CHAPTER
24
MY HEART POUNDED LIKE A hammer, echoing the throbbing in my skull. Each beat came with a question.
How could I have been so stupid?
If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own head. If I’d just looked at the two of them outside our shop for one second more. If I hadn’t followed Martin up here blindly. It’s not like I’d thought Stubb was the only one in the Cult.
I shook my head. I could beat myself up later. Right now, I needed to get out of here.
The window, I thought. Cautiously, I peeked outside. The courtyard was empty. I stuck my head out farther, looking to see if I could climb down.
Not a chance. I was three floors up, with solid stone directly below. Climbing out the window was not an escape, it was a good way to break my legs.
I wanted to scream for the doorman. I would have if I hadn’t known Wat would readily kill him to keep him quiet. Instead, I went back to Oswyn’s door and pulled on the knob, rattling it as hard as I could. No use. The door jamb was solid oak, the latch was iron. The best I’d do is snap off the handle.
I scanned the room for a weapon, anything I could use. The chairs were sturdy. They might have made good clubs, except Oswyn’s office was so small, there was barely any space to swing them. The books were useless, unless I planned to paper-cut my way out of here. The lantern, maybe. The base was solid brass, heavy enough to do some damage. It had oil, too, which could be dangerous. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any way to light it.
Then it occurred to me: I did have a way to light it. In fact, I had a lot more.
My master’s sash. I was still wearing it. That not only had flint and tinder, it was packed with useful things. I pulled up my shirt and looked at the dozens of vials in their pockets, cork tops poking above the cloth.
My first thought was to make gunpowder again, try to blow open the lock. But the vials with the ingredients I needed were empty. I’d used them up escaping from Stubb and Wat, and I hadn’t thought to refill them when we’d searched Hugh’s workshop. I twisted the sash around, searching for something else. That’s when I spotted it: wax seal on top, tied with twine. I pulled the vial from the sash, the one that had fascinated Tom so much back in Hugh’s bedroom.
Oil of vitriol. That magical liquid that dissolved iron—like the lock on Oswyn’s office door.
I had to hurry. I tore the twine from the wax and broke the seal. The sour stink of the vitriol rose from the glass. I could see the latch between the door and the jamb, but I couldn’t fit the vial into the crack. I ripped one of Oswyn’s sketches from the wall, hoping desperately he’d forgive me for desecrating his office. I folded the parchment into a channel, wedging it into the gap. Then, carefully, carefully, I dripped the thin yellow oil down it onto the metal.
Immediately, the iron began to fizz. The invisible vapor that rose from the bubbles dried my throat, making me choke. I had to step back, coughing, while the oil of vitriol worked on the latch. I let the few drops I’d poured eat away at the iron for a minute, then dripped a little more.
The latch corroded slowly—too slowly—but I was scared to go any faster. The lock wasn’t very thick, but there wasn’t a huge amount of vitriol, and I couldn’t afford to waste any. I’d already lost some to my parchment funnel, which was dissolving even faster than the iron. I’d hoped the vellum, being resistant to liquids, might last long enough to finish the job, but before I could pour the third batch, it crumbled into flakes of blackened calfskin.
I went for another page from Oswyn’s wall. Then a better idea struck me. I pulled the silver spoon from my master’s sash and rammed it between the door and the jamb, using its handle as a guide to drip the oil down. I wished I’d thought of that before I’d ruined Oswyn’s work. Though breaking his door wouldn’t exactly endear me to him, either. If I didn’t get the chance to explain what had happened, I’d lose the only ally I had left.
Still, the latch disintegrated. I’d worn the iron down to a narrow strip of pitted metal when the vial ran out. There was nothing more I could do about it. I grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled.
The latch still wouldn’t budge.
Come on, I thought. I put one foot against the wall and tried again, straining. My fingers throbbed, grew numb with pain.
The iron bent.
Once more. I pulled with all my strength. I prayed just as hard, sending a silent plea up to heaven. Please, God. Please, Master. Please help me.
It broke.
The latch snapped with a metallic twang. Its pitted end flew from the jamb and bounced dully on the floor, trailing little yellow drops behind it. I fell backward, landing hard on my side, setting my scraped shoulder to stinging again. I didn’t care. I was free.
Or not.
Martin stared at me, wide eyed, from the other side of the open doorway. “How did you . . . ,” he began.
I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed the chair closest to me. Before I could swing it at him, Martin was there.
He gripped my arms, shoved me backward into the desk. The corner drove into my spine, just below my ribs.
Pain. Incredible, unbearable pain. It felt like the wood had stabbed me, piercing my back like a spear. I howled and fell to the ground. Martin toppled with me. His weight crushed the wind from my chest.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. I just lay there, groaning in agony. I opened my eyes in time to see Martin’s fist flying toward my mouth. His knuckles cracked into my teeth. My head slammed against the floor. I tasted blood, sour and metallic.
“You little rat,” he said.
His punch dazed me, but he wasn’t finished. Martin drew back to hit me again. I reached into the sash at my waist, more by instinct than anything else. I grabbed a vial, any vial, and drove it into his cheek.
The glass shattered in my hands, its jagged edge slicing open Martin’s flesh. He screamed as I dragged the broken vial down to his chin, umber powder spilling out all over me. I twisted my hand as I pulled, sending a sharp stab of pain into my own finger. Martin shoved me away and rolled to the side, holding his face.
I rolled the other way. Martin turned toward me, fingers to his bloody cheek, unbridled rage in his eyes. There was still some powder in the vial. I threw it right in his face.
“Ahhh!” he cried. He fell back, his arm shielding his stinging eyes. I flung the remaining glass at him. It bounced harmlessly off his blue apron. Crimson drops from my cut finger trailed after it, dripping blood all over the wood.
I’d got Martin off me for the moment, but my head was still spinning. I used the side of the chair, now lying on the ground, to push myself up. Dazed, I stumbled, jamming my knee painfully against its oak rungs. My back spasmed horribly, threatening to seize up on me.
On the floor, Martin blinked away tears. His eyes had gone flaming red, the umber powder still dotting his cheeks. He bled badly from the wound I’d given him, scarlet running down his jaw and staining his collar. He began to pull himself up, too. His hand groped in his belt for his knife.
I grabbed Oswyn’s lantern, now toppled over on his desk. I swung it wildly. Martin ducked. The lantern whistled past him harmlessly, but it put him off balance for a moment. He stumbled and fell into the corner.
I ran.
I’d planned to go back the way I came. Instead, I skidded to a stop. Thirty feet down the passage, the Elephant stopped in his tracks, too. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Oswyn’s lantern swung from my hand. A knotted rope swung from his.
I turned and ran the other way.