Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

              Gavin filed in behind Joy and shut the door. Pushan backed us out carefully and drove in the opposite direction of the house we’d fled.

              “Grey—you okay? You spaced out. We both were trying to get you to come back. What happened?”

              I looked to her and could sense her familiarity, but I was suddenly overcome by a simultaneous sense of dread and familiarity. “I don’t know. I…” I cannot say something like that had never happened. But it had been many years. “I saw things.”

              Joy put her arm around me. Though I didn’t look at her, I could feel her concerned stare. It wasn’t disorientation so much as blind grasping for sense.

              “What is it that you saw?” She asked. I felt ashamed. Shred was laying on Gavin’s jacket on the floor of the cab, but their focus was on me.

              I snapped to, taking Bill’s Quill and inkwell from my bag and hovered over a still-unconscious Shred. The strip of tape over his mouth had fallen off somewhere between the room we found him and carrying him to the car. The bloody gauze or cloth was still wedged into his mouth, sopping with blood and saliva. I realized they were still waiting for me to answer her question, but having recovered my senses, I tended to Shred. I wasn’t really sure what I could tell them.

              “My dad used to tell me that sometimes gifted magoi had, sort of, residual magic. Like static electricity, I guess. Would get weird visions of things. Used to happen when I’d practice a spell then touch one of Dad’s artifacts.” My spellcraft for Shred were complete. Still, I watched over him, willing him to heal. I removed what proved to be a blood-soaked rag from his mouth and dropped on the floor next to him.

              Gavin cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I’m following…”

              “Yeah. Neither am I.”

              Shred’s eyes flicked open in one sudden instant realization. He saw me first, then his eyes darted to Joy sitting across from me.

              “We’re still down one Revolver. Is it possible he could be staking out our hotel?” Joy asked, agreeing the hotel was our next stop, but also warning us at the danger that might be waiting for us there.

              With each passing second, Shred regained his senses, my spellcraft speeding along his recovery. The swelling in his face was nearly non-existent. Still, he moaned and did not speak. I was starting to wonder if his tears was at all associated with physical pain. The tears began to seep from his eyes much in the same way blood oozed out of his mouth.

              Shred opened his mouth. At first, I did not know what I was looking at. Gavin and Joy bent over to take a long look as well. His tongue was cut out of his mouth, leaving only a nub. Fearing some sort of Siren Song, the monsters cut out the tongue of the musimancer until they could rid themselves of him completely.

              I hugged him. Joy had hold of his abdomen, while I embraced him around his neck. The sounds he tried to make elicited tears of our own. His heart was broken. And now mine was too.

              Pushan drove us around Cambridge, very much on a scenic route. Our tears had dried, but had succeeded in smudging our cloaking spells, whereas the rain had not. I tried to find solace in the ancient charm of the town, but found no pleasure in it. One day, if I had the chance to return under quite different circumstances, I’m sure I would come to love it. Right now, I just wanted to grab our gear—my father’s book, mostly—and put some miles between us and this place.

              I quietly hoped that our third Revolver was on some quest to find Linden. He’d be looking for a while, I hoped, but the rain was making that less and less likely. Linden and his companions were nothing short of dogmatic ideologues hiding behind a shield of human betterment. What terrorist didn’t operate under the same delusion? In service of humanity, Revolve seemed to have no humanity themselves.

              It was time to go to the hotel, I requested Pushan take us back for a quick, five-minute retrieval. Pushan kept us purposely close to the hotel, through the labyrinthine streets and alleyways of Cambridge did not make it seem like it.

              I rewrote patterns to cloak Gavin, Joy, and me before Pushan even stopped the car. Shed remained in the cab with Pushan, who was surprisingly happy to have the company. I hesitated before entering, looking around for anyone who was keeping tabs on the entrance of our hotel. It looked clear, but I was glad we shielded from the eyes of onlookers.

              “Joy, keep watch in the hallway. Gavin, you get Pushan’s. Be sure to cloak the luggage before leaving the room.”

              “Got it,” I thought Gavin muttered.

              “Okay. I’ll come find you at our room if anyone shows up.” Joy was in the front, but held the door open for us to enter and slip inside the hotel.

              I looked around the lobby, its dining area, keeping sure to keep people out of my field. There did not seem to be anyone waiting for us.

              Gavin used the stairs to ascend up to Pushan’s room.

