The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

wing, coaching him in earnest. He’d not only practiced with his sword—an ancient holy blade called Eternity, given to him by the secret order of the Knights Templar in Paris—he’d learned techniques for spear, poleax, and halberd, too.

Tom was bigger and stronger than anyone I’d ever met, and he’d improved with startling speed. I’d already thought he was pretty good, considering how little training he’d had. Now there was no debate: He could use a sword, no mistake about it.

I wasn’t such a natural. I’d taken some training with him—the sword, anyway; I didn’t have the strength to handle halberds. But I’d gravitated to firearms instead. After an hour-long lecture from Lord Ashcombe about how gunpowder was not a toy—which I’d thought a bit much, and Tom and Sally not nearly enough—I’d practiced every day with musket, carbine, and pistol. I’d reached the point where I could reliably shatter a bottle at twenty yards—forty with a musket—and, all in all, I was quite pleased with myself.

The King’s Men saw how much I loved the smoke, the kick, and the boom the guns made. So a few days before we returned to London, before I let off my fireworks in celebration, they’d presented me with a pair of pistols. Ignoring Tom burying his face in his hands, and Sally’s look of dread, I’d put them on proudly.

With Lord Ashcombe’s permission, I’d kept them on my belt ever since. I’d also added gunpowder, wadding paper, and shot to my apothecary sash, which had once been Master Benedict’s and which I now wore around my waist, under my clothes. So I had a dozen reloads, if it came to that.

It was no problem wearing the guns in the company of the King’s Men. But here, back in London, Dorothy’s surprise was well founded. As an apprentice, I wasn’t allowed to carry weapons of any kind. I supposed I’d have to put them away. Just as I’d got used to the weight on my belt, too.

I couldn’t tell Dorothy why I was really wearing them; I wasn’t supposed to say I’d been working for the king. I’d told her instead I was going to stay with friends of my master’s in Oxford, to avoid the plague. “Um… yes. Well… the roads are dangerous these days. So I figured… you know.” I changed the subject. “Things look better here.”

She brightened. “So much better. People are back. We even have lodgers again.”

That was nice to hear. “Really?”

“Yes! A wool seller, and a farrier, and a new physician, too! Came a month ago, to help the city get back on its feet after the plague. My father’s been trying to convince him to stay. With Dr. Parrett gone…”

Hearing that name filled me with sadness. Dr. Parrett had given his life for the people of this city—and, more directly, for me. He’d been a great man. I hoped the new physician would be even half as worthy.

“So,” Dorothy said casually, “where’s Tom?”

I smothered a grin. She’d had a thing for Tom for some time. Since we’d been away, he’d grown even taller, which was just ridiculous, and all the training and hard living had melted away any last bit of pudginess in him. With his hair long, he looked like a Viking. She’d lose her mind when she saw him.

“He’s back, too,” I said, keeping a straight face.

“Make sure he stops by to say hello.”

“Oh, I will.”

She left me with a friendly wave. I went inside.

And I was home.

The counter in the corner, worn and familiar. The display tables, laden with jars, beakers, and curios. The stuffed animal specimens, a favorite of Master Benedict’s—and of mine.

But what struck me most was the smell. The heavy scent of spices, herbs, and flowers. It hit me like a wave, a rush of memories. It felt like my master, welcoming me back. Tears came hot and unwelcome.

Don’t be sad, I heard him say. I still live in your heart.

And he did. I knew he watched over me, and that brought me such comfort. Yet at times like this, it never felt enough.

I wiped my eyes and walked around the shop. Bridget flapped from my arms and flew from table to table, saying hello to all the places she’d missed while we were away. I smiled as she found her favorite perch, high on the shelves among the jars. Now everything was just as I’d left it.

Almost.

The first thing that was different was the four-month layer of dust that covered everything. Master Benedict wouldn’t have tolerated this at all. I’d need to give the place a thorough cleaning.

The second thing that was different was the letter.

Someone had placed a letter on the counter. It rested at an angle, propped against one of the antimony cups taken from the display table. They’d moved it onto the counter so I’d be sure to see it.

I picked up the letter, puzzled. On the front were two initials, written in simple calligraphy.

C. R.

C. R. Christopher Rowe. Me.

I flipped it over to see the back was sealed with wax. But there was no mark or crest pressed into the red splotch. Just a simple, featureless circle.

I frowned. Who’d left this here?

And how did they get in?

The front door had been locked. I checked the workshop; the door in the back was still barred, as I’d left it.

It occurred to me that I’d been in a rush last November, when we’d hurried off to France. Had I missed the letter then?

No. There was an empty ring in the dust on the table, from where the antimony cup had been taken. Whoever had left this must have done so recently.

I made to break the seal on the back, but I didn’t get the chance. From behind me, the bell rang overhead as the front door opened.

I assumed it was Dorothy again. “Hey, did you—” I began.

And then I stopped, staring in shocked delight at the man who’d entered my shop.

“Simon!”

It was Simon Chastellain, the dashing young vicomte d’Aviron.