The Blackthorn Key (5 page)

I weaved my master through the books to the bed and laid him down as gently as I could. I looked at him for a moment, unsure of what to do.

Master Benedict trained you
, I told myself.
You are ready for this.
It calmed me.

I lit the lantern on the table using my own, closed the window shutters, and poked at the coals dying in the fireplace to give him some warmth. Then I looked him over. Downstairs, I'd thought his coat was torn, but in better
light, the charred, crumbling wool and blackened skin underneath gave the truth away. He'd been burned. My heart burned, too, toward whoever had hurt him.

“Rest a moment, Master,” I said.

I ran down to the workshop, trying to remember everything my master had taught me about treating burns. I hauled two buckets of water up to his room. Then I went back and searched the shelves for the remedies I needed. One of them, a cream of powdered silver, was already out, the one my master had pulled down when I was asleep. I balanced the jars in my arms, added a small tin pot full of water and a mug on top, then went upstairs.

Master Benedict lay on the pillow, breathing slowly. He watched me place the pot on the fire and line up the jars on the table beside him. I started to pull off his coat, but he flinched when I lifted his arms, so I used my knife to cut it away at the seams. It was ruined anyway, its future value only as rags.

I was relieved to see that while the skin of his shoulder was blistered, he wasn't badly burned. I washed away the soot, and that from his face, too. I scooped dried poppies from one of the jars into the water boiling in the pot on the fire and, after a minute, poured it into the mug beside
the bed. The poppy was the best pain reliever God had gifted the world with, and the infusion would relax him as well.

Master Benedict sipped at it as I worked. I smeared the silver cream on his burn, to prevent the flesh from rotting. Then I wrapped a cloth around it, tying it under his arm, and removed what was left of his filthy clothes.

He looked so frail. He'd never seemed old to me, but tonight I saw every year in him, all aged skin and bones. Still, otherwise, he appeared unharmed, except for his palms, which were cracked and raw. The wounds didn't look like burns, so I slathered his hands with aloe sap and wrapped them as I did his shoulder.

“You've learned so much,” he said softly.

I flushed, embarrassed, but proud. “Thank you, Master.”

He began to speak again, but his voice choked. His eyes were wet, ringed with red. My heart ached. I'd never seen him cry before.

“Can I do anything more?” I said.

He reached out and touched my cheek with his fingertips.

“You're a good boy,” he said.

I couldn't find any words. I just bowed my head and leaned into the warmth of his hand.

His eyelids began to droop. The poppy tea was working. I helped him lie down again, and pulled the covers over him. “Sleep well, Master.”

I extinguished the lantern on the table. I carried the other one to the door before he spoke.

“Wait.”

He stared into the flame of the lantern. It flickered, tendrils of smoke dancing over the glass.

“It's Oak Apple Day tomorrow,” he said.

“It . . . yes. The king's birthday.”

“And your own.”

He remembered.

“Did you and Tom collect your oak sprigs?” he said.

“This morning.”

I was wondering why he'd stopped me for that, and then he said, his voice nearly a whisper, “Do I ask too much of you?”

I wasn't sure what he meant. “Master?”

“No one ever gave you the choice,” he said. “The orphanage made you study. The Guild gave you the test. I brought you here. No one ever gave you the choice.” He looked into my eyes. “If I sent you away, to walk a different path,” he said, “somewhere you'd be safe, somewhere
you couldn't be hurt . . . would you choose it?”

His question stunned me. Had any master ever allowed his apprentice to choose? I remembered his secret conversation with Hugh.

We have to make a choice, and soon.

When the killings had started four months ago, Tom and I had teased each other that assassins were coming to get us. It didn't take long for our jokes to stop, as the reality of what was happening to our city began to weigh on us. Tonight, alone in the dark, I'd been more scared than I ever had before. I still was. Part of me wanted to go: go somewhere safe, no Stubb, no killers, nothing more to fear. But that was
us
, together. Leave Master Benedict behind? I couldn't. I wouldn't.

I said it with conviction, so he'd know it, too. “No, Master. I'm grateful for the life you've given me. Whatever happens, I want to stay with you.”

He didn't say anything. I waited at the door, not sure if he wanted me to go. I got the sense that he wasn't sure, either. Finally, he spoke.

“I have something for you.”

He pointed to a small package, wrapped in linen, resting on top of one of the book stacks.

“What is it?” I said.

“A present.”

I was stunned. The last two Oak Apple Days, Master Benedict had brought home my favorite, fresh roast pig, for supper. He'd eaten sparingly, mostly watching with amusement as I stuffed my face with the sweet white meat, slurping grease from my fingers. I'd always thought the pigs were special for the holiday. Now I wondered if he'd really bought them for me.

But this . . . I'd never got an actual present before. “Can I . . . can I open it?”

“I suppose it must be past midnight by now. So tomorrow is officially today.” He nodded. “Go on, then.”

I pulled at the cloth. It fell away.

I lost my breath.

Underneath was a polished silvery cube, slightly bigger than my palm. On the top, engraved in the metal in fine, smooth grooves, was a series of circles.

