Free The Blackthorn Key by Kevin Sands Page A

Tom’s size throwing dice with a long-haired friend in the alley behind our house. I mumbled an apology and went around them, each step echoing the pounding in my head.
    He’d hit me.
    My cheek still stung. My hand hurt, too. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized it was because I was clenching the coins he’d given me so tightly, they’d cut into my skin.
    I didn’t understand. I’d swear on my life he hadn’t asked me to collect Baron Cobley’s account. And sending me for natron . . . natron came to market on Wednesdays. They’d be out of stock by now.
    Something had to be wrong. I’d seen Master Benedict angry before, made him angry before, but never like this. I wanted to go back, talk to him, plead with him to tell me what I’d done. But he’d ordered me not to return.
    And he’d hit me.
    I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.
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    The Royal Exchange was packed. Traders, jammed shoulder to shoulder, hawked their wares, shouting, haggling, arguing. I went to every stall and each time got the same answer.
    â€œNothing today, lad. Try next Wednesday.”
    I hunted for hours. I even considered going to another apothecary, but they’d mark the cost high, and Master Benedict wouldn’t be pleased. In the end, I gave up and went home while it was still light. I was afraid of what mymaster would say. But I needed to know what was wrong. And I wanted to speak to him, say I was sorry, go back to the way things were.
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    I came in through the workshop, too scared to show up in the store empty handed. Strangely, the back door wasn’t locked, and the shutters on the back windows were closed. In the furnace, dying embers gave off just enough light to see. I frowned when I saw the tongs left in the ashes. I moved to pull them out, then jerked my hand away with a curse.
    I sucked my fingers. The tongs burned. They must have been sitting in the fire for ages.
    A small glass jar sat open next to the oven, its lid on the floor. Scattered nearby were a handful of tiny, black, kidney-shaped seeds. I picked one up, rolled it between my fingers. It smelled faintly of rotten tomatoes.
    Madapple. The first remedy Master Benedict had ever taught me. In small doses, it helped asthma patients breathe. Any more than that, it became a deadly poison. What was the jar doing left open?
    I couldn’t hear any conversation from the shop. The light in the open doorway was as dim as in here. I frowned again. Sunset was still a few hours away. The shop shouldn’t be quiet.
    I moved toward the door. My shoes squelched. I lifted a foot and saw a pool of liquid underneath. Streaks led away from it, long dark tracks, as if something heavy had been dragged, leaking.
    I followed them. The shop’s shutters were closed, the fire dead in here, too. The front door was locked, the bolt thrown. The sodden trail smeared across the floorboards, turning crimson. A smell, hot, metallic, filled the room. And there, in the middle of it all, was my master.
    They’d left him slumped against the front of the counter, his wrists and ankles bound with rope. His shirt was ripped apart. His stomach, too. His eyes were open, and he stared back at me, but he couldn’t see me, and he wouldn’t, never, ever again.

CHAPTER
9
    THEY ALL CAME. SINCLAIR THE confectioner, and Grobham the tailor, and Francis the publican and his servers. Others came too, neighbors and strangers. Crammed in. Gawking.
    By the time they’d arrived, I’d already cut the ropes that had bound my master and laid him out on the floor. The scraps of rope lay beside him, next to the woolen blanket I’d used to cover his body, now stained red. I was stained, too, from when I’d held him.
    Now I sat beside him, my hand over the blanket, resting on top of his chest. Everyone else stood around, useless. Just like me.
    Sinclair leaned over.