The Skin Map (36 page)

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Burleigh with mock sincerity. “Still, I feared this would happen. There is something down here, you see. I cannot say what it is—a plague miasma, a curse, who knows? Personally, I suspect that it is some compound or other the ancient Egyptians used to protect their tombs.”

“He requires immediate care,” insisted Sir Henry.

“No doubt. Without treatment his malady is fatal.” He raised the water skin, holding it just beyond reach of the bars. “Are you ready to see reason?”

“Please,” said Sir Henry, “help us.”

“Say the word, and you will have all the help you need,” Burleigh told him.

A low moan escaped Cosimo’s lips. Sir Henry glanced back at the body of his friend. “Very well, what do you want me to do?”

“Tell me where your piece of the map is hidden,” answered Burleigh. “Let’s start with that, shall we?”

“Then you will let us go?”

“Not so fast,” chided Burleigh. “First things first. If your information proves useful, then, yes, I will let you go.” He smiled. “Where is your map?”

“We don’t have it anymore. It was stolen.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Burleigh. “That will not do at all. You’re going to have to do much, much better.” His voice became hard. “Where is the map?”

“But that is the very truth,” maintained Sir Henry. “Cosimo kept the map locked away in the crypt at Christ Church in Oxford. We went there to consult it and discovered that it had been taken and a poor substitute put in its place. Truth be told, we suspected you had done it.”

“That part, at least, I do believe,” allowed Burleigh.

“Please,” said Sir Henry, holding out his hand for the water skin.

“Let’s try again,” suggested Burleigh brightly. “What do you know about the Well of Souls?”

“The Well of Souls,” repeated Lord Fayth, puzzled.

“You have heard of it, surely?”

The sound of their voices had succeeded in waking Cosimo. “Let us go, Burley,” he called, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “Keeping us here will get you nothing.”

“Cosimo!” said Sir Henry, stepping quickly to his friend’s side. “Here, allow me to help you.” He shouldered Cosimo’s weight and led him nearer the grated door.

“What have you told him?” demanded Cosimo.

“You are more than welcome to join the conversation,” invited Burleigh, forcing a smile. “I was enquiring about the Well of Souls. In exchange for information, I am willing to offer medical assistance—and more.” He waggled the water skin in his hand. “I want to learn what you know about the Well of Souls.”

“It’s a myth,” said Cosimo, pressing a hand to his head. “A traveller’s tale, nothing more.”

“And yet,” countered Burleigh smoothly, “myths generally form around a kernel of hard truth, do they not? I intend to get to the truth at the core of this particular myth.”

Cosimo glanced at Sir Henry, worked his cracked lips, and said, “All right, I’ll tell you what I know—but first you have to give us the water.”

“No,” stated Burleigh firmly. “Talk first, then the water.” He passed the tin cup through the grate.

“My throat is parched and I’m burning up with fever.” Cosimo reached through the grate for the water skin. “Give me a drink first.”

“When you’ve told me what you know.”

Cosimo, swaying on his feet, yielded. “The Well of Souls is a legend with various strains,” he began. “Jewish, Arab, Egyptian—they all have a version of it, but none of them agree on the precise nature of this supposed well, or even where it is located.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” said Burleigh encouragingly. “Continue.”

Cosimo swallowed. “A drink.”

“You are wasting time. Talk.”

“Some tales have it that the well is an earthly place, an underground region where the souls of the dead congregate to await the coming Judgement. Others hold it to be a heavenly place where the souls of those not yet born await their call to life in this world.” Breathing heavily at this mild exertion, Cosimo leaned over, resting his hands on his knees. “That’s all I know,” he concluded. “As I say, it is a myth, nothing more.”

“Oh, I
am
disappointed,” said Burleigh. “I had such high hopes for you. I really did.”

“What did you expect?” demanded Cosimo. “There is no such place. It’s just a story nomadic sheepherders told around the campfire.”

“You know very well it is much more than that!” charged Burleigh, suddenly angry. “What did I expect? Seeing that your life is on the line, I expected you to tell me the truth.”

“I told you everything,” snarled Cosimo. The outburst caused a coughing fit that seemed to diminish him. “I don’t know any more than that,” he concluded weakly.

