The Child Eater (7 page)

Veil ignored him. She said, “Take this to the very end of the market. You will see a table all by itself, and a man with a bald head and tattoos of birds on his arms. Give the paper to him, along with this.” She passed Matyas a leather bag with what felt like twice the number of coins she usually gave him for everything they needed. “His name is Johannan,” Veil said. “He will know what to do.”

Matyas made his way through the usual jeers and fake offers and promises, but as he kept going, past the vegetables, the fish, the cloth, not stopping for the usual cheese or turnips, as it became clear he wasn't going to stop at all until he reached the end, a strange silence settled around him. He became aware suddenly that everyone was watching him and pretending not to.

It was easy to spot Johannan. His stall was indeed at the end, with an empty space between him and all the rest. The table appeared to be made from the same rough wood as the others, but was piled with boxes and jars of various sizes. On the ground beneath it stood three small chests of different metals, one iron, one bronze, the other silver. The day was cool, an early autumn chill, so that most of the vendors had jackets or shawls over their aprons, but Johannan wore only a thin yellow linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he could not bear to hide the bright plumage that adorned his thick arms. For he was tattooed, magnificently, an elaborate bird covering each arm. Years later, Matyas
would see such birds and realize they were called
parrots
, but now all he could do was stare at the sharp detail of the multicolored feathers, and think, just like those first couple of times at the market, how much Royja would love to see this.

“Are you Johannan?” Matyas said.

“I believe so,” the burly man said.

Matyas hesitated at the odd remark, then said, “I'm supposed to give this to you,” as he passed the paper to a thickly calloused hand.

Johannan studied the list, nodding once or twice. “And the money?” he said.

Matyas showed him the bag but held tightly to it. “After you give me what I came for.”

Johannan nodded again. “A man of caution. Very wise. But tell me, how would you know if I cheated you?” Matyas' face grew hot as he realized his ignorance was displayed all over him. Johannan laughed. “Don't worry,” he said. “I've never cheated Veil yet, and I'm certainly not about to start now. If I ever visit other worlds, I would prefer the choice of where and when to be left to me.”

Matyas watched intently, as if his eyes alone could absorb the knowledge of all the powders and leaves and oils that Johannan assembled so quickly it was hard to follow his hands. Smells swirled around him, some sweet, some bitter, and one so sharp it seemed to cut Matyas in half. That was when Johannan opened a jar containing a thick black paste and spooned a tiny amount of it into a little silver vial. Matyas gasped and sweat covered his face but he managed not to fall down or even make any noise. At the nearby stalls, owners and customers alike were coughing and retching, though no one yelled out for Johannan to put it away, or to do his business somewhere else. Johannan himself pretended not to notice.

When all the powders were in little envelopes and the oils and pastes in vials, Johannan wrapped everything in paper covered with large letters and solemnly handed it to Matyas. Then he held his palm out. “The money,” he said. “Or do you want to check first that I did everything correctly?”

“No,” Matyas said, with as much dignity as he could manage. “If Veil trusts you, then so do I.”

Johannan smiled. “I'm honored.”

Walking back through the market, Matyas pretended not to notice all the stares, the whispers of, “Veil! He works for Veil,” and, “Not
works
, he's her
apprentice
. Veil must have disguised him to test us.”

It was only when he had left the market noise and smells behind and was making his way up the hill to the Academy that it struck him. A test! Of course, but not the market people.
Him
. Veil was testing his loyalty, or his courage, or
something
, and now she was going to teach him to fly! That must be what all these disgusting powders and filthy oils were for. He tried to remember if the man he'd seen flying that night by the dark woods had any strong smells to him. He couldn't recall anything, but it didn't matter. Matyas was going to fly.

When he returned he ignored whoever might be in the courtyard and ran up the winding steps to the top of the tower. Veil was reading from a large black book with pages of stiff parchment and ornate oversized letters that even Matyas could see belonged to some other alphabet than the usual. The letters looked somehow watery in the way they flowed in curlicues from one to the other. Usually Matyas would stare at any open page, as if, if he just looked at them long enough, with enough concentration, they would have to reveal their secrets. This time he only glanced at the book then excitedly held out the small leather sack containing all the powders, leaves and oils.

