Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(78)
Elsa held her breath through the first iterations—ka-chunk, ka-chunk—and did not relax until the twang of the mainspring signaled completion.
“Whew. I think it worked this time.”
Porzia fished the compass out of its drawer and scrutinized it. “Seems to be pointing at something, at least.”
Elsa sloshed through the ankle-deep ocean back to the continent, intent on discovering where their search would take them next. The sound of splashing water told her Porzia and the boys followed close behind.
“Unbelievable,” she said, staring down at the pulsing red dot on the map. “He has a lot of nerve going there, after what he did.”
Faraz stepped up beside her, curious to see. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I know exactly where he’s hiding,” Elsa explained.
The dot glowed over Amsterdam: the home city of one Alek de Vries.
17
THE MOVING FINGER WRITES, AND HAVING WRITTEN MOVES ON. NOR ALL THY PIETY NOR ALL THY WIT, CAN CANCEL HALF A LINE OF IT.
—Omar Khayyam
The doorbook took them to a too-familiar street. The quiet canal on one side, the narrow, squashed-together brick buildings looming up on the other, the warm pools of gaslight on the cobblestones. Elsa hardly needed to check the compass for confirmation, but Porzia held it out for her to see, so she glanced at it anyway. Her hunch had been right—the needle pointed straight at Alek’s front door.
“We’ll have to pick the locks,” Elsa said. “I don’t have a key.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Leo said. He produced a set of lockpicks and crouched by the door.
Porzia kept an eye on the street, looking out for anyone who might notice their illicit behavior, though passersby were unlikely—the hour was so late it might better be called early. “Isn’t this the part where you tell us all about how you grew up with a band of professional thieves, or some such?”
“It hardly seems fun anymore,” Leo said, “if you’re going to make up the lies for me before I get a chance to tell them.”
He gave the torsion wrench a quick twist and the front door swung inward.
Elsa stepped inside. “Quietly now. He’s on the second floor.”
They climbed the stairs single file, hugging close to the railing to keep the steps from creaking beneath their weight. Elsa pointed at Alek’s door, and Leo slid a pick into the lock. This time everyone stayed silent while he worked, hardly breathing.
When the lock popped open, Leo grabbed the door handle to hold it mostly closed. He raised his eyebrows at Elsa. The hinges were going to creak, she knew, but she gave him a quick nod anyway.
Leo tucked the lockpicks away and let the hinges creak. They were inside.
A sleep-blurred voice from the other room said, “Listen, Alek, I can explain—”
Then he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with them. Charles Montaigne was of de Vries’s generation, grayed hair and tired skin, though he was shorter and more portly. “You’re not Alek.” He stared for a moment, dumbstruck, and then let out a short bark of laughter. “The daughter, of course! I should have guessed you’d come for it.”
Elsa drew herself up to her full height and spoke with as much authority as she could muster. “Monsieur Montaigne, I need my mother’s worldbook.”
Montaigne considered her, his expression both sad and superior at once. “I’m sorry about Jumi, I am, but you can’t have the book. No one can—it’s too dangerous.”
Leo took a step forward, fingering the grip of his rapier. Elsa could practically feel the tension in his body vibrating through the air. He said, “Don’t mistake this for a request. We’re prepared to take it by force if we have to.”
Montaigne let himself down into Alek’s armchair, as if Leo’s threat simply wearied him. “When Garibaldi approached me about acquiring it, I knew this was my chance to hide the book where no one can ever use it.” He picked up Alek’s pipe and began packing it with tobacco.
Elsa ground her teeth. “So you don’t deny it’s your fault she was taken.”
He struck a match and sucked on the pipe, pulling the flame into the bowl for a nice, even light. “You know … I spent years afraid of her, hating her, but the truth is I brought it on myself. The arrogance, to think I knew what was best for the Veldanese simply because I’d created them. So you see, when it comes to that book, I’m just as culpable as Jumi. Though to be fair, none of this would have happened if Alek hadn’t taught her to scribe.”
Elsa was stunned at the man’s talent for shifting blame, and it was Faraz who replied, “You tried to burn the Oracle worldbook—an original Jabir ibn Hayyan. And you call yourself a scriptologist.” His voice shook with cold fury. “You are no scriptologist!”
Montaigne turned a sick shade of green at this accusation. His hand dropped to the armrest, as if the pipe were suddenly an unbearable weight. “The men I hired were supposed to take the ibn Hayyan along with Jumi’s worldbook—I thought it would throw Garibaldi off my scent if they were seen stealing from my library. But some idiot dropped the ibn Hayyan in the struggle.”
Privately, Elsa thought it was rather telling that the part Montaigne felt ashamed of was burning the books, when he had no shame over encouraging and facilitating Jumi’s abduction. Even now, the Veldanese had little value to him beyond the scriptological accomplishment they symbolized—they were never going to be fully human in his eyes.