The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [40]
“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