The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [17]
4
Spying into the courtyard from Clutterbuck Lane, Bashcroft could not believe what he had just seen: Damian Perbeck, Mistress Weebly’s apprentice, entering the alchemist’s house. Could that boy have green eyes too? Did that mean the apothecary was after the gold for herself?
Selfish wench. How dare she!
“Dura lex, sed lex,” the reeve murmured. Then he swore an oath that he would wait and watch until doomsday if required. Indeed, to get that gold, he would hang them all.
5
Damian, following Sybil, reached the top step and gazed about the jumbled room. “Ah!” he exclaimed when he spied the old man. “Is this Master Thorston, the alchemist?” He went to the bedside. “What ails him?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him and tell him I’m here.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” said Sybil.
“Then why are my green eyes wanted?” said Damian. “Who is this disgusting boy? Why is that dirty bird here?”
Instead of answering, Sybil went to Alfric and took the Book Without Words from him.
“Pray, sit,” she said to Damian.
Damian glared at her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you may leave. Now.”
“What is it you wish of me?” he said.
“We require a reading. Can you do it?”
“Of course,” said Damian. “My tutor taught me.”
“Then sit.”
“I sit because I choose to,” said Damian as he sat, “not because you tell me.”
Sybil put the book on his lap. “Read this,” she said.
Damian contemplated a few pages. After a while he looked up. “Is this some kind of joke?” he said. “There’s nothing here to read. If you would just tell me your master’s gold-making secrets, I’ll be pleased to go.” He snapped the book shut and stood up.
Sybil didn’t know what to say.
“May I remind you,” said Damian, “I’m Mistress Weebly’s apprentice. As the town apothecary, she’s very powerful. Accordingly, know that I too am powerful.”
When Sybil only stared at him, the boy flushed and added: “In some ways, at least.”
Sybil snatched the book out of Damian’s hands and carried it to the bed. “Master,” she shouted, as if he were deaf, “we have two people with green eyes! They see nothing! Tell us what to do!”
When the old man made no response, Odo fluttered across the room and landed on the bed. Head cocked to one side, he studied the alchemist intently.
“Master,” Sybil cried again. “Speak to us. What shall we do?”
Odo hopped the length of the bed. Leaning forward, he stared fixedly at Thorston’s inert face, cocking his head first one way then another. “Sybil,” he said, “he’s not going to answer. Ever. Master Thorston is dead.”
6
Tightness came to Sybil’s chest. It was hard for her to breathe. Her head hurt. “God’s mercy,” she managed to whisper.
“Dead,” croaked the raven, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Gone to wherever treacherous men such as he belong. We are lost!”
Alfric and Damian gaped. “Did … did that bird talk?” asked Damian.
Odo, paying no heed, kept muttering, “Doomed. Cut off. Abandoned.” He leaped closer to the dead man’s face. “Cruel Master,” he croaked, “did you forget your promise? Now the reeve will discover your death. But it’s we who shall lose everything.” Livid, he pecked the old man’s nose.
“Stop that,” cried Sybil. “Have you no respect?”
“Respect!” cried Odo. “What respect had he for me? Or you, for that matter? None. He treated all with contempt. How long did I put up with him! What do I have for my pains?” he screeched. “Nothing. Less than nothing.”
“That raven,” said Alfric, “he’s truly talking.”
“Doesn’t he know,” said Damian, “it’s unnatural for beasts to talk?”
Odo leaned toward Sybil. “Idiot!” he screamed. “I warned you. Now what do you propose to do?”
“That talking is magic, isn’t it?” said Damian. Nervous, he moved toward the steps
Sybil whirled about. “Anyone can talk,” she cried. “You talk. I have yet to hear you say one intelligent word. Does that make you a bird?”
Damian’s face turned bright red. “You have no right to speak to me that way,” he said. “I’m your superior.