The Necromancer's Grimoire Page 6

  “It is like this. The pope has angered the French, and as you know, the king of France plans to march through these lands and punish all who defy him. The king is angry also with the Turks and plans to start a new crusade against them. The Sultan’s brother was the man, Djem, in the villa. Did you know that?”

  “No. I did not know who he was when I saw him.”

  “He was the Padishah’s brother, held under the pope’s protection in exchange for an unseemly amount of ransom. He…” Here Corbett paused and seemed to collect his thoughts. “…had in his employ some years back a man who could do what you do, Nadira. He had read the Hermetica or one like it and brewed many potions. He worked at court for those who could pay him and Djem paid him the most. Fourteen years ago the sultan’s father was marching upon Rome, and was certain to capture it. Had he been successful our world would be very different today. We might still be at war for our souls, or be the subjects of the Turks.”

  “How is it that the sultan did not reach Rome?” She asked him, redirecting him from the topic of religion.

  “He died.”

  “I see.”

  “Rumor has it that Djem used his magus to brew a poison to kill his father that he may take the throne and the glory of Rome all at once. His father did die, but Djem did not become sultan, Rome was not taken. His brother Bayezid succeeded their father and then banished him.”

  “And the magus?”

  “Now in Bayezid’s employ.” Corbett took another sip of his wine. “Charles planned to take Djem with him on his crusade to Constantinople to encourage revolt, but Djem is now dead these three days.”

  “Ah.” She closed her eyes. There. Yes. He was quite dead. She opened them. “DiMarco?”

  “Yes. We caught him as he was leaving the prince’s chamber, his box of elixirs and the book under his arm. No doubt administering a similar poison. Coming out of the villa, though, we met with the prince’s guards. Calvin took the senore and the Hermetica to the horses while we fought our way out. Your baron saved us all. He cleared an entire passageway when we found ourselves trapped. I am grateful for his help.”

  Nadira closed her eyes to see this scene. She opened them. “I see now where that blood came from,” she said with a sad smile. “It was not his.” She asked Corbett, “Was DiMarco under orders from the pope?”

  “Unlikely. Djem was a source of income for the Vatican. More likely…” He shook his head before continuing, “More likely the sultan himself gave the order to avoid allowing the Vatican to use his brother against him. Perhaps even to stop the payments. I do not know.” He looked at her across the table.

  Nadira brought to mind the image of Di Marco in front of his blackened house. He did have a wooden box under his arm. The alchemist linked his journeys with the destruction of his family. Retribution from an angry god. Service to god’s man on earth, the pope, seemed his only salvation, yet somehow he knew even the pope could not save him. DiMarco now turned to another for help. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Yes. The same. I am understanding more, now.”

  Corbett nodded and waved his hand. “Here is my trouble, Nadira. The sultan’s magus has more than elixirs. He can do something amazing. He uses his potions and a spell book to raise the spirits of the dead. He has become very powerful. When you told me that DiMarco wants to speak to his dead wife…” He pressed his head between his hands. “Then he must have been on his way to Anatolia when we took him. At first I thought he killed the prince for money. Now I suspect he killed Prince Djem in payment for a meeting with the sultan’s necromancer. He returns to the source of his damnation to achieve salvation.”

  Nadira sat back on her stool. “Then we cannot bargain with him. Can you raise the dead?”

  “No.” Corbett looked sadly at the empty pitcher. “But I want you to raise the dead.”

  “Me?” She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever for?”

  Corbett’s eyes lost their sadness and became steely again. “To find a lost treasure. There is a dead man who knows where it is. Raise him for me and ask him.”

  She glared at him. “I cannot raise the dead. Besides, even if I could I would not. It is unspeakable.”

  “When we get to Constantinople I will get you the necromancer’s book. I will give you hisGrimoire and you can use its spells to harrow hell and bring me Jacques de Molay. That book once belonged to our Order, stolen and sold two hundred years ago.”

