The Book Without Words (5 page)

Should I follow? the monk wondered. No. She’s with that raven—who talks. Such magic is surely Thorston’s work. Which means the bird is his underling. I’ll have to speak to the girl alone.

Wilfrid observed the reeve watching the girl. Why is he so concerned with her? he asked himself. I’d best keep my eye on him as well.

4

Bashcroft watched Sybil and Odo until the two turned a corner and were lost to his view. Telling the soldiers to wait, he shoved open the door to the apothecary shop and stomped inside.

“Master Bashcroft,” cried Mistress Weebly when the large man banged his staff down on the floor with a loud crack of authority. “God grant us days of greater warmth.”

“That maid—” said Bashcroft, giving no pause for civility, “the one with a raven on her shoulder. She was just here. What have you learned?”

The apothecary’s small hands went together so quickly it was hard to know if she were praying or applauding. Smiling, she said, “She is servant to one Master Thorston.”

“I never heard of the man.”

“He resides at the end of Clutterhuck Lane.”

“But no one could live there without my knowledge,” exclaimed Bashcroft, who, being a man who thought he knew everything, cast doubt on all he didn’t know.

“Apparently he does.”

“What else?” said Bashcroft.

“I’ve compiled a list of all the things the girl has purchased for this Master Thorston. It’s the kind of things one would want for”—she leaned forward—“alchemy.”

“Alchemy!” roared the reeve, giving way to a rare moment of honest astonishment. “Has he truly made gold?”

“I don’t know.”

“What more did you learn?”

“He seems to be ill,” said Mistress Weebly. “Indeed, Master Reeve, as I read signs, I believe this Thorston fellow is dying.”

“Dying!”

Mistress Weebly smiled. “But even as he dies, he’s in need of—a green-eyed child.”

“For what purpose?”

“I believe,” said the apothecary, “for his alchemy.”

“Mistress Weebly,” proclaimed the reeve, drawing himself up to the full bulk of his bluster, “alchemy, being unnatural, is an offense against all nature, its practice treason against the state. Moreover, all those who gain by such acts are equally guilty—with dire punishments for those engaged. Confiscation of property will occur. Removal of a finger may be necessary. A hand, perhaps. Even a head. Depending. Depending on me.
Dura lex, sed lex
. I am the law, and I am hard.”

“And,” simpered the apothecary, “how glad I am that such power rests with you.”

“Mistress Weebly,” said Bashcroft. “In exercise of that power, I hereby put you under house arrest.”

“Arrest!” cried the apothecary.

“This information about Master Thorston’s alchemy,” said the reeve, “is much too dangerous to be allowed to flow freely among the ignorant public. Rumors of it will cause excitement. Excitement will cause expectations to rise. Large expectations in small minds are a menace that must be always suppressed, else riots will follow. For, beyond all else, it’s my duty to protect the citizens of Fulworth.”

“But, Master Reeve, you and I have been partners and-”

“Silence! When I resolve this matter you’ll be free.

For now, do not leave these premises. Speak to no one about this. Not even to your apprentice. I shall post a soldier by the door.”

Without further ado, the reeve stormed out of the shop.

5

After arranging for a guard to remain at the apothecary’s door, Bashcroft mulled over what he had learned: a Master Thorston, residing in town but hiding, was a dying man practicing alchemy. Making
gold.

Bashcroft could only feel that the secret of how to make gold would be an extraordinary stroke of luck and fortune—in his own hands. He considered his position: he had insufficient wealth. Without wealth, there is no real authority. Without real authority, there is no dignity. Without dignity, chaos comes. If chaos reigns, the world is undone. Undo the world, and you strike against God’s very creation. Therefore, for him, Ambrose Bashcroft, to live in poverty was a sin against God Himself.

If this Master Thorston was in need of a child with green eyes, then he—Bashcroft—would place just such a child in that household—and gather the gold-making secret for himself. But it must be done in haste—before the old man expired. Happily, Bashcroft knew where to secure such a child. So resolved, he headed for the banks of the River Scrogg—the poorest part of Fulworth.

6

Mistress Weebly was furious. She cursed herself for being such a dupe. Why had she so trusted the reeve that she gave him all that information about Master Thorston? It was perfectly clear to her that Bashcroft was going to take advantage of her information for his profit. But she—more than anyone—could make use of it. Did
she
not have all the ingredients required to make gold? All that was wanting was the formula.

Greatly agitated, she pushed open the rear door, shoving Damian away, who had been standing on the other side.

“Were you listening?” she demanded.

“Of course not, Mistress,” said the boy as meekly as he knew how.

“See that you don’t,” she said, boxing his ear for good measure. “Now, go and attend the shop. My head hurts. I must he down.” She went directly off to bed.

Damian, his ear smarting, came into the shop. But it wasn’t only the blow that was causing his ear to tingle: he
had
been listening, and heard all about Master Thorston and his alchemy.

He went right to the little mirror and studied his eyes. Not completely green, he thought. They contain flecks of blue. Still, close enough. “Indeed, I’m tired of being an apprentice,” he muttered. “I’m fit for better things.”

So it was that Damian made up his mind: the next morning he would go to this house on Clutterbuck Lane. This Master Thorston was apparently old, sick, and dying. Easy enough to pry the gold-making secret from him. As for this Sybil—she being the only servant, and a maid, he had no doubt he could dominate her.

Moreover, Damian vowed that once he had gold coins and knew how to make more, he’d run away from this obnoxious apprenticeship and live the life of a wealthy freeman.

7

Ambrose Bashcroft, in search of a green-eyed boy, made his loud and lumbering way through narrow, muddy alleys and back ways, until he reached the banks of the River Scrogg. There, amid moldering wharves, paltry chandler shops, and dilapidated hovels, were to be found the homeless men, women, and children of Fulworth, those who eked out their empty lives in desolation.

Whenever the reeve came upon an assemblage of such folk, he approached them, banged his staff upon the ground to draw their attention, and cried out: “Pay heed! Pay heed! I, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth, am offering you the privilege of helping me. Hear me well: I am in lawful need of a green-eyed child. I shall pay two pennies for such a child. All who have one to offer may approach me humbly now.”

When no one came, he scowled and moved on.

So did Brother Wilfrid, who had heard it all.

8

The old monk meandered though the city’s poor quarter. In his ragged robe and with his emaciated appearance, he looked so like a local inhabitant that they paid him scant attention.

He had considered any number of children before he found one sleeping against a building. He was a wretchedly thin and dirty boy with an ill-fitting smock and hole-ridden boots. But what attracted Wilfrid to him was the tangle of dark red hair that fell off his face. And when Wilfrid looked down upon him, and the boy, who had been asleep, started and looked up, he did so with—green eyes.

“Please, sir,” said the boy, scrambling to his feet, “is something the matter?”

“What are you doing here?” asked Wilfrid.

“I live about, sir,” said the boy, staring at Wilfrid’s ancient face with the repugnance youth reserves for age.

“No home?”

“No, sir.”

“No family?”

“Dead, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Alfric, sir.”

“When have you last eaten?”

“Three days ago.”

“Would you like some bread?”

“Yes, please.”

“Listen to me,” said the monk, “I am in search of a book without words. Help me recover it, and you will earn some bread.”

“A book, sir? With no words?”

“’Tis so. Now, come with me,” said Wilfrid.

Alfric was hesitant but hungry. And hunger, having least, often risks most. He chose to follow the monk.

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