The Great Unravel, page 18
part #3 of Riddle in Ruby Series
“Henry, what is it?” said Athena.
Henry ignored the question and gathered Evie, the mirror, the tubes, and everything else in his arms and plopped them all on the table, whereupon he and Fermat descended into a complicated dance of arranging machinery, talking over each other in an unknowable mishmash of chemystry and French, and avoiding the insistent ottermaton, who nipped and chittered at them in imperious direction.
“HENRY!” Ruby yelled.
Everything froze.
She wanted to wring the collective throats of everyone in the room, and she desperately wanted to be in on whatever was obviously of huge importance. “What . . . is . . . happening?”
Fermat ignored her and went back to work. Henry opted for an addled combination of continuing their work and explaining. “This artifice”—scrabble, scrabble, twist—“can access the memories of some automatons”—scritch, tighten, indignant chitter—“It’s how we discovered what was happening to you when your father was taken”—squeak, cursing in French, taptaptap.
Final tap.
“And if I’m not mistaken, Evie pulled down this particular artifice because she wishes us to do the same with her.” Henry stepped back, and Evie—a tiny silver caliper at each temple, her tail and hindquarters attached to a twist of tubes, all running into the now-upright mirror—chirped smugly in the affirmative.
At least one of you in the room has a brain.
The room was silent for a moment.
Cram grabbed a chem-stained wooden chair from the corner and dragged it screeching across the floor, clunked it down in front of the worktable, and then sat down in front of the mirror. From somewhere he had produced a bag of nuts.
He popped one in his mouth. “Well, let’s see it.”
The rest of them gathered around the table.
Henry scratched Evie on the ridge above her eyes. “I don’t think this will hurt, but it might feel . . . odd. Ready?”
Evie chittered, clearly unimpressed.
Henry flipped a switch.
Evie twitched, then froze, suddenly a statue. The surface of the mirror flickered mistily, as if someone had breathed on it, then resolved into a face.
And then Ruby was crying, and she didn’t care who saw it. Because it was a face she hadn’t thought she would see again. Her mother.
Marise Fermat looked out of the mirror, her features awash in smoke and grime and alight with fear and desperation. “I’ve used a variant of my compass and worked it into Evie here”—there was a chirp from offscreen—“so I hope this will get to Ruby Teach. If not and this is someone else watching”—she laughed sharply—“well, hello.”
She paused, and musket fire, curses, and screams filtered into the workshop. The sounds of battle.
Behind her, several shapes hurried past. Petra alla Ferra scrambled up, Alaia Calderon leaning on her shoulder, grimacing in pain, an ugly wound in her thigh. The mercenary captain gripped her hunting knife in her other hand, its blade slick with red. “We go, Fermat. The way will be clear. On my honor.”
Marise took a shuddering breath. “And we will hold here. As long as we can.”
Alla Ferra barked a laugh. “Against mere soldiers and no reeves? I think you will be here until the next century.” Then she turned and looked directly into the workshop. “Henry Collins. Athena Boyle. Cram Cramson. Listen to me. I want my money.” And then she winked, and she was gone.
A closer voice—Captain Teach—called out, “Marise! They’re readying another surge. Quickly, please.”
“One moment!” Marise knelt back down. “They are coming. Here it is then. We are holding this courtyard, while Los Jabalís and the rest of the Bluestockings try to punch through whatever watch is on the smokehouse door. The Thrift is in some place called—Wayland?”
“StiltTown!”
“Yes, and we will meet you there. If we can. From there, we hope, maybe back to Catalonia.” She pressed her lips together. “Leave this, Ruby. All of you. It is over.”
“Marise!”
Ruby’s mother leaned in so close to the mirror her face was practically touching it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you.”
She swiveled out of view, and there was Madame Hearth crouched at the top of a set of makeshift stairs, an arsenal of chem on the steps around her. And there were her fathers, the captain and Gwath, backs against the little stone wall, dirty and bloody, heaving gouts of air.
