“I tell you, Palehook has them!”
“Mr. Hargrove. I mean, Mr. Mickelmas,” I said, gripping his arm. “They kidnapped Rook. If you help us get him back, we can find your things.”
“How on earth did you escape?” Agrippa said, staring at the magician with horror.
“That tower is not exactly a challenge for one as skilled as I, particularly when the guards are tired or drunk. In this case, they were both. The thrill of the chase injected some excitement into their otherwise excruciatingly dull lives. Sadly for them, I was uncatchable.” He studied his fingernails with smug satisfaction.
So that had been the shouting and running I’d heard.
“I wanted to swoop in and rescue Miss Howel,” he continued, “but without a runic cloak, my methods of transportation were limited. Fortunately, your young charges,” he said, bowing to the boys, “are far more open-minded than I’d come to believe sorcerers could be.”
And this explained how the boys knew what I was.
“You remembered the porter’s circle,” I said.
“And told your young friends, who sent a disguised Mr. Magnus in to save you, which I thought brave and ridiculous.”
“Well, I’m wonderful like that,” said Magnus.
“Just so we’re clear as to what happened,” Mickelmas said to me, “Palehook rounded up my children. He told me that if I didn’t give myself up and say those horrid things at the commendation ball, he’d kill the whole lot of the little darlings. I wasn’t about to see my charges murdered. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Now, my cherub, let’s move on to more important things. My cloak and box and, yes, your young friend Rook. How are they to be rescued from the vile Palehook?” He tugged at his beard and scanned the crowd of young men. He caught sight of Blackwood and bowed. The young sorcerer nodded in return but looked uneasy.
“Why did they take Rook?” I said.
“My Lord Blackwood,” Mickelmas said, moving toward the boy, “your father was not a nice man.”
“I’m aware of that,” Blackwood said, and we both held our breath. Mickelmas couldn’t reveal his secret here.
“Many years ago, when the war was young, Palehook was charged with discovering a way to create a ward to protect London from attacks. Everything he did failed, and Charles Blackwood, well—” I shook my head, begging him to be discreet. “He knew of my reputation. He knew I couldn’t afford to be handed over to the Order, and so he captured me and forced me to help devise a system. Palehook made me do the most unspeakable things, reach across the farthest boundaries of the spirit world to find an answer.”
“But you found a way to do it,” Wolff said. As the warding expert, this had to intrigue him.
“Oh yes. Purely by chance, we discovered the only force strong enough to protect the city. The Unclean.”
“How?” I said.
“There is a spell, a powerful and very black spell, that allows a magic user to drain a person’s life force, and use that power to increase their own. We tried draining the souls, for lack of a better word, of many people without success. We hunted the gutters, the poorhouses, searching for the lowest citizens to sacrifice. We left them lying in the alleys, certain the great machinery of London would swallow them whole.” Mickelmas stopped for a moment, struggling with the pain of the memories. “No matter how many we killed, there was not enough power. And then one night, while wandering along the river, we came across an Unclean man begging for food and drink. He’d been touched by Molochoron—it was obvious; his skin was bloated and rotted, beginning to fall off his bones—”
“I don’t think we need any descriptions,” Wolff said, wincing.
“Palehook was the one who came up with the idea of using his soul. Why not? He was better off dead anyway. When the Unclean were murdered and their souls sucked dry, that was the only force powerful enough to allow Palehook to create the ward he needed. Something to do with the strength of the Ancients, I shouldn’t wonder. Funny that their poison should prove the most effective block against them.”
I remembered the Unclean man I had seen sitting outside Mickelmas’s flat, and how he’d disappeared. “They’re going to steal Rook’s soul to fortify the city?” I recalled how flimsy the ward had seemed recently, how paper-thin and rotten. Palehook had been running out of support.
“Yes. Charles Blackwood’s colony in Brighton provided ready victims. He knew they would need a steady supply to refresh the ward from time to time. Wonderful man, really.” Blackwood turned to the fireplace, looking ill. “Rook’s strength must have made him a tempting morsel.”
“Where are they now?” I said, tightening my grip on Porridge.
“There will have to be some obsidian present, but it won’t be in an obsidian room. Black arts strip the power from a holy place. I haven’t worked with him in over ten years, so I don’t know where he’s been going.” He spoke to Blackwood as he moved toward the fireplace. Lambe touched my arm.
“I can help,” he whispered, his pale eyes shining with a hazy light. “I need something precious to Rook to make a connection, but I could see where he is.”
“Oh, Lambe, could you? We should go to his room and look for something to use.” I’d no idea what, of course. They’d destroyed everything.
“It needs to be precious to him. If you don’t mind, Howel, I have to do this.” He gripped my hand in both of his, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. I flushed, but before I could object, something tugged at the edge of my consciousness. It felt as though I were falling backward.
Rook lay on something cold, shivering, with his hands bound on his stomach. He was disoriented, almost sick. They had given him something. A black gate was to his left, separating him from the rest of the crypt. Palehook smiled, lighting candles while he spoke to someone. They’d tied rosemary in the ropes around Rook’s wrists, and Palehook dipped his thumb into a small bowl and touched Rook on the forehead. It was cold, and when some of the liquid dripped onto Rook’s stomach, he saw that it was blood.
“Where is the moon? I tell you, if I can’t perform it quickly, the split will occur—”
Lambe released me. We sank to the floor, and the others hovered around us.
“Howel, are you hurt?” Magnus said, helping me to my feet.
“I know where they are,” I said. Lambe lay back in Wolff’s arms. Wolff stroked the boy’s pale hair with a surprising amount of affection.
“Where?” Magnus said.
Lambe raised his hand like we were in the schoolroom. “St. Paul’s Cathedral, on Christopher Wren’s grave.”
“Perfect.” Mickelmas looked surprised. “Why didn’t I think of it? It’s an obsidian slab in the center of town and underneath a dome, which gives the energy something to mold itself after. Well done, my dear boy. Finally, a sorcerer with a useful power.” He clapped Lambe on the shoulder. “We’ve one advantage. The moon’s hidden behind the clouds, probably because of Korozoth. They can’t kill Rook until the sky is clear, or the power won’t take. So to save your boy, we must fly. It may not be too late.”
Agrippa stepped forward. He’d been so silent I’d nearly forgotten he was present. “If you do this,” he cried as the boys ran from the room, “the ward may snap. Korozoth could destroy us all.”
“I might as well add,” Mickelmas said, “that Palehook can easily ward the entire city. He’s chosen not to in order to provide his sacrificial slab with victims.” At this, Agrippa sank to his knees, all his power to persuade gone.
“Thank you,” I said to Agrippa as Mickelmas followed the boys out the door.
“For what?”
“I believed that sorcerers were England’s great hope against her enemies. I believed that you were better and kinder than other men.” There was no emotion in my voice. I was beyond feeling. “Thank you for teaching me not to believe in anything.”
I turned my back on him and went to rescue Rook.