“And I’d like to tell you,” answered David. “But that’s not going to happen.”
Max frowned and searched his friend’s face for any indication of a chink in the armor, a latent willingness to share. There was none.
“I met Prusias,” said Max heavily. “You always seem to know everything, so I assume you know about the embassy outside.”
“Yes, I do,” said David. “Prusias is a bigger fool than I could have hoped.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so,” said Max. “He doesn’t come across that way. He issued the edicts and raised Gràvenmuir with a single twirl of his cane. I’ve never felt that much magic in one place before. It was scary.”
“Exactly!” said David, brightening. “Forget the edicts for a moment—they were utterly predictable. Oppressors always make rules restricting people’s movements, communication, history, teachings … Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot. What was not predictable was Prusias’s impatience to flaunt his newfound power. That’s a real weakness, Max. That’s something that can be used.”
“What do you mean?” asked Max. “What newfound power?”
“Max, Prusias is a powerful demon, but he’s one whose entire history has been concerned with wealth and its accumulation. What he did tonight is well beyond anything that’s ever been documented. I could not do what Prusias did tonight … and neither can he.”
“But then how …?”
“You said it yourself,” said David, grinning and pushing a tin of cookies at Max.
“The cane,” Max mused aloud. “The energy did seem to come from the cane. So the cane is some sort of artifact?”
“I believe that cane harbors a very powerful ingredient,” said David. “It’s a boon for Prusias, and one that’s bound to create some profound jealousy among his rivals. Just between us, I think a page from the Book of Thoth has been embedded within that cane. Prusias is too arrogant and impulsive to realize that his display of power was bound to raise questions at Rowan and beyond. I’d bet his rivals have already heard all about last night’s fireworks and are adjusting their plots accordingly.”
“What rivals?” asked Max. “What plots?”
“The rulers of the other three kingdoms,” replied David. “I don’t believe that Prusias is the most senior or powerful among the four demonic rulers, but he was chosen to represent Astaroth on this mission. And he has just showcased a conspicuously powerful gift. Lord Aamon won’t like that. Neither will Lilith or Rashaverak. Forgive my saying so, but the only redemption Prusias had last night was provoking you into acting insubordinate. You made Ms. Richter look as if she doesn’t wholly speak for Rowan.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Max.
“Because I was there.”
“What?”
David merely nodded and closed his journal, placing the pen on top.
“If it makes you feel any better, his evening wasn’t a total success. I’m sure he’s disappointed that you didn’t just charge into the ring.”
“He almost got his wish,” Max admitted, frowning at the memory. “I hate Prusias.”
“If it’s any consolation,” muttered David, “you’re not the only one he tried to bait tonight.”
“What do you mean?” asked Max.
“Did you see that woman among the demon entourage?” he asked. “She wore a jester’s costume and brought the edicts to Prusias.”
Max nodded.
“That was my mother.”
~7~
SHARPS, FLATS, AND SELKIES
David Menlo would not elaborate upon this revelation. He betrayed no glimmer of emotion as Max peppered him with anxious questions about Mrs. Menlo, her current whereabouts, or her presumed danger among the demons.
The discussion was over.
Showering and dressing, Max made his way out of the dormitories and into a residential wing that housed some of the senior faculty. Cooper’s apartment was located somewhere nearby, but Max had never visited the Agent before. He peered at doors and nameplates until a helpful Mystic pointed him toward a plain wooden door at the end of a narrow hall. When Max knocked on the door, he was happy to hear Cooper’s familiar Cockney accent.
“It’s open.”
Somewhat hesitant, Max entered and saw Cooper sitting at a small writing desk. The Agent’s room was no silken palace—or even Connor’s humble cottage—but rather was the picture of Spartan simplicity. Glancing at the bare walls, Max wondered whether the space had even been configured. In one corner was a bedroll, a bookcase, a desk, and a dented steamer trunk.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, glancing at the bandages wrapped around Cooper’s hand.