With trembling fingers, I turned it around. On each of the other faces, a single symbol was engraved, five in all:

“It's beautiful,” I said.

“Do you recognize the metal?”

I tapped one side with a fingernail. It wasn't silver. It didn't feel quite like tin, either. I bounced it in my hand. It weighed a little more than a plum. “Antimony?”

“Good. Otherwise known as?”

“The Black Dragon. Some say it has mystical properties. But it makes you throw up if you eat it.”

“Excellent.”

I hugged the cube to my chest. “Thank you so much.”

“Don't get too excited.” His eyes twinkled. “That's only half your present.”

My jaw dropped. “There's
more
?”

“You get the rest if you can open it.”

For a moment, I wasn't sure what he meant. Then I realized he was talking about the cube. “It opens?”

I held it close to the lantern. A quarter of an inch below the top, a line traced around it, almost too fine to see. I tried
to pry it off, but the top wouldn't budge. “How do I . . . ?”

He smiled. “I told you. You get the rest . . .
if
you can open it.”

I shook the cube. Inside, something rattled. “What is it?”

“That would spoil the surprise, wouldn't it? But I do think you might need a little help on this one.” He was nearly asleep now, his voice beginning to slur. “I'll tell you this. The key is downstairs, somewhere in the shop. And that”—he pointed to the book the cube had been resting on—“will help you find it.”

THE POUNDING ON THE FRONT
door made me jump. For a moment, I thought my master's attackers had come to finish the job. Though I doubted they'd be the type to knock.

I twisted in my chair, my fingers on the pages of the book my master had given me. The shutters were still barred, the door was still bolted. I waited.

More thumping. Then: “Christopher! Are you there? Let me in.”

I opened the door. Tom stood on the doorstep, hunched over in his coat, trying to shield a package wrapped in wool from the rain. I'd been so caught up in reading that I'd lost
all sense of time. The sky was heavily overcast, the clouds a dusky gray, but it was clearly no longer night.

Tom edged past me into the warmth of the shop. “Finally.”

“What time is it?” I said.

“I don't know. Eight? Nine, maybe? The cry of six was ages ago.” He shivered. “Ugh. I hate the cold.” He shook his coat, and ice pellets skittered across the floor.

“Is that hail?” I said. “It's almost June.”

“It's an omen.” Tom went to the fireplace, where a solitary log burned low. He placed the package he was carrying on the table and stuck his hands near the flame to warm them. “There was another murder yesterday.”

“I know.” I told Tom about the visit from Stubb and my wounded master's return in the night.

Tom's eyes went wide. “Who attacked him?”

“He wouldn't tell me,” I said. “But I don't think it was ordinary robbers. They burned him.”

“It could have been the killers,” Tom said. “My mother says they're part of a cult.”

I stared at him. “A
cult
? Where did she hear that?”

“Mistress Mullens. Her husband's a clerk, and she says he says there are whisperings about it at court. She says the murders might be human sacrifices.” Tom shuddered
and crossed his fingers. “There are reports of plague in the western parishes now, too. I'm telling you, this weather's an omen. The city's turning bad.”

Maybe Tom was right. Hail in almost-June did sound like an omen. Although I wished God's warnings would be a little clearer. You wouldn't think it would be so hard for the Almighty to write
STOP STEALING STICKY BUNS
in the clouds or something.

I poked at the package Tom had brought. “What's in here?”

He smiled, ill winds forgotten. “Open it.”

I unwrapped the wool. The folds fell away, and I was enveloped by the smell of warm apple and cinnamon. Inside was a freshly baked pie, its crust crimped and lightly browned, steam still rising from the flower-petal holes in the center.

“Happy birthday,” Tom said.

This day was getting better and better. I hugged him. I think I got drool on his shirt. Then I had a thought. “Did you steal this pie from your father's bakery?”

Tom managed to look offended. “Of course not.”

“Really?”

“Well . . . I might have borrowed it.”

“Borrowed it? Are we going to return it?”

He thought about it. “In a sense.”

“What if your father finds out? He'll hit you.”

Tom shrugged. “He hits me anyway. May as well get pie out of it.”

“Tom!”

He grinned. “I'm kidding. My mother let me make it for you. Come on, let's eat.”

We did, shoveling the sweetness into our mouths by the fistful. I saved a piece for my master, who liked a good pie almost as much as I did; the rest we devoured. I think it was the best I'd ever tasted, and not just because Tom had made it specially for me. He really had the magic touch. When Tom took over his family's bakery, he'd outshine even his father.

As I licked the last of the goop from my fingers, Tom let out an earthshaking belch. I tried to match him, and failed badly.

“A shameful effort,” he said. He spotted the book I'd left open on the chair beside the fire, and his expression grew even more disapproving. “Satan's woolly socks. Were you
studying
? On your own birthday?”

“It's not for work,” I said. “It goes with Master Benedict's present.” Proudly, I showed him the antimony cube.

Tom was impressed. “He gave you this? It must be worth a fortune.” He shook it, listening to the rattle. “What's inside?”

“That's what I was working on. Look.” I turned the cube so the top was facing us.