Stolen Magic(48)

After a minute or two, Master Tuomo started across the great hall toward the two of them.

Why? Elodie thought. If only she had a brunka’s hearing. And now the high brunka didn’t have it either. The thieves, if there were two after all, could plot without being overheard.

And they could leave.

Elodie returned to the middle of the knot of people.

Mistress Sirka murmured, “I’ve never dosed a brunka before.”

Elodie wondered if the high brunka’s mind was alert. She said firmly, “I’m so glad we found”—louder—“the Replica.”

High Brunka Marya didn’t stir. Everyone else looked at Elodie.

She shrugged. “I thought that might wake her.”

Albin said, “An excellent notion, Lady El.”

The bees returned with Mistress Sirka’s satchel.

The barber-surgeon rummaged inside for a netted sack of little jars. She picked one, unstopped it, and spread an ointment over the lump on High Brunka Marya’s forehead. She found another jar, which she opened and waved under the high brunka’s nose.

“What will those do?” Ursa-bee asked.

“The one under her nose wakes people who’ve fainted. The salve brings down swelling in people and, I hope, brunkas.” Mistress Sirka took off High Brunka Marya’s cap to explore her skull with her fingers. “Two more bumps.” She applied ointment to these bumps, too.

“Brunka skulls are thick,” Deeter-bee said. “We have a book on the anatomy of the brunka. There’s granite in their bones.”

Good! Excellent!

But what if Mistress Sirka were really doing harm to the high brunka? Elodie thought. What if the barber-surgeon and Goodman Dror were the thieves, and the high brunka’s injury would allow them to escape, as long as she didn’t wake quickly?

Johan-bee and his companions returned.

He knelt by her, across from Ursa-bee. “I’m sorry, Marya. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Several bees busied themselves putting the great hall back in order. Two piled dishes on Ludda-bee’s tray. A bee carried the cider pitcher into the kitchen, not bothering to leave paired with another bee.

“Look!” Master Tuomo cried. “The rainbow is gone.”

Elodie thought, It’s all falling apart.

Using the tablecloth, a bee mopped up the pottage on the floor, leaving a circle cleared of rushes.

Albin whispered to Elodie, “I’m taking you home, Lady El.”

No!





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX



As a monkey, His Lordship delivered the madman to his brother and started back to Zertrum. He didn’t shape-shift into himself until he crossed the river. The ground had become unsteady: softening, hardening, shifting. Distant human cries flared up and died down. He followed the nearest voice.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN



“I won’t go.” Elodie took Albin’s hand and tugged him toward the northwest corner of the great hall, the corner not far from the unguarded entrance. The windows high in the wall barely glistened. The day had almost ended.

When they reached the corner she—thoughtlessly—faced Albin with her back to the entrance. “We can’t leave,” she whispered. “Zertrum will explode if I don’t find the—”

“You, Lady El? A mansioner? We enact the great events after they—”

“I’m a detecting dragon’s assistant and a mansioner.” She felt proud, declaring herself.

“Apologies, Lady El, but we must leave. Your parents would want you to, and I serve them.”

Doubtless they would. There was no answer to that, but she couldn’t go.

Albin went on with his argument. “Your safety means more to them—and to me—than the life of anyone on Zertrum.”

“Listen . . .” An idea was coming. She felt its approach but couldn’t grasp it. “Er . . . all the guests will leave . . . and if the thief—or thieves—is a bee, he or she will leave, too, with some excuse. The thief will go, if not tomorrow, then soon, because the Replica has to be sold or its worth doesn’t matter. Right?”

“I suppose.” Albin folded his arms.

“Er . . . but the brunkas and the other bees won’t stop looking for him or her or them. Um . . . it won’t matter to them that Zertrum has already spewed.”

“We’ll be safe at home, eating your mother’s excellent pottage.”

She’d be herding geese, and by then Masteress Meenore or His Lordship or both might have died in the volcano.

The idea arrived, although she hadn’t expected it to be so frightening. “The thieves will want to be safe, too. Because of them, we’ll still be in danger.”

Albin wasn’t used to deducing. “How do you come to that?”

“Because the thieves will plot to silence everyone who was here during the theft. Don’t you see? There are clues even if we don’t recognize them yet. One may be that Mistress Sirka tried to dose Dror-bee—I mean, Goodman Dror—with what she says was a love potion, or that Master Robbie’s grandfather was the last thief, or that Ludda-bee hates everyone and everything except cooking. Or something else.”

Albin’s eyes were tight on her, concentrating as only a mansioner can.