“Bit knocked about,” grunted the Agent, smearing a balm over his skinned knuckles. “Grahn’s got quite a grip, but I been through worse.”
“I’m sorry I ran out,” said Max. “It’s just—”
Waving off the apology, Cooper covered his knuckles with a final bandage. Flexing his fingers, he stood. “That’s not why I asked you here,” he said. “Take my seat. I want to show you something.”
Walking over to the trunk, the Agent removed a deck of playing cards and sat cross-legged on the floor. Neatly halving the deck, he began methodically shuffling the cards.
“Do you know how a con works?” Cooper asked.
“What?”
“A con—a confidence game,” replied the Agent, cutting the deck and shuffling faster. “Well, a confidence game is played between sharps and flats. Sharps are predators; flats are prey. Now, most cons have three stages, Max. The first of these stages is called the pledge. The pledge occurs when the sharp gets the flat to buy into the basic premise of the game. The pledge is very important, as it sets the stage for the rest of the con. For example, a card game …”
Cooper’s hands became a blur. He cut the deck again and shuffled, flicking a stream of cards from one hand to the other.
“The second stage,” he continued evenly, “is called the turn. The turn occurs when the sharp permits the flat to glimpse something unexpected. This lures the flat into thinking he’s clever and catching on. Every flat wants to think he’s a sharp; a good con lets him believe it.”
As he spoke, Cooper periodically flashed an ace from among the cards—procuring them as though at will. It was a clever trick, but Max’s quick eyes saw that the Agent always managed to palm them, separating them from the rest of the cards until they were needed.
“I get it; I get it,” said Max wearily. “You’re hiding cards and are going to deal yourself an unbeatable hand.”
“No,” said the Agent. “Not quite. You’re forgetting about the third stage of a con, Max. That third and final stage is called the prestige. The prestige occurs only after the flat’s been duped and is convinced that he’s in on the trick.”
Something tapped Max on the shoulder.
Whirling around, Max saw Cooper’s scarred, impassive face looking down at him. The Agent tapped a sheathed knife once between Max’s disbelieving eyes before placing the weapon on the desk. Stepping past Max, he stooped to examine his illusory double, which continued to shuffle and deal as though nothing had happened. With a sharp snap, Cooper dispelled the illusion.
The thought of being a flat reddened Max’s cheeks.
Cooper merely shrugged. “It’s no fun to be conned,” the Agent acknowledged. “My point was to show you that you ain’t always in on the trick. There’s an old saying in poker: ‘If you can’t spot the sucker, the sucker’s probably you.’ ”
“So you’re calling me a sucker?” growled Max, his temper kindling.
“No, mate,” replied Cooper calmly. “You’re not a sucker, but you’re an impulsive whelp. Let’s take last night—”
“I want to forget all about it,” said Max. “Why didn’t you just finish Grahn when you had the chance?”
Cooper smiled.
“I don’t like getting my nose pulled any more than you do,” replied the Agent. “Neither does the Director, I might add, but last
night was not the time to lay our best cards on the table. If the demons think we’re a sorry bunch, so much the better.…”
Max gaped.
“You lost on purpose?”
“Those were my orders,” said Cooper, shrugging. “Truth is, I almost botched it. That Vyndra got me so fired up, I hit his boy with everything I had. Damn near killed ’im, I think. Director would have been mighty displeased if Grahn hadn’t come to.”
“Why wouldn’t you let me in on the plan?” asked Max.
“Because you’re an impulsive whelp,” repeated Cooper. “Personally, I don’t think you could have let yourself lose. And then there are other possibilities.…”
“Like what?”
“Like Vyndra, Max,” replied the Agent. “Grahn was just a brute, but Vyndra’s right dangerous. I think if you’d gone into the ring, Vyndra wouldn’t have left things to Grahn. He’d have had a go at you.”
“So what?” snapped Max. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“We’re in the Red Branch,” said Max proudly. “We shouldn’t be afraid of anything.”
Cooper frowned at this and walked to the other end of the room.
