Summoned (26 page)

“Is he your master, Mr. Geldman?”

The crow cawed at her. Geldman laughed. “Be still, Boaz. No, Orne isn’t my master. Nor am I his. But our paths have often intersected, even when they’ve had different goals.”

“Are you suggesting Orne is a dark wizard?”

“Are you suggesting I’m a light one?”

Was she? “I’m not afraid of you.”

Geldman bowed. “The dichotomy of dark and light is simplistic, but in the way of magic I follow doing harm diminishes one’s power. Reverend Orne labors under no such restriction. He’s done harm, even murder. Still, I know he’d prefer to avoid violence.”

The mollifying tea didn’t bar reasonable doubt from her mind. “Orne’s a murderer, but you’re not his enemy?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why should you?” Geldman’s voice was fond, a favorite uncle’s. “You’ve just come among us. But I assure you Orne doesn’t want to hurt Sean. Quite the opposite. He wants to foster the boy.”

“So it’s true he wanted Sean, not just anyone interested enough in magic to be looking through the books in Horrocke’s back room.”

“Sean, no other.”

“How did he know Sean would ever go to that bookstore? How did he know exactly where to put the book and clipping, so Sean would find them?”

Geldman eyed the ceiling or, perhaps, the tip of Boaz’s beak, for the crow hung head down, jabbering in a language full of gutturals and sibilants. When it had finished and returned to its scone, Geldman said, “Orne has been watching Sean for many years, mostly through a familiar like the one he meant Sean to summon.”

“An aether-newt? One Orne’s made invisible?”

“Just so. And once Sean reached apprentice age, Orne had only to create the lure—the clipping—and have his newt topple it into the boy’s hand at some convenient moment. If Sean didn’t take the lure, he wasn’t ready for the test. But if he did take it—”

“Which he did.”

“Then Orne would propose the test.”

Questions jostled pell-mell in her head. “But—how did Orne find Sean in the first place?”

Geldman finished his tea before asking a question of his own: “Before you returned to Arkham to work in the library, you hadn’t studied magic?”

“Not at all. Assume I’m ignorant.”

“I’ll assume you’re an intelligent young woman and that you’ve already wondered about the part genetics plays in magical aptitude. Inheritance is crucial, but full expression of aptitude depends on complex gene interactions and environmental stimuli. Also, there may be bursts of magicians in families, two or three in as many generations. Then the trait may go dormant for so long that the birth of a new magician seems like a singular occurrence. However, we magicians do track the known bloodlines. Reverend Orne’s been following the line that comes to Sean through his mother. He tells me this bloodline’s produced several apt individuals over the centuries, Sean being the most promising yet.”

So Kate Wyndham
was
the source of Sean’s ability. How would Jeremy react to that news? Helen shook her head.

“Ms. Arkwright?”

“It makes sense, but it’s so new.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t burden you with more.”

No backing off now. “What more? I need to know, Mr. Geldman.”

“Sean isn’t Orne’s only object. Your inheritance interests him as well.”

Helen put down her cup and saucer too quickly, and they rang in musical protest. The last of her tea put forth its alluring bouquet, but she resisted the urge to drink the edge off her alarm. “
My
inheritance?”

“You’ve inherited more than the Arkwright House, you see. You’ve also inherited your uncle’s aptitude, and your great-grandfather’s. It was Henry Arkwright who restored your line’s reputation for paramagic. John, too, was a capable paramagician. However, Orne has even higher hopes for you.”

Geldman paused. Helen couldn’t speak. He added: “I concur with the Reverend’s opinion.”

Paramagician
was a term she’d seen in her reading, something to do with receptivity to magical energy without the ability to shape and use it on one’s own—all she’d really grasped was that paramagicians could assist magicians and deploy magical items prepared for them. It hadn’t sounded like a glamorous profession. “You’ve got to be wrong,” Helen said.

“I’m not. I’ve sensed your aptitude myself, which is why I’ve allowed you to see the pharmacy as it is, whole. Reverend Orne’s assessment of you is another proof, and finally, you’ve become a curator of the Arcane Studies Archives. Since Henry’s time, the curators have always been magicians or paramagicians. The Order requires it.”

Helen raised her hands in surrender. “Order?”

