Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

“Gavin,” I responded.

“Sure, but what else are we looking for? We’re not going to find Shred there, are we?” she asked.

Pushan was no longer glued to his cell phone. Instead, he kept his attention on the road and around us, his anxiety heightened and likely in overdrive. If I were in his position, I’m not sure I would not be overly paranoid as well. Maybe he had seen and heard things from others of his kind that scared him into this present state. It’s not every day a god fears a bogeyman.

What Joy was really asking is whether or not we’d find Shred’s body there. I hoped not.  I could not even steel myself for seeing that. “No, I don’t think so. Gavin said there’s an instrument there that takes measure of one’s life essence. He thinks it might help us trace his kidnapper.”

“Good.”

The taxi parked alongside a curb approximately three miles from Pembroke. The gloom of the previous day crept into that day as well, bringing with it a slight drizzle. I removed a stack of Post-Its from my bag and began writing on it with one of my new, overpriced pens. I looked around to verify that this was, in fact, Tolliver’s, and followed Joy. Pushan stayed in the car.

My writing was small, and arrayed in a dodecahedron. It was one of the strongest bindings I could make. I tapped the Post-It under the wheel well so it would be protected from the elements—and from prying eyes. Part of the spell also necessitated repelling people so as to not run into it while it was cloaked.

I reached into my satchel and grabbed the gas station sunglasses that Gavin had etched that let me check for magic. I checked for magical activity—looking for a trail and checking for traps. The place was warded against hostile intent, certainly, but I could not make out the exact nature of the wards. At least, there did not seem to be any traps in place. Either they were already sprung or Shred disarmed them. I gestured for Joy to take a step back as I climbed up the steps to the flat so I could enter first.

I heard sobbing. At once I was relieved and looked back at Joy who heard Gavin’s sobs as well. We followed the sound to the back, through an open door and into a small English garden. There was a small shed for garden tools. Kneeling in front of it, Gavin held an antique framed photograph what I could only assume was him with his arm around Donald Tolliver. Gavin was oblivious to us. I tried to be sensitive and motioned with my eyes to Joy. She bent down to hug Gavin. I, on the other hand, was reticent. The words of Longfellow floated to the surface of my mind: There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion that if by chance it be shaken, or depths like a pebble drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.

I knew loss and I understood it, but I feared that anything I would do would somehow spoil the moment. In moments like this, I truly felt helpless.

“We’ll find who did this.” Joy rubbed his back in an effort to comfort him. Gavin sobbed more. I, uncomfortable with the raw emotion of the moment, looked around for anything to distract myself. I looked more closely at the frame that Gavin held, hoping to finally recognize some instance in my life of having crossed paths with Tolliver. Instead, Tolliver was wholly unfamiliar; a tall, slender man, bald, save for the gray-black hair that encircled the sides and back of his head. His mustache matched was more black than gray, giving him slightly more youthful look. I wondered what attraction there was for Gavin, but knew that in life, when it came to many of us, attraction was also a matter of charisma and intelligence. For the two of them, I could see it as a meeting of the minds.

I padded over behind them both and put my arms around both of them. It was a strange feeling, being part of a group, and it was something I missed out on entirely. Yet, we were united. The god-killers were likely behind the murders of my and Joy’s dads; and now Gavin’s mentor, master, and lover.

Gavin was now keeping his tears in check, wiping at the snot on his nose and cheeks. The evidence of his grief appeared to lessen, morphing into the emotionless mask I was used to him wearing. Yet, for the first time, I also saw something else: resolve.

These same murderers poisoned Tolliver with something above his ability to heal and set him on the path to obtaining the Sucikhata. I imagined his last months of life were filled with unbearable pain and dread. Once the killers got what they needed, they killed him outright at the flat back in Springfield. They nearly killed Joy, and took shots at both Gavin and me. Tolliver was a pawn, and maybe my dad was too. Could it be that the three of us kneeling on the ground in Cambridge were also pawns? Or, were we merely something to wipe out?

The road we traveled had flickering torches to light the way—but only enough light to lead us into the sinister darkness.

“Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.”

—Plato

“Gravity and entropy will assuredly win one day. All the monuments, all humanity’s accomplishments will fade from existence. What’s left for us then, is to determine the in-between: the in-between birth and death. Will the in-between have any meaning whatsoever? The logical question is no. How could it? But that’s it, isn’t it? The answer, if there is one, is love. No meaning, no love. I guess that makes me a romantic.”

