The Spook's Blood (Wardstone Chronicles) (9 page)

‘Well, lad, I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. I’m no architect, but I know what’s pleasing to the eye, and that house is a very odd mixture of styles.’

It was large, with the central part built in the shape of a letter E, like many grand County mansions. But other sections had been added in a higgledy-piggledy manner, as if each new owner had felt compelled to build on, giving no thought to what already existed; many different types of stone and brick had been used, and the towers and turrets lacked any symmetry – there was no sense of balance and harmony at all. But there was something else that added to my sense of disquiet.

It was the trees, which crowded in around the house as if demanding entry. Most people would have cleared the saplings when they first started to sprout, or at least cut them back. But nothing had been done at all. Trees draped their branches over the roof or leaned against the walls as if trying to push them over. One had even grown right out of the path outside the front door. Anyone leaving or entering the house would have to step around it. It was gloomy too; the sun could not find a way through the leaf canopy.

‘The place has been badly neglected,’ said the Spook. ‘I hope the library is in better condition! Anyway, we’ll find out soon enough.’

It was surprising to see the house in such a state. Judd had said that Mistress Fresque was a practical woman. So why would she allow the trees to grow up like that? It didn’t make sense.

There was no surrounding wall or gate; the path we’d been using continued right up to the front door. Walking round the tree that blocked his path, the Spook went up and rapped on it twice.

There was no answer so he tried again. Once more I noticed how quiet it was. It was a real contrast to my master’s house at Chipenden which, at this time of year, was surrounded by bird-song. It was as if something huge and threatening was lurking nearby, sending all the forest creatures into hiding.

I was just about to comment on this to my master when I heard footsteps approaching the door. Then a key was turned in the lock and it slowly opened inwards. A girl was standing before us, holding a candle in one hand and a big bunch of keys in the other. She was slim and pretty and couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. She was dressed simply in a black dress that came down to her ankles; it contrasted with her long, reddish fair hair, which was pulled back from her forehead by a coronet in the current fashion of well-to-do County women. Her face was very pale but her lips were painted red, and at the sight of us they widened into a smile and all my former unease evaporated away.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said in greeting. ‘You must be John Gregory and his apprentice, Thomas Ward. I have heard so much about you. I am Mistress Fresque, but please use my first name. Call me Cosmina.’

I was immediately struck by her accent. She spoke English well but undoubtedly came from Romania, as Judd had explained. And despite her obvious youth, her eyes seemed to hold the experience and assurance of a much older woman.

‘We are pleased to be here,’ said the Spook, ‘and are very much looking forward to examining your store of books. Judd Brinscall guided us here but had to leave on business.’

‘Well, he is my guest, so we’ll see him later – and you are most welcome. I bid you enter  . . . ’ With those words she stepped aside, and the Spook and I crossed the threshold into the gloomy interior.

‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I will show you to the library.’

She turned on her heel and led us down a passageway lined with a wainscot painted a dark glossy brown. Right at the end, directly facing us, was an oval door. She selected a key from the bunch and turned it in the lock, and we followed her inside. Immediately I heard the Spook gasp in astonishment.

We were in a vast round tower and its walls were fitted with curved wooden shelves whose every inch was occupied by books. In the centre was a round oaken table, its surface highly polished, and three chairs. There was another door directly opposite the one we had come through.

This was an atrium, a circular space that extended right up to
the
conical roof. I glimpsed other floors – maybe six or seven – each furnished with books in the same way. The library must have contained thousands of books, and it was many times larger than the Spook’s one at Chipenden.

‘You are the owner of this vast library?’ he asked in astonishment.

‘Nobody can ever truly
own
a library such as this,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘It is a legacy from the past. I am just its keeper and preserver.’

The Spook nodded. He understood that. That was exactly the position he had taken towards his own library. It wasn’t about ownership; it had been about keeping it safe for the use of future generations of spooks. Now it was gone, and he felt its loss keenly. I was really pleased for my master: now he might be able to start restocking it.

‘I am the librarian, but I have the right to lend books or sell any which I consider surplus to requirements,’ the girl went on.

‘May I ask what percentage of this large collection of books actually relates to the dark?’ asked the Spook.

‘Approximately one seventh,’ Mistress Fresque replied. ‘In fact, the whole of this lowest floor. Why don’t you examine the books at your leisure? I will bring you some refreshments.’

With these words she gave a little bow and left the room by the second door, closing it behind her.

‘Well, lad,’ said the Spook enthusiastically. ‘Let’s get to work.’

So we went to opposite sides of the circular room and began to look at the titles on the spines. Many were intriguing: a large
leather
-bound tome caught my eye:
Speculations on the Dark: Its Achilles Heel
.

I knew that Achilles was a hero from Greek history. At birth his mother had dipped him into a cauldron to bestow upon him the gift of invulnerability. Unfortunately she had held him by the heel, so this part was not immersed in the liquid. In later life an enemy had fired an arrow into that heel and he’d died. So this book probably told the reader how to find the secret weaknesses of creatures of the dark, which could lead to their destruction. I thought that might be well worth dipping into.

I was just about to lift it off the shelf when the Spook called me over. ‘Come and look at what I’ve found, lad!’

In his hand was an open book. It was quite slim, but obviously its size was not linked to its importance. My master closed it and pointed to its cover. Engraved into the brown leather, high on the cover in silver letters was one word:

Doomdryte
.

Below it, also embossed in silver, was an image that I instantly recognized. It was the head and forelimbs of a skelt.

