The Blackthorn Key

And that front door. Back then, the entrance to the Hall had made me nervous. It was a grand thing of oak, twice my height, flanked by two pillars with an arch at the top. THE WORSHIPFUL SOCIETY OF APOTHECARIES, it said, with the blue shield of the Guild’s emblem above it. On it was Apollo, the Greek god of healing, standing over the black wyvern of disease, supported by two golden unicorns. A scroll unfurled beneath, bearing the Apothecaries’ motto: OPIFERQUE PER ORBEM DICOR. I am called throughout the world the bringer of aid.

Today, the massive door was barred. I thumped a fist against it.

A minute passed before it creaked open. A young man with slate-gray eyes stuck his head around the crack and said, “Guild Hall’s closed Sundays. Candidates for apprenticeship apply to the clerk during the week.” He began to close the door.

“Wait,” I said. “I’m already an apprentice. I need to speak with Grand Master Thorpe.”

“Either way. Come back tomorrow. He’ll address business then.”

“It’s about Benedict Blackthorn’s murder.”

The man looked me up and down. I wished again that I looked a little cleaner. “One moment,” he said, and he shut the door.

It was several minutes before he returned. “Come with me.”

He took me through the arched passageway into the courtyard, which was paved with stone. In the center was the well, which supplied water for the Guild laboratories and workshops. Around the sides, set against walls freshly painted with yellow ocher, sat riveted iron benches. Windows from the upper offices looked down on the space. They all appeared empty, which was to be expected on a Sunday.

A set of stairs led up from the courtyard on the south side, to the right. Those went to the masters’ offices, and to the Great Hall, where I’d been tested. The door to the labs was in front of us.

For a moment, I thought that’s where the man was taking me. Instead, he turned left at the end of the courtyard. We went northward into a chamber with a door to the clerks’ offices and a pair of simple chairs.

He waved at one. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

I waited.

? ? ?

A hand shook me awake.

I blinked. Through bleary eyes, I saw the bald head of Oswyn Colthurst gazing down at me.

“You’re drooling,” he said.

“Sorry.” I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. My shirt still smelled of gunpowder.

Oswyn folded his arms. “If I recall, Christopher, you were asked to show up on Monday. You do know your days of the week?”

I stood. “I apologize, Master Colthurst. I need to speak to the Grand Master right away.”

Oswyn managed to look both annoyed and amused at my presumption. “You must have driven poor Benedict mad,” he said. He ran his hand over his scalp. “Sir Edward isn’t here.”

“I was told he came to the Hall.”

“He left an hour ago for Sunday services. I expect him to return this afternoon. I expect you to return tomorrow.” He put a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder and began to steer me out.

“Wait, Master, please,” I said. “It’s about Master Benedict’s murder. I know who killed him.”

“Everyone knows who killed him,” Oswyn said. “The Cult of the Archangel.”

“Yes, Master, but I meant, I know who it was.”

He stopped, surprised. “Go on.”

“It was Nathaniel Stubb.”

Oswyn’s jaw dropped. Then he grabbed my ear, twisted it, and opened the door to the clerk’s offices with my head.





CHAPTER


17


OSWYN APPARENTLY THOUGHT MY skull did such a good job on the first door that he used it to open the next one, too. He dragged me down a narrow hall and rammed me into an empty office. I fell against the desk, toppling a paperweight ceramic goose.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Oswyn said. “Stubb is a master. If he heard what you said, he’d have you thrown out of the Guild. Then he’d have you flogged. By rights, I should do it myself.”

I put my hand to my forehead. Oak really hurts. “But it’s true.”

I worried that, this time, Oswyn might use my head to open the window. But he just snorted and said, “Ridiculous. Nathaniel Stubb may be a weasel, but he’s no killer. He doesn’t have the stones for it.”

“He didn’t do it himself,” I said. “It was his apprentice.”

Oswyn was taken aback. “His apprentice?”

“He was in the shop, right before Master Benedict’s murder. His name is Wat.” I described him.