The Blackthorn Key (19 page)

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 . . .”

The wind blew the rest of their conversation away. They disappeared under the arch to the exit to Blackfriars Lane. It brightened with sunlight as the outer gate opened, then went dark again. I blinked.

Did they just leave the Hall?

I'd been trying so hard to hear what they were saying, it didn't even occur to me where they'd been going. I waited a moment to see if they'd return. They didn't.

The long-haired apprentice was supposed to tell Oswyn and the Grand Master I was here. Had he not found them? I moved to chase after them, and was stopped dead in my tracks.

Oswyn's office door wouldn't open.

I rattled it, but the knob was frozen, the latch trapped in the jamb. I peered into the keyhole to see if the key was stuck. I saw right through to the opposite wall instead. The key wasn't stuck. It just wasn't there.

The apprentice had locked me in.

I stared at the door for a moment, my heart beginning to pound. Then I ran back to the window. The Elephant was still sitting on the iron bench, tossing pebbles disinterestedly at a flock of swallows that had congregated by the well. I almost called down to him for help, but the way he threw the stones unburied a memory.

Dice.

That's where I'd seen the Elephant before. I'd nearly tripped over him as I'd fled the shop yesterday, after Master Benedict had hit me. He'd been behind our house, in the alley, throwing dice. Another boy had been with him. I hadn't seen his face, but he'd had long dark hair. I'd been so upset at the time, I'd barely even noticed. Now I remembered both of them.

They'd been in the alley behind our shop, right before my master was murdered. The Elephant and the long-haired apprentice, the one who'd brought me up here.

My guts began to twist. The apprentice hadn't gone to tell Sir Edward and Oswyn I'd arrived. He'd gone to get them to leave the building. They'd left without even knowing I was here. And now I was trapped.

I finally understood why my master hadn't run that day. He'd been trapped, too, the same enemies surrounding him. They'd wanted Master Benedict's secret. If he'd fled with me, they'd have taken us, if not in the streets, then after following us to wherever we'd have run. The best Master Benedict could do was send me away. He'd sacrificed himself to save me. Now, locked in Oswyn's office, I'd squandered that. I'd let them trap me, just like him.

Movement from the courtyard pulled me from swelling despair. It was Valentine Grey, the third Council member, the one who apparently thought I should be flogged for my insolence. His giant gold chain bounced off his stomach as he hurried down the steps. He skidded to a stop at the bottom and, out of breath, addressed the Elephant. “Where's Sir Edward?”

The apprentice pointed toward the entrance. “He just left, Master.”

Valentine ran after them, holding on to his necklace. Like the rest of the Council before him, he disappeared under the arch and didn't return.

The masters were gone. I prayed I was wrong, that this was a misunderstanding. When I saw the archway brighten again, I held my breath. They've come back, I thought. Then I saw who it was.

It was Wat.

He strode across the courtyard, untying his blue apron. He threw it on the bench beside the Elephant.

“Blackthorn's apprentice is here,” the Elephant said.

Wat's fingers played along the handle of his knife. “Where?”

“Martin took him upstairs.”

The long-haired apprentice—Martin—appeared at the top of the steps.

“Where is he?” Wat asked again.

“I locked him in Master Colthurst's office,” Martin said.

The three of them looked up at the open window. I leaped to the side, hoping they hadn't seen me—as if at this point that would somehow make a difference.

“Why would you put him there?” I heard Wat say, sounding angrier than usual.

“He said he was here to see Master Colthurst,” Martin said defensively. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Hide him somewhere. No one's supposed to see him. What if the masters had gone up there?”

“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.”

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.

Immediately, the iron began to fizz. The invisible vapor that rose from the bubbles dried my throat, making me choke. I had to step back, coughing, while the oil of vitriol
worked on the latch. I let the few drops I'd poured eat away at the iron for a minute, then dripped a little more.

