Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

“And you loved him like a father?” It was more a question than my first statement.

“No, Grey. I loved Donald. That’s how we met. I was on scholarship to Cambridge and we fell in love.” His hand covered his eyes, but he lifted his hand to gage my response.

“Oh.” It was not information I expected, but it did much to explain Gavin’s behavior and demeanor. Tolliver had to have 30 years on Gavin, and though that aspect gave me some cause for concern, I also found the prospect strangely sweet. In any case, I wasn’t prepared to offer judgment of any kind.

“I know. May-December. Teacher-student. Whatever.” He was exasperated; grieving. “I know. But we were both adults and with him I felt things I never thought I would in this life.”

I never once had occasion to fall in love. Though I didn’t rule it out, I just thought it highly unlikely, so treated the possibility as such. I thought I actually did understand what he was saying, though. “So, you’re devastated. I understand. I’ve never been that close to someone, but yeah, the death of someone you love knocks you down. ‘Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood with that grim ferryman which poets write of, unto kingdom of perpetual night.’” It was a line I knew, and took some comfort in when Dad was murdered.

“What? Why are you quoting me Shakespeare? It is Shakespeare, right?” Gavin asked, more tentative than annoyed.

“Aye! Richard the Third!” Though, come to think of it, Gavin was not likely as big of a fan of the Bard as I was. “I’m sorry, Gavin. I’m sorry I can’t say that I’ve experienced a loss like yours. I know nothing of love. Even less of true love, if it is such a thing. But I get Shakespeare. Bill helps me make sense of things.”

“Obviously. You’re on a first name basis.” Gavin’s visage changed. He remained glum, but his smile was real. At least, I hoped it was.

“Bill…helps…make sense.” I sat on the bed, assuredly not like a lady, and especially not caring since Gavin just outted himself. My mind returned to the line I just quoted to him. There was Charon, the Greek and Roman ferryman across the Rivers Styx and Acheron… “Gavin, who stands to benefit the most from killing a god, or gods?”

Gavin learned forward in the chair, realizing our counseling session was over and business was at hand: “I’m not sure. Though, in the right frame of mind, humans stand to benefit, right? If there are no gods to make rules and demands, would that not free people to just be what it wants to be?”

On the surface of it, I liked the idea, really. “Okay, so a lofty, human crusader with notions of setting our species free from the shackles of belief. Romantic, but possible. If we build a profile, what else could our murderer be?” I could not escape the picture of Charon ferrying his own kinsman across those rivers.

“A rival god?” he ventured. “Or an idealist human. So, we’re dealing with a crusading, misguided human or a crazed, misguided god. I really thought coming in here tonight would help me feel better. Now, that’s all gone to shit.”

I ignored the last comment. “And whoever it is, he or she is connected enough to hire people to watch the trivium—without using any magic, mind you—while he or she carries out the program of assassination. The fact he or she would set someone to watch over it had to fear it could be used to find them, if it proved useless in that regard.”

“Then who or what else died has died since Apollo?” Gavin stood. His legs were long, but muscular. No one would accuse him of being lanky, though he would have to be a few inches over six feet.

“Maybe Shred.” I didn’t think it was true, if it was possible. “Question is—are we a target or an obstacle?”

“Whoever wouldn’t need the Sucikhata to kill us. Bullets work for that.” Gavin peeked behind my curtains. Nervousness lurched up my spine.

“Then we’re just obstacles.” I took the towel off my head. My hair was starting to dry in the mess I left it. I would need to rewet it. Anything to stop the sinking feeling welling in my abdomen.

“Unless…” He turned to me, but did not make eye contact. “Unless the Keep of the Well of Gods is a target, too.”

I had only learned of such a thing earlier that evening. And it already felt like someone had pronounced a death sentence upon me.

Chapter 11

              I spent my morning trying to make contact with Athena back at Solemn Ages. When she finally called me back, she informed me that she had heard of 16 more gods’ deaths, ranging from the Middle to Far East. I had my own questions about what percentage of those left wondering the earth that represented, but thought it was not the appropriate time to inquire. When Athena listed off the deities slain, I found myself grasping for recognition. There was one on the list I recognized: Lakshmi. She was a fairly major aspect—and wife—of Vishnu. Athena was scant on the details of each god’s death, but the gravity of the news could be heard in her voice. I told her of our adventures in Trivium, to which she hardly seemed surprised. She was also aware of Mania’s presence at the trivium. From the sounds of it, I would say Athena was complicit with Mania’s relocation there. Like many gods of old, Athena assured me that Mania had grown much kinder in a world that only knew her name as a curse or diagnosis.

              Lastly, the goddess approved our plan to find Shred and to follow the breadcrumbs to England. Before hanging up, she promised me that she would make a call to one of her contacts in the U.K. and to have them meet us at Heathrow.

              Gavin had only arrived in New York the day before Joy and I had, with hopes of watching the trivium for information or help. There was still a dearth of information, but I took comfort in the idea of teaming with two other magoi in our efforts to retrieve the Sucikhata. I wasn’t used to having an extra set of eyes watching over my back.