“The Order of Alhazred.”

“I’ve never heard of it, Mr. Geldman!”

Boaz croaked: “Abdul’s! Abdul’s Irregulars! Go to, liar, go to, go to!”

With an abstracted wave of his hand, Geldman silenced the crow. “Ah, I see. Professor Marvell hasn’t told you about the Order yet.”

“You know Professor Marvell.”

“Of course.”

“He’s a wizard, too?”

“Oh no. A profound scholar of magic, but in practice only paramagical.”

That was a relief—she knew one person who wasn’t a full-fledged sorcerer. Though apparently he
was
a member of a secret society. “What is this Order?”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known you were entirely uninitiated. You must ask Marvell.”

“He’s off in the mountains in Scotland. I can’t get hold of him, and I need help now. Sean needs help.”

Geldman leaned forward and spoke with quiet emphasis: “I’ll do whatever I may, Ms. Arkwright. Believe me.”

All right, focus. Let this Order of Alhazred go, and magical genetics, and even her own supposed aptitude. Sean first. “Tell me how to dismiss the Servitor.”

“That’s one of the things I may not do. Orne has set Sean the task of dismissing it, and Sean has turned to you. I think Orne may have intended that as well.”

After his promise to help, Geldman’s refusal bit deep. “I don’t care what Orne’s set us to do! And why should you care? You said he wasn’t your master.”

“He isn’t. But I won’t interfere in his business.”

In the candlelit parlor, Helen sat in the park with Jeremy; that’s how strongly the memory took her. She saw sun on the roofs and spires and domes of Providence. She heard her own voice, saying that it wasn’t Orne who gave Sean the incantation for the blood-spawn, it was the Black Man. “Are you afraid of Orne?” she said. “Or are you afraid of his master? Of Nyarlathotep?”

Geldman didn’t draw back or blanch, but his heavy lids drooped farther, like gates closing over his eyes. “I’d be afraid of Orne if I crossed him. As for his master, I have nothing to do with him.”

At the sound of a footstep on the stairs, Helen twisted to her left. It had to be Orne (or even the Black Man), coming down right on cue. Instead it was Cybele, standing at the turn. A harsh moan made Helen twist back toward Geldman, but it was Boaz who moaned, swaying on his perch. “He’s a lion; be vigilant,” the crow said. “He’s walking about. He’s hungry, so he walks, and walking makes him hungrier.”

“True enough, Boaz,” Geldman said. “Luckily, the Reverend doesn’t mean to devour Sean. If you can’t reach Marvell, Ms. Arkwright, you’d better talk directly to Orne.”

The crow’s eerie litany had sounded familiar, and Geldman’s use of the word
devour
fixed the reference for her. In the Bible, it was the Devil who walked about, seeking whom he might devour. “How do I get to him?”

“I have the means.” Geldman rose. “If you’ll step over here.”

From the direction of the stairwell and Cybele, a warm breeze fanned Helen’s hair while leaving the multitude of candle flames unperturbed. She looked toward Cybele, who nodded, the slightest fall and rise of her chin, but that was enough to make Helen trail Geldman to the secretary. He folded back ivory-inlaid doors that had hidden a deep desk well. In it was a manual typewriter, an ancient Royal as glossy black as Boaz. Beveled glass windows in the sides displayed the internal mechanisms. Silver type-fingers and tape reels sat exposed on top.

“Unlike the Reverend, I don’t take to every new device,” Geldman said. “I bought this in 1914, the first year it was made, and I’ve never had to buy another.”

“You want me to type a letter to Orne?”

“No. A moment.”

He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of white bond, which he wound into the typewriter. Then he brought together the top and bottom edges of the sheet and ran a forefinger along the seam. Helen blinked. The edges had fused: The sheet was now a cylinder that would continuously feed. “What about when this one gets full?” she said.

“It won’t. Type: ‘Hello, Reverend Orne.’ He should answer shortly.”

Answer? But Helen typed. The keys were unexpectedly responsive. The type-fingers flew, clacking crisply against the paper, and
Hello, Rev. Orne
appeared, rich black on the virgin white field.

The keys under her fingers plunged. Helen started back. Her greeting vanished from the paper and, all on its own, the Royal clacked out:
Hello, Helen. I’m glad to meet you at last.

