Something trembled in the earth. Far down the tunnel he felt it, a thing, brushing up against the walls and gnarls of root. Something was coming. His death was coming.
40
EVERYTHING AND NOTHING
The glasses rattled and danced softly across Henry Berghast’s desk. He turned where he stood at the pier glass to watch them, and then he met Bailey’s eye. Through the curtains, a quick bloom of light appeared. The boy Marlowe pulled out of his grasp and crossed the room and peered out. Something was lighting up the darkness; something was on fire.
“It’s him,” the boy whispered. “It’s Jacob.”
Berghast followed him across. He unlatched the window and swung it open. In the courtyard stood a strange coach, just arrived. He saw the woman detective, Miss Quicke, pause in the open door and peer out at the reflected firelight. What is she doing here?
But then came a distant shouting, the low muffled thrump of something detonating, and his thoughts went elsewhere. The outbuildings were burning. Those voices would be—must be—the older talents, gathering in the firelight. If it was Jacob Marber, if the wards had fallen … then they would not be strong enough.
He looked to Bailey, silent and forbidding in the shadows. “See to Mr. Laster,” he commanded. “Then dispose of the papers here. I will take the boy. Come,” he said to Marlowe. “We must hurry.”
But the boy glared at him, suddenly willful, stubborn.
“Come,” Henry snapped again.
“I won’t go,” the little boy said. “I want to see Charlie first. You said I could see Charlie.”
Berghast forced himself to speak calmly. “There are things in this world more important than what we want, child. If we delay now, there will be no finding your friend at all. Jacob Marber and the drughr will see to that.”
He could see the boy didn’t believe it but he didn’t have time to argue, not now. He turned and struck the little boy a powerful blow with an open hand and the boy’s legs went out from under him. He collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.
Henry allowed himself his anger; he’d thought he had more time, he’d thought the glyphic’s wards would hold longer. Perhaps Jacob was stronger even than he’d feared. He’d beaten Jacob back, years ago, before his own talent had faded. But he couldn’t do it now.
Or not just yet, he thought in satisfaction.
He took the ancient orsine knife from the lowest drawer of his desk, the same blade he’d given the Ovid boy for his satchel. He slid it into his waistcoat. Then he put on the iron-and-wood glove. Its tiny teeth bit into his wrist. At the last moment he remembered the journal, his book of secrets, and just to be safe he unlocked it from his desk and went to the fire and threw it in.
Then he swung the unconscious boy up over one shoulder, unhooked a lantern from inside the door, and hurried down the stairs into darkness.
* * *
They were too late.
Marber was already inside the perimeter, Marber and his litch Coulton. Alice Quicke pushed Mrs. Harrogate at a half run over the flagstones, the wheeled chair squeaking and jouncing. The older woman made no complaint; she had her wicked-looking knives gripped in both hands on top of the blanket on her lap. Something was on fire behind the manor and they hurried around the side and through the portico and stopped at the edge of the field.
For a long confused moment, Alice didn’t know what she was seeing.
Figures, silhouetted against the firelight, in a long line. They were in nightdresses and robes, and facing away, into the darkness. She counted eight. They were the old ones, the talents who had lived at Cairndale for decades, ancient and trembling and frail.
“What’re they doing?” she whispered. “Margaret? What are they—”
“What they have always done,” replied Mrs. Harrogate. “They are preparing to fight.”
“They can’t fight,” she snapped. “Look at them. They can’t even eat solid food.”
And she fumbled angrily at the cord around her throat for the weir-bent there. She didn’t see the keywrasse anywhere. But if the wards had fallen, then surely it could come through too? More and more catlike, less and less obedient, she thought. A small group of kids stood to one side, watching. There were other faces pressed to the windows behind.
“Remember why we are here,” said Mrs. Harrogate. “We must warn Dr. Berghast. We must protect the glyphic.”
Alice took her Colt from her pocket. “If that bastard’s already here, I’d say we’re too late,” she growled. And then she heard a familiar voice.