“What sort of guild would that be, Master?”
“A very good question, Jack. Walk with me.”
Jack scrambled to fall in step beside him. “I can’t think, sir, of what guild wouldn’t be proud to be-”
“Jack,” Crispin said quietly out of the side of his mouth, “we are being followed by our shadows again. I don’t know about you, but I weary of it.”
Jack straightened, all business. “How many, sir?”
“Two, this time. One on each side of the road. Perfect. You take the one on the left and I’ll take the right. On the count of three.” He raised his chin, looking straight ahead. “One … two … three!”
They turned. The cloaked man tried to throw himself against the wall of a fishmonger’s stall. Crispin dove for him and wrestled him to the ground, punching him once in the face. His fist skidded off the man’s cheek and hit his nose but did not break it. It gushed with blood, and while the man was distracted by it, Crispin hauled him to his feet.
Jack was dragging his own bruised captive toward Crispin, where they threw them both up against the wall. Jack drew his knife and looked more than ready to use it.
Crispin folded his arms over his chest. “This ends here. Why have you and your ilk been following me?”
“We mean no harm, Master Guest,” said the one with the bloody nose.
“Oh? Is that so? Then why have you been tailing me for days? I have seen you, and two more of your peers. You need not lie.”
“No, Master. There is no need to lie. We were merely keeping watch of you. And now you’ve come … here.” He cocked his head toward the building they had just left.
“Here? And just what is ‘here’?”
The bloodied man looked toward his bruised companion. The other nodded, seeming to give permission, while keeping a wary eye on Jack and his knife.
“Very well, Master Guest. I shall answer. We, and others like us, have used this guildhall for generations. But it has fallen into disrepair for some time.”
“And this guild? What is your company?”
The man touched his chest and bowed. “We are of the noble and secret society of London alchemists.”
25
Crispin snorted at the man with the blood on his face. “Lovely. Secret society. Damned secrets.” He grabbed the man by his coat again and shoved him hard into the wall. The sound of it made even Crispin wince. His face was smooth and pale. It was hard to tell just how old he and his companion were. “Where is she? Where is he keeping her?”
The man tried to look toward his companion again when Crispin slapped his face, leaving a red mark on the pale cheek. “Don’t look at him when I’m talking to you. Answer me!”
“I … I know not who you are talking about.”
“Don’t you? And what about him?” He thumbed in the direction of the other man, whom Jack had surrounded with his long, wiry limbs. “Does he know? I don’t care if you both take a beating for it. One of you will tell me. One of you might still have teeth with which to tell me.”
The man in front of Crispin held his hands before his face and cringed down, shoulders hunching up to his ears. “Wait! I’m speaking the truth! Please! Blessed Saint Luke preserve me!”
“How do I know you are speaking the truth? You and your ilk have been following me for days. Don’t lie, I saw you. Why were you following me if not working for that foul villain?”
“We don’t know who you mean,” said the other man, trying to jerk away from Jack’s sudden grip on his arm. “As soon as we learned that Nicholas Flamel was here in London, many were chosen to guard him, to follow all who came and went to his shop. We mean you no harm. Nor him. We … we greatly admire his work and wish to allow him the grace in which to do it.”
“Out of the goodness of your hearts, no doubt.”
The man before Crispin lowered his head. “Well, we hoped that he might share some of his secrets with us. However unlikely that was. We thought he might be grateful enough…”
“Good Christians, all. God save Flamel from his saviors.” He released the cowering man and stepped back, loath to continue touching him. “Prove it. Prove to me that you are not lying.”
The man wiped his palm up over his nostrils, trying to stanch the trickle of blood. His hands were now red with it. “But how? How may we prove our sincerity?”
“Tell me, then. How did you discover Flamel was here?”
“His apprentice.” He becrossed himself. “Bless his wretched soul. Someone overheard him talking. And I heard them say it, and … well. We approached him, told him who we were. I told him that to boast of the name Nicholas Flamel was not only dangerous but disingenuous. I questioned him, only wishing to know if his master was the Nicholas Flamel. But he grew suspicious of our interest. Clearly his master did not entrust him with … certain knowledge. After a time he would talk no more with us. It was soon thereafter that it was agreed that we should watch Master Flamel’s comings and goings.”
“Did you see anything of his apprentice’s abduction?”
“No, alas. We saw him leave the shop with the alchemist’s wife. But we were not concerned with them. Only Master Flamel.”
“How convenient.” Crispin rested his hand on his dagger hilt. “What of these other alchemists of your guild? I would meet them.”
The man made a strained sound, halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Perhaps you forgot that we are a secret guild, Master Guest.”
“Oh, well. Quite understandable.” He gave Jack a false smile. Jack did not return it. “Then you would not mind should I decide to announce this secret society on the streets of London?”
“W-what?”
“This secret society,” he said, raising his voice.
The two alchemists shushed him. “Master Guest!” the other cried.
“I’m simply bursting with the need to share what I have learned. A secret society,” he rattled on, raising and lowering his voice. “Fascinating, don’t you agree? The citizens of London would also be fascinated, as would be her sheriffs and aldermen. And the bishop of London, too, I should imagine. I understand how well thought of are alchemists.”
“Master Guest, please. That is very ungracious of you.” He snorted a bubble of blood back up his nose. “We have told you all we can.”
“I don’t think so.” He put his hand on the wall beside the man’s head and leaned in. The man shied back, turning his face away and blinking rapidly. Crispin noticed he was young. He hadn’t expected that. He didn’t think of alchemists as particularly young, though why he didn’t was his own ignorance. Flamel was young once, as was the real Bartholomew of Oxford. Young and successful. As had been this other, this knave who kept them playing this cruel game all over the city.
“Acquainted with a Piers Malemeyns?” asked Crispin, close to the man’s ear. He watched his face for any sign of recognition at the name. There was none.
“No,” he said, voice quivering. “I tell you we know nothing of this other mischief.”
“But you have been following me all over town. Do you have any idea what we have been doing?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his thin, beard-stubbled neck. “You have been following the alchemical symbols etched on the walls of the city. We … we wondered about them. We tried to scratch them out when we found them. We thought that someone was trying to expose us. We had no idea that there were messages hidden near them.”
“We saw you extract the parchments,” said the other, eyes glued to Jack’s stern glare. “And so we, too, investigated. When we saw that they were little more than riddles and taunts, we left them alone.”
“Are you certain of that?” Crispin gritted his teeth. It wasn’t good news at all that they might have tampered with the messages.
“I swear by my Lady, Master Guest. We read them, and knowing that you would come upon them, we replaced them as we found them.”