The Book Of Secrets Part 8

And then I saw him. He was sitting on a bench two tables away, on the fringes of a conversation with a group of goldsmiths. One hand clutched a mug of beer; with the other, he fed himself bites of an enormous pork chop. The fat smeared around his lips glistened in the candlelight; his puffy eyes scanned the room with a suspicious resentment that a decade had not dimmed since he beat me in Konrad Schmidt's workshop. Gerhard.

I should have dropped my gaze at once and hoped he would not notice, but shock had me in its grip. All I could do was stare, like a rabbit in a trap. The lank hair had receded, leaving a patch of red skin like a blister on the top of his head; his back had developed a stoop, perhaps from too many years bending in front of a furnace. But it was certainly him. And if I could recognise him, he could surely do the same to me.

Our eyes met. I cursed myself for shaving my beard, which might have been enough of a disguise; I touched the pilgrim mirror that I kept in my purse and prayed that a decade of suffering might have aged my face to the point where he did not remember it. But Aeneas had restored my life too well. Stupefied, I watched surprise give way to disbelief, then harden into certainty. And triumph.

He pushed back the bench and rose. I looked at the hearth, at the spitted pig twisting in the flames and the fat oozing out of its body. I knew what would happen to me if Gerhard reported my crime.

A maid with a tray of mugs crossed in front of Gerhard, blocking his path. He stumbled back a step and in that moment I made my decision. I jumped up from my seat and ran to the stairs, careless of the attention I drew. Hot fat spat onto my hand as I pa.s.sed the fire and I flinched but my greater fear was meeting Aeneas. I could not bear for him to learn what sort of man he had helped.

I reached the street and ran up a narrow alley towards the cathedral. When I reached the market in the square, I ducked behind a tanner's stall and doubled back on myself, down a narrow row of shops towards the river. It was almost deserted. If Gerhard had followed me, he would certainly have no difficulty seeing me now.

I came out on a wharf just below the bridge. Few boats dared risk the river that early in the season but, to my shining relief, there was one at the foot of the steps, a small barge whose captain was just casting off the ropes. I skidded to a halt at the edge of the wharf.

'Where are you going?' I shouted down.

'To Aachen, and then to Paris.'

It was not the captain who answered but one of the pa.s.sengers. He wore a short travelling cloak and a hood, and carried a long walking staff though if the barge was taking him all the way to Aachen, he would not have to walk a step for weeks. A small knot of men and women stood around him on the bow, all dressed for a pilgrimage.

I glanced nervously over my shoulder. Was Gerhard even now summoning the guard, telling them what manner of criminal they harboured in their city?

'Can I join you?'

The pilgrim consulted with his companions a moment, then looked at the captain, who shrugged.

'If you have two silver pennies to contribute to the costs of the journey.'

I scampered down the steps and leaped aboard. I rummaged in my purse and found the two coins most of what it held. I did not even have a hat with me.

The bargeman gave me a curious look but said nothing. He cast off the ropes and poled the vessel away from the landing, until the current picked it up and began to drive it forward. I sat on the bow with my back to the city and did not look back.

XVII.

Kingdom of Iskiard

The inn stood on a wind-blown hill above the great river, tall and crooked like the blasted trees that surrounded it. The sign that hung from its gable swung like a noose in the breeze. In the far distance, the four Castles of the Guardians stood silhouetted against the setting sun, watching over the realm as darkness descended. The lone Wanderer hurried his pace, tapping his staff on the road. He did not want to be abroad after nightfall, when the wargs hunted.

He climbed the stairs and entered the inn, surveying it from the deep shadows of his cloak. The candles had burned low, and the fire in the hearth was no match for the surrounding gloom. Three swordsmen, still in their armour, sat drinking horns of mead and boasting of their deeds. In a corner, two merchants one a dwarf muttered and counted coins. Otherwise the hall was empty, apart from from a wench in a low-cut blouse behind the bar. She edged her way to serve him.

'Prithee, what is thy desire, stranger?'

'I seek Urthred the Necromancer.'

