The Witch Watch (17 page)

Simon brought him into the drawing room. On the far wall was a great painting, a portrait of Barrington Oswald Mordaunt. Gilbert recognized him when he saw it, although the picture looked perhaps more vigorous and had more hair than the man hiding in Gilbert’s memories. Beneath the painting was a roaring fireplace, washing the room in angry orange light. Chalk symbols had been scrawled onto the floor all around this.

The room was nearly empty. There were no couches, no chairs, no rugs, no other art hung on the walls. There was a small pedestal in front of the fire, on top of which had been set a large silver bowl. Beside the pedestal was an old man - another one of Mordaunt’s craven servants. He had narrow eyes and a pale, yellowing complexion, like spoiled milk. He had long twisted fingers, and held a knife in one hand. Gilbert could vaguely remember that the man was called “Steward”, but he couldn’t recall if that was his name, or position.

“You don’t offer your guest a chair? Seems rather rude, don’t you think?” Gilbert said to the man.

“You are not permitted to sit in the presence of Lord Mordaunt,” Steward replied. He spoke in a long, rolling manner that suggested the listener was witless and slow. “You must either stand out of respect... or kneel.”

“I will stand in
dis
respect. Let’s see if he can tell the difference.”

The man stooped and lifted a large pitcher from beside the fireplace. He used this to fill the silver bowl. He took a vial out of his pocket and sprinkled some powder into the water, which began to hiss as he muttered something incomprehensible. Then he lifted his knife. Thinking the man was planning violence, Gilbert lifted his sword. For a moment the two men faced each other - the tall and imposing Gilbert with his sword, the withered Steward with his kitchen knife.

Steward held up his opposing hand, and slashed it across the palm. He clenched the wounded hand into a fist, and squeezed the blood into the bowl. The fire was suddenly invigorated, and the waves of heat rolled outward. The room turned red. The surface of the water bubbled and churned as if it was boiling. Out of the sound came a vibration that became a voice.

“Mister Hiltman,” chided the voice. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble.” Although he was sure he had only heard it a few times in his life, Gilbert knew that this was unmistakably the voice of the viscount.

“Purely by accident,” Gilbert replied. “Although rest assured that any trouble I cause from now on will be deliberate.”

“Full of swagger, aren’t you? Mister Hiltman, your insolence is childish and counter-productive.”

Gilbert addressed the painting. He didn’t like looking up at the viscount towering over them, but it felt more natural than conversing with a bowl. “What can I do for your Lordship?” he asked mockingly.

“You have something that belongs to me,” Mordaunt replied in a threatening voice.

“The cloak?” Gilbert held up a corner of his ragged, half-burned garb. “I only borrowed it out of necessity. After I put your degenerate guards to the sword and burn down your house, I’ll be happy to return it by adding it to the fire.”

“The vigor!” Mordaunt said impatiently. “It’s
mine.
”

“Actually, if the gossip is true then it belongs to Sophie, and I plan to give it back to her, right after I take revenge on your household.”

“Please Gilbert!” Simon pleaded softly. “Do not provoke him.”

“I did not give you leave to speak, mouse,” the viscount said. “You haven’t yet been punished for your part in this foolishness.”

Simon bowed his head and kept quiet.

“Mr. Hiltman. I did not bring one of my own employees into my house in order to haggle for my own property. You are interfering with a plan set in motion before you were born. Your obstinacy works to the disadvantage of Great Britain herself.”

“Employee? I remember working for you, but I don't remember being paid. In which case I am not your employee, but a man you have robbed.”

“Surrender the vigor.”

“Shall we fight over it? I see you’ve forgotten to bring a sword. And arms to hold one.” Gilbert assumed a fencing stance, “You may begin when ready.”

Mordaunt spoke again, but his voice sounded far weaker and more distant, “Why is the bowl running low? Do I need to send one of the guards to help?”

“No master!” cried Steward fearfully. He slashed himself again, renewing the flow. He squeezed the wound furiously, pouring fresh blood into the bowl.

Mordaunt’s voice returned. “Now Mr. Hiltman. Be reasonable. This is not your business. Your life is ended. If you continue to run around in the wide world as an abomination, sooner or later you will be caught and destroyed. Sophie’s sacrifice will go to waste. Only I have the knowledge and opportunity to make use of the vigor. Surrender it, and your body will be laid to rest with proper respect, as a man who has been faithful in his duties.”

“Your Lordship. The only thing I have for you is the end of my sword,” He moved towards Steward.

“Master! Help!” Steward said in fear.

Gilbert felt his body go numb. The room spun, and as he headed for the floor the last thing he saw was the sorcery circle into which he had stepped. There were many strange shapes drawn on the floor, and the circle had been camouflaged amongst the ugly scrawlings. There was a clatter as he landed, although he couldn’t feel the impact.

“Turn him over, mouse,” said the viscount. “I want him looking up in respect when I pronounce his sentence.”

His view shifted, and he found himself looking up at the painting. He felt nothing. He couldn’t move, or even speak.

“Did you think I brought you here so that I could beg for my own possessions?” the viscount asked coldly. “Did you think to make me grovel in my own house? I did not pass into death only to be outwitted by a blundering soldier. Did your time in the void blot out how you came into my service? Did you forget how you told my men of your history, and of your family relations? I cared nothing for your credentials and qualifications as a soldier. I only needed to know where to strike if you chose to betray me.”

