The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(37)

“The Seer is lost? What do you mean lost? Jackaby’s lost?”

“Hmm?” Hatun lifted her head. “What’s that you lost? Got to be more careful, dear. That’s why I keep a spare one tucked away in my stockings, just in case.”

“Mr. Jackaby!” I said. “You were just talking about Mr. Jackaby!”

“Was I?”

“Please try to remember,” I implored her. “How is Mr. Jackaby going to be lost?”

“You’re talking a lot of nonsense. Jackaby is right there.”

I spun. True enough, Jackaby had just walked through the front door. Lydia Lee was behind him, looking rather jumpy as she closed the door.

“Honestly, Miss Rook,” Hatun chided, resuming her knitting. “Can’t go around saying all sorts of silly things. People will start to say you’re crazy.”

The Dangerous Documents section was officially crowded beyond capacity. Jackaby stood at the head of the table, and I slid in on his right. Hudson shuffled in next to me, then Jenny, Chief Nudd, Lydia Lee, and Hatun. Hatun sat in one of the only chairs and Nudd stood on the other. Charlie slid in apologetically just as Jackaby was getting ready to speak. He squeezed in at the far end, between Miss Lee and Nudd.

“Thank you all for coming again,” Jackaby began. “Let’s not waste time. To begin with, I would like to reassure everyone that, while there appears to be an upswing in paranormal activity on the whole, there do not appear to be any further walking corpses in New Fiddleham, which we can all agree is a very positive first step.”

“Walking what, dear?” Hatun asked. She had pulled out her little project and was untangling a knot of wool on the table.

“Ah,” Jackaby said. “Nice of you to join us, Hatun. No cause for alarm. Charlie and Abigail yesterday encountered a small abomination: an undead fellow who had risen from the grave to feast on the living. Nothing fancy. Only took one victim. You will all be happy to hear that Ned Short is still dead, by the way. I checked. Twice. By happy, I mean sad, of course—but the good news is that his steadfast necrosis seems to confirm that this strain of postmortal reanimation is neither a viral nor a transferrable phenomenon. That is to say—we can’t catch it. Which is, you know, quite good on the whole.”

“That’s something,” Jenny agreed.

“Well, what about the rest of you?” Jackaby glanced around the circle. “Reinforcements?”

“We’ve put the word out,” said Charlie.

“I ’spect we’ll see a lotta folks tomorrow night,” Hudson added.

“Good.” Jackaby looked at me. “Any luck with your interrogation?”

“Some,” I answered. “Not much, I’m afraid. The council is definitely still looking for the shield, though.”

“That brings us to you, then, Nudd.” Jackaby addressed the chief. “Have your goblins learned anything about Hafgan’s shield?”

“Aye. We learned tha’ lookin’ fer it is righ’ bootless. Yer definitely nae th’ only one tryin’.”

“Did you learn who else has been making inquiries?”

“Aye, but tha’ hardly narrows it doon. Everyone. Huntin’ Hafgan’s shield is such a time-honored tradition among th’ Unseelie, it’s apparently a sayin’.”

“Like an idiom?” I said. “You mean they say hunting Hafgan’s shield the way we say a fool’s errand or a wild goose chase?”

“Thassit. Idiom. But why wouldja chase a goose?” Nudd wrinkled up his nose. “Geese is terrifyin’.”

“Yes, yes. We can all agree that geese are the worst of birds,” said Jackaby. “So, everybody wants to find the shield and nobody knows where to look. We have learned nothing. This leaves us with slightly more haystack and still no needle.”

“I did find oot a little summat aboot yon spear, though,” Nudd added. “When Hafgan was the Dire King, ’e ’ad a spear made for ’im as black as pitch, with a crown as dark as nigh’, right? Well, after he lost th’ legendary battle wit’ Arawn, they say th’ spear was shattered to pieces. Hafgan’s toadies collected up the pieces after an’ had ’em reforged.”

“Father Grafton did say it had been broken and remade,” Jackaby recalled.

“But ’ere’s the interestin’ bit,” Nudd pressed on. “So, th’ spear is still aroond—only ’tisn’t a spear at all any longer. When it was recast, it was recast as a sword. They calls it th’ black blade.”

I choked. “Did you say the black blade?”

I glanced at Hatun, who was blithely tying off the end of her yarn, apparently satisfied with her—whatever it was. Her finished project appeared to be a somewhat less disorganized pile of colorful wool. She tucked the ice pick and the needle back into her floppy bag.

“Thassit. Issa thing o’ legend among the smithies in’ th’ underlands.”

Jackaby and I locked eyes.

“That slippery nixie!” Jackaby slapped the table. “Morwen had the black blade all the time! It’s in my office right now! With all our infuriating fruitless searches and dead ends, we’ve had one of the instruments of Hafgan all along! No wonder we’ve gotten under the Dire King’s skin! We didn’t just take his daughter—we put ourselves one step ahead of him without even knowing where our feet were!”