They were staring into the workshop, and both opened their mouths to speak; but then there were battle cries beyond the wall, and the two men leaped up and out of the picture.
The empty wall was all that was left for a moment, and then the picture shuddered and went dark.
As soon as the picture stopped, Evie burst back into life, insistently chittering at Henry. He gingerly disconnected her from the artifice, and the ottermaton raced down the table and up into Ruby’s arms. She stared at Ruby steadily and reached out one paw to rest it lightly on Ruby’s forearm.
I am here for you.
Ruby hugged her close and tried to breathe.
Fermat inclined his head: a thoughtful giraffe.
He was looking at Ruby.
It was an odd thing when Pierre de Fermat looked at you. With most (well, all) other people, you could see if the iris focused. With the old chemyst, though, his eyes were balls of liquid quicksilver. But you didn’t need to see the iris. When Pierre de Fermat looked at you, you felt it.
“What will you do, Ruby Teach?”
Ruby could barely keep her knees from buckling, so she turned it back on him. “What will you do?”
“I will stay in my tower because if I leave, I will die.” He gave a sad smile. “I ask again, What will you do?” He ticked off his fingers. “Will you stay with us? You are welcome, of course. We can keep you safe for a long time.” Nasira smiled. “Will you leave the city, possibly with no way to return, to search for your parents or your ship?” He ticked off another finger. “Or will you walk into the lion’s den and stop this man Swedenborg?”
They all were looking at her. Looking to her. Even Greta. Ruby was their leader after all.
She hadn’t known that. Not until now.
They knew her better than she knew herself.
Her parents had wanted her to go. And her parents knew her, loved her: Gwath and the captain, and even Marise.
But someone knew her even better than her friends. The man who knew her best was the one who had hounded her through Philadelphi but then given her his trust over and over: Wisdom Rool.
A wild wind. A fire in the field.
Rool had named her such in the belly of Fort Scoria. Ruby was a spark, a Changer, an ax in a forest. This city had a disease at its heart. Ruby was a knife. How could she look in a mirror again if she left that knife in its sheath? The way to protect her crew from danger was not to run from it. It was to remove it.
Her father had once said to her, “Who you are is what you do.” Well, she would run no more. It was time to start cutting.
They were still looking at her.
Fermat asked her a third time, “What will you do, Ruby Teach?”
“I’m going for the Swede.”
CHAPTER 23
Air of Saffron. For infection. EXTREMELY potent. One pinch if you must, two pinches if you dare, three if you want your arm to blow off. This is not a jest.
—Inscription, spice box
Athena watched Cram as Cram did the things that Crams do.
More specifically she watched him try to open the vanilla spice drawer with the power of his mind.
Or will. Or something. He stood, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, tip of his nose brushing against the brushed brass of the pull knob. His eyes squinched down tight, his fists balled up, and the boy shook from head to toe.
He opened his eyes, took note that the drawer had not opened, and then chose a different tactic: whispering. Athena had seen lovers onstage in theatrical productions, but this whispering took the prize for woozy slobberiness. Cram was obviously in deepest love with Mistress Vanilla, and she was having none of him.
Athena adjusted a strap on a traveling pack Nasira had summoned from somewhere. “Cram.”
The boy kept his eyes fixed on the drawer. “Yes, milady?”
“Those spices are quite expensive. What will you do if that drawer does pop open?”
Cram inhaled a great gout through his nose, as if he could with the power of his lungs breach the tight seals on the drawer. He paused for a moment, then deflated. “Well, milady, if you must know, Mam always said that if it falls out of the wagon of its own free will, who are you to force it back where it ran away from?”
“Are you saying that your stomach is a safe haven for runaway vanilla?”
He sighed pitifully. “The safest.” He wriggled his fingers at the drawer, as if to cast a spell. “Now, if only—”
Henry emerged out of the stairwell behind the counter, in a slightly too short greatcoat that clinked and rattled when he walked. “They’re coming.”
