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

the hunt for Master Benedict’s arthritis remedy. Henri was in the shop as usual, snoozing on the stool behind the counter. Upstairs, we heard a pair of voices singing an old French folk song, neither one particularly well.

In my bedroom, we found Simon, lying on his stomach, and Dr. Kemp, sitting beside him, chair leaning against the wall. On the bed between them was Master Benedict’s chessboard, a game in progress.

It didn’t look like they’d got very far. Both were drinking, a squat-bottomed bottle between them, the source of the brandy in their cups—and, no doubt, the song in their hearts, as well.

“Ah!” Dr. Kemp said as we squeezed our way through the book stacks. His eyes were a little red from drink. “The boy apothecary returns.”

“I hope you don’t mind, Christopher,” Simon said. “The doctor here spotted the board in your workshop and offered me a game.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Who’s winning?”

“I am,” they said in unison, and laughed.

“I hope you don’t mind us raiding your stash of brandy, either,” Dr. Kemp said.

“That’s not mine,” I said, puzzled.

Too late, I saw Simon put a finger to his lips. Dr. Kemp saw it, too.

“What?” he said to Simon, with an outrage I wasn’t entirely sure was genuine. “You said the boy ordered it. For medicinal purposes!”

“It is medicinal,” Simon said casually. “Boredom kills.”

“Blaming it on a child. I should have known better than to trust a Frenchman.” He stood, snatching the bottle away. “I’m taking this as punishment.” He winked at me as he left.

Simon shouted after him. “You’re taking it because you’re a quack—oh! Ow.”

“Lie down,” I said.

“I keep forgetting my back,” Simon said. “Then I move, and it reminds me. Would you ask Henri to return to my room at the inn? I have a few more bottles of brandy left. I finally understand why my uncle loved the stuff so. Helps the pain, you know.”

“Sure.” I lifted the chessboard from the bed and balanced it on a stack of books, careful not to move the pieces. “I’m sorry we haven’t been around much. It’s been mad, the last few days.” I sighed. “There’s something I have to tell you. The Raven isn’t dead.”

Simon listened, shocked, as I recounted most of what had happened. I kept my new apprenticeship to the spymaster a secret, as ordered, and said nothing about the Templars. But by the time I was finished, he was furious.

He tried to get out of bed. Tom and I pushed him down until he calmed.

He cursed in French. “I’m sorry, Christopher. I truly thought he was ended.”

As disappointed as I was, the truth hadn’t cut me so deeply. Because, in my heart, I’d never really believed the Raven was dead.

“What happens now?” Simon said, eyes hard. He was thinking once again of revenge.

“His Majesty has promised me help. In the meantime, we’ll keep looking.”

“You have my help as well. Anything you need. As soon as that quack lets me out of this bed.”

I looked over at the window. It was open at the bottom, allowing fresh air in. “Did Bridget come?”

“Yes,” Simon said. “An hour ago, or so. She pecked at the window, but by the time I dragged myself over to open it, she’d flown away.”

I wondered if she’d gone up to the roof when she couldn’t get inside. That was where she’d once lived, before the Cult of the Archangel had destroyed our pigeon coop. “You mind checking for her?” I asked Tom. “I have to find Isaac’s arthritis recipe.”

Dutifully, Tom climbed up through the roof hatch in the hallway while I went down to the workshop to hunt through Master Benedict’s notes. It didn’t take long to find the correct paper. I remembered the formula, and even spotted the comment Master Benedict had written in the margin.

For I—twice daily.

I sent Henri to get Simon another bottle of brandy, as he’d requested, then pulled the ingredients together for my master’s recipe and began to work. Tom came down the stairs, pigeonless.

“Nothing?” I said.

He shrugged. I shook my head. Bridget had been behaving so oddly since we’d returned, I didn’t think too much of it. I assumed that, after we hadn’t arrived at Blackthorn, she’d gone looking for me.

I was wrong.

I’d just finished Isaac’s potion when I heard the door to the shop open. I went out front to see a small boy of about nine poking his head in. “This Blackwell apothecary?”

“Blackthorn,” I said.

“Right, that’s it.” The boy stepped in, gingerly holding a package wrapped in burlap. “Looking for Christopher. Man said you’d give me a penny if I delivered this. Careful. He said not to turn it over.”

I fished a penny from my coin purse and traded it for the package. “What man?”

“Dunno. A right proper gentleman, he was, though.” The boy tipped his cap and hurried out.

I pulled the burlap open. Inside was a simple box of unvarnished oak, the top fastened with a pair of latches. I could hear something sloshing around within. I unhooked the latches and opened the lid.

The smell was the first thing that hit me. Hot, thick, coppery.

Blood.

And so did I find blood inside. A pool of it, half an inch thick, at the bottom of the box. And there, in the middle, wrapped round with cord, was my pigeon.

“BRIDGET!” I screamed. “NO!”

I pulled her out, box falling from my hands. It hit the floor, breaking apart at the hinges. Blood splashed on my boots, my hose, staining them scarlet and warm.

No, my mind kept shouting, over and over. No no no no no no

No.

She cooed.

Bridget, cupped in my hands, opened her eyes, and turned her head to look at me. Her feathers were soaked in blood.

She’s alive! my mind howled. She’s alive, I thought, a prayer.

Tom, who’d come limping when I screamed, stared in horror at the bloody bird in my palms.

“Get water. Water!” I shouted.

He ran into the workshop, came back with a giant bucket. I saw blood on his thigh. I wondered madly