              The thought of suddenly appearing within someone’s vision within a very narrow elevator would cause alarm to the other occupant, so I waited a few more minutes to ride the elevator up. When I opened our room door, I saw the contents of our luggage dumped on the bed. I checked the bathroom and under the bed and found no one. I then feverishly rifled through the pile on my bed and breathed a tremendous sigh of relief when I found the worn copy of
Gulliver’s Travels
underneath my clothes. I slipped the novel into my satchel as I would no longer risk losing it.

              I clumsily stuffed Joy’s small suitcase with the messy contents of our piles. Only after jamming it full, did I become suspicious of our third rEvolver. Who knows what he was looking for precisely, but a clue to finding Linden was surely something he was likely searching for. Nothing was missing, of that I was certain. These men eschewed magic, so using technology to track us was perfectly feasible. I dumped the contents of the suitcase I just hastily packed and tore out the nylon lining.

              I was startled when I heard a knock at my door. It was three sets of three. And I couldn’t see a set of feet beneath the door from the bed. I figured it was Gavin trying to indicate it was him, but I did a quick peek through the eyehole to make sure. It was him. I opened the door.

              “Why aren’t you ready to go?” He clutched both his and Pushan’s bags in his hands. I pulled him inside.

              “Hold on.” I returned to the suitcase and tore out the rest of the lining. In the bottom corner of the luggage, a small, rectangular black box, no more than five centimeters thick and a couple inches across at its widest, blinked a red LED.

              “Oh,” he realized. He opened his own suitcase and dumbed its contents on the floor, found a slit in the lining in approximately the same place. Gavin pulled out the tracker and placed it on the dresser next to the television. We repeated the process for Pushan’s (hoping the god would not mind a mild intrusion into his personal belongings). There was not one in his bag.  My own bag was also missing one.

              With each bag newly stuffed, we met Joy at the end of the hall—looking for us because of our tardiness—but said nothing as she followed us down the stairs and through the lobby. I placed all three sets of weighted keys on the desk and left.

              The clerk look bewildered at their sudden appearance, but we were out the door before I could see any other reaction.

Chapter 15

              Because of traffic, the drive back to London stretched from something that should have taken 45 minutes into something twice that.

              “I just spoke with Victoria to alert her of our arrival. I will let you fill her in on,” Pushan paused, changed without signaling, “On matters.”

              I had to guess that once he dropped us off, he would likely wash his hands of us and go into hiding. We were looking for Dr. von Ranke—the man with the Sucikhata—which meant Pushan would want to stay as far away as possible. Meanwhile, Shred was utterly silent, looking out the window at a day most dreary. “Okay. Thank you, Pushan. For all your help.”

              “Thank you, Pushan,” Joy pushed her hand against the plexiglass that separated us. It left a smudge where her hand was, but Pushan did not complain, merely nodded. She noticed I was looking at the book again. “Should I take a look? Different set of eyes and all?”

              “Sure.” I closed it and handed over to her. I tried to study Shred while she looked at the book. He caught me looking at him. I thought about turning my gaze, suddenly ashamed, but instead I smiled at him grimly. I wish it were one of those expressions imbued with cheer and hope. It was not and I felt doubly guilty. When he smiled back, it was genuine and not forlorn. It reminded me of my dad—it was meant to reassure me. He’d be all right. Eventually. He turned to stare out the window once more.

              “Ugh. Yeah. No idea, Grey. I don’t know enough about the book to stick out.” Joy slammed the volume shut, exasperated. “Here, Gavin, you look.” Joy stretched the book out to Gavin, but looked to me, presumably for permission, as she did so. I nodded.

              Gavin’s eyes were trained at look at information in an entirely different way, so maybe he would find something. Into the heart of the City of London, we had no idea where Pushan was driving us, but I was content with trying out new eyes and ideas about the book.

              “I have no idea.” Gavin handed the book back to me after a casual flip-through.

              Shred groaned and pointed at the book. I wasn’t aware he was paying much attention to us, but our apparent dimwittedness roused him from his stupor. Shred harrumphed once more, holding his hand out to the book. After placing it in his outstretched hand, he looked over the cover and began leafing through the pages. Once, twice, three times, with the pages faster—as if looking for some kind of cartoon—then slower and slower. The third time through, he stopped on particular pages. He held up the first page he came to: page 122. His next page was woodcut on the opposite page. He pointed at the two pages side-by-side and tried speaking. The stump that was his tongue would not form any letters. Shred pointed at my bag and made a writing motion with his right hand. I gladly handed him a writing pad and pen. He immediately scribbled and held up the paper.