Her face didn't move, but the tone of her voice spoke of awe. 'Urthred keeps to his chamber upstairs. Be warned, stranger: he is fearsomely guarded.'

The Wanderer nodded. He made his way to the twisting stair at the back of the room and climbed: past narrow, barred windows laced with cobwebs, through a wizened door into a dark corridor. Shafts of moonlight tiled the floor through the windows; at the far end, a blue skein blazed and crackled in front of another door.

The Wanderer took a step towards it, then halted. Had he heard something?

'Ni-yargh!' A figure came charging out of the shadows. The Wanderer just had time to glimpse a hooked nose and savage fangs, the gleam of a sword in the moonlight. But the Wanderer was the hero of a thousand battles in this land. He stepped to one side and tilted his staff like a lance, straight into his a.s.sailant's body. The goblin flailed back, off balance; the Wanderer stepped forward, swung the staff around and with two swift blows dispatched him.

'Who trespa.s.ses in the Necromancer's abode?' The voice came out of nowhere, echoing in his ears. The threads of light at the end of the pa.s.sage pulsed like the strings of a harp.

'Nicholas the Wanderer.' He pulled back the sleeve of his cloak to show the mark of the Brethren seared onto his wrist. 'In the name of Farang, let me pa.s.s.'

The glowing tendrils pulled away. The door swung in noiselessly. The Wanderer stepped through.

The room beyond was a dim stone chamber, lit only by moonlight and a pair of naphtha torches bracketed to the wall. The ceiling above was so high that the rafters, where bats roosted, were almost invisible. Magickal and alchemickal apparatus filled the corners of the room siphons, flasks, jars of dragons' bane and unicorns' mane. And behind a stone table, staring at his uninvited guest, an old man with piercing eyes and a straggly grey cloak, a silver circlet enclosing his long white hair. Urthred the Necromancer.

'Nicholas the Wanderer. Many moons has it been ere you crossed the threshold of these lands.'

'Sorry,' said Nick. 'I've been kind of busy.'

Urthred's face stayed expressionless, but Nick knew he didn't like the irreverence.

'Listen, I'm sorry I don't have time for the formalities. I need to talk to you.'

'Then why didn't you pick up the phone? This isn't a chat room.'

'I didn't want to be traceable.'

Urthred sighed. 'Job making you paranoid again?'

'My room-mate was murdered last night.'

It was unnerving to say it to the avatar, to look for shock or sympathy in the digitally drawn face and see nothing. Its blank eyes just stared at him.

's.h.i.t, man, I'm sorry.' Urthred's portentously Anglicised voice was gone, replaced by the Midwestern tw.a.n.g that, somewhere in Chicago, belonged to a geek named Randall. 'How did it happen?'

Nick told him, starting with Gillian's message. He added in what he'd learned about the card. 'If it's real, it's worth something. But it could just be a fake.'

'Want me to take a look at it?'

'Please.'

In the Necromancer's chamber, the Wanderer reached inside his cloak and pulled out what looked like a giant marble, a gla.s.s globe filled with swirling coloured mists. He handed it to Urthred, who placed it in a rack on the wall with other, similar spheres. Somewhere on a server farm in Oregon or China, a file copied itself from Nick's account to Randall's.

'I'll just run it through.'

Randall's avatar went still as he dropped offline. After a few seconds, the Necromancer began to shuffle on the spot and swing his arms, a sort of human screensaver. It was odd, Nick thought, how although nothing had changed on screen, the mere knowledge that Randall wasn't looking out of that rendered face made him feel alone in the imaginary room. Even odder, he supposed, since he'd never seen Randall in the flesh.

They'd met at an online conference a couple of years back, both partic.i.p.ants in a Web symposium. Randall had just made a name for himself by convincing a judge that a tabloid photo of a supermodel entering rehab was actually a fake. The supermodel had received an undisclosed sum from the newspapers; Randall had earned a reputation as one of the smartest researchers in the field. Informed rumour had it he'd also taken a juicy cut of the damages. Scurrilous rumour added he'd enjoyed a more personal thank-you from his grateful client.

