The Blackthorn Key

“Why would they do that?”


“Enough.” The Elephant’s voice rumbled. “It doesn’t matter. The masters left. No one’s going to find him now.”

“Let’s finish this, then,” Wat said, and I swore I could hear his blade leaving its sheath.

“Not yet,” the Elephant said. “The doorman’s still here. Go get rid of him. No, not that way. Send him on some errand that will keep him away for a while. Martin and I will check the rest of the Hall, make sure no one else has come.”

“Just ask the doorman,” Martin said. “He’ll know.”

“Our master told us to be sure,” the Elephant said. “So we make sure. Once the Hall’s cleared, bring Christopher to the basement. We’ll deal with him there.” I heard the iron bench creak, the scuffing of leather on stone. “It’s not like he’s got anywhere to run.”





CHAPTER


24


MY HEART POUNDED LIKE A hammer, echoing the throbbing in my skull. Each beat came with a question.

How could I have been so stupid?

If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own head. If I’d just looked at the two of them outside our shop for one second more. If I hadn’t followed Martin up here blindly. It’s not like I’d thought Stubb was the only one in the Cult.

I shook my head. I could beat myself up later. Right now, I needed to get out of here.

The window, I thought. Cautiously, I peeked outside. The courtyard was empty. I stuck my head out farther, looking to see if I could climb down.

Not a chance. I was three floors up, with solid stone directly below. Climbing out the window was not an escape, it was a good way to break my legs.

I wanted to scream for the doorman. I would have if I hadn’t known Wat would readily kill him to keep him quiet. Instead, I went back to Oswyn’s door and pulled on the knob, rattling it as hard as I could. No use. The door jamb was solid oak, the latch was iron. The best I’d do is snap off the handle.

I scanned the room for a weapon, anything I could use. The chairs were sturdy. They might have made good clubs, except Oswyn’s office was so small, there was barely any space to swing them. The books were useless, unless I planned to paper-cut my way out of here. The lantern, maybe. The base was solid brass, heavy enough to do some damage. It had oil, too, which could be dangerous. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any way to light it.

Then it occurred to me: I did have a way to light it. In fact, I had a lot more.

My master’s sash. I was still wearing it. That not only had flint and tinder, it was packed with useful things. I pulled up my shirt and looked at the dozens of vials in their pockets, cork tops poking above the cloth.

My first thought was to make gunpowder again, try to blow open the lock. But the vials with the ingredients I needed were empty. I’d used them up escaping from Stubb and Wat, and I hadn’t thought to refill them when we’d searched Hugh’s workshop. I twisted the sash around, searching for something else. That’s when I spotted it: wax seal on top, tied with twine. I pulled the vial from the sash, the one that had fascinated Tom so much back in Hugh’s bedroom.

Oil of vitriol. That magical liquid that dissolved iron—like the lock on Oswyn’s office door.

I had to hurry. I tore the twine from the wax and broke the seal. The sour stink of the vitriol rose from the glass. I could see the latch between the door and the jamb, but I couldn’t fit the vial into the crack. I ripped one of Oswyn’s sketches from the wall, hoping desperately he’d forgive me for desecrating his office. I folded the parchment into a channel, wedging it into the gap. Then, carefully, carefully, I dripped the thin yellow oil down it onto the metal.