Gilbert felt himself becoming drowsy. The sound of the room seemed to come from a remote distance, and his view of the world was slowly darkening.

“You remember Headmaster Graves? He’s on his way to visit Victoria Hiltman as we speak. Perhaps you passed him on your way here. I was going to spare her if you surrendered the vigor willingly. But since you thought you would slaughter my staff and burn down my house, I will repay in kind. Your words have earned her death in agony, after which your house will be reduced to cinders. Normally justice would require that I punish you directly, but that is not possible in your case, so Victoria must suffer in your stead. Now, leave this world knowing what reward your arrogance has brought your mother.” The room echoed with the booming of his voice.

Simon entered his view. The boy looked down on him in sadness.

“Now, mouse,” the master commanded. “Retrieve the vigor and bring it to my chamber at once. Then all will be forgiven.”

Gilbert watched helplessly as Simon removed his crystal necklace. “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Then he reached out and held the necklace overhead. Light poured from Gilbert’s body. Dots of light, no bigger than motes of dust, gathered like a cloud of fireflies. They swirled like a vapor and flowed into the crystal, which began to glow brightly. Gilbert’s vision grew dimmer still, and soon the light of the crystal was the only thing he could see, like the flicker of a distant star.

Gilbert walked along the line of trees, past the orchard and the barn, heading for home. Before he could reach the door, he found himself facing a young girl with dark braids. Her back was to him, yet he somehow knew what she would look like, even before she turned around. Her face was innocent, yet serious. He felt a sort of kinship with her.

Her mouth moved quickly and soundlessly, like watching someone pray the rosary. She was disappointed. Somehow he apologized without speaking. She understood. Her mouth continued moving, and for a moment Gilbert almost thought he could hear her, as if they were drawing nearer. He felt like he was immersed in water, and all sounds seemed deep and remote. She smiled. Not happy, but accepting. He wanted to know what had happened, or how he had failed. Her lips stopped moving.

They were pulled away from each other, and she vanished.

“Fool! What have you done! Blood! You will pay in blood! You will never eat again!” Lord Mordaunt’s voice boomed through the room, abruptly sounding very near. Everything flashed into view, like a sudden flame in a dark room. Gilbert could feel the cold marble beneath him, and was surprised to find that he was drenched. Simon was standing over him, holding an empty pitcher.

Steward slashed at the boy with his knife. Simon ducked, and the blade knocked the hat off his head. Gilbert struggled to his feet. He grabbed Steward from behind, lifting him into the air and throwing him down again. Steward lashed out with his knife, and Gilbert ran him through.

The fireplace roared and Mordaunt cursed them with threats and evil words.

“Thank you for your hospitality, your lordship,” Gilbert said with a bow. “But you should get back to being dead. Take comfort in the fact that I’m about to send some of your servants to keep you company,” Gilbert grabbed the silver bowl and tossed it into the fire, which silenced the screams. Looking down, he saw that Simon had dumped the pitcher of water onto the floor, which had erased the chalk lines of sorcery.

Simon was standing nearby, breathing quickly and looking at Gilbert’s sword. He swallowed hard and nervously met Gilbert’s eyes. Gilbert grabbed the boy and pulled him into a hug. “I told you courage would taste good once you had a drink!”

Gilbert scooped up Simon’s hat and planted it on his head.

“Thank you, but I’m not sure it was courage. It was just one fear overcoming another. When I heard what he planned to do to your mother, I...” he looked up at Gilbert and choked, “I never knew my mother, you see.”

Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder. “You did the right thing, and that’s what’s important. But it will all be for nothing if we can’t catch Headmaster Graves and his men. I don’t know how we’ll overcome their head start.”

“We? You’re taking me with you this time?” Simon asked with some relief.

“It wouldn’t be right to leave you here.” Gilbert replied.

“Miss White?”

Alice looked up from her notebook. “Private Archer? I asked you to guard the entrance!”

Archer looked down at the floor. “What happened here?” he asked in wonder.

Alice looked at the muddy footprints and fresh chalk lines on the floor, “This is where Gilbert was revived a few days ago. More sorcery has been done since then, but this mud has obfuscated it.”

“I heard gunshots outside,” Archer said.

They were in the last chamber of the Mordaunt family tomb. The door to the chamber had been shut and locked when she arrived. The lock she had easily picked; the device was quite old and primitive. Besides this, there was no other protection on the room - no magic, no traps, and no guards.

“Gunshots?” Alice said nervously. “Close? In our direction?”

“No Miss. Near the manor.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate. I know the captain was hoping we wouldn’t have to hurt anyone. I don’t think we need to worry, though. This sorcery here is proof enough to justify any level of violence on our part.”

“I don’t think it was our rifles I heard.”

Alice looked up, “How can you be sure?”

“I heard four shots, close together. Then a pause. Then four more. We only have two rifles at the manor.”

“The captain has his sidearm,” she reminded him. “And you might have miscounted.”

“I’m sure I didn’t miscount. And I can tell the difference between a rifle and a revolver.”

She looked towards the door, then down at the sorcery, then to her notebook. “I must finish making a copy of this circle. I’ve never seen this before. After that we’ll go and investigate things ourselves.”

Alice worked as quickly as she could.

“This circle is unlike the one I saw a few nights ago,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “The handwriting is much messier. Lots of erasing. The circle is almost egg-shaped. I’m surprised it worked at all.”