Veil nodded as she took the sack, then set it down on a wooden table next to her, alongside a glass bowl full of colored stones and what looked like an ancient dried lizard. “Thank you,” she said.

“I got everything.”

“I'm sure you did.” He stood there until she looked up at him and said, “I believe you have work to do.”

Matyas blurted out, “But what about my flying ointment?”

“Flying ointment?” She saw him look down at the sack, then back at her face. “Oh, I see. You thought all this was for you. I have other concerns than you, Matyas.”

He felt his face turn red but refused to look away. “If you'd teach me, like you said you would, I wouldn't have to wait. I could do it myself.”

“Do what yourself? Make a flying ointment?”

“Yes!”

“And then what? Leave me? Fly out through the window and not even say goodbye?”

“So you admit it!”

“Admit what?”

Veil was smiling, ever so slightly, but Matyas ignored it. “You want to keep me a slave. That's why you won't teach me. Or make me a flying ointment.”

“Oh, Matyas, I have no need of a slave. Believe me, I've lived for a long time without you, and managed quite well.”

“Then why won't you make me an ointment? So I can fly?”

“No such ointment exists. I've told you this. How can I teach you anything if you don't listen to what I say?”

Matyas' hands clenched and unclenched. The old woman was just playing with him, as if he was some small animal in a cage. He remembered how he'd gone to the courtyard one day and seen several apprentices practicing a spell on a frightened squirrel in a cramped wooden cage. Matyas couldn't tell what they were trying to do, but whatever it was, it must have been painful, for the poor animal would spasm, then shriek, while the boys all laughed.

Was that what Veil wanted him for, something to torture? If so, she was going to get a big surprise. When he learned to fly he would grab her—by the feet—and fly all around the courtyard, maybe over the whole city, until she screamed and begged him to set her down.

He must have been grinning at this idea, for Veil glanced at him and said, “I'm glad I can amuse you, Matyas. Now it's time for you to prepare our supper.”

The whole time he was working, then eating, then cleaning, Matyas kept an eye on the sack. What would she do with it? If it wasn't for a flying ointment, what was it for? After he'd finished his chores and brushed Veil's hair—the usual signal for the end of the day—Matyas arranged himself in his narrow bed so that he could look out at the leather sack through a gap he'd left between the curtain and the wall. He'd have to pretend to be asleep, or Veil might not do anything. Luckily, he was good at that. Faking sleep was one way to avoid his father's drunken fists. It didn't always work, but at least he had a chance. So now he looked out through his own slitted eyelids, just as he used to do in the kitchen so he would know when to roll away from a sudden kick to the stomach.

Matyas had no idea when he fell asleep. He didn't even remember being drowsy. One moment he was watching the sack on the table, the
next he had woken up to see Veil working a mortar and pestle made of green stone. He just stared, unable to move or even think clearly.

Whatever she was grinding in the bowl must have been very hard because she had to work the pestle so much her shoulders moved with the motion, and her long silver hair, still loose and flowing from the brush, swayed behind her like a thin curtain. Matyas tried to recall if any of the things he'd bought from Johannan had looked very hard. Weren't there a couple of brown nuts of some kind? Round, with a scratchy surface. He shook his head to try to remember. Why was it so hard to think?

If Veil's body strained at her task, her face showed nothing. There was only the light of a single stubby candle to reveal what she was doing, but he could see her expression clearly, as blank as the stone mask she kept on the wall next to the window.

After several minutes, Veil abruptly finished. One moment she was pressing the pestle down with all her might, the next she'd set the mortar on the table and straightened up to take a deep breath. Matyas shrank down under the blanket, but she took no notice of him. Twice more she sucked in air and let it out so slowly and completely Matyas unconsciously gasped for breath.