  “Yes. You told me. I agree the book is yours. You will have both the elixirs and your spell book. You are a Temple Knight. You raise him.”

  Corbett lowered his eyes and they were both silent. He had been her liberator. She allowed her gratitude to swell around her for a moment out of courtesy, then quelled it. Who had not wanted to use her? A twinge of resentment threatened to overcome her. She quelled that too. This was a time for thought, not emotion. Bootsteps outside the door told her that Montrose had arrived. She heard his low voice as he greeted Lionel and Derrick.

  Must I always do another’s bidding? It was so. In this world there is only the give and take of trade. For food, for warmth, for security. She sighed. And for love.

  Corbett looked up. “Yes. I hear your resignation,” he said. “I told you I cannot force you. If we are partners you must agree. This means I must find your price that we might engage in trade. I have not the skill to use the Grimoire. Do you see?”

  “I do.” The sounds outside the door implied that Montrose was not pleased to be denied entry.

  Corbett glanced at the door. “Not much time.” He turned back to her, his eyes fierce. “This is a private negotiation.” He tipped his head toward the sounds in the corridor. “Do you understand?”

  “That door is going to come down,” she smiled grimly. “Be quick.”

  “My offer is behind that door. You spoke of healing his hurts. Perhaps he would speak to his brother and beg forgiveness for his guilt. Once you have learned to raise the dead, you may speak to whomever you please. Raise my man, then raise his.” His gray eyes were intense as he tempted her with one more argument. “You will learn the secrets of the ancient Persians and the Egyptians, who had knowledge of life and death.”

  The door shook on its frame. Bits of dust and some plaster sifted to the floor. They heard Derrick’s voice raised. Nadira stood, pushing the bench from the table. “Tell them to open the door.”

  “Answer me first. Swear. I offer you knowledge of heaven and hell. You have tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Eat now from the Tree of Life.”

  “I will.” The idea was intoxicating. If she could bring Richard to Montrose he may give up his need to find Massey and kill him. He would find peace instead. She thought about such knowledge. It was irresistible. She winced as another blow threatened to alarm the entire inn. “But I will not swear. You must take my word, or no.”

  Corbett raised his voice, “Come!”

  The door burst open with a sharp bang against the wall. Montrose strode to the table before Corbett could even rise from his bench. She looked up at his fury; his bloodshot eyes and wild hair told her something terrible had happened.

  “I am here, my lord,” she murmured. He answered not at all, but tried to steer her toward the door with a hand on her arm. “No. Stop.” He stopped. She heard all he would not say in the sound of his heavy breathing. “I will accompany you, my lord,” she said slowly. His hand loosened, then dropped to his side. She nodded.

  Corbett stood and bowed with a courteous flourish of his hands. “After you, dear lady.”

  She tipped her head with grace and moved past the men in the doorway and through the corridor, her lord at her side, glaring. When they had progressed from earshot she said, “You must learn to trust that I will always return to you.”

  “I no longer trust those knights.”

  “Why not? They saved us. They have no reason to harm us.”

  “Because I have just learned from William that they seek another book. One that is more dangerous than the Hermetica. I beli
eved we were hunting plants. That is what I was told.”

  She stopped him. “My lord. Tell me true. Have you not, for these last long ten years, been seeking ‘another book’? Have you not been a book hunter? Is it not what you do?”

  He let his breath out in a long sigh. “Richard was the book hunter. They have brought me nothing but grief. No more books.”

  “Yet you agreed to come to Constantinople.”

  “Istanbul, Nadira. The Turks renamed the city.”

  “Istanbul, then. You said you would come. You said you did not want to go home to England.”

  He did not answer, though she saw the war of words on his face.

  She urged him to continue along the corridor. “Did you frighten William when he told you?”

  He set his mouth in a line that suggested he regretted something.

  “My lord…Robert,” she shook her head. “It is a book, yes. It contains information, like any book. I am Nadira the Reader. It is what I do. Do you not see?”

  She looked up to see if he did. He pushed their door open. “I do.”

  “And?”

