Shadow of the Alchemist

24

The game is not over. What are you waiting for?

Crispin read the words on the scrap of parchment again. He glanced at the lock of hair, red gold, streaked with gray, that Flamel would not release, and turned at last to Avelyn.

“Avelyn, do you know where the Boar’s Tusk is? A tavern on Gutter Lane?”

She nodded.

“Go with all haste and bring back Jack Tucker. Don’t take no for an answer.”

She leapt up and darted out the door.

When the door slammed shut, he took Flamel by the arm and sat him on a chair by the fire. “Master Flamel, is this a lock of hair from your wife?”

He nodded, eyes never leaving the strands tied with a blue ribbon of cloth.

Crispin lowered the parchment. “He has the Stone. But it isn’t merely about that, is it?”

The alchemist shook his head again. “He … he must want my help in order to use it. It is a most complicated process. And so I must … I must…” His chin hit his chest and he shivered.

“Master Flamel, he did not speak of your helping him. He spoke of a game.”

Flamel shot to his feet, hand now curled around the lock. “But he is dead! It is impossible!”

“Hadn’t you better tell me everything, sir, no matter how impossible it might seem?”

Wild-eyed, he glared at Crispin. “Very well. My … my wife was married before me. But her husband died and left her a wealthy widow. But that didn’t matter to me. I was in love.”

He shuffled to the fire and leaned an arm over the hearth. The flames’ light danced over his long face, creasing the lines in deep shadow. “She was not as enamored of me, however. I was younger than her, rash. She had a suitor in France in those days. He was somewhat relentless in his pursuit. But … well … she eventually spurned him in favor of me. I am afraid he took a long time to get over it. But this was many years ago. He married someone else. Had children. Then there was a fire … he was killed along with his son.”

“The man’s name?”

“Piers Malemeyns. A brilliant alchemist himself. But he could never achieve even close to the Philosopher’s Stone. He was always too impatient. Too greedy. He could not understand that the journey is the achievement, not the end result.”

“I fear he is not dead and that he is behind more than this abduction, Master Flamel. I think he is the man who hired others to poison the cistern.”

“But why? It makes no sense. If he wanted Perenelle, if he wanted the Stone, all he need do is deal with me.”

Crispin nodded. “Yes. That is a problem of logic.”

“But no! Maître, it cannot be. He is dead. I am certain of it.”

“But I am not so certain.” He looked at the parchment again, holding it up to the light to be sure there were no other hidden messages. “I feel this is a good sign rather than a bad omen. There is still something he wishes to negotiate. Or to gloat. Either way, I feel that Madam Flamel is still alive.” He deliberately left out and unharmed, for of that, he was no longer certain.

He read the parchment again.

The game is not over. What are you waiting for?

“He’s watching us. He’s watching us find the clues. He knows we have not pursued the last one and he wants us to continue.”

“It is a trap, then!”

“Perhaps. In that case, Jack and I will pursue this alone.”

The door flung open and both men whirled. Jack Tucker stood in the doorway, with Avelyn clutching his shirt as if she had dragged him the whole way. He smacked her hands away and glared at her. “I’m here, you sarding woman! Let go of me. Master Crispin?” He eyed his master. “I thought you would meet me at the Boar’s Tusk.”

“More has come to light, Jack. I want you to stay here with Master Flamel. At no time are you to leave him. We received another message.” He shoved the parchment into the boy’s hand and then cocked his head at the lock of hair in Flamel’s fist. Jack read and looked again at the lock of hair. “God blind me,” he whispered.

“And that’s not all. I did encounter our Robert Pickthorn, but he was a dupe, thought he was only helping the people of London and putting a draught in the water that would make them pliable. The true villain is the alchemist Bartholomew of Oxford. Master Flamel?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know this alchemist?”

“No. I never heard of him. But I do not know the alchemists of London. I kept my presence here a secret … or so I thought.”

“It’s that apprentice,” said Jack. All eyes turned to him and he lowered his head sheepishly. “Thomas Cornhill. May he rest in peace. But he must have told others. Proud of the new job he got. His family, too. If anyone asked and he said that he was apprenticing with the French alchemist Nicholas Flamel, well … Someone must have overheard.”

