The Book Without Words (17 page)

“Below. In those chests by his grave.”

“They were locked,” said Sybil. “Did you find the key?”

“I … had another way of opening it.”

“Which was??” said Sybil.

“It’s what I told you. I can turn things—small things—into water. I did so with the lock. Sybil,” he said in response to her accusatory look. “I told you I could do that. I did.”

“Did you really find gold?” asked a wide-eyed Damian.

“You may look for yourself,” said the bird.

Sybil shoved the two stones into her purse, grabbed a candle and, with the others, rushed down the steps and ladder into the dirt basement. Holding up the candle, she glanced at the grave. It was undisturbed. “He hasn’t moved,” she said, much relieved.

“God grant him a true death this time,” said Alfric.

Damian was only interested in the chests. “Did you really turn the lock into water?” he asked Odo.

“Watch,” said Odo. He lifted a claw to the second lock and said,
“Meltan. Meltan.”
The old iron lock shook on its hasp, quivered, turned to water, and dribbled into the ground.

“It
is
magic,” Alfric whispered.

“Can you make the lock come back?” asked Sybil.

“I fear it will probably do so on its own,” the bird admitted. “My magic isn’t strong.”

“Who cares whether it’s strong or not,” said Damian. “Open the chests.”

Sybil and Alfric took hold of a chest lid and swung it open. The candlelight revealed a great heap of coins, most of them golden.

“Heaven’s mercy!” gasped Sybil.

A giggling Damian pushed his arm up to his elbow into the coins. “A king’s fortune!” he exclaimed.

Sybil picked up one of the golden coins and let it drop. It made a heavy plunking sound. She grinned.

“You wondered where he got his money,” Odo said to Sybil. “Now you know: he
did
make it.”

“And we’ll share it, won’t we?” said a laughing Damian.

“We can,” said Sybil, her eyes fixed on the bright coins.

Alfric tugged on Sybil’s sleeve. “Mistress …”

“What now?”

“When you dropped that coin it didn’t … sound like gold.”

“How would a beggar like you know anything about gold?” Damian demanded.

“There were times,” said Alfric, “when my father did ledgers for merchants. I’d be with him often enough and he’d let me play with money. The sound of gold is not one I’d ever forget. There’s nothing like it. But a gold coin—when it falls—doesn’t sound like that one did.”

“What are you suggesting?” cried Sybil.

“Forgive me,” said Alfric, afraid to look up. “Perhaps they are false.”

“Do you mean to say,” roared Damian, “Master Thorston was no more than a falsifier of coins?”

Sybil felt ill. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps because he made it, it has a different sound.”

“I know the test for gold,” said Odo. “I saw Master do it many times.”

“God’s heart,” said Sybil. “Then we had best test them.” She scooped up a handful of the coins and headed above.

17

As soon as they cleared a place on Thorston’s worktable, Sybil put a coin in a clay dish.

“As best I can recall,” said Odo, while the others gathered around, “we must make a solution of mercury and vinegar mixed with salt. It will turn green. But when you put a drop of it on a coin that is not true gold, the liquid turns blue.”

“Do we have those ingredients?” said Damian.

Sybil looked to Odo.

“I’m sure we do,” said the raven. “On the shelves.”

A frantic search commenced. Since both Damian and Alfric could read, they took the lead, checking bottle after bottle, peering at labels and signs. It was not long before they found what they needed.

Following Odo’s excited, squawked instructions, Sybil mixed up the concoction. Using a silver spoon, she scooped up a small quantity and let a few drops fall on one of the coins. Hardly daring to breathe, they watched as the green drop on the coin frothed, bubbled, and turned … blue.

“God’s truth,” sighed Sybil. “It’s false.”

“Try another,” Damian urged.

Sybil tested two more gold coins. Four more. All of them. The results were always the same:
blue.

“Then that whole chest is nothing but false gold!” said Odo. “As bogus as Master.”

“According to my father,” said Alfric, “the making and using of false gold is a hanging offense.”

“So what,” said Damian. “It looks like gold. Enough to fool people. If you don’t want any, I’ll be happy to take it.”

Sybil felt a poke from Alfric. “What is it?” she asked the boy.

“Mistress,” said Alfric, his voice trembling. “At the top of the steps. He’s come back again. Your master.”

They spun about. There, at the top of the steps stood an unsteady Thorston.

18

Thorston’s hair was tousled, his eyes bleary. Though traces of dirt were about his robe and face, he appeared to be hardly more than thirty years of age—some twenty years younger than when he had last died. His skin was smooth, his beard and hair full and black, with not a trace of gray. His tattered and dirty robe was far too small for his erect, muscular body—as if he had grown a few inches. It was almost as if the man who stood before them was the son of the previous Thorston.

His appearance of momentary confusion gave way quickly to a fierce, hard look as he gazed about. “Why are you all staring at me?” he demanded.

“Master,” said Sybil, “we were waiting for you.”

“Waiting will do you no good,” said Thorston. He moved toward the worktable. The boys—Odo was on Sybil’s shoulder—stepped hastily aside to let him pass.

Midway to his worktable, Thorston halted. “Sybil!” he barked. “Who told you to clean the room?”

“You were … dead, Master,” she replied. “I thought it wise.”

“I was
not
dead,” said Thorston, adding, “I was only pausing between stones.”

“I thought something worse,” said Sybil. “Forgive me.”

“I forgive nothing,” said Thorston. He noticed the small heap of coins on the table and picked one up. “Where do these come from?”

