I knew where he came from. I knew where he had lived, where he had attended church and where he had gone to school. I knew he was two years older than me, though with grey already flecking his dark hair it looked more. I had fled the length of Christendom to escape my past, each calamity toppling into the next like dominoes. Yet here in Paris a face from my childhood stood in my shop, smiling curiously.
And he knew me. ‘Henchen Gensfleisch.’ He crossed the room and embraced me awkwardly. I held back, searching his face for any sign of what he knew, trying to hide my panic from Olivier, who was beaming with surprise. After I fled Cologne I never knew what was said about me, how widely my crime was reported. Perhaps Konrad had kept it secret to protect his son. Certainly there was no hint in Fust’s face that he had heard of it – only honest shock at finding an old acquaintance so far from home.
I returned his embrace. ‘It is good to see you.’
We had never been friends. Fust, ambitious and clear-sighted, attached himself to boys of untainted patrician stock, boys who were not descended from shopkeepers on their mother’s side. He must have prospered: his blue coat was of a rich cloth, trimmed with bear fur and golden thread. It was not the fashion of the day, but the sort of coat an older man might wear, the dress of a man impatient with his contemporaries.
‘Why are you in Paris?’ I asked.
He lifted up the little Bible. ‘Buying books to take back to Mainz.’
‘I did not expect to see you as a bookseller.’
He gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘I earn a living here and there. I have several ventures. But what about you? The last I heard you had gone to Cologne to learn goldsmithing.’
‘The wrong craft for me.’ I smiled blankly. ‘I came to Paris to work as a copyist.’
‘There is nowhere better.’ Fust seemed genuinely enthusiastic. ‘So many books, and such quality. I buy everything I can.’ He pointed at the dog cart outside. ‘I will fill that by tonight, and soon come back for more.’
‘And you must take that Bible,’ broke in Olivier. ‘To anyone else I would demand seven gold écus, but as it was copied by your friend I offer it to you for four sous less.’
‘As it was written by my friend I will pay you the seven écus – if the balance goes to the scribe.’
‘Of course. Indeed, he has copied many other works for me. Perhaps I could show you-’
‘Not today.’ Fust closed the book. ‘I must go. I have other appointments before dusk, and tomorrow I set out for Mainz.’ He turned to me. ‘I will be back in the spring.’
‘Perhaps I will see you then.’
‘I hope so. It is always good to see a familiar face.’ He started for the door then paused, remembering something. ‘Forgive me for being slow – I should have said at once. I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’
I was so eager for him to go that I heard the words without the meaning. ‘My mother?’
‘She was a good and Christian woman. There were many mourners at her funeral. God speed her to Heaven.’
I sat at my desk and willed the tears to come. My soul ached, but my body was too numb to answer. I had not seen my mother since the day I went to Cologne, a stiff figure in a grey cloak on the riverbank. I had thought of her in the intervening decade, but not often. If I had not met Fust, I could have lived for years happily believing she was alive. I did not even know if it was her I mourned, or the reminder of a life I had lost long ago. I felt a great well drain inside me.
Too many thoughts crowded my head. I looked back down at the desk, at the parchment, ink and book waiting for me. Work would not heal me, but it would bring the comfort of distraction. I rubbed the parchment with chalk to make it white, then ruled it, scoring heavy lines with my lead to show it had been done with care. I blocked out a box for the first initial and left two lines for the rubric.
I positioned the book on the reading stand. It was a slim volume: it would not take me long. I sharpened my pen, turned to the first page and received my third great shock of the day, another fragment of a long-lost life: a belligerent dwarf and the book of marvels he had sold Konrad Schmidt.
I have opened the Books of the Philosophers, and in them learned their hidden secrets.
XIX
New York City
Download complete
Nick glanced at the screen as he swirled the last piece of waffle around his plate, soaking up as much syrup as he could. He was back in the diner’s neon cocoon, eating his first proper meal of the day just as night fell. He’d taken a corner booth near the back, keeping a wary eye on the customers coming and going. It was the usual after-work crowd: finance types in suits, secretaries, a few students. Nobody stayed long. By the counter, the Charlie Daniels Band played ‘The Devil Went Down To Georgia’ out of the jukebox.
He licked the syrup off his fingers and pressed a button on the laptop.
Are you sure you want to install Cryptych?
Yes
It was the third program he’d tried, another free one. He chewed the end of his straw while the progress bar inched across the screen.
What could have driven Gillian to do something like this? When he’d known her she’d been… not a Luddite, but someone who pulled a face whenever the conversation got too technical, who wanted computers to work without wanting to know how. Now she’d found ways to encrypt data that even Nick was barely aware of.
Would you like to launch Cryptych now?
Yes. A new window opened on screen, a simple interface of three white boxes in a row. Nick clicked in the middle.
Please select a file to DeCrypt
Another couple of clicks brought up the card, eight animals penned in the centre box. That was the easy part.
With a deep breath, Nick clicked once more. The screen blinked.
Enter Password:
It worked. Nick punched the table in his elation. The empty plate rattled on the Formica. At the next table, a little girl looked up in surprise before going back to her ice cream. Nick tried to fight back the hope that raced through him.
Bear is the key.
Here goes nothing, he thought. He pushed the plate aside, pulling the computer in front of him so that there was no danger of misspelling. B E A R.
Password incorrect
Enter Password:
He tried again, lower case this time. His anxious fingers scrabbled on the keys; he had to repeat it three times before he could be sure he’d got it right. Each time, the same rejection.
The hope was unbearable. The password prompt sat there, an empty space, a keyhole waiting for the right key. If he could only unlock it… He tried again and again, changing capitals, adding numbers – Gillian’s birthday, even (though he felt pathetic) their anniversary. He wanted to punch a hole in the screen, to reach through the pixel wall and snatch the secrets within. Find reasons for all the questions that had turned his life inside out in the last thirty-six hours.
He plugged in his headset and logged back in to Gothic Lair. Randall must have been looking out for Nick. He appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of sparks a second after Nick arrived.
‘It’s Cryptych,’ Nick said at once. ‘The program,’ he clarified, in case Randall had misunderstood.
‘I know. I took a look.’
‘Is there any way to crack it?’
A pause. ‘That program’s pretty solid. You won’t get it out of there in a hurry without the password. Didn’t Gillian send you anything to unlock it?’
‘She said, “bear is the key”.’ Nick typed it out. In the moonlit chamber, the Wanderer took a sheet of parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the Necromancer.
‘There’s four bears in the picture. Maybe that’s what the clue’s about?’
Nick swapped programs. Four bears cavorted with the lions in their digital box. One seemed to be digging an invisible hole. He clicked, and received the dreaded password prompt.