Chapter 69

The Outside, Her Majesty's Prison Thameside.

A guard rapped on the iron door. "Rankow-Baggin-Clarence! Visitor!"

...

"You have five minutes—no more. Every word will be transcribed onto parchment for the court!"

The guard finished his warning and slammed the visitation-room door shut. Only Rankow remained inside.

And a dwarf.

Master Baggin stood on a chair, his robe pooling on the floor. From across the table he studied the man who had once been his apprentice, drumming gnarled fingers on the scarred wood. Half of his beard had gone white; the other half lay in shadow, tinted blue by the stained-glass transom above.

Baggin said nothing—only let the silence stretch.

Rankow stared back at the dwarf who had first taught him the secrets of alchemy. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "Master... so you knew I was still alive."

"I told you long ago," Baggin said quietly, "a ritual cannot rely on a single method. Your mistake—one you never noticed yourself—was always breaking the left forefinger of the corpse first. After watching you for years..."

He sighed, the sound thin and weary. "How could I not know?"

"So you came to condemn me?" Rankow asked. The smile never reached his eyes. "I thought the next time we met would be after our souls had risen to the Spirit Realm."

"That only happens to the strong—those whose emotions burn bright. And even then, it takes a Second-Law prayer to bridge the gap."

Baggin continued, "The soul discipline's newest treatise, On Souls, is honestly well written. For a moment I wondered if the Spirit Realm might truly exist."

"But I'll never finish it," Rankow said. "The court's handed down a Timed Death Sentence. I won't even live long enough for the mad-blood fever to claim me—let alone read another book."

Baggin stroked his beard, gaze flicking over Rankow without meeting his eyes—at the frost-streaked hair, the withered hand missing two fingers, the threadbare rags, the new creases etched around eyes that had once been quick and bright.

A long silence filled the room before Baggin spoke again.

"If you were still the apprentice I once knew, I would grieve for you. But you are not. You are the Bloodsucker, the murderer of one-hundred-and-five souls from thirty-five families. Thousands more will weep for those you killed."

"I grieve, but not for your past—for the innocents who suffered because of it. I came only to see how much guilt stains your hands, how much remorse weighs on your heart... and how much you have aged."

Master Baggin slid off the chair and shuffled toward the door, his stocky silhouette as awkward as a fledgling penguin learning to walk. Rankow watched him go, a sudden ache rising in his chest.

He remembered their first meeting: a rainy day in Inner London. He had crouched beneath an eave, soaked and shivering. The door opened.

Baggin loomed above him, studying the still-damp robes of a potion-shop apprentice, the fresh bruises on thin arms. Drawing hard on a Churchillian pipe, the dwarf had growled, "Boy, one gold coin—just one—and I'll show you the majesty of alchemy."

Rankow looked at the single gold coin on the table, his smile turning bitter. "Master Baggin, Twinborn was the correct ritual. You were a great alchemist—there was no error. The error was mine..." He paused. "And the world's."

The door shut. Baggin left without ever looking back.

---

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, deep within a valley of Mountain, inside the dragon-eaters' dungeon.

Baron watched the cultists tie the "traitor" to the post, thanked them politely, then punched the novice once—hard. The novice staggered, dazed but conscious, gaping at the "Blood Minister" as if to protest. Baron answered with a second blow.

A third.

A fourth.

Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth...

At last the novice yelped, "My lord, I'll do it myself!" and cracked his own head against the pillar, slumping unconscious.

From the next post, a battered dwarf watched it all through swollen eyes. Zophy kicked his stubby legs like a frantic cyclist, cursing the dragon-eaters, House Lancelot, and every ancestor of every Lancelot back to the dawn of time.

Baron pressed the muzzle of a pistol beneath the dwarf's chin. Even then Zophy snarled, "I am Zophy, warrior of the dwarf folk! I'll never yield to scum like you!"

Afraid the shouting would bring guards, Baron hissed, "Master Zophy, I'm Constantine—B—"

"To hell with Constantine!" Zophy spat before the name was half out.

Baron had no choice. He yanked back his hood and spoke each word with deliberate care. "Baron Constantine, Master Zophy. I am Baron Constantine."

Zophy froze, mouth agape. "Young Master? Baron?" He blinked. "You're alive? You've come back!"

A thick wall of sorrow already stood between us... damn, Lu Xun is invading my thoughts again.

Baron shook off the discomfort of being called "young master" and cut Zophy's bonds while speaking rapidly. "Time is short. I'm here for two questions."

"About the Knight-Commander's assassination, I assume," Master Zophy said, voice steadying as he slipped a cultist's robe over his own shoulders. "I don't know what evidence they have, but I'm certain you were framed."

Of course I know I was framed. I need to know who set me up—and how to break the trap.

"First question, Master Zophy: what is your view of the Knight-Commander's assassination?"

Baron locked eyes with the dwarf. Though fragments in the Secret Notebook and scraps of memory supported the tale, years could change a man. He had to be sure Zophy was still trustworthy.

"If you ask me, young master, it's because you're too soft." Zophy did not look away. The ropes fell away and he hopped down, shrugging into the stolen robe. "Back when you first said you wanted Anthony dead, I offered you more than that Canaan-wood staff. I had an ancestral dwarf spear. Coat it with dragon-oil, use it with the staff, and the corpse would burn to ash while leaving not a scorch mark behind. Then not even the Inquisition—or that decrepit Gold wizard Newton at the Tower of London—could trace the Knight-Commander's murder back to you!"

Zophy rambled on, oblivious to the darkening shadow that swallowed Baron's face beneath the hood. By the end, only gloom was visible.

Baron's heart plunged into an abyss, frozen by boundless despair.

The worst possibility had come true.

The murderer—was me.

——

Baron Constantine (original body) – Secret Notebook

April 12, 1975 / Plains / Overcast

I told Master Zophy I wanted to join the Knights Templar and become a valiant contract knight.

He laughed at me, so I blew up his alchemy workshop.

He scolded me soundly. I didn't cry, but Yelena did.

When Yelena cried, Master Zophy finally said I was born to be a knight.

I smiled.