Athena gave the strap one final pull, then stood up. The storerooms of Fermat’s tower were deeply stocked for guests, and Nasira had found her serviceable (if slightly out-of-fashion) breeches, tunic, and vest. Excellent boots, too. If she never saw her old dress again, it would be too soon. Alas, her trusty dueling sword and its scabbard lay somewhere unknown on the other side of Philadelphi. After what Greta had been through, she could not blame the girl. Not at all. Still, she could not help feeling the absence on her hip.
“Cram.”
The boy jerked his nose back from the drawer. He cleared his throat. “Ready, miss.” He shouldered his new rucksack, also provided by Nasira, a massive thing that would have no trouble toting an oliphant, a brass band, or a smallish cottage.
Ruby stalked out of the stairwell, a dark traveling cloak covering up breeches and shirt, her hair bound tightly back, followed closely by Nasira and Fermat. After a moment Greta, pale and still, appeared in the doorway. The boy, Ben, was a shadow behind her.
The quiet lay upon them, filled with things unsaid.
Cram shifted his foot.
Athena caught Fermat masking a smile. “We must say our good-byes then, must we not?” said the old chemyst. He closed his eyes, hiding the quicksilver. He looked, for a moment, simply like a very old man, and not a legend walking alive out of the history books. He opened his eyes, though, and that all went away. “Good-bye to you, my friends. I hope we may see each other again, but—” He waved his hand out at the street and did not finish. “We wish you safe journey and the blessings of Providence and Science upon you.”
“Before we become all moony eyed”—Nasira lifted a long finger—“we have gifts to send you on your journey.” She shrugged. “Small things, to help you in some small way.”
She sidled over to Athena and produced, from behind her back a plain leather scabbard.
The blade fairly leapt from the sheath. It was a strange sword, slightly curved in the middle, single edged with a hooklike hilt, growing wider toward the point. Athena moved it about. There was something dense about it. The glow of the chem pots leaned into it. If she had been superstitious, she would have said it ate the light. The balance was exquisite. Athena was struck dumb. She had never held, never seen its equal.
Nasira had been watching her. The old woman showed her teeth. “Damascus steel, yes? She is a yatagan, a sword of my people. Her name in my tongue is Aksam. It means ‘night.’ It was crafted to be counter to the alchemysts of the time. It is said that it can cut through chemystra.”
Fermat snorted. “Wives’ tales.”
“I am an old wife, and I am telling it,” said Nasira.
“I cannot accept this,” said Athena, though it pained her. “This is a queenly gift.”
Nasira’s eyebrows went up. “It is a warrior’s gift. You are a warrior.” She said it as simply as “My name is Nasira.” “I am giving it to you, and I will be very insulted if you do not take it. Besides”—her strong, gnarled hands pulsed into fists—“I have little need for it these days.”
A kind of stillness descended on Athena. She was made for this. “I cannot properly thank you.”
“Do not fail its spirit. Use it to protect those in need. That will be my thanks.”
Athena strapped it to her hip. It was slightly shorter than some swords, and it fitted as if it were custom made.
To Cram, Nasira offered a beautifully crafted wooden box, about two hand’s widths apart. When he opened it, a strange and heady mix of smells wafted free. Ten small vials and containers lay nestled in cushioned holes.
“Some are for food, some are for healing, some are for . . . other things. All will be useful to you. Notes underneath them to tell you how they are used.”
Cram flushed. “Ah—letters ain’t my strong suit, Lady Nasira—”
“Self-confidence, Heavy cream, Yarrow,” read Henry, pointing and peering over his shoulder. Cram looked up at him. “I can help,” said Henry.
Cram’s nervous smile disappeared. He nodded once in thanks to Henry and then gave Nasira a deep bow.
Fermat stepped forward and took Henry’s shoulders in both hands. “I did not think I would see you again, boy.” He clacked his teeth. “You have grown, and not just upward.” They were almost of a height, Athena realized, two towering reeds. Fermat wriggled a ring off one hand and held it out to Henry.
Fermat’s hand was skeletal and wrinkled, more claw than anything else. Henry’s was strong, filled with blood, slender. But both hands were covered with scars and burns, witness to their shared love of chemystry.
