‘Don’t be absurd!’ snapped an owl screwed onto a perch by the front door.
‘A fatuous notion!’ said the yellow-eyed falcon on the high back of Zoticus’s chair. Crispin could imagine it glaring at him.
‘Quite so,’ said a hawk Crispin hadn’t noticed, from the far side of the room. ‘The very idea is indecent.’ He remembered this Jaded voice. From twenty-five years ago. They sounded utterly identical, all of them. He shivered, unable to help himself. The hawk added,’This is a petty thief. Unworthy of being addressed. I refuse to dignify him so.’
‘That is enough! It is commanded,’ said Zoticus. His voice remained soft but there was iron in it. ‘Speak to him, within. Do it now.’
For the first time Crispin had a sense that this was a man to be feared. There was a change in the alchemist’s hard-worn, craggy features when he spoke this way, a look, a manner that suggested-inescapably-that he had seen and done dark things in his day. And he had made these birds. These crafted things that could see and hear. And speak to him. It came to Crispin, in a rush, exactly what was being proposed. He discovered that his hands were clenched together.
It was silent in the room. Unsure of what to do, Crispin eyed the alchemist and waited.
He heard something. Or thought he did.
Zoticus calmly sipped his drink. ‘And so? Anything?’ His voice was mild again.
There had been no actual sound.
Crispin said, wonderingly, fighting a chill fear, ‘I thought . . . well, I believe I did hear… something.’
‘Which was?’
‘I think … it sounded as if someone said, Mice and blood.’
There came a shriek of purest outrage from the table by the fire.
‘No! No, no, no! By the chewed bones of a water rat, I am not going with him! Throw me in the fire! I’d rather die!’
Linon, of course. The small brown and dark grey sparrow, not the hawk or owl or the imperious yellow-eyed falcon, or even one of the oracular-looking ravens on the untidy bookshelf.
‘You aren’t even properly alive, Linon, don’t be dramatic. A little travel again will be good for you. Teach you manners, perhaps.’
‘Manners? He sloughs me off to a stranger after all these years and speaks of manners?’
Crispin swallowed and, genuinely afraid of what underlay this exercise, he sent a thought, without speaking: ‘I did not ask for this. Shall I refuse the gift?’
‘Pah! Imbecile.’
Which did, at least, confirm something.
He looked at the alchemist. ‘Do you . . . did you hear what it said to me?’
Zoticus shook his head. His expression was odd. ‘It feels strangely, I confess. I’ve only done this once before and it was different then.’
‘I’m . . . honoured, I think. I mean, of course I am. But I’m still confused. This was not asked for.’
‘Go ahead. Humiliate me!’
‘I daresay,’ said Zoticus. He didn’t smile now. Nor did he seem to have heard the bird. He toyed with his earthenware cup. From the chairback, the falcon’s harsh eyes seemed fixed on Crispin, malevolent and glittering. ‘You could hardly ask for what you do not comprehend. Nor steal it, like another apple.’
‘Unkind,’ Crispin said, controlling his own quick anger.
Zoticus drew a breath. ‘It was. Forgive me.’
‘We can undo this, can we not? I have no desire to become enmeshed in the half-world. Do the cheiromancers of Sarantium all have creatures like this? I am a mosaicist. That is all I want to be. It is all I want to do, when I get there. If they let me live.’
It was almost all. He had a message to convey if he could. He had undertaken as much.
‘I know this. Forgive me. And no, the charlatans at the Imperial Court, or those casting maledictions on chariot racers for the Hippodrome mob cannot do this. I am more or less certain of it.’
‘None of them? Not a single one? You, alone, of Jad’s mortal children on earth can . . . make creatures such as these birds? If you can do it-‘ ‘-why can no one else? Of course. The obvious question.’ ‘And the obvious answer is?’ Sarcasm, an old friend, never far away of late.