The latch corroded slowly—too slowly—but I was scared to go any faster. The lock wasn't very thick, but there wasn't a huge amount of vitriol, and I couldn't afford to waste any. I'd already lost some to my parchment funnel, which was dissolving even faster than the iron. I'd hoped the vellum, being resistant to liquids, might last long enough to finish the job, but before I could pour the third batch, it crumbled into flakes of blackened calfskin.

I went for another page from Oswyn's wall. Then a better idea struck me. I pulled the silver spoon from my master's sash and rammed it between the door and the jamb, using its handle as a guide to drip the oil down. I wished I'd thought of that before I'd ruined Oswyn's work. Though breaking his door wouldn't exactly endear me to him, either. If I didn't get the chance to explain what had happened, I'd lose the only ally I had left.

Still, the latch disintegrated. I'd worn the iron down to a narrow strip of pitted metal when the vial ran out. There was nothing more I could do about it. I grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled.

The latch still wouldn't budge.

Come on
, I thought. I put one foot against the wall and tried again, straining. My fingers throbbed, grew numb with pain.

The iron bent.

Once more. I pulled with all my strength. I prayed just as hard, sending a silent plea up to heaven.
Please, God. Please, Master. Please help me.

It broke.

The latch snapped with a metallic twang. Its pitted end flew from the jamb and bounced dully on the floor, trailing little yellow drops behind it. I fell backward, landing hard on my side, setting my scraped shoulder to stinging again. I didn't care. I was free.

Or not.

Martin stared at me, wide eyed, from the other side of the open doorway. “How did you . . . ,” he began.

I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed the chair closest to me. Before I could swing it at him, Martin was there.

He gripped my arms, shoved me backward into the desk. The corner drove into my spine, just below my ribs.

Pain. Incredible, unbearable pain. It felt like the wood had stabbed me, piercing my back like a spear. I howled and fell to the ground. Martin toppled with me.
His weight crushed the wind from my chest.

For a moment, I couldn't move. I just lay there, groaning in agony. I opened my eyes in time to see Martin's fist flying toward my mouth. His knuckles cracked into my teeth. My head slammed against the floor. I tasted blood, sour and metallic.

“You little rat,” he said.

His punch dazed me, but he wasn't finished. Martin drew back to hit me again. I reached into the sash at my waist, more by instinct than anything else. I grabbed a vial, any vial, and drove it into his cheek.

The glass shattered in my hands, its jagged edge slicing open Martin's flesh. He screamed as I dragged the broken vial down to his chin, umber powder spilling out all over me. I twisted my hand as I pulled, sending a sharp stab of pain into my own finger. Martin shoved me away and rolled to the side, holding his face.

I rolled the other way. Martin turned toward me, fingers to his bloody cheek, unbridled rage in his eyes. There was still some powder in the vial. I threw it right in his face.

“Ahhh!” he cried. He fell back, his arm shielding his stinging eyes. I flung the remaining glass at him. It bounced harmlessly off his blue apron. Crimson drops from my cut
finger trailed after it, dripping blood all over the wood.

I'd got Martin off me for the moment, but my head was still spinning. I used the side of the chair, now lying on the ground, to push myself up. Dazed, I stumbled, jamming my knee painfully against its oak rungs. My back spasmed horribly, threatening to seize up on me.

On the floor, Martin blinked away tears. His eyes had gone flaming red, the umber powder still dotting his cheeks. He bled badly from the wound I'd given him, scarlet running down his jaw and staining his collar. He began to pull himself up, too. His hand groped in his belt for his knife.

I grabbed Oswyn's lantern, now toppled over on his desk. I swung it wildly. Martin ducked. The lantern whistled past him harmlessly, but it put him off balance for a moment. He stumbled and fell into the corner.

I ran.

I'd planned to go back the way I came. Instead, I skidded to a stop. Thirty feet down the passage, the Elephant stopped in his tracks, too. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Oswyn's lantern swung from my hand. A knotted rope swung from his.