Chapter Eighteen #2
“As a woman?” She smiled wryly. I must have looked puzzled, because she turned to me.
“Women are allowed to be bookmakers, but our opportunities are … limited. Before the Temple really took over everything, before the time of the Plague, there were many of us. My great-great-grandmother was a bookmaker, and her materials were passed down through the family until they got to me, and I was the only one to bother to learn how to use them.” She was much friendlier and more open after finding out that I knew Ivy, as if we had now been elevated to honorary family status.
“You taught yourself?”
“I had to, at first. Later, I found others who practiced outside of the Temple’s purview, and they shared their tips and knowledge, and I gave mine in return.
By then, I had a few. Anyway, the monks came to me when I was in school and told me of a job opening: using the scriptorium’s resources to make very special books for clients who wanted something …
out of the Temple’s usual bailiwick, but requiring their level of skill and access to materials.
So I jumped at the chance, naturally. It took me a long time to swab this place down when I moved in, though. ”
“What do you mean?” said Patrick, keeping his tone even.
She sighed, and her fingers stilled their search for a moment. “It’s not the most pleasant of tales.”
“And yet I find myself agog to hear it.”
Tamara raised an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, he always talks like that,” I said.
“Well,” said Tamara, continuing to flick through the papers, but a little slower now, “I came to this place about a month ago. One of the monks had heard of my … independent endeavors and seen some of my work. They sought me out and explained they were in need of someone to live here as a permanent fixture, to take care of the materials and work on commissions. There are others who come down here for particular projects, of course, but they can’t always get away unseen. I, on the other hand, am always here.”
The little monk who had led us down smiled nervously.
“Anyway,” continued Tamara, “I come down here, and the place is a mess. Not regular mess—mess like someone had been thrashing around in here. And bleeding. A lot. And then I find out that the old bookmaker had been murdered, which gave me pause, you might imagine.”
“Murdered?” echoed Patrick.
“Murdered. Not a week before. So now I’m wondering if I’m putting myself in some danger, being here, but they assure me it was a …
disagreement with a specific client, very unusual, unlikely to happen again, so on and so on.
So I get to scrubbing the place clean, as that is part of the agreement, and I come across … odd things.”
She paused.
“The blood is everywhere, you understand, in all shades from pink to almost black. A bouquet of blood.” She smiled a little.
“I start to wonder. For a start, not all the blood belongs to the same person. Some of the blood doesn’t even belong to a human.
I’ve been working with inks and chemicals for a long time, and I have a nose for smells and compositions.
I can also see some of the bloodstains are much older—in fact, there seem to be stains of all different ages.
So something unpleasant has clearly been going on here for a while.
It took a goodly time for them to admit it, but eventually the monks told me my predecessor had been an odd sort, into experimenting with different … materials.”
The pause stretched out.
“What materials?” I murmured, almost reluctant to hear the answer.
Tamara made a face. “It’s not my favorite thing to talk about. Blood. Skin. Body parts … I don’t know all the different things he tried. The bones that you saw, for example, are a mixture of cattle bones and human. Very strange fellow, clearly.”
“Human?” I said.
“And did he have any success with these … experiments?” said Patrick.
Tamara looked at him sharply. “I certainly hope not,” she said. “So don’t get any ideas.”
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Never. But you must admit it piques the curiosity, rather.”
“Well, from a purely professional standpoint, it is interesting. You would have to spend so much time finessing the proper compounds to keep the blood stable, for instance, and to keep it from fading when used as ink. The skin would be simpler, I suppose, as it’s really a sort of leather.
Treating it, though, that would be a challenge.
Hair could be used to stitch, if you strengthened it somehow—”
“There was hair?” I said sharply.
“Oh yes, sacks of it. Baby teeth, too, in little jars.” She held out her hands to indicate the size.
“Ghoulish stuff, and illegal, of course. Not that anything we do here is strictly legal, but there are crimes and there are crimes. We burned as much of it as we could, as per the laws. That last box I suppose I didn’t get to—you can see no one has touched it in a while.
Ah!” She spun around, brandishing a ribbon-bound packet of papers. “Edevane, you said?”