              I divvied up the cash from the storage unit three ways so we could all carry below the legal limit. We left Joy to her own devices and dropped Gavin’s car at long-term parking and shuttled in to the departure gate. There were still couple hours to spare once we cleared security screening with our impromptu passports and assumed identities. I bought two changes of clothes—changing into one of them immediately in the restroom. I told Gavin to do likewise and he too changed in the men’s lavatory.

              The transatlantic flight was uneventful. I spend the hours browsing through Dad’s copy of
Gulliver
and coming up with ideas to take logomancy on the offensive. If I could formulate some sort of delivery system, I could do much to not only keep us safe, but even take out assassins in trees. Once, when I was 14, I took a few shots at squirrels in the back yard with spitballs and, admittedly, I was fixated on the same kind of idea, however ridiculous it seemed to my adult-self. More frustrating was thumbing through Gulliver’s Travels as there was nothing obvious to it and I questioned my judgment more and more with the passing of each page that yielded no easy answers. I dealt with my irritation by consuming over-priced cocktails and taking a nap.

              I awoke several hours later—a much longer nap than I had wanted to take—and found that Gavin had talked my seatmate into switching so he could sit next to me. Now that I knew at least part of his story, I started to like him much more. He maintained his edifice of a dispassionate man, but had shown glimpses of genuineness. Over the past 48 hours, he had proven nothing less than a friend; a bit of a hero as well, though I would never let him know it. Not for a while anyway.

              “You thought of a plan yet?” he asked, noticing my eyes fluttering open.

              “No. I don’t know which plan I might have made, but at the moment, I have nothing.” I stretched my arms out toward him, as in coach, toward the aisle is the only way one can go. Gavin paid no mind.

              “I think we check the flat first. Tolliver,” he used his surname, “Had an instrument that took measure of whomever it encountered. Like, some of a person’s essence.”

              “So, you’re saying we might be able to track Shred?” I had a few enchanted items in my possession, but that instrument seemed very useful. Though, weights and measures were more tools of arithmancy. Still, not for the first time since receiving it, I wondered if the necklace I now wore from Mania would make its use apparent at some point.

              “I’ve never had to use it, but I know how to. Basically.” Gavin wrapped his knuckles on the tray he unfolded in front of him.

              “Okay. We go there, but first thing we do when we get to London—and while we wait for Joy—is hit its best stationery shop.” I exhaled, shaking off the lingering effects of my nap and yawning. “Whoever’s out there has no problem with taking us out. We can’t operate like we have in the past. We need to prepare ourselves. Assemble ourselves some kits to work our magic and figure out a way to guard ourselves, but also take out those who mean us harm. Actually what I was trying to figure out. Before I fell asleep. Sadly, I haven’t come up with much of anything.”

              “What we need is something we can shoot or throw at some distance that will stick to a target.” Gavin looked uncomfortable in his seat. While I was on the window, he kept bumping knees with the woman in the hajib next to him. “Darts?”

              I shrugged. “I think we could make that work.”

              Athena never told us whom we were meeting, but I expected that we would be greeted at the arrival gate by someone holding a sign. It was something I’d seen in a few movies, but never thought I would have occasion to be a real-life recipient. Since Gavin and I only had our carry-ons, we walked to the exit where the cabbies were parked. The morning sun erupted through once the sliding doors opened for us. My eyes had some trouble adjusting, but I think I was helped by English weather: the sky was mostly dark with dots of sunshine peeking through the cloud cover. In front of us, a row of cars were parked, with the drives alternately talking on cell phones or smoking cigarettes. Or both. I stared down one of them and he extinguished his cigarette. Just as I was about to approach him about a ride, a slender, well-dressed, middle aged woman came from behind us.

              “Come with me, Grey,” she beckoned us. My back was to her, but she kept her hand on my shoulder as she rounded to greet me face-to-face. It is difficult to describe, but meeting her was like meeting a sister or cousin of Athena. Her appearance was not so much similarity, but overall family resemblance and demeanor. She beckoned us to a driver at the end of the line who was old without being elderly and looked to be of Indian descent. He nodded toward her, and then to us, but continued his phone conversation as he opened his door and got behind the wheel. Our mystery woman entered the traditional black English taxi, waiting for us to join her. She sat on the jump seat across from the back seat, wearing a pleated skirt, button-up shirt and her graying hair mixed intermittently with what was left of golden blonde strands. Her coiffure fell around her glasses, giving her an air of regality that only strengthened the idea she was associated with the goddess, Athena.

              I had done enough to hide our impending trip to England—as well as taken care of Joy’s faux-passport—to hide us from the eyes of our enemy. Still, I was skeptical. Gavin, apparently, had no misgivings and climbed into the cab readily.

              I gave her one last once-over and decided to put my trust fully in this emissary of the goddess.

              “I am Victoria, my dears. I am very pleased to meet you, Grey.” She turned to Gavin and politely dismissed him. “Our driver is Pushan.” The Indian man she addressed was, by appearance, older than Victoria, but was much less impeccably dressed. Unlike Victoria’s carefully manicured appearance, I noticed Pushan’s paunch before he got into the car. His hair was also more salt than pepper, but it was oiled back.

