The Blackthorn Key

“You made good soup,” she said quietly. Then she wormed her way across the street.

The three boys clamored for an egg of their own. We all inched forward, hiding behind a carriage stopped by the side of the road. Tom, standing farther back, looked disapproving and muttered about there being rules and things.

If I hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t have seen Sally do it. She darted in range of Stubb’s cane and casually flicked the oak apple away. It fluttered down and landed on the cobbles.

A second later she shouted, “He’s not wearing the oak!”

For a moment, Stubb didn’t seem to understand what was happening. Then he realized everyone was staring at him. His hands went to his lapel, but all his fingers found was the sharp end of an empty pin. Stubb looked frantically at the ground.

I threw first. The egg shattered on his shoulder, sending yellow goop flying into his ear. He recoiled like he’d been shot with a musket.

Sally’s egg hit him right in the neck, spraying all over his ruffled collar. The three boys followed. One missed entirely, hitting an already irritated sheep. The other two were square on, arm and hip.

The rest of the crowd joined in then, pelting Stubb with whatever they had. The most impressive was Tom. He’d slunk back so far I wasn’t even sure his egg would make the distance, but it sailed past the fleeing Stubb’s raised hands and pegged him right on the crown.

I laughed like I’d gone mad. Even Tom looked pleased. I shouted a joyful whoop as we fled. “Long live the king!”

? ? ?

We pushed through the crowd, running from the chaos. Fun was fun, but now that justice had been meted out, I really didn’t want to get caught. Oak Apple Day or not, Stubb was a master of the Guild and I was just an apprentice. If it came to a matter of words, I wasn’t going to be on the winning end. Still, there was something especially satisfying about the fact that the eggs that had plastered him had come from a shilling earned by my master’s work.

“This is the best day ever,” I said.

Tom scanned the crowd, looking for signs of pursuit. “What now?”

“I don’t know.” I leaned against the shutters of a glassblower’s shop and panted, trying to catch my breath. “We’re out of money. Maybe there’s sparring in the park. Or we could go to the Tower and see the king’s zoo again. No. Wait.”

I realized our flight had taken us just outside the borders of our parish. Hugh’s home was nearby. “He left with Master Benedict last night,” I told Tom. “Maybe Master Hugh knows who attacked him.”

“Traitors!” a ragged voice cried out from behind.

I whirled, terrified that Stubb had tracked us down. Instead of the waddling apothecary, however, I saw a madman, his face cracked and weathered, his hair wigless and wild. His torn and tattered clothes barely covered his scabby limbs.

He stared goggle eyed at me. “Traitors!” he said again.

The man lunged forward and grabbed my arms. The stink of rotting meat came from between his blackened teeth. “There are traitors in our midst!”

I felt the crowd’s eyes on me. I tried to pull away, but the man’s grip was like iron. “Get off!” I said.

“Do you know them? Do you see?” The man shook me. “The Cult of the Archangel hunts. Who is its prey?”

Tom tried to push between us, but even his strong hands on my captor’s stained jacket couldn’t pry the man off. The lunatic leaned in farther. I thought I might throw up from the stench.

“They are not who you think,” he whispered, sending furtive glances at the curious crowd. “Those are not their faces.”

Tom finally managed to shove the man away. He sprawled across the cobbles, the mud adding more stains to his filthy, threadbare breeches.

“Guard yourself,” the man said beseechingly. “Change is coming. God’s wrath will burn us all. Look! His general rides!”