The Blackthorn Key

Master Benedict, apothecary. Latin, the language of apothecaries.

Secrets under secrets. Codes inside codes.

Was the cipher supposed to be in Latin?

I frowned. Tom had already asked if the message was in Latin. I’d said it couldn’t be. The Latin alphabet had only twenty-three letters. There was no J, you used I for both. There was no U, either; V took its place. And there was no W. So JULIUS CAESAR would be written as IVLIVS CAESAR. You’d never even get a J.

I froze.

A mistake. I’d made a mistake.

You’d never even get a J. Because it’s not part of the alphabet.

I’d translated the message as if it were English. But if the message was in Latin, then the code was wrong from the start. With a different alphabet, the letters wouldn’t come out the same.

I grabbed a quill from Oswyn’s desk. I wrote out the cipher, starting as before with 08 for M, but this time in Latin.

A

20

B

21

C

22

D

23

E

01

F

02

G

03

H

04



I

05

K

06

L

07

M

08

N

09

O

10

P

11

Q

12



R

13

S

14

T

15

V

16

X

17

Y

18

Z

19



I began the new translation. After five letters, my fingers began to shake. I had to use my left hand to hold them steady.

I got the new message. I stared at it.

ISAACCLAVEMHABET

Tom was right. It was Latin.

Isaac clavem habet, it said.

Isaac has the key.





CHAPTER


23


I PACED AROUND OSWYN’S OFFICE, my shoes slapping the floorboards. My mind raced along with me.

Isaac has the key. Isaac the bookseller, Master Benedict’s faceless friend. I’d never met him, but Master Benedict had told me where his shop was. I wanted to run there right away, but I couldn’t. I still needed to see the Guild Council. It wouldn’t have done any good to leave, anyway. It was Sunday. Isaac’s shop would be closed.

None of this made me any less impatient. Restlessly, I paced faster, round and round Oswyn’s desk, feeling like a dog herding sheep. On one loop, my eye caught a figure through the window, down in the courtyard. It was another apprentice, exiting the door to the laboratories.

I’d thought Tom was big. This young man was twice his size, a true living giant. His barrel chest strained against his blue apron. The way he lumbered across the stone, it looked like an elephant had escaped from the king’s zoo.

He plopped down on one of the benches in front of the steps to the Great Hall. The iron groaned under his weight. Like with the long-haired apprentice, the Elephant looked familiar, too. Again, I thought back to my test, but that didn’t feel right at all. I got the sense I’d seen him recently. I tried to remember where.

It was while I was trying to place him that Oswyn entered the courtyard. He was with the Grand Master, steadying the old man’s elbow, helping him slowly down the main steps. Sir Edward looked upset. Oswyn didn’t seem much better. They were saying something, but two floors up, with the window closed, I could barely make out the words.

“. . . shop . . . torn apart,” Oswyn said. “Stubb . . . looking for . . . vanished.”

“. . . you think . . .,” Sir Edward said. “. . . have to stop . . . find Lord Ashcombe . . .”

Oswyn nodded. “. . . already sent . . . Christopher . . . murders . . . Cult . . .”

Oswyn guided Sir Edward across the courtyard. The clack of the Grand Master’s cane on the stone came through better than their words. I opened the window, trying to catch the rest of what they were saying, but their backs were to me now as they made their way toward the entrance to the Hall. The little I could hear came in equally frustrating fragments.

“. . . Archangel . . . ,” Oswyn said. “. . . can’t believe . . . we do?”

“. . . Stubb . . . ,” the Grand Master said. “. . . apprentice . . .”