  “You will go nowhere without me. I will not surrender you to the White Knights.”

  “Is that what you thought was happening? That I would abandon you? I am not their property,” she told him, “but neither am I yours.” She said it gently, but there was no way to blunt the barb.

  He flinched. “I would keep you safe. I would have you as wife.”

  “Yes. But you cannot have me as wife. It is a fact. I am not your wife, and I can never be. Your people and your religion forbid it. I can only be your demimondaine,” she smiled mischievously, “and even then I am not...yet.”

  He nodded absently in agreement and did not smile at her attempt at humor. She watched his eyes. He tried to hide them from her by turning away and bolting the door.

  “You have released me as your servant,” she reminded him. He nodded again, but began to grind his teeth.

  “Something else is bothering you,” she prodded gently. “This is not about me or my status.” She smiled gently at him. “Tell me what troubles you.”

  “We depart at first light, yet I need you to write a letter for me before we go.” He grimaced and began pulling at the laces on his leathers. He jerked them so hard he tightened them instead. She pushed his hands away and put her own fingers to work unlacing his brigandine. An uneasy silence accompanied her efforts.

  “I don’t have ink or paper,” she said when he was reduced to his long tunic and nothing else. She picked up the discarded clothing and folded what she could, placing the quilted vest and leather brigandine on top of the pile.

  “Call on William.” Montrose stretched out on the low bed. Nadira left him there, puzzled, but wise enough not to comment.

  William was alone in the room he shared with Garreth and Alisdair. A quick glance located the two bundles that belonged to her friends set ready to go by the door, their owners most likely downstairs with the barmaids. William was busy stuffing a sack with books. He looked up as she entered.

  “Ah, Nadira. Are you packed already?”

  “No. The baron wishes to send a letter. He has sent me here to get the material. What happened below?”

  William tied the opened end of his sack shut with some cord and laid it next to the two other bundles. “They talked about the route and money. Sir Calvin told Alisdair there would be no other place to post a letter until we reach Constantinople. Sir Corbett is sending Lionel and Derrick with the letters. Reginald is now in Napoli. The baron’s rents are in Venice. Maybe he is posting something there. He is…displeased. I told him about the other book.” He glanced up at her as he opened another sack. “Calvin tested me on my Greek. He knows little Greek and wants me to read from some book in Constantinople. I asked him why he did not want you to read it,” William looked puzzled. “He said you would be otherwise occupied.”

  “Did you pass the test?”

  “Yes. My Greek is excellent,” he looked at her. “Do you know what he means by ‘occupied’?”

  She nodded absently. “I am glad you will be there with me,” she said in a low voice.

  “Where?”

  She did not answer. “I need to write this letter tonight,” she said instead.

  “Yes,” he looked at her suspiciously as he reached into the sack and removed his leather writing kit. “I don’t have any ink. You will have to go to the landlord for some.”

  “And paper?”

  “I always have paper.” He felt in the bottom of the sack before pulling out a parcel tied on four sides with thin cord. His fingers deftly worked the knots until he was able to peel off one precious sheet for her.

  She opened the leather kit and tipped it toward the lamp. She could see his quills and the small knife he used to sharpen the nibs. “I can use any one I please?”

  “This one has the finer point,” he leaned over to indicate one of them. “And this one holds more ink with every dip.”

  “Thank you.” She turned toward the door.

  “Nadira...”

  She turned back to him but only his golden eyes had something to say.

  The landlord supplied a bottle of fine ink for a few coins. Nadira made her way up the stairs and back to her room. Montrose had not moved since her departure. She pushed the door closed with her shoulder and set her materials on the table. She lifted the heavy sword and placed it on his pile of clothing. The stool was too low for her and needed a pillow to set her at the right height for writing. When she was ready, the lamp glowing brightly and pen in hand, she spoke.

  “You may begin, my lord. To whom is this letter addressed?”