'The reliability of digital evidence is one of the biggest challenges for law enforcement in the twenty-first century,' he'd told the conference. 'With a fifty-dollar camera and a PC, there's almost nothing that can't be faked. But there is hope. The moment you change a digital image, you leave fingerprints on it. It's almost impossible to combine two pictures realistically without rotating or resizing something. Those are mathematical manipulations, and they make marks in the data like ripples when you toss a rock in a pond. If you could measure all the ripples, their height and wavelength and velocity, you could work backwards to figure out where the rock went in and how big it was. This is the same idea.'

It was an idea that required some chunky mathematics maths that turned out to be as useful for piecing together real doc.u.ments as detecting fakes. Nick had emailed him afterwards to compare notes, and from there they'd become occasional collaborators. Randall had also brought him into Gothic Lair. For several months they'd roamed across the online fantasy kingdom almost every night: killing dragons, saving princesses and storming castles filled with unimaginable treasures. Before Nick swapped the company of the princesses for Gillian.

A nimbus of white light flared around Urthred the Necromancer as he came alive again.

'Any joy?'

'All I got was garbage.'

Nick had spent enough frustrated hours waiting for a computer to deliver its verdict to know not to expect much. But this wasn't just another exercise. He squeezed the mouse in frustration, accidentally sending the Wanderer scuttling across to the far corner of Urthred's chamber.

'It's not the algorithm. The picture's completely screwed up.'

'What do you mean?' Nick guided the Wanderer back to the centre of the room. 'Is the file corrupted?'

'It's not the file.'

Belatedly, Nick realised Randall was trying to tell him something.

'You know my a.n.a.logy about the ripples in the pond? Well, imagine you pull up a sample and it turns out the pond's not even water. That's what I'm talking about.'

'I don't-'

'Someone's done something to this file. The picture's still there, obviously I can see it fine. But something's going on under the surface that's completely changed the file coding.'

Nick finally got it. 'Encryption.'

'Exactly. Someone's buried something inside this file that doesn't show up when you look at the picture. There are over five million individual pixels in that image, each one stored as a string of six characters. All you have to do is change a handful of them so that those numbers and letters spell out a message, and you can hide a whole string of text without anyone knowing. Invisible to the naked eye.'

Nick knew how it worked he'd come across it before. Why didn't I think of that?

'Would Gillian have known how to do that?'

'Sure. There are a bunch of programs you can get to do it for you. Figure out which one she used, run the file through and it'll just pull the data back out. It's probably pa.s.sword-protected though.'

Bear is the key. 'I'll get right on to it.' For the first time since Gillian's name had lit up on the screen, Nick felt hopeful again.

'You could try to her IP address as well,' Randall suggested. 'See where she got to?'

'She Buzzed me. Peer to peer. I thought that was impossible to trace.'

'Someone must have managed it.' Urthred turned and looked at him. 'Otherwise how did they find you?'

On screen, Nicholas the Wanderer leaned on his staff and stared across the moonlit chamber at the Necromancer. In a busy Internet cafe on lower Broadway, Nick leaned back on the stainless-steel barstool. The place was full: no dwarves or magicians, but just about everyone else. Filipinos and Indians checking in with their families back home; European backpacker-types bragging to their blogs; some Mexican kids playing Counterstrike. A tiny, infinitesimal fraction of the chatter shooting around the world over wires and airwaves. Yet through all that hubbub, someone had traced a message from a frightened girl in Europe to an apartment in New York. Nick glanced over his shoulder. A Korean man with pimpled cheeks and a buzz cut seemed to be waiting for a free machine. Was he familiar? Had he seen him before?

'Are you at home now?' Randall asked through the earphones.

Nick shook his head, then remembered Randall couldn't see. 'Home's a crime scene. I'm not allowed back there.'

'That's probably a good thing.' Urthred came around the table to stand right in front of the Wanderer. 'You've got to be careful. You and I, what we do, we're so used to seeing this illegal s.h.i.t as paper, pictures, numbers we hack up. But this is real. Real people, real bullets. Don't f.u.c.k around.'