              PAPER DOES NOT MATCH!

              Shred would never have made it as a logomancer—his handwriting bordered on illegible. He offered the book back to me and I held up each page with a woodcut and compared each to the pages around. They were different.

              I scrutinized the binding more closely, trying to perceive it in a way someone who had never seen it might look at it. I spent a lifetime looking at books. This also meant I had learned the craft of caring for books. I knew well beyond the basics of book conservation and restoration. In most cases, I could spot an expertly-done rebinding job. However, I was blind when it came to this
Gulliver
. This book had been rebound at some point and was only just then seeing the indications. The binding itself was in worn, but otherwise excellent shape, so rebinding it due to condition was out of the question. The woodcuts—pictures made from artist engravings on wood and used by printers—were each different and did not seem to be connected to the story in any way. I would use a magnifier at some point later, but for now I nodded at Shred in acknowledgement. He lost his tongue, and maybe his livelihood, but not his wits, nor his hope. Shred’s disfigurement left me profoundly distraught—he would still play his music, but his voice was the embodiment of much of his will to create magic. I wondered how potent would his magic be? And how would that affect his identity? Yet, there he was, finding strength I would not find in most human beings. Perhaps even myself.

              “He had the book rebound,” I told the group. Gavin looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “My dad did. There aren’t any maps like there should be. Just these pictures that don’t belong.”

              “So, do you know where the other pictures come from?” Joy’s arms were crossed. She likely thought I should have noticed this before. She would be right, but it had been over 20 years since I paid attention to the pictures in books.

              “We just passed Victoria station and Apollo and Victoria Theatre,” Gavin observed.  “Buckingham Palace is nearby.”

Pushan pulled the taxi up next to a sandstone-colored building with Doric columns and porticos leading into several dwellings. Its proximity to Victoria Station and environs was even unexpected—though, perhaps, Victoria’s influence extended much further than I could have imagined.

“Victoria lives here. She said to go inside and wait. Make yourselves comfortable until she returns.” Pushan’s voice was solemn, almost as if he might have admired us, or at least, what we had done since he met us. But now he wanted nothing more to do with us. While Gavin, Joy, and Shred filed out of the cab and up the steps, I remained by the curb. Pushan opened his door and stepped out. “We part here, logomancer. I wish you good fortune and very safe travels.” While Pushan was not avoiding my eyes per se, he was not locking onto them either. “I notice you wear an amulet built from another god’s magic. I did not have time to bestow it with as powerful magic as the one you currently wear, but this will keep your road open and enemies baffled. As long as your friends are with you on the same road, its protection extends to them.”

He stuck a small, bronze from the look of it, coin in my palm and closed my hand around it tightly. Before I had a chance to ask him about Mania’s amulet, or even to thank him, he rounded his vehicle, hopped inside and sped away to directions unknown. I did not need much conviction to assume Pushan was going underground. I turned to see that Gavin was waiting for me at the open door.

“Think we’ll see him again?” he asked.

“If I had to guess, I would say no,” I said, walking into and immediately overwhelmed by the grace and opulence of Victoria’s flat.

The three of us were relieved for the moment’s respite. Joy and I huddled next to a lamp to pore over the images in my book. Shred stretched out on the sofa, while Gavin took an extensive tour of the goddess’ house.

“What do you notice about the woodcuts?” I asked her, trying to discern any hidden patterns or eliminate any false leads.

“They look like old-book pictures to me,” Joy conceded. “You’re much more familiar with these kinds of pictures than I am. The only question I can think to ask is, do they even belong in the book?”

“No. In fact, they don’t look like they belong together at all. Problems is, I have no idea whatsoever what they could be from.” I was sufficiently beleaguered. The meaning of the Old Dutch
belegeren
actually expressed my current state of mind very well:
under siege
. Ignorance has a way of making us crawl into our own heads, drop the gate, and hunger down until knowledge came to save the day. Whether or not that day came, many would starve—ignorance doesn’t offer much in the way of sustenance. “There’s something familiar about them, but I swear every woodcut I’ve ever seen looks like they came from the exact same artist.”

“Okay,” Joy turned back to one of the first pictures, “do you know what should go about here that’s missing?”

“Lilliput. As in, there are always maps of Gulliver’s actual
travels
. Those aren’t there. None of the pictures seem like they belong.” I reached for the book and took it out of Joy’s hand. I paused at each woodcut, examining and trying to contextualize them within the story. None of them fit, though in terms of physical dimensions, they did fit into the book seamlessly. This means they were added, likely by my dad. Question is: why?

