Chapter Twelve Patrick #2
Shop considered Patrick’s conditions for several careful moments. In the corner, Theo turned away, shoulders still slumped.
“Very well,” the lord intoned. Then he pulled open a thin drawer at the desk and drew from it a disintegrating leatherbound book no bigger than the span of his hand. The cover’s embossing read The Stewards’ Testament. “This was recently recovered.”
“From who?” His eyes stuck to the word Stewards, seeing a glimmer of promise in it. It had been some time since he’d heard mention of them. Not many believed.
“A direct descendant,” Shop said slowly, clearly sensing Patrick’s growing curiosity. “Recently passed, Idia claim his soul. This book was found among his possessions and kindly gifted to the archives.”
“What archives?”
Lord Shop did not deign to answer. He merely pressed his lips together and proffered the book with his thin hand. “This is the only conclusive lead we have that Idia’s Seam exists, Mr. Colson. I bid you treat it like the relic it is.”
Patrick snatched it from his grasp and relished the fury that flashed in the lord’s eyes. It was quickly suppressed.
So then, he wasn’t unfeeling. Just a man who concealed himself. He could burn. He could hurt.
Patrick opened the cover none too carefully and saw the faded, bleeding lines of symbols he didn’t recognize. A language he’d never seen. But in the crevice near the spine’s binding was a different hand, this one less faded, as though it had been written retrospectively.
The Seam of Idia, it said, clear enough.
And then there was nothing more to discern. Just page after stained page of symbols vanishing into the parchment after a flash, just as Idia’s life source had concealed itself in the marrow of the world.
This was his proof?
Patrick slammed his fist into the tea table, and the glass top splintered. Then he stomped to the hearth, held the book over the flames, and watched as every man in the room lunged toward him, wild-eyed.
Color climbed up Lord Shop’s neck.
“Patty!” John cursed, then smoothed his beard—an anxious habit. “Easy, son. That there’s an important bit o’—”
“It’s a rag,” Patrick said. His eyes were on Shop. “You’ve lied to me twice now.”
“There was no deception,” Shop said. No snark now. Patrick watched the lord’s face change, becoming desperate. “I promised you proof—”
“This book is as useless as a cock on a priest.”
“It’s a lead, boy. Where one piece of the puzzle resides, another will follow.”
“Glyphs? On parchment leached nearly clean, thanks to your useless fuckin’ archive keepers,” Patrick said darkly.
The flames licked higher, touching the very corner, the fibers singed.
A hiss escaped from between Lord Shop’s teeth. Patrick suppressed his own satisfaction.
The words came flying from the lord’s mouth. “Damn it. The whereabouts of the Seam was protected by Verian Script, boy! Everything we need to know can be uncovered by someone who can translate it!”
“If there was a way to translate it, you would already have done so.” Patrick knew the men could smell the first tendrils of burnt parchment. The edges were blackening.
“I hid the knowledge from Tanner,” Lord Shop admitted in haste. “I have someone ready to reveal the translation.”
“Which someone?”
“The descendant had a child who was taught Verian Script.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What else would I risk everything for? They’re employed in the Morland archives—a Scribbler. But even their expertise will be useless if you burn that book!”
Patrick smirked, just slightly, and Lord Shop saw it. He became very still, his eyes closing in defeat. Patrick pulled the book away from the hearth with a flourish, blowing out the embers. “Artisan bullshit,” he said to his father. “It’s always some Artisan bullshit.”
“Aye,” John Colson said, a glint of pride in his eyes.
Patrick offered Lord Shop the book and watched the man’s fingers unclench as he took it. “I’ll need to see Nina,” Patrick said. “I’ll agree to your deal once I’ve seen that she’s well.”
Lord Shop replaced the little book in its drawer, locking it in with a key. He seemed well traversed at the desk of a man not an hour dead. Shop stood to his full height once more, reclaiming his propriety. “Theo? Have Kilmartin bring the lady in.”
Theo walked to the door the way men walked to their death. There was a sickness about him, a green tinge to his pallor. Patrick was sure there remained something he didn’t know.
“Why does your boy look like he swallowed someone’s newborn?”
Lord Shop sighed. “He has a sensitive nature—likely today’s violence has disturbed him some.”
Patrick patted his pockets absentmindedly for nonexistent cigarettes. “Your swank son has spent the last two years in the soot with me. I doubt there’s much sense left in him.”
Shop’s brow furrowed. “You know of his affections for the earth Charmer.”
“She has that effect,” Patrick said darkly.
“He only worries for her condition, as you do.”
“Which leads me to think there’s reason to be worried,” Patrick said. “And you’re about to tell me why, or I’ll not sign a fuckin’ thing.”
Lord Shop looked at Patrick as though he were a thorn now, boring deeper into his flesh. He lifted his chin, assessing him anew. “You are perceptive, Mr. Colson.”
“Taught by the best I’m afraid,” John grunted. “Boy was hagglin’ with shop vendors before he was walkin’—”
“What’re you planning to do to her?” Patrick said, his voice ringing into the vaulted ceiling.
The lord looked down his nose at him, likely calculating whether he should bother lying. It took long moments, and in Patrick’s frustration, he advanced toward the man, his chest heaving, and the lord dropped his cane, scrambling for the pistol—
But before Patrick could grab the lord’s throat, before the lord’s finger could cradle the trigger, a voice rose from the door.
“He’ll have her beaten,” it said, thick with venom. “Then imprisoned.”
Theo stood just inside the door, his fists clenched, the green in his cheeks now blotted with red. His eyes lay heavily on his father.
A shiver of violence coursed up Patrick’s spine. He found Lord Shop once more with a gun between the two of them, as though it would be enough to save him. “No deal,” Patrick said. He hoped the lord heard the promise in it.
The lord spared his son a bitter glance before addressing Patrick. “Calm yourself, Mr. Colson. Think about this. The girl just murdered the Head of House. My ministry will want retribution. The nation will want retribution—”
“The Crafters will be dancing in the streets tomorrow, all throughout the brink,” Patrick spat.