‘It’s a grimoire, lad,’ my master told me. ‘In theory the most dangerous one that has ever existed. No doubt this is just a copy, but if accurate, its text could still bestow incredible power upon a practitioner of the dark arts. Some say it was dictated by the Fiend to a mage who tried to use its magic but was killed in the process. If one word of the incantation is wrong or mispronounced, the speaker is instantly destroyed. However, if a mage ever does manage to read it aloud accurately at one go
–
and that takes many hours – then he’d achieve god-like powers. He’d be invulnerable, and able to do terrible things with impunity.’

‘Why has a skelt’s head been used on the cover?’ I asked.

The hilts of my sword, the Destiny Blade, and Bone Cutter, the dagger given to me by Slake, were formed in the likeness of a skelt’s head. The sight of such an image on the cover of the most dangerous of all grimoires made me feel uneasy about the sword. At times it almost seemed sentient. Immediately before combat, blood dripped from the ruby eyes. Even though it was supposedly a ‘hero sword’, there was something of the dark about it, forged as it was by one of the Old Gods.

‘Well, as you know, lad, the skelt has long been associated with witches who use blood magic – especially water witches. They keep one in a cage and let it loose to drain their prisoners. Once the creature is bloated with blood, they rip its living body to pieces with their bare hands and then devour it. This triples the power of the blood magic. I’ve always considered that a particularly nasty ritual – a creature that is most appropriate, don’t you think, for the very worst of the grimoires?’

‘You’d think such a dangerous book would be hidden away – not just placed casually on a shelf here. I wonder if Mistress Fresque knows what it is?’

‘A librarian hasn’t necessarily read all the books in her library, lad.’

‘So you’ll want this one for your own library?’ I asked, more uneasy than ever.

‘Nay, lad, not for my library. I want this book so that I can destroy it and prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.’

At that moment the far door opened and Mistress Fresque backed into the room holding a tray, which she set down on the table. It was laid with a knife, three tankards of water, and a large plate with thick slices of bread and cold chicken, and two wedges of cheese; one was from the County but the other I didn’t recognize.

I saw her glance at the book the Spook was holding, and it seemed to me that a flicker of annoyance briefly twisted her pretty face. It disappeared so quickly that immediately afterwards I wondered if I’d just imagined it. My master certainly didn’t notice it; he had turned and was already replacing the
Doomdryte
on the shelf.

‘You must be hungry after your journey – please help yourselves,’ Mistress Fresque said, gesturing to the tray.

I sat down next to the Spook; our host sat some distance away, facing us across the table.

‘Aren’t you going to join us?’ my master asked.

She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve already eaten. Later I will prepare supper – you’re welcome to stay for the night.’

The Spook neither accepted nor declined her invitation. He simply smiled, nodded and cut himself a piece of County cheese. I helped myself to some chicken. I often had more than my fill of cheese: this was the only thing I was allowed to nibble on when we were preparing to deal with the dark.

‘What do you think of my library after your first brief inspection?’ she asked.

‘It’s an astonishing collection,’ my master said. ‘There are so many books to choose from – which leads me to two questions. Firstly, how many books are you prepared to let go, and secondly, would you accept payment in stages? I’m involved in the expensive business of rebuilding my house at the moment.’

‘The number of books you can take is, of necessity, limited. But I could see my way to selling maybe three hundred or so. The price of each will vary – some are rare indeed, while others could be replaced from other sources. There are just a few that I cannot allow to leave this library, but make your selection and we will see. It may not be a problem. As for price – we will negotiate, but I’m sure we can reach a compromise that will make us both happy. You needn’t worry about paying for them all immediately. Indeed, the cost could be paid over the course of a couple of years if you wish.’

There was a question that had been bothering me. It was an impressive library, so why did she want to reduce the stock?

‘Do you mind if I ask why you’re selling some of your books? Is it just to help Mr Gregory?’ I asked.

Mistress Fresque smiled and nodded. ‘It is partly to help your master rebuild his own library. He has done much good work and deserves help in restocking that resource to leave to his heirs. But I must confess that I am also driven by a need to carry out repairs to my own house. I inherited it just five years ago
when
my uncle died. He was an old man who was set in his ways – he had a great love of trees. He could not bear to break a single twig, never mind cut down anything that encroached upon the house. There has been some damage done to the foundations, and I need to enlist the services of a forester to deal with the roots. I also need a stonemason to carry out repairs to the structure of the building.’

‘Thank you, Mistress Fresque. Your offer to stagger the payments is kind and of necessity I must accept it,’ said the Spook, ‘but I can make a payment up front – one that will enable you to begin to attend to your own needs.’

I noted that my master had not addressed her by her first name, Cosmina, even though she had invited us to do so. Her superior manner and air of assurance made it seem inappropriate to be on first-name terms with her.

After we had finished our meal, Mistress Fresque took the tray and prepared to leave the room so that we could get on with our search. When she reached the doorway, she pointed to a cord hanging down beside one of the bookshelves. ‘Pull that and it will ring a bell in my quarters. Do not hesitate to summon me if there if anything you need,’ she said, giving us a smile as she left.

‘Well, lad, what I suggest is that we place any books that take our fancy on the table. It doesn’t matter if we take too many. We can make a final selection later and then return the remainder to the shelves.’ He sighed and shook his head.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you happy to be able to choose from so many books?’

‘Aye, lad, that’s good – it’s just that I know that some things can’t be replaced. Just think of all those notebooks written by past spooks that I had at Chipenden; the history of their endeavours, how they solved problems and discovered new things about the dark  . . .  That’s all gone for ever. We won’t find such materials here.’