The Blackthorn Key

He studied it for a moment. “I can’t read this,” he said.

I hadn’t expected him to. In the ledger, Master Benedict wrote names and remedies in shorthand, and often in Latin. He’d taught me the same code. We did it partly because it was faster, and partly because it was another way to keep our business secret.

Most of the day’s entries were mine. The last three were in my master’s hand.

?Δ esid. A: rapf. O set. age Htsn. oil eh. two leb. Ht4: shg. Uh. ←

↓M08→

end.swords

neminidixeris

I stared.

Lord Ashcombe watched me. “Something wrong?” he said.

“I . . . no.” I felt my face grow hot. “These are . . . notes. Reminders to buy more ingredients we’re out of. Oil of vitriol, and . . . others. The numbers say how much.” I left my hand on the page. “He didn’t write down Lady Brent’s sale. Or anyone after.”

The black wells of Lord Ashcombe’s eyes seemed to bore right through me. He knows, I thought. He knows you’re lying.

He was about to speak when the front door creaked open. He turned. So did the guards.

I did it without thinking. My fingers clenched around the page and pulled just before I snapped the ledger shut. With the commotion at the door, and the noise from the street, no one appeared to notice I’d ripped it out.





CHAPTER


10


I STUCK MY HANDS BEHIND my back and folded the paper. Then I lifted my shirt and slipped the crumpled page under my waistband.

An ancient man limped through the door, leaning on a gnarled wooden cane. One of the soldiers put a hand on his chest, stopping him. The man waited calmly.

The paper from the ledger slipped a little down my back.

“Let him in,” Lord Ashcombe said.

I recognized him, and the two that followed, though I hadn’t seen any of them in three years. They were the members of the Apothecaries’ Guild Council.

The limping man, dressed from waistcoat to breeches in emerald silk, was Sir Edward Thorpe, Grand Master of Apothecaries. He’d been the head of our Guild since before I was born. There were whispers that he’d kept himself alive by discovering the elixir of youth. If he had, then he must have walked the Earth with Moses, because Sir Edward looked a few thousand years old. Even his wig was gray.

The men with him were the Guild Wardens, Valentine Grey and Oswyn Colthurst. I barely knew Valentine, more by rumor than anything. He was the Guild Secretary, and was said to be the wealthiest apothecary in the city. Certainly, the gold chain around his neck was thick enough to see all the way from heaven. He was also said to be a bit of a scold, and there was a sourness in the downturn of his lips that made me suspect the rumors were true.

Oswyn, I remembered well. He was the one who’d encouraged the headmaster at the orphanage to send me to the Guild. He’d also given me the Apothecaries’ Guild entrance test. Since he’d wanted me to join, I’d figured he’d go easy on me. Instead, I’d ended up trembling in front of him as he grilled me with a stern voice and sharp eyes on science, mathematics, history, theology, and especially Latin. He’d thought to trip me up there, but I’d earned enough beatings at the orphanage to speak Latin like Julius Caesar. At the time, sweating through the exam, I’d thought the man was a tyrant. But after I’d passed the test, while Sir Edward and Valentine had merely nodded their congratulations, it was Oswyn who’d smiled and welcomed me warmly to the Guild.

No smiles today. He nodded to me sadly before joining the rest of the Council over my master’s body. Valentine breathed, “God preserve us,” and made the sign of the cross. Oswyn folded his arms and turned away.

Sir Edward shook his head gravely and spoke to Lord Ashcombe in a voice fuller than I’d imagined his ancient body could hold. “Our Guild is under attack, Richard. We beg His Majesty’s aid.”

“And I’m here, Edward,” Lord Ashcombe said.

“Doing what, precisely?” Oswyn said, his voice filled with scorn.