Ravensclaw (16 page)

 Cezar raised one hand to touch the ancient oval shield. “I dislike repeating myself. However, if Miss Dinwiddie has the d’Auvergne athame in her possession, she could do you irreparable harm. And if she
doesn’t
have it, have you thought what harm you may be doing her while you entertain yourself?”

Val was silent. Much as he disliked Cezar’s accusation, he had to admit its truth. He had already influenced Emily more than was wise.

Cezar put on a pair of dark glasses similar to Val’s own. “Come. There’s something I would have you see.” They exited the chamber through a portal supposedly known only to the two of them and Andrei, and made their way out into the streets.

Edinburgh’s Royal Mile had a long and varied history. The main thoroughfare of the medieval city, it had witnessed a steady parade of thieves and street entertainers, beggars and soldiers and merchants, regal processions and street fairs. The nobility had made their homes here, close by the law courts.

Today was market day. Stalls lined the whole length of the High Street. All manner of iron and copper wares were offered for sale, woolen stuffs and hardware, leather goods and children’s toys. They strolled by grocers and shoemakers and milliners. Val paused by a shop and, with a smile and a wink, relieved the baker’s lass of a beef pie.

Cezar regarded the pie with revulsion. “I don’t understand why you eat that offal when you don’t need sustenance.”

Minced beef, suet, and a sprinkling of finely chopped onion wrapped in pastry, brushed with milk and cooked until golden brown— “I don’t understand what pleasure
you
get from playing golf. You enjoy that; I enjoy this. It is much the same thing.”

Cezar was unconvinced that a beef pastry could compare with golf. Val insisted that the pastry easily won. This disagreement occupied them until they arrived at their destination, a dwelling in Fames Court: the home of Ian Cameron, an anatomist said to be one of the finest surgeons in Europe, who could amputate a leg in twenty-eight seconds, and on one occasion had amputated two of his assistant’s fingers and the patient’s left testicle as well.

Cezar led the way around the side of the building. “In public Ian denounces the resurrectionists. In private he encourages them not only to unearth his own patients to see how his handiwork has held up, but also to retrieve any of his colleagues’ clients who had interesting anatomical peculiarities.” He unlocked a basement entrance. “The good doctor found himself compelled to be elsewhere or he would be pleased to show us around.”

“I assume he owes you a favor.” In company with at least half the city’s more influential inhabitants.

“He does. Come.”

Val followed. He held no high opinion of anatomists. Ian Cameron was no different from other members of his profession, back to and including Herophilus, the so-called father of anatomy, the first physician to dissect human bodies, whose enthusiasm had led him to cut up live criminals, six hundred by one account, which gave some credence to Hippocratus’s theory that the human brain was a mucous-secreting gland.

This private dissecting room was not so gruesome as others Val had seen. No skulls bobbed in a boiling pot, no fragments of limbs crunched underfoot, although a nice selection of body parts was preserved in buckets of brine.

Cezar gestured toward the corpse laid out on a dissecting table. “Do you notice anything strange?”

Val pulled off his dark lenses and stepped closer. The body was male, middle-aged, shabbily dressed. “Other than that it has no head?”

Cezar pointed. Val looked closer. “A
nefinistat.”

The
nefinistat,
the unfinished, were those who failed to make a successful conversion to
vampir
and were impaired. The more violent among them were discreetly disposed of, the others allowed to exist unmolested so long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves.

They did not tend to live long. Most drank animal blood, because they couldn’t bear to feed off humans, but animal blood lacked sufficient life force to enable them to remain entirely sane.

Cezar approached the corpse. “This one was found in Greyfriars Kirkyard, laid out with his arms folded on his chest as neat and tidy as can be. As if he was in his coffin, except for the missing head. Do you notice anything else?”

Val looked at the marks left by a several-bladed scarifactor applied by a none-too-skilled hand. “Why would someone drain his blood?”

“To drink it, what else?”

“What sort of fool would drink the blood of a
nefinistat?”

“A desperate one,” said Cezar. “Or someone so ignorant as to hope that by drinking a vampire’s blood he would gain vampiric powers.” He met Val’s gaze. “Or, perhaps, someone who wishes it to seem I can’t manage matters in Edinburgh.”

“You think this has to do with the athame?”

