The Blackthorn Key

“What about that?” I said. Hanging from the ceiling near the fireplace was a small iron cauldron. “We can shoot at the bottom of it.”


Tom pushed aside the antimony cups on the other table, leaving enough space to put down the cauldron. I picked up our cannon and pressed it against my abdomen to hold it steady. Tom tore a scrap of parchment from our deciphered recipe and held it in the fire until it caught. Then he lit the cannon’s wick. Sparks fizzed, racing toward the pipe like a flaming hornet. Tom dived behind the counter and peeked over the top.

“Watch this,” I said.

The blast nearly blew my ears off. I saw a burst of flame, and a mound of smoke, then the pipe kicked back like an angry ox and nailed me right between the legs.





CHAPTER


2


I HIT THE FLOORBOARDS LIKE a sack of wheat. The cannon bonged off the wood next to me and rolled away, smoke pouring from the end. From far away, I heard a voice.

“Are you all right?” it said.

I curled into a ball, hands cradling my groin, and tried not to throw up.

Smoke billowed everywhere, as if the air itself had turned gray. Tom appeared through the haze, waving his hands and coughing. “Christopher? Are you all right?”

“Mmmunnnggguhh,” I said.

Tom scanned the shop for some remedy that could help me, but sadly there was no Blackthorn’s Private-Parts Pain Poultice. Suddenly, he spoke, his voice strangled. “Christopher?”

I squinted up through the smoke. There I saw the problem. I wasn’t the only one who’d taken it where it counts. The cauldron I’d so carefully aimed at didn’t have a mark on it. The bear in the corner, however, now had a real reason to be angry. The lead shot from our cannon had shredded the fur between his legs. He roared in silent outrage as his straw guts spilled into a pile between his paws.

Tom held his hands to the sides of his face. “Your master will kill us,” he said.

“Wait,” I said, the pain slowly being replaced by the pit of horror growing in my gut. “Wait. We can fix this.”

“How? Do you have a spare bear’s crotch in the back?” Tom clutched his cheeks and moaned.

“Just . . . give me a moment to think,” I said, and naturally that was when Master Benedict came home.

He didn’t even take one full step inside before he jerked to a halt. So tall that he had to duck to pass through the door, my master just stood there, hunched over, the long, dark curls of his wig swinging in the evening breeze. He was hugging a large leather-bound book to his chest with his lanky arms; Culpeper’s new herbal. Peeking from under his dark velvet coat was his burgundy canvas sash, one foot wide, wrapped around his waist. It was covered with pockets, each one not much larger than a man’s thumb. Tucked into each pocket was a glass vial, stopped with cork or wax. There were other pouches, too, with all kinds of useful things: flint and tinder, tweezers, a long-handled silver spoon. My master had designed the sash himself to carry ingredients and remedies—at least the ones I didn’t have to lug around behind him when we went out on a house call.

Master Benedict stared at the brass cannon, which had rolled away and come to a stop at his feet, still trailing a wisp of smoke. His eyes narrowed as they tracked from the pipe to the two of us, still on the floor.

“Let’s get inside, Benedict,” a voice boomed from behind him. “It’s cold out here.”

A burly man shouldered past my master and shook the dust from his fur-trimmed cloak. This was Hugh Coggshall, who fifteen years ago had graduated from his own apprenticeship with Master Benedict. Now a master himself, Hugh owned a private workshop in a bordering parish.

His nose crinkled. “Smells like—” He broke off when he spotted me and Tom. He covered his mouth, glancing sidelong at my master.

Moving as gingerly as I could, I pushed myself off the floor to stand in front of him. Tom stood beside me, as rigid as a statue.

A deep, dark vein pulsed in Master Benedict’s forehead. When he spoke, his voice was like ice. “Christopher?”

I swallowed, hard. “Y-yes, Master?”