Burleigh stared at him. “Why do I fail to believe you?”

“If you know more, then you have better information than I.” Cosimo, breathing hard, gulped down air like a drowning man. “I can add nothing more.”

“Can you not see the man is desperate?” Sir Henry intervened, pushing close to the iron grating. “He needs immediate help. In God’s name, I implore you to let us out.”

“Is this information so precious to you that you are willing to die for it?” asked Burleigh.

“We have told you what we know. What more do you want from us?”

“I want the location of the Well of Souls,” he said; then he amended, “Actually, I want a good deal more than that, but I will settle for that just now.”

“It isn’t a real place,” insisted Cosimo. “It is only a legend.”

“Only that? Are you certain?”

“I swear it.”

Burleigh regarded the two men for a moment, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Look at you—adventurers, gentlemen explorers . . . dilettantes, dabblers! You still don’t know what this is all about, do you?”

Neither captive offered a reply.

“You poor deluded fools,” he said quietly, as if talking to himself. “You have no idea what is at stake.”

“You want the map,” said Sir Henry, his voice rising in desperation. “We would give it to you, but it is gone, stolen—as I have already made clear. If you did not steal it, then I have no idea who the thief might be, or where it now resides.”

“Pity.” Burleigh sniffed. “Then you and your friend are of no further use to me.” He turned on his heel and started away.

“For the love of God, Burleigh,” shouted Cosimo. “Let us go!”

Burleigh stopped in midstep and turned around. “There is no God,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “There is only chaos, chance, and the immutable laws of nature. As men of science, I had thought you would know that. In this world—as in all others—there is only the survival of the fittest. I am a survivor.” He turned again and began walking away. “You, apparently, are not.”

“You are wrong,” Cosimo called after him. “Utterly, fatally, and eternally wrong.”

“If so,” replied Burleigh, moving to the doorway, “then God will save you.”

“Have mercy!” pleaded Sir Henry. “Leave us the water.”

Burleigh shrugged. “It will only delay the inevitable, but—” He retraced his steps to the cell and placed the skin of water on the floor just within reach of the grate. “I leave it for you to decide.”

CHAPTER 32
In Which Turnabout Is Fair Play

T
he coffee-tasting at the palace was a triumph, the royal palate piqued and pleased by the exotic elixir and Etzel’s excellent pastries. Following a most successful audience, they had been approached by the master of warrants, who offered them a wooden plaque carved and painted with the royal arms; the plaque was to be placed over the door of their coffeehouse, indicating King Rudolf ’s imprimatur of satisfaction and pleasure. Englebert and Wilhelmina returned home floating on the heady vapours of victory. That night they celebrated in the
Kaffeehaus
with a special dinner and a bottle of fine wine supplied by Herr Arnostovi, whose palace spies had confirmed the emperor’s delight in the new drink and its accompanying sweet cakes and his intention to imbibe frequently in the future.

“Your success is assured,” Arnostovi told them, rising from the table to hoist his wine cup high. “With the royal warrant, you will want for nothing in this city, my friends. Let us raise our cups to the Grand Imperial
Kaffeehaus
!” He tipped his cup to his mouth and, losing his balance, sat back down with a thump.

“The Grand Imperial, now, is it?” Wilhelmina laughed. “You are drunk, Arno.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “And why not? It is not every day you conquer a city like Prague.”

“Hardly that,” scoffed Mina lightly. She smiled at the thought all the same.

“We have tickled the emperor’s taste buds, I think,” suggested Etzel. “He drank his
Kaffee
and ate three of my cakes. This is all we hoped for.”

“And yet,” said the landlord, “your modest hopes have been rewarded in riches beyond your dreams. I salute you, my friends!” He waved his cup again, sloshing wine over the rim and onto his hand. “What will you do with your fame and fortune, I wonder?” he asked, licking wine from the back of his hand.

“We don’t have a fortune yet,” Mina pointed out. “What with the rent of this shop, shipping expenses, the payment of staff—I think our fortune is far from secured.”

“Only a matter of time,” crowed Arnostovi. “You should think about investing with me.”