Cezar shrugged. “Whoever did this was interrupted. The body hasn’t been staked. I will dispose of it, of course.”

“Of course.” The Brotherhood dealt with their own, unfinished or whole. If they did not, they were like to find themselves facing an inquisition by the High Council, the Consiliu.

Politics, damnable politics. Apprehension stole over Val. And with it, resignation. Emily and her bloody angst.

As he thought of her, an image formed in his mind. “Damnation!”

Cezar frowned. “What now?”

Val was already halfway toward the doorway. “Emily has left the house. Alone.”

“You remain convinced of her innocence?”

Val hesitated. Emily wasn’t so innocent as she once had been, before he started meddling with her dreams. That hadn’t been well done of him. But it
had
been most enjoyable. And he’d probably do it again unless he managed to put her safely out of reach. Which led him back to that last strange dream, when Emily had turned into Isobella, and held the athame over his head.

Val shook away his untimely thoughts. “Innocent. Yes.”

Cezar studied him. “You’re the one who brought her to Edinburgh, and you’re the one who lost the athame to her ancestor. If you are mistaken in her, the price will be heavy, Val.”

“I’ll stake my existence on it.” Val glanced at the
nefinistat.
The price was already high.

Cezar inclined his head. “Done. Now go. I will deal with this.”

Who spits against the wind,

it falls in his face.

(Romanian proverb)

Although it had been her intention, Emily was hardly unescorted. She scowled at Drogo. “You shouldn’t be wandering the streets. People don’t like wolves, in case you didn’t know.” He sat in front of her, tongue lolling, looking as innocent as it was possible for a wolf to be.

Emily sighed. “I’m stuck with you, aren’t I?” In truth — not, of course, that she was frightened — Emily was grateful for the company. If wearing a wolf’s tooth protected her from evil, she must surely be triply blessed by the presence of the entire beast.

Emily wasn’t deaf to all the warnings she’d been given about venturing out in the Old Town without adequate protection. However, an adequate protector would have gravely interfered with what she had set out to do. Which, first of all, involved finding out the truth of Michael’s mysteriously disappearing and reappearing vraja
.
She hefted her umbrella. “Very well, then.
En avant!
”

The Lawnmarket was cramped and crowded with a confusion of vendors and shoppers and market stalls. Well-dressed citizens bustled about their business in the midst of squalor and poverty. Tall, gloomy houses towered high overhead, many with pillared piazzas on the ground floor, under which were open booths where merchants displayed their wares. Edinburgh Castle constantly appeared and reappeared above the gabled roofs.

Beyond High Street and the Lawnmarket— Emily glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. Through that archway, into a dark alleyway— Drogo whined.

“You’re the one that wished to come with me!” snapped Emily, who was feeling none too confident herself. The noise of the street was deadened here by the buildings rising on all sides. Unfriendly-looking buildings, but Emily wouldn’t permit herself to turn craven now. Umbrella at the ready, she followed the passage between the houses until she arrived in a courtyard. One more glance at her directions, then she descended a short flight of stone steps, knocked briskly on the left-hand door.

There was no response. She twisted the knob. The door swung open. Emily stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom and clutter. Books and bottles and a jumble of merchandise spilled out of countless cabinets and shelves. Emily touched her pendant. Drogo bristled and growled. A harsh squawk made them both jump. Emily stared up at the raven on its perch. “Pretty bird,” she said.

A white-haired man bustled out of a back room and murmured soothingly to the bird, referring to it as ‘Styx’.

A raven named after the chief river of the underworld? She had come to the right place. To make doubly certain, Emily said, “Mr. Abercrombie?”

He nodded and bobbed and came closer, revealing himself to be of stout middle age, little taller than Emily, with an unnerving wandering eye. His smile faded when his gaze fell on Drogo. “That’s a wolf. We don’t allow wolves on the premises.” Drogo padded toward him, baring his teeth.

Mr. Abercrombie fell back a step. “In this case, perhaps an exception can be made! What can I do for you, miss? Angelica and rosemary for a domination spell? Caraway seed to discourage your poultry from straying? Sage for cleansing, myrrh or sandalwood?”

Emily thought of Val and his arcane studies. “Have you any dragon’s blood?”

