The Blackthorn Key

Oswyn frowned. “That’s not Stubb’s apprentice.”


“He called Stubb ‘master.’ And he was wearing the blue apron.”

“?‘Master’ is a common title. And anyone can wear a blue apron.”

“But—”

“Nathaniel Stubb has two apprentices,” Oswyn said, irritated. “Edgar Raleigh and Adam Horwath. Edgar’s the right age, but his hair is black, not red, and ‘muscly’ is not how anyone with eyes would describe him. Adam’s a year younger than you, and half a head shorter. Stubb has no other apprentices. I know this for a fact, since—as I’m sure you recall—I’ve personally tested every candidate for apprenticeship in the past ten years. Who told you this nonsense?”

“I heard them,” I said. “Last night. In my master’s shop.”

“What on God’s blessed Earth were you doing in your master’s shop?”

My cheeks flushed. I tried not to look down at the bulge in my pocket. Or the sash under my shirt, which was looking pretty bulgy itself.

It didn’t matter. “You went back for that cube, didn’t you?” he said. I responded by looking guilty. Oswyn sighed. “Oh, Christopher. What am I going to do with you?” He waved for me to sit. “All right. Tell me.”

I described our ransacked shop. He didn’t care about our lost birds. He did care about the conversation I overheard.

Oswyn was stunned. “Why would Nathaniel kill Benedict? Had things really got so bad between them?”

“He was looking for something,” I said. “Wat called it the ‘fire.’?”

“The fire? Is that one of your master’s remedies?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He never mentioned it.”

Oswyn looked puzzled. “There’s Greek fire. But every apothecary knows that recipe.” He tapped his chin, thinking. He frowned. “Hmm.”

“Master?”

“Benedict’s will is missing,” Oswyn said. “He registered a new one with the clerks three months ago. Someone’s taken it from the vault.”

Another outrage. “Why would they do that?”

“I assume they didn’t like what it said.”

“But then what’s going to happen to the shop?” Our shop!

“Benedict bought the property from the Guild some thirty years ago. With no will, and no family, the shop will revert to the Guild. Stubb’s claim against its assets will likely be rejected, but he was Benedict’s closest competitor, and he has more than enough gold to buy it. If he wants Blackthorn, he’ll get it.”

I felt sick.

“But money is all Stubb’s ever cared about,” Oswyn said. “Are you sure he wasn’t looking for that? A stash your master kept hidden somewhere?” I shook my head. “Then we have to consider that this really was another strike by the Cult of the Archangel.”

“Master Benedict told me there was no such thing as the Cult,” I said. “But there is, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yes. Although, Stubb, in the Cult . . .” Oswyn blinked. “I can’t even imagine it.”

“Why are they doing this? What do they want?”

He shrugged. “The same as everyone else. Power.”

“I don’t understand.”

Oswyn straightened in his chair. “Tell me. From where does the healing force of our remedies come?”

I felt like I was eleven again, sweating through the Apothecaries’ entrance exam. “From God.”

“Correct,” Oswyn said. “The herbs and oils and ointments we mix have no power of their own. They’re merely the channel through which God’s holy blessings may work. But our remedies, though miraculous, are drawn only from the truths that God has given to man. There are other truths, greater truths, that Our Lord reserves for His heavenly host alone. And those wonders, Christopher, would make our earthly miracles hide in shame.