Flamel nodded and lowered his head to his hands. “Foolishness. I should have sworn him to secrecy. I did not know. How could I have known?”

“Jack, stay here. Help them to clean up this disorder. I must deal with this other alchemist.”

“Right, Master Crispin. I won’t leave his side until you yourself tell me to.”

“Good lad.”

Crispin glanced once at the pensive face of Avelyn before rushing out the door.

Back he went to the sign of Mercury and tried the door. Locked, of course. He was too angry to try to pick it. Brute force seemed to be what he wanted most, and he drew back and slammed his shoulder into the wood. He heard a crack but little more. He tried it again and again, little feeling the sore ache to his shoulder and arm with the blows.

“Here! What do you think you are doing?”

Crispin turned, and a man of middle years with mousy brown hair shook a pilgrim’s staff at him. Behind him was a boy a few years younger than Tucker, gripping the lead of a mule bearing the burden of parcels and luggage packed high on its back.

He stepped forward and looked Crispin up and down. “I’ll call the law on you. What do you think you are doing?”

“Pardon me, good sir,” said Crispin with a hasty bow. “But I beg you to stay out of it. This is none of your affair.”

He drew back to slam the door again when the staff landed hard on his shoulder. Crispin whipped toward the man, his hand on his sheathed dagger. “If you value your life,” Crispin growled, “you will not do that again!”

“Go for the sheriffs,” said the man to his young servant. The boy, mouth agape and eyes like mazers, dropped the lead, ready to run.

“Hold!” Crispin grabbed the boy’s arm, and the lad shrank from him, dropping to the ground with a shriek. Crispin let him go. “I’m not going to hurt you … or your master.” He gestured toward the door. “My grievance is with the alchemist within, Bartholomew of Oxford, and him alone.”

The man blustered, “Well then. What do you want?”

“Are you mad or deaf? I have business with the man who owns this shop.”

“And that would be me,” said the man.

Crispin dropped his face in his hand. “No, good sir. Not with the owner of the building, but the man who runs this shop.”

“Yes!” he said more sternly. “I am Bartholomew of Oxford, you demented churl!”

“No, you’re not. I-” He stared at the man, at the boy, at the mule packed high with luggage, and then at the man again. “You … are the alchemist whose shop this is? But I have been dealing with the alchemist here for the last few days.”

“What? Impossible. I have been out of town for a month. I have been traveling, and buying ingredients. This shop has lain empty.”

Crispin lowered his head. “I apologize, Master Bartholomew, but I regret to say that it has not lain empty.”

It was the alchemist’s turn to lay his face in his hands. The boy ran to fetch ale from the nearest alehouse, and Crispin lit candles and sat the man down in his shop by the hearth, explaining as much of it as he dared, leaving out about Flamel and the Stone. But he did speak of the arsenic and the poisonings. As he spoke, he moved about the shop surreptitiously, seeing if any clues as to the man’s identity and whereabouts were indicated. He parted the curtain and found only a small bed and personal items.

The athanor was still warm. The ashes had been hastily stirred and extinguished. Eating bowls were left dirty and unattended. Pots and kettles were disturbed and lay crusted with whatever the impostor had devised.

Crispin had described the man, but the true Bartholomew of Oxford did not recognize him.

“The gall of the man,” said the alchemist. “What utter gall to use my good name so.”

Crispin pulled at the collar of his coat. He felt a bit warm and his stomach churned. No doubt because he had eaten very little today. “Might I inquire if you have ever heard the name Nicholas Flamel?”

“Nicholas Flamel? What alchemist has not heard of him? He is famed far and wide for his reported creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. What has Flamel to do with this business?”

“Perhaps nothing,” he said, rubbing his stomach. He thought it best to keep his client’s identity safe … but he had to know if he had been duped in the matter of Flamel’s fame as well. Clearly not. “But his name came up,” he offered.

“This is abominable. My clientele! Oh, I dearly hope he has not soured those who have kept their trust in me. We must call in the sheriff!”

“Forgive me, Master Bartholomew, but there is very little the sheriffs can and will do. But I assure you that I will do my best. There is a greater deception being perpetrated. A very dangerous one.” Crispin glanced toward the cracked door. “I apologize for any damage I have done to your door, Master.” He reached for his scrip, but the man stayed him with a wave of his hand.