Alas, Mr. Abercrombie did not. Perhaps he might interest the young lady in Thor’s nettles or Job’s tears instead. A Love Drawing Oil made with sweet almonds and an infusion of fresh basil leaves. A recipe for Raven’s Feather Ink.

The raven muttered into its wing.

Emily shook her head, briefly distracted by the notion of a lust-spell. “I might be of more assistance,” said Mr. Abercrombie, “if I knew what it is you need.”

Emily drew the vraja from her reticule. “Do you carry items like this?”

Mr. Abercrombie did. He would have happily showed Emily his entire stock had she not interrupted him mid-speech. “I don’t wish to purchase such a talisman. I
do
wish to know who has recently bought one.”

Mr. Abercrombie shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. All transactions are private. I must protect the interests of my clients. Confidentiality is my stock in trade.”

Judging from the dust and cobwebs all around, Mr. Abercrombie’s clients were few. “I am prepared to reimburse you handsomely for any services you might provide me, sir.”

Mr. Abercrombie’s gaze moved from the reticule Emily was dangling in front of him to Drogo’s sharp teeth. “I suppose I might make an exception this once.”

“The transaction would have taken place during the past few days. A man of perhaps nine-and-twenty. Dark-haired. Pale. Well dressed. Michael Ross by name.”

“Hsst!” Mr. Abercrombie held up a chubby hand. “No names. What a body doesn’t know can’t hurt him, I always say.” He also said that a gentleman of that description had indeed recently purchased a vraja
,
in addition to some yarrow, mastic pearls, and bloodstone.

Emily’s spirits plummeted, foolishly, because the shopkeeper had only confirmed her suspicions. She opened her reticule. Mr. Abercrombie’s face lit up at the sight of her assorted charms. He especially admired the tiger’s eye and the seal of St. Benedict. The young lady was well-protected. His eyes moved to the pendant. Well-protected, indeed. Perhaps she might be interested in a spot of trade.

And perhaps the shopkeeper thought he might snatch the ruby off her neck. Emily raised her umbrella. Drogo growled. The raven croaked.

Mr. Abercrombie dropped his hand. “No offense intended, miss.”

“None taken.” Emily placed a gold coin on the counter. “Should the gentleman return, you won’t tell him I was here.”

“Mum as an oyster, miss.” The shopkeeper radiated sincerity.

Came
those flying pigs again. Given sufficient monetary motivation, Mr. Abercrombie’s oysters would flap tongues hinged on both ends. Emily hoped Michael wouldn’t soon return to the shop. And what did Ravensclaw mean to do with dragon’s blood, which despite its intriguing name, was nothing but an herb? Emily climbed the steps back up to the street. She was thinking of the odd theory that sleeping with a wolf’s head under one’s pillow protected against nightmares when she bumped up against a solid and very aromatic bulk.

“Och, now we have ye!” said the bulk, and grabbed her by the arms.

He was overly optimistic. Emily kicked him in the knee; then as he bent over, brought her umbrella down smartly on his head. Drogo leapt out from behind her to sink sharp teeth into the most convenient chunk of flesh.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” wailed Oxter. “Get ‘im aff me arse!” The shopkeeper stuck his head out the door to see what the commotion was about and as quickly retreated, a convenient deafness also being required of a person in his line of work.

Emily pulled her little pistol from her pocket. “Well met, gentlemen. I had hoped to speak with the three of you. Drogo, release your captive and make sure none of them escape.” Flight was clearly on the mind of at least the twitching man, who was pale as a ghost. “Let us introduce ourselves. As you may or may not know, I am Emily Dinwiddie.” She gestured with the pistol. “And you are—?”

“Oxter,” groaned Oxter.

“Mowdiewarp.”

“Dinna— Cannae—” muttered the third.

Oxter gave him a clout on the head. “Tha’s Twitcher. ‘E’s a dunderhead.”

“Nae need t’ be fashious, lass,” soothed Mowdiewarp. “We meant ye nae harm.”

“Nay.” Oxter clutched his bleeding rump and nodded. “We dinna, but somebody else might.”

“Awa’, ye glaibit bastid!” snapped Mowdiewarp, whose peacemaking tendencies went only so far. “ ‘Tis but a misunderstanding. We’ve ‘ad a wee drappie. I widna wonder if we was no’ richt smeekit. No hard feelings. We’ll just be on our way.”