  He sat up and put his feet on the floor. He rubbed his face with both hands, finishing by pulling his fingers through his hair as she had seem him do many times when he was troubled. “Address it to Richard Longmoor, Baron Kemberley.”

  “Oh…” she breathed. His father. She glanced sideways at him. “Robert…”

  “No. Let me finish. Let us get this over with. ‘Richard Longmoor, Baron Kemberley. I write from outside Rome. It is my sad duty to inform you’…” he stopped.

  Nadira finished scratching his words and waited. When he did not finish the sentence, she prompted in a low voice, “of your son’s death at the hands of pirates in Barcelona this past autumn.” She waited for his approval. He looked at her from across the room. She felt his gaze like a heavy weight. “My lord…?”

  He nodded once, and she wrote the rest of the sentence, the scratching of her pen the only sound in the room. When she finished, she raised the quill and looked at him expectantly.

  “What more is to be said?” he asked her.

  “Certainly you must say more to him.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve done my duty as written.”

  “My lord. Surely you can imagine what these words will do to him, how they will tear at his heart. You must offer him more detail, more comfort.”

  “Comfort?” He stood abruptly, glaring down at her, his face now pale.

  She knew his anger was not directed at her, but at his own grief. She was not cowed. “Tell him what Richard accomplished before his death. Tell him of his son’s courage and his defiance. Tell him of your brother’s resolve and his…”

  “Stop.” He was breathing heavily now and his pallor changed to a ruddy flush of temper.

  “Robert…”

  “Silence!” He roared at her and made for the door. His hand yanked at the latch before he must have remembered he was nearly naked. He could not escape. He stopped, touched his forehead to the wood panels. She watched his shoulders rise and fall.

  Nadira put her pen down once again. After a long moment he turned to face her, his face wretched. “You do not understand.” His quiet voice was like gravel. “I am responsible for Richard’s death…I have killed him.”

  “No.” Nadira stood, pushing the stool back. “No.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I was tasked with his safe
ty and I failed. There are no words you can scratch into that paper that will comfort my father. No words to comfort me. This is the truth of the matter.” His shoulders sank lower as he leaned into the doorframe. “I will never see him again, hear his voice, nor listen to his stories. I have killed him. He was a bright light in this dark world, Nadira, and I snuffed it out.”

  She took his hand and tugged at him until he allowed her to lead him back to the bed. He sat heavily, making the ropes creak. She put a small hand on his shoulder. “Richard left you,” she said. “He left you. Alisdair told me. He told me Richard sent you to the taverna and left before you returned. He outsmarted you, yes. But you trusted him. He betrayed your trust when he left all of you without a word and made his way to the docks. He did this because he knew you would stop him. He knew you would do anything to keep him safe. He knew this. That is why he slipped away. This is the truth of the matter.” She waited until he nodded. “Let me finish the letter for you.”

  “No. He will know I have not supplied my own simple words if you insert your fine ones.”

  “Is that important?”

  “Do you believe I am a coward? Afraid to supply my own words?”

  Nadira blinked, surprised at the question. “Of course not, however, I do know that you suffer. I am trying to ease this hurt for you.”

  “Not all hurts are meant to be eased. Some exist for a reason.”

  “Sir Corbett said the same thing. I admit I do not understand. When I am in pain I want it gone. Perhaps the idea of a good pain is an idea that men have.”

  “It is an idea that Christians have. You do not have the concept of sin inside you.” He touched the round curve of her breast with one finger.

  “And your suffering is payment for your sin?” The idea began to make more sense to her.

  “Yes.”

  “Psht,” she responded. “It is not the truth. Believe it if you will. Suffering exists to teach one how not to suffer.”

  “Did you read this in one of your books?” His fingers continued to explore her body. Touching her body was comforting him in ways her words could not.

  “No.” Nadira did not want to take the time to explain. His hands had lifted her gown and were now sliding up her thigh. “I see you do not wish to finish this letter tonight.” She put her own hand on his, leading the progress toward her hip. She encouraged him to explore further, “You would prefer another means of communication,” she said softly.