The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [160]
Was it simply bad timing? Or did he leave because of me? Does he fear me? Or does he fear what I might ask him?
No way to know. She should have talked to him a long time ago. Should have asked him to take care of the daemon that plagued her. But instead she’d suffered, because she didn’t dare admit her secret.
In that, at least, they understood each other.
She rapped on the door and waited. After a few moments she heard footsteps, and the door was opened by a harassed-looking middle-aged man, stout and balding. This, she assumed, was Plome, the owner of the house.
“Yes?” he inquired, looking her over critically. It occurred to her that she should have worn something more impressive than her gray overalls, but she’d never been much interested in clothes or jewelry.
“I’m looking for Crake,” she said. “Is he here?”
“And who might you be?” he asked suspiciously, studying her over his pince-nez.
“I’m Jez. I’m the navvie on the—”
But Plome’s face had already lit up. “Oh, thanks be! Come in, come in!” He hurried her inside and shut the door.
“He spoke about you,” Plome explained, as Jez found herself propelled down the hallway. “Said you were the only one who knew about what happened to him. I’m so glad you’re here. So very, very glad.” He stopped and seized her by the shoulders. “You have to take him away!”
“Err …” said Jez, who was still catching up. “That was the idea, actually.”
“Good! Good!” Plome cried. “I thought it would be wonderful having him here, you know. Such an eminent daemonist to learn from. Oh!” He clamped his hand over his mouth, aware that he’d let something slip. “You mustn’t tell anyone!” he urged.
“Tell anyone what?”
“That I’m a daemonist. Just an amateur, you understand, but then, aren’t we all? No professionals in our business!” He laughed nervously, produced a handkerchief, and mopped his glistening pate. “I’m in politics, you know. Running for the House of Chancellors. If anyone knew, it’d be the death of me.”
Jez held up her hands. “Mr. Plome. Calm down. I’m not going to tell anyone anything. Now, what’s happened to Crake?”
Plome was describing frantic little circles around the hallway, wringing his handkerchief. “He’s become a liability, that’s what! Oh, don’t think badly of me. I’ve been a good friend to him. I lent him money. I helped him in everything. He bought rare books, sought out other daemonists, gathered all the research he could. But he always needed more. And one time he emerged from the sanctum, ranting about daemonism, while there were guests in the house! Came damnably close to blowing my cover and sending me to the gallows!” He threw his hands up in the air. “I’ve become a recluse! Trapped in my own home, guarding him! I spend every day dreadfully afraid that the madman in my basement will break out and the world will know I’ve been dabbling with daemons. It’s a short trip from there to the noose, believe me, young lady! And I’m supposed to be in the middle of a campaign to become a chancellor of the duchy! My rival gains ground every day I’m not out there! The Tarlocks are breathing down my neck, wondering what I’m up to! It’s a disaster!”
He was panting by the time he finished. Jez decided she’d heard enough. “Show me where he is.”
Plome led her around the side of the staircase at the end of the hall. There, a cupboard door lay hidden and out of sight. He began fumbling in his pocket for something.
“Through here?” Jez asked, and pulled the door open.
“Wait! Don’t open that yet!” Plome said.
Jez felt a strange tingle through her body. Her senses tipped, threatening to send her into a trance. Then everything righted itself and she was looking at a set of steps, leading down, just beyond the