The Crafters Book Two (12 page)

“Lord above! A bezoar!” he gasped, and snatched the pebble from my hand. As I stared, dumbfounded at an accused wizard’s easy invocation of the Divine, he pressed the stone to his brow, then to his heart. His lips moved over a series of unfamiliar syllables and a faint, rosy luminescence emanated from his person. Then, with a sigh, he slumped back on the divan. “Free,” he breathed. “Free at last.”

“Free,” echoed a cold voice from the doorway. “Free to perish like the vermin you are, Crafter.” I beheld the man I still thought of as the Duke of Kirk-Chatenaire, only now he had seemingly reverted to the fair image of the miniature independent of anyone’s sorcery ... save his own!

Pericles rose from his place, the light of battle in his eyes.

“Curse you, Renfrew Coister! Aye, and curse me for ever lettin’ one of your blood near enough to turn me into the Devil’ s puppet. If I’d’a listened to my mam instead of thinkin’ all her warnin’s of old family enemies was so much woman-talk, you’d never of got near enough to me in Boston to dose me with your demon-dust.”

“I fail to comprehend your complaint, Crafter,” the former “Duke” sneered. “You have benefited amply from our association. For one, I have saved your precious
mam
the cost of your passage to England, taking all our combined travel expenses wholly upon myself. For another, I have obtained you
entree
to the home of those very Crafter relations whom she most desired you to seek out, for whatever foolish purpose.”

“She sent me to search out the very thing you’re after, you hound,” Pericles shot back. “She got took with a vision of how some witchy varmint was out to lay hold of old Amer’s carving what Cousin Thomas took off with him to England. That’s why she sent me to fetch it back to where it’ll be kept safe from the likes of you!”

“Your mamma is as meddling an old fool as Amer ever was, I perceive,” the low Coister replied too smoothly.

“You keep your miser’ble tongue off my mam’s good name, Coister!” Pericles shouted, and hurled himself upon the foe. Woe, with but a gesture of that loathsome man’s hand one of Papa’s prized Staffordshire dogs flew from its place on the parlor mantel to smash against the back of my darling’s head. Pericles collapsed—dead, so I fancied—and the value of the remaining ceramic dog was entirely spoilt.

“You have slain him!” I exclaimed.

“A needful action,” the poltroon drawled, blowing imaginary dust from his fingernails. “I did not reckon with old Thomas owning a bezoar. Such stones are found exclusively within the brains of certain select toads and have the power to instantly negate the effects of all drugs and poisons. He is quite out of my power, now. Fortunately, he has served his turn. A clever blind from which to stalk my quarry.” He eyed me meaningly.

I leapt to my feet and dashed for the bell-pull to summon the servants. The wicked man was there before me, either through his own nimbleness or by some supernatural agency. He seized me roughly by the shoulders, brute that he is! “You waste your time,” he said. “The household is dispersed. A spell of suggestion has sent them all away for an indefinite time, the better to permit me a full search of the premises.”

He cast a scornful eye at the objects which I had laid out upon the table. “I had hoped,” he said, “that you might do still more of my work for me, sweet Delilah. When I told you to fetch some of old Thomas’ gimcracks to ‘bait’ the alleged ‘Wizard Crafter,’ I thought Luck might let you bring among them the very token of power I seek. Alas, Dame Fortune proves a chancy jade, as ever. The old geezer must have placed it beneath several layers of warding spells, but no matter—” Here the mountebank reached with one hand into the bosom of his jacket and thrust a forked hazel branch into my unwilling grasp. “We shall find it.”

I recognized the dowsing rod and knew its purpose from my delvings into Mamma’s notebook. Did the boldfaced recreant actually believe that I would lend my abilities to his cause? I let it drop to the floor and trampled it underfoot. The rod remained unharmed, but at least I felt somewhat better for the defiant gesture.
“We,
sirrah?” I demanded, standing tall. “By
we
do you dare to intimate
you
and
I?”

Again his hands fell upon me. Oh, how the barbarous fiend laughed! “But naturally, my lovely,” he gloated. “For I own that I came to this house seeking one prize, but I mean to depart with two.”