“No, Master Guest. I quite understand. I only hope that you will find this culprit. Should we fear his return?”

“No, Master, I do not think he will return here. He has done most of what he set out to do. Now it is up to me to do the rest.”

And as far as Crispin could reckon, that meant that the hunt all over London for those clues must continue and the “game” had to go on.

Fatigued and with an aching belly, he returned to Flamel’s shop. When he entered, Jack sprang to his feet and met him at the door. “You weren’t gone very long, Master.”

“No. A great many deceptions are overtaking us. The alchemist whom we thought was Bartholomew of Oxford was instead an impostor. I fear he may very well have been the abductor.” His eyes flicked to Avelyn, who must have read his lips, for she suddenly paled. “Why did you lead me to that particular place, Avelyn?”

Flamel twisted round to look at her. Her sorrowful eyes were locked on Crispin’s, and without looking at Flamel, she signed to him.

The alchemist scrubbed his eyes. “She says he was the first other alchemist she could find. She prays that you-that we-forgive her, for putting us in the madman’s path.” He gave her an avuncular smile. “You foolish girl. Of course I do. What would I do without you?”

She fell into his arms, and he held her as a father holds a child. But when she lifted her face, there were no tears there. Slowly, she pulled free of him and walked toward Crispin. She looked up at him, trying to gauge his expression.

“I, too, forgive you. How can I do any less when your master-who has known you far longer-has done the same?” She reached up and kissed his cheek.

A wave of nausea made him dizzy, and he held her hand to steady himself. He dismissed her look of concern. “I have not eaten much today. Perhaps a little wine and bread before we rejoin the hunt.”

She hurried to comply and ran into Jack, trying to do the very same thing. They argued over who poured the wine and had a tug-of-war on a loaf of bread.

By the time they both placed the spilled beaker of wine and torn hunk of bread in front of him, his roiling belly couldn’t stomach the idea of eating or drinking. He sipped the wine anyway and decided to forgo the bread.

“I’m not as hungry as I thought. Jack, let us go.”

He moved toward the door, but not before he noticed Jack make a face at the girl.

“Tucker! Must you?”

“She started it!” At Crispin’s glower, the boy looked only slightly chastened. Jack stood at his side on the threshold as they surveyed the street. Jack buttoned his cloak. “Do you know what is going on, sir?”

“No. But I have my suspicions. Let us follow the latest clue.”

“What did it say again?”

He took out the parchment from his scrip. “‘Eyes bold, skin cold, silver-armored, breath hold. Multiplying, fortifying, never thirsting, shore shying.’”

Jack thought for a moment. “Sounds like a dead man. A dead knight. But what does ‘multiplying’ and ‘fortifying’ have to do with it?”

“Think, Jack. What was multiplied while at the same time fortifying?”

“Multiplying, eh?” His face opened in surprise. “Loaves and … fishes! A fish has wide eyes, cold skin, and ‘armor.’ Clever, that.”

“Correct. My supposition is Old Fish Street. Shall we?”

Fish street was like any other lane in London, crammed with houses and shops shouldering one another and creating a narrow canyon, dimming the street with lonesome shadows and smoke. Citizens passed them by on their way to do business. Chatelaines inspected the silvery bodies of fish laid out on folding displays; cockles in baskets; live eels in tubs of water. Wives haggled with the fishmongers, and cats roamed for fallen scraps. The mud of Fish Street sparkled from discarded scales and smelled like fish guts and the stench of death.

Crispin and Jack spread out, searching for the next clue. Crispin hoped this would all soon be at an end. The fourth day of Perenelle’s abduction was coming to a close and there was no sign of her yet.

He spotted a scratched-out sigil on a post and ran for it. He ignored the stares of the shopkeeper and pulled a parchment from a tiny niche.

Well done, Crispin Guest. But not correct. Keep looking.

He froze. Looking over his shoulder, Crispin felt a chill. It had been personal for Flamel from the very beginning. The abduction of his wife, the killing of his apprentice, and all for the Philosopher’s Stone. But now, the man knew Crispin was involved. Said so by name. This was far more troubling.