The Royal fell still. Gingerly Helen positioned her fingers over the keys and typed:
I’m glad to reach you, Reverend.

As soon as she lifted her fingers, the typewriter clacked away. Her typing faded as Orne’s response appeared:
I hoped you’d consult our friend, Mr. Geldman, and that he’d bring us together.

When the keys stilled, she typed. Before long the rhythm of typing and lifting her hands became automatic.
Mr. Geldman says you’re interested in Sean because he has magical potential. Is that right?

Yes, and he’s already proven how great his potential is. I look forward to you doing the same.

As a paramagician?

Exactly. Do you remember why you decided to consult Jeremy Wyndham about your library windows?

My uncle. He left some notes about restoring them. Jeremy’s name was first on his list of possible consultants.

I wanted to establish a connection between you and the Wyndhams. So I left you those notes, in your uncle’s hand.

A forgery? Delivered by one of your familiars?

I confess it.

Why not? It was the least of Orne’s sins.
Your point was?

To make it easier for Sean to appeal to someone at Miskatonic University if he needed access to the Archives. I hoped he might appeal to you and so you’d be drawn into the test. If you were worth testing.

She had lived up to Orne’s expectations. Did he expect her to feel proud, instead of manipulated? Maybe it was her turn to play games.
You knew all along you weren’t going to give Sean the dismissing ritual?

A brief pause. Then,
I intended him to learn how to dismiss the aether-newt himself or else to learn how to make it a useful companion. Then he told me he’d summoned the blood-spawn, which I never intended. There had been interference with my plan

Helen experimented, dropping her fingers onto the keys. Yes, that stopped Orne’s communication, and she was able to type
Your MASTER interfered. Nyarlathotep. He came to Sean during the ritual as the Black Man.

She hoped that Orne’s longer pause meant he was squirming.
Your deduction is correct, Helen. Sometimes the Master of Magic does respond in person to calls for his intervention. Sometimes he doesn’t intervene as one might hope.

He gave Sean the blood-spawn incantation. Why?

He thought that Servitor would provide a more rigorous test for Sean. The choice itself—blood-spawn or aether-newt—was a test. That Sean had the pluck to try the blood-spawn was impressive. In a way, I’m pleased with him.

Then why won’t you help him? He’s in danger. So are the people around him.

I know there’s danger, and I feel it as acutely as you do. When I first heard of the blood-spawn, I was going to give Sean the dismissing ritual at once.

During the second chat you had with him?

Yes.

Your master interfered again?

Yes.
Pause.
The Black Man said I must hold to my original plan and let Sean manage the Servitor he’d summoned.
Pause.
Don’t think that you lash me, Helen, when you call Nyarlathotep my master. To earn allegiance to him is a matter of pride, not shame.
Pause.
Besides, the original plan has worked this far: Sean came to you. You have consulted the Necronomicon, perhaps my old journals as well?

Damn, and she’d been about to needle Orne about how his secrets had fallen into enemy hands. He’d anticipated that circumstance. Intended it, probably.
We’ve read them,
she typed. Leave it at that.

You don’t disappoint me, Helen. So, the one misstep is that Sean substantiated the Servitor with his own blood, then failed to bind it properly. But it still can’t harm him or take his blood against his will.

Did she have some news for Orne after all?
But Sean’s given it his blood to save others. He’ll give it his blood again if he has to.

Geldman, who’d been reading over her shoulder, let out a gust of the guttural-sibilant language Boaz had used earlier. It sounded like a curse. As her last words faded, the typewriter stayed still. Helen turned to Geldman. “What is it?”

He was frowning, clearly troubled. As if in sympathy, Boaz flew in tight circles around the room. Cybele sat and rocked on the stairs, knees cradled in the thin circle of her arms.

“What?” Helen demanded. “Is it very bad, him letting the Servitor take his blood?” Then she remembered. It wasn’t what the Servitor had taken but what it had given. “I read a little about inoculation and soul-threads. Is that it?”

“You didn’t tell me Sean had been inoculated, Ms. Arkwright.”

“I thought you and Orne must know. You said Orne’s been watching Sean.”

“Orne didn’t tell me this. I can’t believe he knew of it, or he’d have taken some action.”