—Grey Threroux

rEvolve: 5

What we have learned:

              These magicians were culled from the first of humanity’s learned. In that respect, they are brethren. Their arcane knowledge was searched and researched and formulated all in due course, making service not to themselves, but to the great cause of humanity.

              So, while they served no gods, far too often their power was coopted and corrupted by the gods. IT is believed that, early on, the magicians viewed the gods as necessary, or at least mutually beneficial. While they labored to better the station of man, while they also rejected the gods and their worship, somehow the gods tricked or manipulated them into service. Though this service was indirect at first, these magicians became indebted to the gods. So, the magicians did not owe the gods their allegiance, yet they certainly owed the gods favors and protections. This only served as propaganda for the gods—as the magicians plied their craft and humanity marveled and feared the gods that much more because of the magic.

              Many of the magicians came to serve the gods directly, but more remained impartial. So, seeing their power, some gods grew jealous; or they feared. They entertained and carried their own machinations to destroy the magicians who served other gods: for these magicians worked miracles in the names of rival gods and these miracle-workers were indispensable to worship.

              The gods had grown powerful and drunk on the worship of their followers and many of the magicians died. Fewer and fewer remained.

              It is because the magicians have, in the past, lent their assistance to the gods, that our organization cannot abide their collaboration. The threat posed by the mages has increased our membership, and through the years, we have hastened their extinction. It is now believed that there are fewer than 12 combined between the disciplines in the world today. Destroying the magicians not only allows us to carry on toward our goal unimpeded, but it also helps to rid the world of these vestiges of the supernatural who perpetrate on behalf of deities. Ultimately, to eradicate them is to eradicate our own penchant for superstition. These men and women are, in that respect, akin to the ranks of the religious. Humanity must no longer be shepherded by ignorance. If once we were sheep, or the cattle of the gods, then now we must assert our evolution.

              Humanity will no longer tolerate the crook of the shepherd.

“Believe nothing. No matter where you read it, or who said it, unless it agrees with your won reason and your own common sense.”

—Buddha,
The Dhammapada

Chapter 13

              The rest of the morning was a somber affair. Pushan came inside Donald Tolliver’s flat and promptly made himself at home: putting the kettle on and brewing some tea. He even made enough for all of us and each of happily accepted. Gavin took an elegant, gilded clock off the mantelpiece and held it in front him while he sat on the couch.

              “I’m just trying to remember how to use this. Donald called it a psychometer. It takes a measure of a person and in so doing samples a person’s essence. I’ve seen him work it on some of his colleagues.” Gavin turned it around so the clock face was pointing at me. I flinched, thinking it would dilute what information it already gathered. “I pulled the mechanism before it could take mine or anyone else’s measurements. Whoever was nearest to it last or any reasonable amount of time—it will be in here.”

              The ace of the clock looked mother-of-pearl, but there were symbols in the place of numbers, though it did have clock hands gilded in the same finish as its outer case. “Will you be able to go back multiple people?”

              “It holds the last 12. It should show us face, emotional state, intelligence, and” Gavin looked to Joy, Pushan, then me, “a name. I hope.” He wound the arms of the clock, once clockwise, then counterclockwise. He repeated these motions in various combinations until finally something clicked or sprung. He put the clock down on the tea tray in front of him.

              On the face of the clock, in almost a holographic fashion, the man’s face was blue, and was, without any doubt, the same bearded man we saw in the video at the pub.

              Pushan dropped his teacup on the floor, spilling tea on the rug, though not shattering the china. “I…I have seen this man!”

              “Where?” Joy was the first to ask. “Do you know where he is? This is the same guy who followed Shred out of the club.”

              “He was at the restaurant last night. Three men ate with him!” Pushan looked both worried and perplexed. “I did not pay mind to him, but he looked at you.” He pointed to me. “I thought it was because you’re a pretty girl.”

              That means…I grasped for the ramifications, “If they didn’t know we’re here then, they do now. And they probably know we’re
here
.” I pointed at the floor as if they need visual aid.

              “Shit.” Joy stood behind me, but moved closer to look at the face emanating from the psychometer.

              “Pushan—we have to abandon your taxi.” I swiveled to address Gavin. “I hope there’s nothing you need form here, because we’re going out the back door. Now.” What I meant as an encouragement turned into an order mid-thought. After Trivium, I knew we could not chance wards and shields against an enemy who was better equipped than we were. I could cloak the four of us, but moving fast was paramount.