Of course, that knave at the alchemist’s shop knew Crispin now, whatever the bastard’s true name was. Likely it was the same man who stole Perenelle. The same man leaving these clues. But if he was leaving them using Crispin’s name, then he wasn’t far ahead of them.

He crushed the parchment in his hand before he let it fall to the mud.

Jack came tearing around the corner. “Master! Master Crispin! I found it! I found it!”

He skidded to a stop before Crispin and saw the crumpled parchment hit the muddy path. “What’s that?”

“The wrong direction. But this time, Jack, he mentioned me by name.”

“What?” He dived for the parchment and unfurled it. His eyes scanned the smudged words and he let it fall again. “Blind me. He’s watching us. Too closely.”

“So it would seem. What have you found?”

“Oh. Er … back there. Another one of them symbols. It’s on a high eave. Passed by it the first time.”

“Then lead the way.”

Jack fell silent as he walked beside Crispin. This whole episode was getting under his skin. He didn’t like his enemies getting the upper hand. And spying on him was certainly not acceptable.

“Master, might Master Flamel be right? Could this all be a trap?”

Crispin locked eyes with the anxious boy. “I know it is a trap.”

Jack lurched to a halt and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “Then, sir! Why are you walking blindly into it?”

“First, I am not walking blindly. And second, we gain nothing by sitting on our arses. We must let him think that we are walking into it unmindful. There is little choice, at any rate, if we want to recover Madam Flamel.”

“Is she still alive, do you think?”

“Yes. He sent us a lock of her hair to prove it.”

“Do you think it is that man that Flamel thinks is dead-Perenelle’s old suitor?”

“He said he died in a fire along with his son. But someone else could have been mistaken for him. One charred body looks much like another. Though why he should wait so long for his revenge is more to the question.”

“Motivation and opportunity, that’s what you are always telling me,” said Jack, moving forward again. Crispin followed beside him. “Motivation? Well, Flamel said she spurned him in favor of Flamel. But from what I gather, that was a long time ago.”

“Only a heartbeat to the mad.”

“That’s true enough. And opportunity? That’s a tougher one, isn’t it? If they all knew one another in France, why’d they come here to do it?”

“And how does he know all of London’s landmarks? Perhaps I made a hasty assumption.”

“It’s the only one we’ve got. The only one that makes any sense.”

They came at last to a halt. “It’s here, Master.” A grand structure, or at least it had been. Some sort of ancient hall in disrepair. It did not look as if it had been used in the last fifty years. The shutters were boarded up and a bird’s nest sat on the porch by the door, the skeletal remains of a bird still residing there.

“It’s just here, Master Crispin,” said Jack. He had climbed the stair and up onto one of the pillars upholding the pediment. He stretched the long length of him to nearly touch the sigil.

“Can you reach it, Jack? Can you see if there is a pocket for the clue?”

“Aye, sir. I think I can.” Like a squirrel, the boy shimmied up the pillar, grabbed hold of the overhanging pediment, and swung himself up to the rickety roof.

“Be careful,” Crispin murmured, and then chastised himself for the old woman he was becoming.

Jack leaned over the side of the roof and, nearly upside down, reached underneath and plucked the parchment from its hiding place. He looked up with a wide grin and waved it about. But then he jerked forward and slipped off.

Crispin gasped, helpless to do anything as the boy plummeted over the side, heading for the stony road below.

Arse over heels, Jack somersaulted and at the last moment threw a hand out and barely caught the edge of the eave. Ink-stained fingers gripped the icy tiles. He hung by one hand, legs swinging carelessly, until he let go and landed on his feet in a crouch before he straightened and heaved a satisfied breath. “Nearly broke me neck,” he said almost proudly, before shuffling down the stairs and handing Crispin the parchment.

“Nearly,” muttered Crispin. “See that you don’t. I’m too old to train a new apprentice.”

Jack sidled up to him and Crispin unfolded the parchment.

You are a clever man, Crispin Guest. You have reached your goal.

“Our goal?” echoed Jack. “What? Here?”

Crispin climbed the steps and tried the door. Barred. He leaned over toward a shuttered window and peeked through the cracks. An empty space, with dried leaves on the checkered floor and dust on every surface. The walls were punctuated with niches that seemed to have once held something, like statues, but what statues remained stood on the floor in no particular semblance of order. The candles that were in the sconces had long ago burned down to nubs, and all that remained were cascades of wax hanging from them.