“Never!” I flung the word in his face and wished it were a dish of scalding tea. “You, Renfrew Coister—if that is your real name—are a liar, a murderer, and a thief. I know not what pit of the fiery Abyss spawned you, but ere I would link my fortunes to your own, I should sooner hurl myself thither. Be sure of it!”

His eyes grew wide. “That is no way to speak of New Haven,” he said. “Very well. You have chosen. Yet while you term me murderer with such high contempt, know that you came within a hairsbreadth of sharing that honorable title with me. What do you think was the
true
function of that powder I gave you to dose young Crafter’s tea withal?”

His eyes told me that he spoke honestly, for once, and a monumental trembling fastened upon my limbs at the thought of how near I had come to being the agent of an innocent man’s death. Granted, I thought him dead already, but still ... My tender spirit could not bear it. I tumbled into a swoon.

I awoke in Mamma’s study, and the rest you know. I assume that the fiend Coister, by whatever means, conveyed our insensible bodies here so that he might not be embarrassed should any unexpected callers happen to glance in at the parlor windows during his search. Too, the study makes a good prison.

As I write, dear Pericles cons my mamma’s notebook, seeking some deliverance for us. It is our sole hope, he says. Like myself, he is of Crafter blood, and as such possesses that Talent which (so he has told me) has long caused our family to be mistaken for those fallen souls like Renfrew Coister who have obtained their powers through diabolic agencies. We Crafters scorn such, relying rather upon the sovereign and holy forces of Education, Observation, and Scientific Method to cause Staffordshire dogs and other
objets d’art
to fly across rooms.

The aftereffects of the subjugating potion by which my Pericles was enthralled have unfortunately so affected his memory that he is at a loss to summon up the incantation proper to the destruction of the fulsome Coister. I regret with all my heart that I came so late to my studies, else by this my own Talent (so my darling calls it, as Mamma did—had I but known!) might prove a match for Coister’s vile machinations.

Woe, the time I have wasted in girlhood’s frivolities! The portrait of Great-grandfather Thomas glowers at me from its frame, condemning me, in my mind, for my many shortcomings of character. And yet Mamma said that he was kind to her, in his acerbic way. The thought of Mamma makes me weep, and all I have to dry my tears is this
outré
black kerchief which late wrapped the pouch of Coister’s evil poison. The temptation to use those fatal grains upon myself is strong. Better death by one’s own hand than dishonor at the hands of Renfrew Coister! For of one thing I am certain now, dear Caroline: He is no gentleman.

Farewell, farewell. God knows when we shall meet again in fields Elysian! Yet ere I die, I should cherish some last word of parting from you, my bosom friend. Therefore please find enclosed with this last missive a measure of blue powder folded into a small parchment envelope. Sprinkle half of it liberally over any letter your compassion might see fit to send me, the while reciting the words which you shall find writ upon the parchment itself. I know not whether this will work for you, having no Crafter blood, but it might be worth a try.
Nil desperandum.

The remainder of the powder, if mixed with two parts sheep fat and one part olive oil, will do wonders for your complexion.

You might therefore perchance care to utilize it the night preceding your nuptials and think of one who once was

Your Doomed, Unfortunate, and Miserable Friend,

Delilah

* * *

September 1804

My Most Cherished and Beloved Caroline,

Of course I shall tell you how it happened! I have been
trying
to tell you for months! Owing you so much, and the ties of Family being what they are, can I do less than offer you full explanation for the astonishing events which were a collateral effect of your late resourcefulness, sagacity, and initiative? Perhaps this letter will meet a kinder Fate than all its predecessors.

In my present circumstances, it is hard to believe that not so long ago I sat bereft, sobbing helplessly into the only kerchief at hand. Its funereal hue did little to lift my spirits. I had just sent you the letter and asked Pericles whether he had found any aid for us yet. Reluctantly he admitted failure.

“I don’t know where your mamma hid her fightin’ spells, but all I’ve found in these books is ord’nary cantrips for easing pain a mite and curing the common cold; nothing special,” he said. “There’s a little spell of animation here might do us some help, but—”

“Animation!” I cried, elated. “Do you mean the words are capable of imparting motility to objects otherwise devoid of autonomous motion?”

“Wellll, I guess,” Pericles replied, scratching his head in that adorably bewildered way he has about him.