And then she was rubbing the paste she'd made all over her hands, and anger flooded Matyas. Flying ointment! She'd made it after all, just as he'd begged her to, but not for him! She'd stolen it from him. Lied, and taken it all for herself. He wanted to get up and knock her down, wipe it off her hands and onto his own. But he didn't move. He was suddenly so tired again that it took all his effort just to keep his eyes open. She was going to get away, jump out of the window and never return. Leave him with all her old books, piles and piles of them, and she'd never taught him to read.

Veil went nowhere near the window, only stepped over to a narrow wooden stand hardly noticeable among the stacks of books. At first Matyas thought the stand was empty, but then he saw it did contain one object, a red wooden box, unadorned but very smooth, about the length and width of Matyas' hand. Now he remembered he'd seen it before—that first day, actually. And he must have wiped the dust off it a dozen times since then, but it felt now like the first time he was looking at it. With all the statues, and elaborate books, and ornate bowls and sticks, the box was so easy to overlook.

Veil said something, and even though it was too low for Matyas to make it out, he could feel it, tiny sharp jabs all up and down his spine. Was it demon language? He was pretty sure it wasn't human talk. Something else she was hiding from him. He remembered how he'd thought the Masters had summoned demons to build their grand library and dining hall, but maybe it was Veil and the tower? Was he in a demon tower right that moment? Were the bricks made of dirt and demon spit—or worse?

He realized his mind was drifting away from the red box. It seemed to take a great effort to keep his mind on it. A spell. She must have cast a spell on the box. Or on Matyas himself. To make him forget. He forced himself to focus all his attention on the box and on Veil as she lifted the lid.

Voices. A murmur of voices, a whole crowd of them. Was this where she kept her demon slaves, imprisoned in the red box? Any moment now they would roar out, swarm all through the tower, screaming, biting. This was why Veil had taken him when Lukhanan and the others were about to throw him out—not as a student, not even a servant, just something to feed to her captive monsters. Maybe if he shrank down in his bed, closed his eyes tight, as he should have done all along, Veil would spare him.
Please, please
, he thought. She could send her demons out through the window to find some homeless beggar, maybe some old man too weak to stand up, who wasn't going to live long anyway.

No!
he told himself. This was just Veil's spell, for hadn't the voices—the
real
voices, he decided—called him Master Matyas? Didn't they promise he would fly? Protection. He needed to protect himself. “Come around me,” he whispered as softly as he could, and there they were, for the first time in weeks, tiny lights all around his face. The Splendor. “Stay close to me,” he told them. “Don't let her see you.” The lights moved almost against his skin.

If Matyas had been scared that even the Splendor would not be strong enough against Veil's demons, he was able to let go of his fear, just a little, when no monsters surged from the box. Instead, the voices died down, softer than a breeze, as Veil reached in and lifted out . . . not a hideous creature, not a dragon, not a jewel of captured starlight, but only a stack of thick papers.

At first Matyas nearly groaned out loud in disappointment. More paper! Something else he couldn't read. It always came back to reading.
But then he realized, he knew what these papers—these
cards
were. He'd seen the old wizard looking at them that night in the Hungry Squirrel. “Tarot cards” he'd called them. What was the name? Tarot of Eternity. If you had the original, he said, you could change the world. Or something like that. And that other thing, the one that made no sense—“Whosoever touches the Tarot of Eternity, he shall be healed of all his crimes.” Only, the original was lost, hidden away by the great sorcerer who'd made them . . . Joachim, that was the name.

So had Veil found it? Maybe Joachim didn't
hide
the pictures, maybe Veil had
stolen
them. Was that it? Was she holding eternity in her paste-covered hands? What crimes would they heal her of? Refusing to teach Matyas to fly? If she could see all of time, she didn't show it, for she just held the whole stack between her hands, one below the pile, one above, as if to squeeze them together. She took three deep breaths, and each time the tower itself seemed to shudder, as if battered by wind. “Stay around me,” Matyas whispered to the lights. “I need you.”