“Please, Master,” said Sybil, “we found them.”

“Found them? Where would you find these?”

No one replied.

“Answer!” shouted Thorston.

“If you wish to know—” began Damian.

Sybil put out her hands as if to protect the boy.

“I insist upon knowing,” said Thorston.

“We took them from those chests in the cellar,” said Damian.

“Who gave you permission?” roared Thorston.

“You were dead,” said Damian.

“Dead?” Thorston echoed. “I will not be dead. I have no intention of dying. These are valuable coins.”

“They’re false,” said an angry Damian. “Which makes you a cheat.”

“Damian!” Sybil cried.

Thorston turned about. “Are you accusing me of a crime?” he said to the boy.

“Master,” Odo called, leaning forward from the books. “I assure you, we know your strengths. We respect them.”

“But unless you give me some real gold,” said Damian, refusing to be held back, “I’ll inform the authorities.”

Thorston glared angrily at the boy. “Inform the—! What is your name and why are you here?”

“I am Damian Perbeck and I’m here because she”—he pointed at Sybil—“said you had gold. I was promised some. Will you provide it or not?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I shall inform the authorities,” said Damian. “Perhaps they will give me a reward when they hang you.” He headed toward the stairs.

“Stop!” cried Thorston, pointing right at the boy. Damian came to an instant halt—as if held by iron hoops.

“Turn,” Thorston commanded.

Damian turned, though the turning was not of his own doing. The look on his face was of great perplexity, as if he could not grasp what was happening.

“If your great desire is coins,” cried Thorston “then
be
one.” He made a flourish with his hand, and called,
“Cuneus!”

The next instant—where Damian stood—where he had been—where he had been a person—was a heavy coin. For a moment it hung in the air, then clunked to the floor, spinning three times before flopping over.

“Master!” cried Sybil. “What have you done?” She ran to the coin and picked it up. It was the color of lead, and there was an image of Damian’s face on it: hair clipped around his head like an inverted bowl, heavily lidded eyes, turned-up nose.

“I will
not
be threatened,” said Thorston, turning back to his worktable. “Not that he was worth anything.”

“But … Master … .” stammered Sybil.

Thorston glared at Sybil. “Was it you who brought these people here?”

“Master, you told us to fetch someone with green eyes.”

“Green eyes!” cried Thorston. “All such must be avoided.” He spun about and pointed at Alfric. “Does he have green eyes too?”

Alfric shrank into the corner.

“Master,” cried a frightened Sybil, “I implore you—”

“I will not be endangered!” cried Thorston. “He must go too.” He lifted his hand, only to be interrupted by a banging on the door.

Thorston turned from Alfric. “What is that?” he demanded, his hand dropping.

“It’s someone at the front door,” Odo said in haste.

Thorston went to the window and looked out. “There are soldiers milling in the courtyard,” he said. “And a gallows. Why has it been erected? Why must I always be threatened by death? Indeed, why have any life at all if it must end? What have you done?” he shouted at Sybil. “And you,” he said to Odo. “You, who I trusted. You’re a fool. Well, it’s time enough to be done with you, too.”

“Please, Master,” said Sybil, “the gallows is meant to threaten all of us.”

“Why?” demanded Thorston.

“It’s the city reeve, Master,” said Odo. “He wants gold.”

“What made him think there is any here?”

“We’re … not sure,” said Odo. “Perhaps it was Mistress Weebly, the apothecary. That boy—the one you just transformed. He was her apprentice.”

The knocking on the door resumed, louder.

“I’ve no time to deal with anyone,” said Thorston. “I have yet to finish with the stones.”

“Do you wish me to do something, Master?” Sybil offered.

“If it will make the man go away, I’ll give him some of these coins,” said Thorston. “They’ll turn to nothing soon enough.” He scooped the coins up and went down the steps.

“Odo,” said Sybil. “He mustn’t.”

“How am I to stop him?”

“Hateful man,” she cried. “Run to the back room,” she said to Alfric. “Hide. I’ll tell him you’re gone.”

As Alfric ran off, she hurried down the steps—Odo with her—stopping halfway down to look on. Thorston was at the door, lifting the crossbar.

“Master,” Sybil called. “I beg you, don’t give those coins away. It will only cause more difficulties.”

Thorston turned. “Don’t give me advice. These Fulworth people are fools. How long have I managed to hide from them? I assure you, they’ll be satisfied with false gold.” He yanked the door open.

It was Bashcroft. He held up a lantern and gazed at Thorston with puzzlement. “I am Ambrose Bashcroft,” he announced. “Fulworth’s city reeve. And you, from your age and likeness, I presume you … are the son of the alchemist, Master Thorston. Very well: I must see your father.”

“I fear,” said Thorston, “you cannot speak to him.”

“Why? I spoke to him before.”

“My father is dead.”

“Dead,” cried Bashcroft. “When?”

“Many years ago.”

“But—I spoke to him today, right here.”

“I assure you,” said Thorston, “my father is no longer living.”

A baffled Bashcroft stared at Thorston. “Are you truly your father’s son?”

“May I suggest,” said Thorston, “it’s the rare man who is
not
his father’s son. And you sir, why have you come?”

Bashcroft drew himself up to his full girth and thumped his staff-of-office down. “There is gold within this house—made by your father. To make such gold is illegal.
Dura
lex, sed lex.
The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard. I have come to claim not just the gold but the method by which you make it.”

“Then for your pains,” said Thorston, “you are welcome to this.” And he flung the handful of coins at the reeve.