Fermat dropped the ring in Henry’s palm. Henry’s eyes widened as he recognized it.
Fermat sniffed. “My ring from the Académie Française.”
“What does it do?” Henry asked, awestruck.
“Do?” Fermat thunked Henry on the forehead with his finger. “It doesn’t do anything, boy. What else do you need besides that clattering array of reagents I hear under your coat?” Henry blushed. “I was given it to mark my achievement of rank in France long ago. The organization is long gone, but I wanted you to know.” He clapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “You are worthy.”
He leaned forward again to whisper something in Henry’s ears. The boy’s eyes widened; then he met Fermat’s gaze for a moment. Henry nodded fiercely, blinking away tears.
The old man turned to Ruby. He knelt in front of her, his eyes level with hers. The ottermaton’s glowing blue eye peeked out from under the collar of her coat.
“I do not have a gift for you,” he said.
A sad smile played across her lips. “No?”
“No. But I should return this.” He reached into his dressing gown, mended in a thousand places. With a flourish he produced a worn book, tattered at the edges.
“Is that the journal?” Athena asked.
Ruby cocked her head and then shook it in wonder. “No. It’s mine. Bastionado.” She took it carefully as if it were carved from diamond. “Where did you find it?”
“You left it here when last we spent time,” said Fermat. “Even if everything did not turn out all right, it is a hero’s story.” He patted the worn thin volume. “It belongs with a hero.”
Ruby leaped forward and hugged the old wizard, almost knocking him to the ground.
He chuckled, then squawked, and then gently untangled himself. “Go, stand with them,” he said.
And then they were standing together in the doorway, opposite Fermat and Nasira. Greta Van Huffridge and the boy looked on, floating in the dim shadows of the stairway door. A kind of power hummed inside Athena. It was a time for leave-taking. It was a time for truth telling.
“Greta?” Athena took an awkward step forward.
Greta cocked her head.
Athena straightened her scabbard. “I am struck by the thought that we may not see each other again. The thorn that lies between us: it is—is partially due to an untruth.”
Greta snorted. “This is an understatement Lord Athen, and hardly the time I think to—”
“Please, hear me out. I did not reject you because I found you unsuitable. On the contrary, I find you brave, intelligent, and even somewhat clever.”
It looked as if someone had hit Greta in the face with a fireplace poker. “Then why—”
“Because.” Athena straightened. “Because I was afraid to show you my true self. Athena Boyle. I apologize.”
Greta blinked in quick succession. “I’m sorry, did you say?”
She took Greta’s hand in her own. “Athena.”
Greta’s mouth made a very small smile. “Apology accepted.” Then her eyes narrowed playfully. “But we shall speak of this again.”
Athena smiled in return but then had to steady herself as a weighty cloud lifted from her. She looked down at her calloused hands, her scuffed boots, the sword at her hip. This was not Athen. This was Athena.
There was another silence then, when they knew that they all must go.
Fermat broke it.
“Take care of one another,” he said. “That is all.”
They turned, and Cram opened the door.
They stepped out into the street, and the heat and scent of rainy summer ambushed them.
Athena pulled the door closed and turned to her friends.
Cram stood there, shoulder to shoulder with Henry.
So did Ruby Teach, and there was wildfire in her eye. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 24
The well-trod road is paved with suckers.
—Aquila Rose, adventurer and ne’er-do-well,
tombstone, 1680–1719
It was half a block to Fox’s Stairs, the grand stairway down to UnderTown. Ruby pulled the hood of the cloak down to her eyebrows. The streets were deserted at this hour, but she wanted to take no chances.
The four of them ghosted down the cobblestone street, flitting from shadow to shadow. They had wasted days in Fermat’s tower, and she burned with impatience. She found a likely little alley near the top of the stairs, between a dry goods store and a farrier’s. There was a sheltered, somewhat clean spot behind a rain barrel, and they circled in. Saying good-bye to Fermat had changed something in her companions, and she could see it in all their faces, shadowed though they were in the moonlight.