'I'll be careful.'

Nick hit ESCAPE and dropped out of Gothic Lair. Into a world where there were more than monsters to fear.

XVIII.

Paris, 1433

Aeneas once said that a man's life is a blank page on which G.o.d writes what He will. But paper must be formed before it can take the ink. I considered this while I waited in the paper maker's workshop. The whole room stank of damp and rot, like an apple store at the end of winter. A woman sat at a table with a knife and a pile of sodden rags, cutting them into tiny sc.r.a.ps. These went into a wooden vat, where two apprentices with long paddles beat them into a porridge. When this was ready it would be pushed to the side of the room to fester for a week, then beaten again and again until the original rags were utterly obliterated. Only then would the master paper maker scoop out the paste in a wire form, squeeze it dry in his press, harden it with glue and rub it with pumice to make it smooth beneath the pen. So must a man's life be dissolved and remade before one drop of G.o.d's purpose can be written on it.

The paper maker brought me a bale of paper bound with string. Behind him, one of the apprentices turned the screw on the press. There was a slurping sound as water oozed out of the wet paper into the interleaved layers of felt. In a moment of whimsy I imagined the water as ink, as if words themselves could be squeezed out of the paper, destiny unwritten.

'Your master must keep you busy.' The paper maker took the coins I gave him.

I shrugged. 'We sell salvation to sinners and knowledge to the ignorant. We never want for customers.'

I carried the paper back to our workshop, across the bridge so thick with houses you never saw the river. The only sign of water was the grumble of the milling wheels in the arches below. I pa.s.sed under the watchful gazes of the twenty-four kings of Israel carved into the face of Notre-Dame cathedral, and crossed the invisible river again into the warren of streets around the church of St Severin, in the shadow of the university. This was my home. Goose down and parchment shavings drifted in the air like snow; even to breathe was to take in great lungfuls of them. Copyists sat by open doors and windows with books propped open on stands beside them; illuminators called new and fabulous beasts into being in the capitals and margins of their ma.n.u.scripts, and students in threadbare finery haggled with the stationers, trying to save their coins for the wh.o.r.es across the rue St Jacques.

The shop was about halfway down a lane, with a cloth awning and a few battered books laid out on a table in front. A large poster nailed next to the door advertised the stationer's many hands: heavy blackletter with ornate initials; fine cursives whose stems twined like a tangled garden; thickset minuscules that only a gla.s.s could read. On the corner of the house, the figure of Minerva sat atop a pile of books and peered down at the street.

'There you are.'

Olivier de Narbonne stationer, bookbinder, my employer looked up from the Bible he had been poring over with a customer. I was about to sidle upstairs to begin work on a piece I had promised him that day, but he beckoned me over, steering his customer so that he could introduce us.

'A countryman of yours. Allow me to present Johann Fust. From Mainz.'

I knew where he came from. I knew where he had lived, where he had attended church and where he had gone to school. I knew he was two years older than me, though with grey already flecking his dark hair it looked more. I had fled the length of Christendom to escape my past, each calamity toppling into the next like dominoes. Yet here in Paris a face from my childhood stood in my shop, smiling curiously.

And he knew me. 'Henchen Gensfleisch.' He crossed the room and embraced me awkwardly. I held back, searching his face for any sign of what he knew, trying to hide my panic from Olivier, who was beaming with surprise. After I fled Cologne I never knew what was said about me, how widely my crime was reported. Perhaps Konrad had kept it secret to protect his son. Certainly there was no hint in Fust's face that he had heard of it only honest shock at finding an old acquaintance so far from home.

I returned his embrace. 'It is good to see you.'

We had never been friends. Fust, ambitious and clear-sighted, attached himself to boys of untainted patrician stock, boys who were not descended from shopkeepers on their mother's side. He must have prospered: his blue coat was of a rich cloth, trimmed with bear fur and golden thread. It was not the fashion of the day, but the sort of coat an older man might wear, the dress of a man impatient with his contemporaries.

'Why are you in Paris?' I asked.

He lifted up the little Bible. 'Buying books to take back to Mainz.'