Part 4 (1/2)

She crept down to the ground level, a large, empty area whose window s.p.a.ces had been filled in with stone and mortar. The front door was kept closed by a heavy crossbeam. The rear wall-behind the central steps-was, in fact, part of the decaying city wall. An entryway had once existed there, but it too had been filled in with stone.

But there was nothing in the room save a pair of shovels used for disposing of night soil. In the room's center was a trapdoor that led to a dirt bas.e.m.e.nt. Only Thorston-who had never gone out-had descended. Sybil preferred to use the outside privy.

She used both hands to lift the front-door crossbar. Noiselessly, she set it on the floor, then pulled open the door. Cold air blew in. Thunder rumbled again, closer. Trembling from the chill as well as nervousness, Sybil hesitated. She adjusted her shawl. Reminding herself she was only searching to see if a green-eyed child had come, she stepped out and set off across the courtyard. She had almost reached the well when a figure stepped from the shadows and blocked her way.

10.

Sybil halted and gasped. Though the face was partly obscured by a monk's cowl, this wasn't a child, but a man.

”You come from that house,” said Brother Wilfrid, his voice weak and raspy. ”Does a man called Thorston live there?”

”Y-es.”

”Is he in possession of a book that has no words?”

Sybil, taken by surprise, said, ”What can it matter to you?”

”Everything.”

”What do you want?”

”Your help,” said Wilfrid.

Even as he spoke a crack of lightning flooded the courtyard with white light. Simultaneously, a puff of wind blew back Wilfrid's hood. Sybil saw his face: it was as if she were looking at a living skull, some green-eyed dead dead thing that had, though hideous with decrepitude, somehow survived. Unnerved, she turned and fled. thing that had, though hideous with decrepitude, somehow survived. Unnerved, she turned and fled.

”Stop!” the monk cried after her. ”I need you. And you need me!”

11.

Sybil ran back into the house, and replaced the crossbeam to bar the door. Not ready to go back upstairs, she went behind the steps into a little alcove and sat against the wall. She took a deep breath. Her head was full of questions: Who was the man? How did he know about Thorston? Why was he interested in that blank be Why should he say he needed her? And-she suddenly recalled-that she she needed him? Unwilling to confront such questions, she poked idly at the old mortar in the wall behind her. It crumbled with ease. I am in a hole, she thought. I should dig myself out. With a yawn she went up the steps to the second floor. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. Odo remained asleep. Thorston was in his bed as still as before, the Book Without Words by his side. needed him? Unwilling to confront such questions, she poked idly at the old mortar in the wall behind her. It crumbled with ease. I am in a hole, she thought. I should dig myself out. With a yawn she went up the steps to the second floor. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. Odo remained asleep. Thorston was in his bed as still as before, the Book Without Words by his side.

Sybil went to the window and peered out. No one was in the courtyard. With another yawn she crept to the back room and lay down on her pallet. Her thoughts drifted back to her home, the tiny, mud-encrusted village where her parents worked endlessly in sodden fields. To the food they ate-never much. To their death from illness-common enough. To her relations' refusal to take her in-ordinary. To how, alone, she tramped to Fulworth in search of food and work. The hungry days. The lonely days. How grateful she'd been when Thorston plucked her off the street to be his servant! Yet her days were empty, isolated. Have I ever really lived? she asked herself. I might as well be dead.

The monk's words-I need you- need you-came back to her. She tried to remember if anyone had ever said such a thing to her before. She could not.

Why would a perfect stranger say such a thing?

12.

In another part of Fulworth, along the polluted, weed-infested, slick and slimy waters of the River Scrogg, was the tavern known as the Pure Hart. Its solitary room reeked of stale ale and sour sweat: its sagging floor creaked and groaned with the river's heaving flow. Upon its roof drummed a monotony of rain.

Inside, a solitary oil lamp, affixed to a rough-hewn wall, cast as much shadow as light. A lump of peat in a rusty iron brazier threw off more smoke than heat. The man who owned the tavern, a scarred old soldier, sat by the creaking doorway, leaning against the wall, his grizzled mouth agape, snoring like a winded ox. And at the other end of the room, upon one of three low, plank tables, sat Ambrose Bashcroft. Standing opposite him was the boy: Alfric.

”Now, then, Alfric,” said Bashcroft, ”you are aware, are you not, that G.o.d put children on earth to serve their adult masters?”

Alfric nodded.

”Who was that monk I bought you from?”

”I don't know, sir.”

”It doesn't matter. As Fulworth's city reeve, I am your sole master now. Those who disobey me, I hang high-and often.”

”Yes, sir.”

”Dura lex, sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard.” The reeve adjusted his bulging bulk as he leaned forward. ”But, Alfric”-the reeve jabbed a hard, fat forefinger upon the boy's pigeon chest-”if you do what I say-though I paid two whole pennies for you-you'll soon be free to starve at your own convenience. There's always heaven.” The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard.” The reeve adjusted his bulging bulk as he leaned forward. ”But, Alfric”-the reeve jabbed a hard, fat forefinger upon the boy's pigeon chest-”if you do what I say-though I paid two whole pennies for you-you'll soon be free to starve at your own convenience. There's always heaven.”

”I pray so,” whispered the boy. Listening to the rain beat upon the roof, he reminded himself he was was better off inside. better off inside.

”Then we understand each other,” said the reeve. He peered around to make sure the innkeeper remained asleep before continuing, in a lower voice. ”Now, then, Alfric, pay close heed: there's a man in town-a very old man-who goes by the name of Thorston. He's an alchemist. Which is to say, he makes-gold.”

”Please, sir, how does he do that?”

”That, Alfric, is something you you must discover.” must discover.”

”Me, sir?”

”Since gold making is illegal, only I-who am the law-should know of it, so as to protect the public from its misuse. Now, then, as I say, this Master Thorston is old and dying. But, Alfric, hearken, he's in need of ... a green-eyed boy.”

Alfric lowered his eyes.

”Indeed,” p.r.o.nounced Bashcroft, ”I never would have purchased such a worthless boy as you unless you had had green eyes.” green eyes.”

”My eyes can read, sir.”

”Who taught you?” snapped the reeve.

”My father, sir.”

”Where is he?”

”Dead, sir.”

”Then reading didn't profit him much, did it?”

Alfric gave a dismal nod.