The Blackthorn Key by Kevin Sands

Archangel?”
    The words of the madman echoed in my skull. The Cult of the Archangel hunts . I wrapped my arms around myself. My bloodstained shirt stuck wetly to my chest.
    Bitterness swelled inside. Lord Ashcombe was His Majesty’s protector. Where was our protector? Where was the King’s Warden when we needed him? Why had they come after us? Why did they have to hurt my master?
    And where had I been, while he was dying? When Master Benedict needed me?
    I bowed my head.
    â€œWell?” Lord Ashcombe said.
    â€œMaster Benedict didn’t believe there was a cult,” I said.
    Lord Ashcombe grunted, as if I’d just said something incredibly stupid. Sitting beside the Cult’s obvious handiwork, I guess I had.
    â€œSo,” he said. “Lady Brent was the last customer he saw before he sent you out?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “William Fitz was here, and Samuel Waltham. There were two more. I don’t know who they were.”
    â€œDescribe them.”
    I tried to picture them. “There was an apprentice, about sixteen years old. A little taller than me. Big. Muscles, not fat. Reddish hair. The other was a man, maybe thirty or so. I didn’t really look at him. He was wealthy, I think. His coat was nice. He had a long black wig, the kind with the curls over the ears. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken.”
    â€œAnyone else waiting around outside? Casing the shop?”
    I didn’t remember seeing anyone casing the shop.Then again, I hadn’t been paying attention to anything when I’d left. I’d been too busy feeling sorry for myself. Now I felt so ashamed.
    â€œYou were gone for the afternoon,” Lord Ashcombe said, and I nodded. “So others could have come in.”
    Suddenly, I stiffened. “The ledger.” Lord Ashcombe looked blank. “We keep track of everything we sell,” I said. “If there were other customers—” I broke off.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œThe ledger,” I said. “It’s gone.”
    It wasn’t on the counter anymore. The inkwell was still there, unstoppered. There was blood, too, already drying a crusty brown, smeared on the side of the wood. Otherwise, the counter was empty. I walked around it to see if the ledger had fallen behind it, but the book wasn’t there, either. Just my straw mattress and pillow, my puzzle cube and knife resting on top, and the empty strongbox. I turned it over.
    â€œThey took our money,” I said.
    Lord Ashcombe pointed. “What’s that?”
    There it was. The ledger was on a shelf, under the jar of lemon juice, the one Master Benedict had ordered me to bring him before I left. The quill was on top of the leather cover, or at least the pieces of it were. Someone had snapped it in two.
    Lord Ashcombe got there first. He tugged the ledger from under the jar, leaving the ceramic rattling on the wood. He laid the book on the counter and opened it, flipping pages until he got to the end. I could still smell the citrus tang of the lemon.
    He studied it for a moment. “I can’t read this,” he said.
    I hadn’t expected him to. In the ledger, Master Benedict wrote names and remedies in shorthand, and often in Latin. He’d taught me the same code. We did it partly because it was faster, and partly because it was another way to keep our business secret.
    Most of the day’s entries were mine. The last three were in my master’s hand.
    â€  Δ esid. A: rapf. O set. age Htsn. oil eh. two leb. Ht4: shg. Uh. ←
    â†“ M08 →
    end.swords
    neminidixeris
    I stared.
    Lord Ashcombe watched me. “Something wrong?” he said.
    â€œI . . . no.” I felt my face grow hot. “These are . . . notes. Reminders to buy more ingredients we’re out of. Oilof vitriol, and . . . others. The numbers say how much.” I left my hand on the page. “He didn’t write