “What am I doing with my life? I came to London to become a scribe.”
Nick grew frosty. “You are a scribe, and an excellent one. Better than you realize apparently. Magic isn’t like playing the piano. A few lessons don’t suffice.”
“A few lessons? I’ve been studying since I was a boy from my father’s notes. And we’ve been working together for over three years. And yet, we couldn’t deal with that werewolf last night.”
“That thing was a monster and it was powerful. We weren’t prepared for a lycanthrope. It took us by surprise. Threw us off balance a bit, but we recovered and could’ve taken it eventually.”
“I don’t think so. If that Scotsman hadn’t shown up, we’d be dead.” Simon sighed. “We knew there had been killings around town. We were hunting something. For six months, we’ve been talking about how London seems different, as if something dark is out there. But it was just a game. As with everything we do, we weren’t serious, and we weren’t prepared.”
Nick looked angry. “So you’re saying that you haven’t become an accomplished scribe because I haven’t trained you properly?”
“No.” Simon paused and let the damning silence drag out before conceding, “I had already become a complete wastrel when I met you. All I cared about was women and … well, and nothing. Women. And whatever magic could gain me. Then, for the first year we were together, we worked hard. I learned a great deal. But the last year or so, we’ve lost our momentum.” He glanced at the pile of news clippings.
“It takes time,” Nick repeated.
“That’s not good enough. And it’s not truly the point.” Simon sat up. “Why am I even studying to be a scribe? What’s the purpose? Just to live in a cave and accumulate knowledge?”
This time Nick stayed silent, his eyes half-closed with contemplation or annoyance.
Simon asked, “What’s the use of power in this world?”
“No, no. Greater magicians than you have started down that road over the centuries. If you involve yourself in the normal world, it will make you pay. There’s a reason magicians stay in the shadows. We are feared, Simon. I don’t care how powerful you may grow as a scribe, a knife or a musket ball will kill you as easily as it will anyone else. If you want to change the world, learn a trade like blacksmith.”
“I’m not talking about trying to change the world, Nick. But I couldn’t even save Beatrice.”
“We’ll find Oakham, don’t worry. We’ll make him pay. And we should be able to even up those stacks a bit. Is that what you want?”
“It’s a start.” Simon smiled at his friend’s genuinely solicitous question. He had grown weary of his own gothic brooding, so he rose and took up his new walking stick.
“That’s a handsome new stick,” Nick said, obviously grateful that the tone was shifting. “Is it appreciably better than your two hundred others?”
“Yes, it is. I had Penny Carter make it.” Simon drew out the glittering blade and said with excitement, “Speaking of Lord Oakham, guess what I saw at Miss Carter’s shop today?”
Nick furrowed his brow. “Lord Oakham?”
“No. A four-barreled Lancaster pistol.”
“Like the Scotsman carried?”
“Just like it. Its exact twin actually. Miss Carter made the brace for him. I asked her to send for me the next time she expected him in. I’d like to chat with him.”
“He didn’t seem keen on a chat last night.”
“I wasn’t at my best last night, but I’m sure I can charm him. I want to know more about him and his activities, particularly if he’s active in London.” Simon swiped the blade through the air. “Lucky to have this in time for tonight.”
“Doesn’t look like silver.”
“It isn’t. Quite the finest steel I’ve seen though. A Japanese swordmaster couldn’t have done better. That woman is a wonder.” Simon cleared a work surface by shoving books off the desk onto the floor. He produced a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and laid it out. It had precise runic sketches grouped in a narrow column down the center.
Nick joined him with whiskey in hand, watching intensely as Simon set the sword on the desktop and placed the sheet of paper over it so the row of runes were positioned over the blade. “A little inscription, eh?”
Simon reached into a drawer and drew out an empty glass inkwell, which he set within easy reach. He glanced at the crackling fire, then at Nick. “A bit of heat, if you please.”