“We are in the Red Branch,” he acknowledged. “And that means we sometimes have to go places others cannot. Most times those places are dark and the things in them can be scary. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make one brave, Max. It makes one a fool.”
Max did not reply. His attention drifted to the bookcase where a curious object akin to an ostrich egg sat upon the topmost shelf. Cooper merely watched as Max took up the gleaming oval and rubbed its oily surface. The object was covered in some sort of membrane that slid beneath Max’s fingers.
“Is this an egg?” Max asked, cradling its unexpected weight in both hands.
“Turn it over,” Cooper suggested.
Max did so.
His gaze fell upon an enormous bloodshot eyeball sporting an iris of cobalt blue. Max promptly dropped the gruesome thing. It landed with a surprising crack and rolled to Cooper’s feet. The Agent picked it up and placed it back on its stand within the case, swiveling the iris so that it did not face them.
“Where the heck did that come from?” asked Max.
“Fomorian giant,” muttered Cooper.
“Oh,” said Max. “The one on the Isle of Man?”
“That’s the one,” said Cooper.
“Señor Lorca mentioned him,” said Max quietly. “He said that’s how you …”
“Lost my face,” said Cooper curtly.
“I guess you hurt him pretty bad, too,” said Max.
At this, the Agent actually laughed. “Who knows? Fomorians—or at least this Fomorian—have any number of eyes. My memory’s a little foggy on it all. Half my face was burned … just smoldering scraps, really. I figure it aimed to just bite me in half and end things. But once I got close enough …”
Max winced as the Agent made a savage wrenching motion with his hand.
“What happened?” whispered Max.
“Couldn’t say,” replied Cooper, shrugging. “When Lorca found me, I was unconscious and cradling that eye like my firstborn. Anyway, now I’ve got a souvenir to remind me that it’s okay to be afraid.”
The Agent smiled, but there was unmistakable pain lurking beneath. Max remembered the photos he had seen of Cooper before the incident; William Cooper had been a handsome man.
“Can’t the moomenhovens … you know, heal your wounds?”
“They tried,” replied Cooper. “The Fomorian is Old Magic—old as roots and rocks. His works don’t just go away. Since you seem to know something of the story, I guess you know why I went looking for him.”
“Señor Lorca said it was to have the giant fix Cúchulain’s spear,” Max replied.
“That’s right,” said Cooper. “I, too, was an impulsive whelp.”
“Why?” Max asked. “What was so impulsive about trying to fix the gae bolga?”
“Everything,” replied Cooper, staring at his hands. “I’d just been admitted to the Red Branch. I was taken down to the vault to choose my weapons. Vilyak and the others showed me Cúchulain’s broken spear—told me it was the Red Branch’s greatest treasure. The others couldn’t even touch it; the gae bolga burned their skin or screamed and wrenched itself out of their hands. At first, I couldn’t touch it, either. But I kept trying and found it would let me hold it for a minute or two. The pain would come eventually, but it was all the encouragement I needed. I’d read the stories, Max.… Thought if I fixed that spear, it would make me invincible. I got greedy. And I paid.”
The Agent scowled at the memory. He blinked.
“Anyway, last night’s médim and my scrape with the Fomorian aren’t the only reasons I asked you here. Now that we’ve signed Astaroth’s treaty, our scouting expedition will begin. The Red Branch heads out tomorrow morning. I’m splitting the twelve members into six pairs. You’ll come with me.”
“Where will we be going?” asked Max.
Cooper unrolled an antique hand-drawn map of North America. While the eastern coast was meticulously detailed, the interior was nearly blank. Max’s eyes scoured the document out to its frayed and tattered edges. There were no labels. It was almost as if America had never been discovered.
“Where’s New York?” asked Max, squinting. “And Boston?”
“That’s what we aim to find out,” replied Cooper, tapping the map. “All the modern maps are fading. The scholars have their theories, but no one’s been off campus to test ’em.”
“David’s been off campus,” Max said.