“Then might we not use it upon these very books and cause the whole contents of this library to assault the despicable Coister when he returns to claim my person?” I suggested eagerly.

My joy was doomed. “We could try,” Pericles said. “But Renfrew Coister’s slyer’n a frontier fox. He’ll have a plain shielding spell up around him when he comes back, you mark my words. The books’ll just bounce off.”

“And is that useless spell the best you’ve found?” I asked.

“Darlin’, that spell’s
all
I found,” he replied. “Page forty-three of that blue-bound book over there.” He nodded towards the table where my Greek text lay. Now I knew the full measure of our peril, for I had read that very cantrip while teaching myself the ins and outs of the Attic tongue and accepted it as little more than a linguist’s whimsy. Who would use a true spell to illustrate a point in Greek grammar? In truth, the whole of it was scarcely more than five words, all told. The black handkerchief rose to my eyes once more.

My tears disturbed Pericles mightily. He held out a much used wooden mortar for my inspection. A quantity of chalky green spheres rolled about within. “Don’t take on so, ‘Lilah. Look’ ee here, I took the liberty of mix in ‘ up the stuff as should be sprinkled on the thing that wants animatin’. No reason we couldn’t try it anyhow, go down swinging, give old Coister a run for his—”

“Oh, Pericles, how could you imagine that such nonsense could aid us?” I wailed, striking the mortar from his hands. As the tiny spheres sailed across the study, I went on to demand how any man in his right mind could ever mistake a simple practice exercise in Greek like—here I confess to reciting it entire—for magic of true potency!

“And I suppose
you
are the arbiter general for what will pass muster as magic in these sorry days, eh, m’ gel?” said a voice whose harsh and thunderous tones made Mamma’s small chamber quake to the rafters.

“Well, if that don’t beat all hollow,” Pericles murmured, coming to lay protective hands upon my shoulders.

I gasped and crumpled the black handkerchief into a soggy ball. The sight I saw, dear Caroline, would have sent a lesser woman into an access of the vapors. For there, fresh from the portrait now an empty frame upon the wall, stood my great-grandpapa, Thomas Crafter.

He was splendid, if dated, in the finery of a previous age.

His jowls were much redder, more wobbly, and far more overwhelming in person than in paint. He rolled one of the unused pellets from Pericles’ animation spell between thumb and forefinger as he strode towards us. Three paces off, he took a deep, snuffly breath and bellowed:

“Blight and gall, is that the stench of a bloody American I smell? In
my
house?”

“Sir, please!” I exclaimed. “You are speaking of my betrothed.”

“What?” The apparition drew near, nostrils flaring, as if he had the power to divine everything about me by scent alone. “One of my direct line to wed a—a—a double-damned, tea-dumping, tax-evading
traitor to the Crown?
”

To his credit, Pericles stepped between us and readily admitted to his nationality. “I heard tell of you, sir,” he addressed Great-grandpapa boldly. “I know as how you don’t take too kindly to us Yankees. But hate us or not, my mam always did say as how she heard you was a man of business first. I’ve got a proposition to lay afore you that I think you’ll find mighty attractive.”

Great-grandpapa screwed up his florid face most needlessly at Pericles’ accent—an idiosyncratic locution which I am sure
you
will find charming, darling Caroline. Yet despite his obvious distaste for the American rendition of our common tongue, he showed a spark of interest in the words themselves. “A proposition?” he echoed. A sarcastic laugh made his pendulous lips bob like corks asea. “Do you not think that in my present state I might be a shade ...
beyond
the temptations of commercial dealings?”

“No, sir,” Pericles maintained. “You was born a New England man, like it or not, and it’s said we raise ’em so’s not even the grave can keep our merchants from a good deal.”

This time Great-grandpapa’ s laugh was not so scornful. “Very well, pup,” he said. “And what
is
this deal you would offer me?”

“A plain swap,” Pericles said. “Your help for my life and the saving of hers.” He made an heroic gesture indicating my modest self. “If you hate us Americans that powerful bad, here’s your chance to have one right where you want ’im, and do your worst.”

“Is that so?” Great-grandpapa seemed amused. “Well, well. Live long enough and you shall see everything, they say. Die long enough and you shall see more. A noble American, begad! One willing to lay down his life for Lady Fair. And for this, I can have your worthless hide?”