              Gavin took the time to get up and peak out one of the front windows. “Car parked across the street. Two men inside. One of them is our guy. Let’s go.”

              The four of us filed out of the back door of the flat. Our best bet to avoid detection was to cross several fence lines and find an alleyway out of the neighborhood. Pushan was already helping Joy over the fence. Gavin helped me, the Pushan over. Gavin then vaulted into the neighbor’s yard with an athleticism that should not have been surprising to me by now, but was. Quietly, Joy was already crossing into the next neighbor’s yard. We were trusting her to check for inhabitants before crossing. She stopped three yards over from Tolliver’s flat.

              “There are kids in the next yard. Two of them,” she whispered. “Should we just go ahead and go?”

              I didn’t think a couple kids would be too much of a problem if we hurried to the other side.

              “There should only four more yards before we hit Hooper Street. It runs perpendicular to this one.” Gavin was already helping Joy cross over.

              I heard children whispering so loudly that whispering was no longer a matter of volume but how they breathed the words out. Something about “Who’s that lady?”

              He helped Pushan, then me, being careful to lift my bag so it wouldn’t get caught on the fence, then vaulted the fence like he had the past few.

              The two smallish children stared at us, attempts at whispering silenced. They were a girl and a boy, about five years old and possibly twins. As the others were busy crossing the next wall, they looked at me fearfully. I took a pen and a Post-It from my bag, scrawled some words and threw a ball of fire up in the air.

              They looked at me, then each other and all at once giggled and squealed in laughter.

              “Thank you my lord, my lady.” I curtsied. I ran toward the wall, tossed the bag over and hoped to jump the fence with a single bound. Thankfully, I made it across unscathed.

              The landing, however, was not so graceful. I landed hard enough on my backside to knock the wind out of me. I got up massaging my cheeks, vowing to eat ten times the amount of carbs allowed on a daily basis just to soften any future landings.

              Pushan was motioning me to stop; Joy’s back was turned. She was still. We were in the yard that bordered on Hooper. Gavin held up a hand to his ear, listening. Joy turned to me and mouthed “cops.” I took the dart gun, wrote my spell, loaded it in the dart and then the gun, and prepared to take a shot. I pantomimed to Gavin that I wanted a boost over the wall. He complied by lifting me at my knees and sitting me on his right shoulder.

              As soon as I could see over the fence, I ducked back down. There were more than just bobbies waiting over the wall. The bearded man who took Shred was standing and talking to the bobbies, pointing at Gwydir Street—and thus toward Tolliver’s flat. The bearded man’s accomplice was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, that meant he was still watching the flat. I hunched down around Gavin’s neck and whispered in his as quietly as I possibly could, “Beard.”

              Gavin nodded and put me down on the ground. I went to Joy was sitting cross-legged on the ground waiting for our move. I bent down and whispered just as quietly in her ear: “Need distraction. Make noise.” I held up a finger, asking her to wait just a minute. Meanwhile, Pushan fidgeted with his cell phone. I made the same request in his ear. It was now his turn to hold up his finger. He gestured with his thumb to have Gavin boost me once more. Gavin did just that and turned us around to face the wall. I remained duck down so I could not be seen under cover of the trees and foliage that grew against the wall. Pushan handed me his phone and I readied myself to aim—and the phone suddenly burst into playing dance music as it sailed across the air and landing in the street on the other side of the wall. Despite landing on the pavement, the tinny beats of the phone playing dance music continued to play.

              Time to shoot. I looked up and over the wall and immediately met the intense gaze of the bearded man who stole Shred. I did not hesitate, shooting him in the neck with my spell. The two cops were walking toward the phone, so didn’t see what just occurred behind them. I dropped the gun, lunged toward the wall and climbed over as surreptitiously as I could, keeping my eyes on the bobbies. I dragged the bearded man—who must have weighed close to twice as me—into the hedgerow that lined the sidewalk in-between the wall. I popped the cap of my Bic, letting it fall somewhere, and wrote cloaking triangles on both me and my quarry with reckless celerity. By this point, I could see the cops squinting back to where we were, but not making any indication of recognition.

              The bobbies continued down Gwydir Street toward whichever homeowner had called the cops. Maybe it was the parents of the twins for whom I performed my little fireball-trick? I could never know, but by some stroke of luck, it got Shred’s stalker into our grasp. I whistled for the others to climb over.

              Gavin was the last to come.

              “Stay here. I’m getting my cab back!” Pushan was about to turn the corner when he turned back to me and wagged his finger at me menacingly. “You owe me a new cell phone!”