“No one’s been off campus,” repeated the Agent. “We’ve got posts at every exit.”
“My mistake,” said Max said.
“We’ll travel on horseback south along the coast and then west,” he said, returning to the map. “You’re excused from classes and your teaching responsibilities until we return. This is the Director’s highest priority.”
“When do you think we’ll be back?” asked Max, thinking of Julie and his pangs to join his friends during the upcoming school year.
“Two weeks,” mused the Agent, rubbing patches of blond stubble. “Maybe three. Depends on what we find.”
By the time Max left Cooper and the Manse behind, he was feeling better. Despite the brooding presence of Gràvenmuir, the lawns were teeming with people. Determined to adopt his mentor’s resolve, Max ignored the dark spires and instead set a brisk pace toward the Sanctuary, where he knew Julie would be waiting.
An unexpected sight greeted him on the far side of the Sanctuary’s gates. All along the broad border hedge, and extending down toward the lagoon and Warming Lodge, were a host of stakes and pennants. Among these markers, hundreds of humans, domovoi, and even the odd satyr ambled about, measuring distances, tying colored ribbons to various stakes, and consulting with a professorial man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Max hurried over.
“What’s all this, Mr. Vincenti?” asked Max, stepping aside so some huffing domovoi could pass with a wagonload of timbers.
“Max!” exclaimed Mr. Vincenti, shaking his hand warmly. “I’m glad to see you out and about after last night’s … well, all the excitement. Apologies for the mess, but we’re breaking ground on a new township—one inside the gates.”
He unfolded his broadsheets and let Max have a closer look. Scanning the documents, Max saw beautifully rendered drawings of a village with winding, cobbled lanes and quaint little buildings and alleys. Scanning the key, he read aloud: “ ‘Cobbler shops, tanneries, weavers, blacksmiths, dyers, wheelwrights’ … it’s like a whole city!”
“It will be,” said Mr. Vincenti proudly. “As you can imagine, we now need to make everything ourselves using older means and methods. Everyone will be trained in a trade and put to work. Fortunately, we’re salvaging old techniques from books, and many of the Sanctuary residents are a godsend. The dvergar can mold metal like clay.…”
“Why can’t we
just replicate modern technologies?” asked Max. “I mean, I realize things like engines and printing presses have disappeared, but can’t we re-create them?”
“You’re lucky you even remember them,” said Mr. Vincenti. “Most of the refugees have already forgotten they ever existed. Even I’m getting foggy on some things.”
“That’s so strange,” Max muttered. “You’ve been an engineer all your life and you can’t remember how things work? I mean, what if you looked at a schematic or something?”
“I’ve tried,” said Mr. Vincenti, shrugging sadly. “No matter how often David’s quills copy the blueprints for industrial technologies, they fade in minutes. By now the originals have all gone blank. Even when I tried to memorize a schematic, I couldn’t retain anything longer than a few seconds. It’s maddening—like a fish darting just out of reach.”
“And that’s all due to Astaroth?” asked Max.
“Astaroth and the Book,” confirmed Mr. Vincenti. “With it, he can reshape the present however he chooses. At least he’s wise enough to leave the past alone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Max. “He’s taken away all those inventions. We’re living in the past.”
“He’s taken them away from us,” said Mr. Vincenti. “But he hasn’t stricken them from the Book entirely. He hasn’t made it so that they never existed. To do that would be to change the course of history, and those consequences are too unpredictable.”
“Is this going to give me a headache?” asked Max. “David once tried to talk to me about time travel and my head hurt for days.”
“I’ll keep it simple,” said Mr. Vincenti, smiling. “Let’s say I possessed the Book and used it to remove certain medicines from human history. I don’t mean just making them vanish from shelves, Max, but eliminating their existence in both past and present. Well, that would fundamentally change the course of history, wouldn’t it? What if my grandparents had only survived childhood due to those medicines? My parents might never have been born, and thus I would never have been born! And if I’d never been born, how could I possess the Book and remove those medicines now?”