“Right now, I only want to think about enjoying this delicious dinner,” Mina said. “Thank you, Arno.” She reached across the table to pat his hand. Etzel saw the gesture and his mouth twitched. Mina, mindful of her partner’s more tender feelings, reached for his hand also. “Here I am with my two favourite people in all the world,” she gushed, the wine making her free with her feelings. Still, she realised even as she spoke the words that it was probably true. “I thank you both.”

“Why are you thanking me?” wondered Englebert.

“For being my friend,” she told him, giving his hand another pat. “For helping me, trusting me, and above all, believing in me.”

“Mina,” said the big baker, his voice growing soft, “it is
I
who should be thanking you for all those things . . . and more.”

“To friendship!” cried Herr Arnostovi, draining his cup. “Let us eat and drink and rejoice in your victory today. But first—” He rose abruptly from the table and took two unsteady steps backward.

“What is it?” asked Mina, half starting from her chair.

“First, my friends,” said the man of business, “we need more wine!”

The next morning the cluttered table stood as a silent reproach to the previous night’s festivities. “It looks as if
someone
made merry,” observed one of the kitchen helpers when they arrived to begin work. With much
tut-tutting
and shaking of heads, the minions set about clearing away the detritus of what had been a sumptuous, if slightly raucous, celebration.

By the time the shop opened for business, all was ready and in order. Wilhelmina, still exulting in the triumph of the previous day, floated about her chores, her heart light, a song playing on her lips. Etzel, too, hummed his way through his duties, taking great pleasure in the way their coffeehouse filled up with customers. Thus, the day passed in happy industry—right up until the late afternoon when Chief Under-Alchemist Gustavus Rosenkreuz appeared with the court visitor known as Lord Burleigh. The two took a table in the corner and ordered coffee and Etzel’s cream cakes. They had been served and were deep in conversation, their sweets untouched on the table, when Mina saw them.

Curious, and eager to continue their brief conversation of the previous day, she paid a visit to the table.

“ . . . the device must be small enough to carry on one’s person,” Burleigh was saying. “A traveller cannot afford to be burdened in any way.”

“I understand,
mein Herr
,” replied the young alchemist, studying a scrap of parchment spread out among many on the table. “I think it is well within our skill to manufacture such an item to your requirements. Its size should not present undue difficulties.”

“Splendid!” Burleigh glanced up quickly. “Ah!
Fräulein
! We meet again.” He stood, and the alchemist rose, too, as Burleigh took Wilhelmina’s hand and gallantly kissed it. “Your shop is wonderful. I congratulate you.”

Mina thanked him. “And how was your
Kaffee
?”

“As good as any I’ve ever drunk.”

“You’ve had
Kaffee
before?” wondered Rosenkreuz.

“Oh, once or twice,” said the earl dismissively. “I forget where. I congratulate you, too, on receiving the royal warrant. You must be very proud.”

“We are very grateful.” Glancing at their empty cups, she said, “May I bring you more
Kaffee
, gentlemen?” Both accepted the offer, and Mina went to fetch it; when she returned with a fresh pot, Burleigh was at the table alone.

“My young friend has remembered some urgent business,” he explained in his formal English. “But this will give us a chance to become better acquainted.” He indicated the chair next to his own. “Please, sit with me.”

Mina settled into the offered seat. “Forgive me, Lord Earl,” she began, choosing her words with some care, “but it seems to me that you are very far from home.”

“As are you, my dear,” replied Burleigh.

The reply was ambiguous, so Mina probed a little deeper. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I left more than London behind when I came here. I suspect you did also.”

The dark stranger’s expression grew keen; his eyes narrowed. But he said nothing.

She took his silence for affirmation. “So, where did you come from? Or, should I say,
when
?”

“Whatever do you mean, dear lady?” replied Burleigh, still watching her intently.

“I mean,” said Wilhelmina, lowering her voice and leaning forward, “like myself, you have travelled in time. You’re not of this century, and neither am I.”

“What makes you say such a thing?”

“I
know
, all right?” she said, glancing around quickly. “Your little slipup just now—about having coffee once or twice. You forgot this is still a new thing here. And yesterday, you betrayed yourself when you asked which coffeehouse was mine.”

“Ah,” replied the earl thoughtfully. “Touché.”