              Joy was brave enough to take a peek around the corner to watch Pushan’s approach. While I did hide the taxi, performing spellcraft on deities had to be a much more intense affair. It was very likely that Pushan saw right through my illusion, or, at least, knew where the vehicle was parked and would approach it regardless of my repellent.

              A few minutes later, she hustled back over to where Gavin and I knelt beside our captive. “Quick, lift him up—Pushan’s coming with his taxi.” I imagined a fuming Pushan walking over to a car that didn’t exist and disappearing would have startled the policemen. I wondered how he got through so quickly—especially with the bearded man’s partner likely down the road.

              The taxi pulled next to the cars that were already parked along the curb, Pushan bidding the cars around him to pass by—while cursing at them in Hindi. Pushan must have removed the Post-It with the binding.

Joy opened the back door and Gavin and I shoved the man inside, careful not to dislodge the dart in his neck.

              “Pushan,” leading to my question, “will we be followed?”

              “No, Grey. It was phenomenal,” Joy answered for him.

              Pushan harrumphed, but added nothing.

              “He just kept pace behind the two cops, crossed the street at the flat and flipped the other guy—who was still in the car, I guess—off. With both fingers. Except his fingers shot light. Like, blinding light!”

              I looked at his eyes in the rearview and new he had to be grining. Whatever stories were told of Pushan, he was associated with the power of the sun. I smiled wickedly at the thought of Pushan’s solar-powered fuck yous. The bearded man’s partner would be blinded for the next several minutes. And who knows how long after that. I could have empathized, yet found myself snickering to myself.

              “Where to now, boss?” Pushan asked.

              I shrugged, spit-washing the cloaking spell from my hand. I wasn’t sure if twas safe to go back to the hotel, but we would certainly need to go back at some point. “I don’t know. Gavin—what do you think? Is there a place we can take this asshole and have some privacy?”

              With the adrenaline rushing through him, and a solid lead to be followed, Gavin’s spirits had brightened considerably. “I know just the place.”

              Pushan let us out at the Mill Road Cemetery and drove off with Joy’s cell phone so we could contact him when ready to depart. Cemeteries, in my line of work, were a place I was forced to frequent from time to time. However, this cemetery was lost. Or, at least, large patches of it rebelled against cultivation. Age erased inscriptions, grass overtook tombstones, trees conquered pathways. It was a stark juxtaposition of life and entropy. With the bearded man still asleep and cloaked, no one would notice the weight Gavin bore upon his shoulders in a fireman’s cary. Gavin must have been a competitive athlete at soe point. He was tall, but lithe and muscular. Given his trek through the woods by the trivium and his seeming lack of effort now, no one could question his incredible fitness.

              The cloaking, by this point, was superfluous—there were no passers-by in the graveyard. It was the middle of the day, but it was exactly what Gavin promised: private.

              “You know what you’re gonna do?” Gavin asked, setting our captive down on the ground, but propping him up against one of the gravestones.

              I looked at man’s beard and face, imagining him without facial hair and hoping that would stoke some sort of remembrances. His hair was dark, but the beard had a nearly copper quality to it. His face was pock-marked underneath the beard, so much so that I knew I would have recognized him if I had ever seen him. I had not.

              “Yeah. Hold up his head. I’m going to write on it.” I used Bill’s Quill and its matching inkwell. I stretched the skin on his forehead taut. It was a pentagonal pattern for truth. I bound each of his limbs, hands, and feet with triangular bindings to keep him still and submissive.

              I pulled the dart from his neck and waited for him to return to consciousness.

              He did so with a start. Had I not bound him, he almost certainly would have hurled himself at me. As is, though, he heaved his chest threateningly at me.

              I was not an impulsive person. Far from it—I was the opposite; to a fault. Joy called me a “percolator.” Information had to be distilled and percolated through my mind before I casted judgment. Now, though, I stared at this man and tried to determine which question I would ask first.

              “Where is my friend, Shred” The musician you followed from Portland Arms and kidnapped from Donald Tolliver’s home?” I took it for granted that the man before me wanted not only to lie to me, but injure kill me. His chest heaved even more and then held in place, trying to hold his breath until he passed out. “I can also keep you breathing,” I said, unamused.

              The captive flicked his eyes up and down, finally realizing the full extent of how limited his movement was. He refused to speak. That I had not yet accounted for, so bent down with the Viceroy Rollerball I obtained from Smythson’s and wrote the pattern and words for
speak
.