“So, if these don’t represent anything from Gulliver’s world,” Joy mused, “what if they’re from ours?”

It was a perfectly logical conclusion and one I was presently toying with, saving for the fact that I did not recognize the pictures. These were a forgery, perhaps reassembled by my father, or the pictures carefully reproduced onto bleached pages. If I had another copy of the same edition to compare and contrast, it might offer me some indication, but the new pictures were the hints, not the old.

“That’s what I’m thinking. I don’t suppose you recognize anything. I swear I do, but then I notice something else that knocks my idea askance. I think the original woodcuts would have been labeled in some way, but they’ve been deliberately erased,” I said.

Joy sat cross-legged on the floor. “Perhaps we should ask Victoria if she knows anyone?”

I stiffened.

“See if I know whom?” Victoria asked, coming through her front door. She was particularly good at sneaking up on people. I could see no wings, but her skills at stealth bordered on the amazing. Or annoying.

“Someone who knows about old woodcuts or lithographs in books.” I turned to face her.  Unlike our earlier meeting, Victoria looked, if not disheveled, then not as well put-together. Her face was not made up and she looked exhausted. She felt for an out-of-place strand of hair on the side of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. Of the gods I had yet seen, Victoria was in nearly the same state of health as Athena. Without the dangling piece of hair, I noticed her ashy complexion. Except, it wasn’t exactly
ashy
. According to legend, her veins would course with golden ichor, rather than blood. In any case, it had drained from her face. Her blood may be different, but her physiology was a rough analog.

She sat, or rather, collapsed into the only empty chair in the room.

“Pushan left,” I informed her, though I was sure she already knew.

“He volunteered to conduct you safely on your journey here.” The goddess would rest soon, but she retained her composure, sitting cross-legged and straight in her Queen Anne. “It seemed to be more treacherous a journey than I had expected. For that, I must apologize.”

I nodded at her apology.

“Will he hide now?” Joy inquired.

“Yes. Many of us have gone into hiding, but this is not to our advantage.” Victoria stood up and patrolled a small patch of carpet.

I guessed that Pushan and other gods would be forced underground. I had not considered why that might be an unwise course of action. “Why isn’t hiding to your advantage?” It seemed impertinent to ask a goddess what plans she had, but her plans and ours would be closely aligned. Besides, as conscious as I was to their feelings, I couldn’t help but not that blasphemy for the gods stopped being an offense long ago—once humanity had, on the wholesale, chosen just a few gods to worship.

Victoria looked at me solemnly, and stopped pacing. “We cannot tell if they have hidden themselves or have been made to disappear. It has proven difficult to tell the difference.”

              That was disconcerting.

              “So, you’re hearing of gods disappearing, but you can’t be sure if they have gone underground themselves or if they have been murdered?” I was trying to elicit more particular information.

              “Some of the murders we have confirmation. If others have disappeared from the same geographic location, we can only assume the worst.” Victoria walked to the kitchen and came back a moment later with a glass of water. “My contacts have all but dried up in most locations. I was not here when you arrived because I went to the British Museum,” she declared.

              I looked at her quizzically, seeing Joy mirror my expression. The only difference was I typically furrowed my brow, while she now cocked her head to her side.

              Pursing her lips, Victoria looked to be deliberating whether or not to reveal her secret. “Clio works there. She did not report to work.”

              I should not have been surprised by hearing that one of the nine Muses worked at a museum—let alone one of the foremost institutions in the world. If the Muse of history worked at the British Museum, then…

              “And the rest of them?”

              “They have retired to Cornwall. They have become quite frail. A few of them no longer possess their faculties.” I imagined a house of eight little old ladies tending garden and baking; maybe watching the skies and writing poetry. This world was truly in the throes of change. Humanity was already taking its next step, unbidden by an organization bent on forcing it. Victoria continued, “Once we finish here, I will evacuate them if I am able.”

              “If Clio has been taken,” Gavin asked, standing at the doorway, “then the
Sucikhata
and von Ranke have moved from the Far East to here. How is it that Revolve knows where to find you?”

              “They have had years to acquire intelligence on us. Perhaps even decades. If we hide, they may even know where we might go. It is reasonable to believe that they have been biding their time and have seized their moment once they had enough pieces in place to press their advantage.” Victoria sat forward in her chair, almost as if she were deciding if she should tell us anything more.