              Victoria’s manner of speaking was plainly intended to be the Queen’s English: polished and practiced. I had no doubt, though, that English was not her native tongue.

              “I’m very pleased to meet your acquaintance, Victoria.” I raised my voice so he could hear, “And you as well, Pushan.” I even waved at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He gave no acknowledgment.

              “The goddess has instructed me to take you where you need to go. I will be unable to go much further with you, but Pushan will drive you to Cambridge. Though, if you would rather, you may take a train. I would be happy to purchase your tickets for you.” Victoria was, by contrast, fairly youthful and her face held none of the signs of aging like the other gods at Solemn Ages, save Athena.

              I thought about her offer, but thought it more advantageous to have a by-proxy friend of the goddess accompany us to Cambridge. I had my guesses as to their true identities, but opted not to ask just then. Victoria likely heard the story of my vault from Athena and would therefore associate the present circumstances with his thievery.

              “I would prefer it if Pushan would continue driving for us.” Pushan coughed when I said this, and I smelled what I thought was lavender and sandalwood as he did so. “Also, we need stationery. And pens. Fine pens. And even more than that, really, we need two dart guns. The type zoos would use on animals, really. If that’s not too much trouble?”

              Victoria smiled, pleased. “Pushan, drop me at the next taxi you see available. I have your number, Grey—I shall call you at some point in the next several hours. In the meantime, Pushan is happy to be at your service.”

              Pushan, still talking on his own mobile phone, pulled to the curb and let Victoria out behind another taxi. “Until then,” she climbed out, still ignoring Gavin, even though he had to move his long legs for her to exit. Just before she shut the door, she popped her head back in, looking to Gavin and then to me. “Be cautious, Grey. I am sure you know this well, but these are queer times. More so than usual.”

              I wasn’t sure what to make of the warning, but nodded. “Thank you, goddess. I appreciate your aid on our behalves.”

              Gavin, I saw was not impressed by having addressed Victoria as
goddess
. He likely already suspected: Victoria was the Roman name for the winged goddess of victory, Nike. In terms of mythology, she also functioned much like a personal assistant for Athena. It was perfectly logical: we were in a land of Victorias, and there were no doubts about the ubiquity of her Greek name the world over. She was probably quite robust in this modern world that held such little regard for the old one.

              While we waited for Joy’s flight, Pushan took us to a place called Smythson’s on Bond Street. I was overcome by ecstasy the moment I walked into the store. If only Americans took so much pride in stationery. Additionally, they dealt in leather goods, so finding a bag or satchel of some sort was not only a matter of necessity, but a task I took some time and pleasure in completing. All said, I had spent much more money than I intended, but I felt my inaugural logomancer kit was worth it. Gavin did not enjoy himself nearly as much, but I grabbed identical pens and stationery to what I picked out. Not enjoying our shopping spree nearly as much as I was, I made him put the first back he picked out back and encouraged him to pick out something that didn’t look exactly like mine. He grunted assent. After nearly 20 minutes of him milling around the bags, I chose one for him.

              I was starting to think arithmancers, while long on pragmatism, were short on imagination; though, I only knew two arithmancers, and one of them was dead.

              By the time we returned to the cab, Pushan was finally off his phone, but asleep in the driver’s seat. I tapped on the window.

              Startled, Pushan jumped and then dived prone into his seat, covering his head. While not an overt admission, seeing Pushan so easily startled confirmed my initial belief regarding his divinity. Pushan, in Hinduism, is a sort of analog to Mercury: god of travelers, journeys, as well as guide of souls. Given Britain’s colonial history, his presence in London was entirely plausible. However, finding out that Pushan was a coward made me less confidant in my choice to have him with us Cambridge.

              “Son of a bitch! You gave me a fright!” Pushan spoke Hindi while he was on the phone, but his English was flawless in its local inflection. Its urban quality provided a stark contrast to what we heard from Victoria’s speech.

              “Sorry. We’re finished, can you unlock the doors?” Gavin and I had divvied up our wares while still in Smythson’s but there were still tags to take off and packaging to remove.

              “Have you heard from Victoria yet?” Gavin asked.

              “No. Not yet.” I was getting ready to get out and find a trash can when I heard…

              “Until now,” a voice close to the opening door said. I already happened to be looking at Pushan, who once again looked startled. “The items you have requested are in this shopping bag.” She handed a Harrod’s bag to Gavin. I had always heard you could be anything from there. Maybe you really could.

              Victoria leaned into the vehicle. “Pushan will provide assistance should you need. I wish I could attend to you, but as you know, matters have become very grave. More are lost. The goddess has me investigating. It seems those who have been killed were spied upon for years. Whereabouts and routines exploited. I will call you tomorrow with any updates I might have. If you do not hear from me, something regretful has happened.”

              Regretful. It was odd how she would refer to her murder as such. She had been living in England a very long time, given her dedication to politeness and euphemism. “Take care of yourself,” I offered. “I have a profile of the person doing this. You already know to run from anyone who takes more than a casual interest in you. But I think we’re dealing with ideologues; sycophants. This is a network of individuals, to be sure.”