Patrick took them and untied the ribbon. The familiar scent of the Tower wafted from them: pigeon dander, dust, and boiling ink.
“Mother,” I whispered.
“I’m afraid so,” he said, flicking through them. “It looks like there was quite a bit of back-and-forth between your mother and Tamara’s predecessor. Months … no, years of letters here. And packages are mentioned …”
Tamara peered over his shoulder. “They were definitely working on something,” she said.
Before she could say more, there was a boom overhead, shaking a shower of dust free from the roof of the cave room, followed by a succession of creaking and cracking noises. Tamara, the little monk, and I stared upward in shock, but Patrick seemed almost to be expecting it.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Ban Morin, I’ll lay a wager,” said Patrick. “He’s found us. And, if I’m not mistaken, that sounded like the end of a very nice pair of wrought iron gates.”
“Ban Morin?” said Tamara. “Who is that?”
“One of the high lords!” said the little monk, shaking in his sandals. “The one who attacked the Followers!”
“How do you know it’s him?” I said, staring at Patrick.
“The ravens,” he said briefly. “I knew he and his men were on the move, and they would find us sooner or later. I had just hoped it would be after we found something useful.” He brandished the little packet of letters. “And we did.”
“So the monastery is under attack?” said Tamara. She sighed, unrolling a length of hide with pockets and fastenings spread along its length, and started selecting tools from her desk, slotting them into their little compartments. “Typical. Just as I got settled.”
“What will we do? Where will we go?” cried the monk, now in full-blown panic. He grabbed Patrick’s arm. “My lord, you must let me come with you.”
“You’ll be all right down here,” said Patrick. He patted the little monk’s shoulder. “Just don’t go back up for a while.”
“They’re attacking a monastery?” he hissed. “The rules of sanctuary! And it’s full of holy men. They can’t …”
“They can, if the most powerful mage in Virelith is hiding in it,” said Patrick. “And if that lord believes that mage belongs to him.”
I stared at him. “The most … What?”
“If I am not mistaken, your defection has provided Ban Morin with a marvelous excuse to wage full-blown war on the Temple,” said Patrick.
“He and his other noble cronies have been itching for such an opportunity for months. If they can argue that the monastery and, by extension, the Temple, are concealing property that rightfully belongs to a Margrave …”
“Property?”
He sighed. “In his eyes, my sweet.”
“But what do you mean, the most powerful mage?”
“We can talk more about it later, but in short: I believe so.”
“They’re after you specifically?” said Tamara. “Then, with all due respect, I would like you to get out of my workshop immediately.” She rolled her leather pouch closed and tied it to her belt, then picked up a crate of books.
“Absolutely,” said Patrick. “As quickly as possible.”
“Will you be all right?” I said to Tamara.
“Oh, yes. There are ways out of here, through the tunnel system. I’d rather you didn’t follow me, though.”
“There are plenty of tunnels for all of us,” said Patrick.
“Good luck,” Tamara said. The little monk had sat down with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. He was rocking back and forth a little, looking up at the ceiling.
“You’ll be fine,” I told him. “They’re looking for me. They won’t hurt the monks. Will they?” I added, turning to Patrick.
“Oh, I doubt it. They’re here to make a lot of noise and search the place.”
He pocketed the letters and practically pushed me out of the room and back into the tunnel. More noises of destruction sounded from above, the very stone walls rumbling with it.
“This is all my fault,” I whispered.
“Nonsense,” said Patrick. “The whole kingdom was a powder keg awaiting the right spark. It would have happened sooner or later.”
“Baldbeak!” I said suddenly. I was so used to him always being with me that I had forgotten we had left him in the courtyard.
“He will be all right, Netta,” said Patrick.
“Are you mad?” I stared at him. “We can’t leave him here! We have to—”
“Of course we’re not going to leave him here. I sent him down to the tunnels before I woke you this morning. A friend is waiting for us there.”
“A friend? How have you had time to make a friend?”
“An old friend,” he amended. “I sent him a message by raven, and he arrived this morning. Come on. We need to get moving.”