He could see no doors, nothing leading to any other room. It was only a barren hall.

He trotted down the stairs and studied the foundation. There did not look to be enough of it to offer a cellar or mews below. Whatever he had meant by this clue, this was not where Perenelle Flamel was being kept.

“It don’t look inhabited, sir.”

“It doesn’t look inhabited,” he corrected. “And it isn’t.”

“Then he’s lying.”

“No, that is not part of the game. That wouldn’t be playing fair, Jack, and so far he has not lied to us.”

“How can you defend him? He’s killed, and stolen that woman!”

“I am not defending him, Jack. I am merely trying to understand him. He has set the parameters of this game and he means to keep to them. He does not like it that we step out of line, and tells us when we are wrong. And now that he is mentioning me by name, he obviously enjoys the novelty of adding me to the game. You see, Jack, to defeat your enemy you must learn how he thinks. The game is fair. It is up to us to figure out the rules.”

“How? If this is our ‘goal,’ then where is Madam Flamel?”

Crispin handed him the parchment. “Read it again.”

“‘You are a clever man, Crispin Guest,’” he read aloud. “‘You have reached your goal.’ I don’t understand, sir.”

“What is my goal, Jack?”

“Finding Madam Flamel.”

“Is it? Not according to him. By his reckoning, I must have another goal.”

“Finding … him?”

He smiled. “And so. This building must mean something to him that I can use to find him.”

“He is mad. It’s nothing but an abandoned building. There are many such in London.”

“But he led me to not just any abandoned building, but to this particular one. What is it, I wonder?”

“Guildhall of some kind.”

“What do your reasoning skills say about the building, Jack?”

Jack dug his teeth into his bottom lip, thinking. “Well, sir, it’s abandoned. It’s a guildhall. And … and … Blind me. I see, Master Crispin. All guilds are proud of who they are and what they represent, and proudly display their ornaments or arms. But this one…”

“This one doesn’t. Not one thing to indicate who the guild members are or of their vocation. And what does that suggest to you?”

“I … I don’t know, sir. That they didn’t want nobody knowing which guild it was?”

“Ah!”

He climbed down the steps, with Jack following. Something caught his attention off to the left. Had that shadow moved? His hand found his dagger.

“What sort of guild would that be, Master?”

“A very good question, Jack. Walk with me.”

Jack scrambled to fall in step beside him. “I can’t think, sir, of what guild wouldn’t be proud to be-”

“Jack,” Crispin said quietly out of the side of his mouth, “we are being followed by our shadows again. I don’t know about you, but I weary of it.”

Jack straightened, all business. “How many, sir?”

“Two, this time. One on each side of the road. Perfect. You take the one on the left and I’ll take the right. On the count of three.” He raised his chin, looking straight ahead. “One … two … three!”

They turned. The cloaked man tried to throw himself against the wall of a fishmonger’s stall. Crispin dove for him and wrestled him to the ground, punching him once in the face. His fist skidded off the man’s cheek and hit his nose but did not break it. It gushed with blood, and while the man was distracted by it, Crispin hauled him to his feet.

Jack was dragging his own bruised captive toward Crispin, where they threw them both up against the wall. Jack drew his knife and looked more than ready to use it.

Crispin folded his arms over his chest. “This ends here. Why have you and your ilk been following me?”

“We mean no harm, Master Guest,” said the one with the bloody nose.

“Oh? Is that so? Then why have you been tailing me for days? I have seen you, and two more of your peers. You need not lie.”

“No, Master. There is no need to lie. We were merely keeping watch of you. And now you’ve come … here.” He cocked his head toward the building they had just left.

“Here? And just what is ‘here’?”

The bloodied man looked toward his bruised companion. The other nodded, seeming to give permission, while keeping a wary eye on Jack and his knife.

“Very well, Master Guest. I shall answer. We, and others like us, have used this guildhall for generations. But it has fallen into disrepair for some time.”

“And this guild? What is your company?”

The man touched his chest and bowed. “We are of the noble and secret society of London alchemists.”