CHAPTER 6

London's coffeehouses were some of the most popular gathering places in England. They were the centers of all intellectual and political discussion, as well as a marvelous place to exchange gossip. And they were always filled to the brim with aristocratic, wealthy customers, sipping at their drinks and swapping opinions and stories.

Beckett was very fond of the coffeehouses and had often frequented some of the finest in his rise to power. He had met various business associates and important, upper-class connections over the strong foreign drink, impressing them with his extensive knowledge of the business world and of the individuals in the aristocracy. In earlier days, when he had been a bit more desperate for money, he had even sold some information here and there. But it had been a long while since he had been in a coffeehouse; since he had gotten involved with Victoria his life had simply been too busy to allow time for a visit to one, and anyway the pleasures promised him at home these days were greater than those afforded by a hot drink.

Still, it was with considerable delight that Beckett stepped into Baxley's coffeehouse that Wednesday evening. Baxley's was his favorite coffeehouse; the owner, Hector Baxley, had always been particularly generous to Beckett even in the days when he was only a merchant's son. Even then Baxley had sensed greatness from Beckett's diminutive person, and he had always shared a little tidbit of information and an extra cup of coffee, free of charge, with the young man whenever he'd stopped by.

Beckett was not so young these days, and Baxley's son did most of the running of the shop now, but Baxley still had a special place for the lord. As soon as Beckett walked through the door, old Baxley looked up, and spotted him, and got to his feet with a smile. "Lord Beckett!" he said cheerfully, approaching the well-dressed lord with open arms.

"Baxley." Beckett accepted the embrace with a surprisingly good-natured smile. If anybody else had tried such an improprietous gesture, Beckett probably would have had them shot. "It's been a long time."

"Too long!" Baxley agreed, leading Beckett towards the back of the building. "You haven't been here since you started courting that Thorne girl. Pity; I've been wanting to hear all about her, especially since she finally snared you into marriage. Settled into the married life, have you?"

"I have, finally," Beckett chuckled.

"And how's it been treating you?"

"Wonderfully," Beckett said sincerely, glancing over his shoulder at the small figure shadowing him. "Victoria can be quite the pain sometimes, but all in all she's worth the trouble."

"She must have been a smart thing to turn your head – and pretty, too," Baxley said.

Beckett was rather impressed that Baxley chose to mention the girl's intelligence first, knowing it would be the more important of the two qualities to Beckett. "Both," Beckett concurred. "She's really quite extraordinary."

"You'll have to bring her down to see me sometime," Baxley said.

Beckett quashed a smile; little did Baxley realize that the woman in question was actually walking directly behind Beckett. "I'll be sure to do that," he said. He motioned to Victoria offhandedly; she was dressed in plain servants' clothes, highly resembling Mercer's, but much smaller. They hid her feminine form well, and to most she appeared to be just a boy. "This is Mr. Huxtable," he said easily. "He's relatively new working for me. I thought I'd bring him along, show him the ropes for the night."

Baxley eyed Victoria questioningly, taking in the scars on her face. "What about Mr. Mercer?" he asked. "He still working for you?"

"Of course," Beckett said with a nod. "But I had to send him off on some business in India, I'm afraid. Huxtable's taking his place for the time being."

Baxley looked concerned. "He's awfully young, sir," he noted in a low voice. "I can tell even through those scars. He's gotten himself into some scrapes, I gather."

"Some absolutely magnificent scrapes," Beckett said dryly. "He's a quick learner. Don't worry, he'll do for now." He glanced towards the back of the building and said, "I believe there's a merchant here to see me."

"Ah, yes, Thompson," Baxley said, motioning for Beckett to follow him. "He ordered the back room last week. Said you'd be coming; that's one reason why I came down to the front room."

"I'm flattered," Beckett said with a smile.

"You ought to be," Baxley grouched jokingly. "I'm not always so kind to fops like you."

"Watch yourself, old man, or I'll have to close down your shop," Beckett warned with a laugh.

"Old man, is it?" Baxley said, affronted. "You're not so young yourself these days."

"But I don't have a son yet," Beckett pointed out. "Although there's one on the way."

Baxley's face seemed to light up at the news. "Is there?" he said. "That's marvelous. My felicitations to your wife."

"I'll tell her for you." The trio stopped before a small, plain door in the back corner of the shop.

"He's in there," Baxley said, nodding towards the door. "I hope all goes your way."

"Oh, it always does," Beckett said airily. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Stop by again sometime soon. And bring that baby when you come!" Baxley ordered.

Beckett chuckled. "I will – and the wife, too," he promised.

"Good," Baxley said, stepping aside. "Good night, Beckett."

"Good night, Baxley."

Beckett watched as the old man shuffled off, back to the front of the shop, a small smile playing across his features. Victoria arched her scarred brow curiously. "I didn't realize you had real friends," she said teasingly.

"I have a few," Beckett said.

"By a few, how many do you mean?"

"Three: Baxley, Mercer, and you."

Victoria laughed. "I'm not certain I should count, since I'm your wife," she said. "I don't have any choice but to be your friend."

"That's hardly true at all," Beckett said. "Take Violet Gardiner and her husband, for instance. Are they what you'd call friends?"

"Not remotely," Victoria snorted.

"Point proven." Beckett raised a hand to knock at the door, fully prepared to claim his prize, but before his fist could touch the wood, the timber twisted about – and morphed itself into a face.

Beckett lowered his closed hand slowly to his side, staring levelly at the face now eyeing him. Victoria drew in a sharp breath and stepped closer to him, but she seemed merely curious rather than afraid. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

"Be still, my Lord and Lady," the face in the wood said in a soothing tone. "I come bearing a warning from the Fae folk under your command."

Beckett folded his arms behind his back, lifting his chin slightly and studying the thing before him with cold blue eyes. "Give me your message, then," he said.

"The object that you have come to obtain is very dangerous," the face informed him, speaking steadily. "It once belonged to the Queen Morgan le Fay."

"I am aware of its previous owner, creature," Beckett said calmly. "You will have to do better than that to dissuade me."

"In order to use the spells contained within the Book, a sacrifice must be made," the face answered without pause. "The sacrifice is not determined by he who wields the power of Morgan's Book, but by the Book itself, and it will claim its sacrifice whenever it sees fit. The sacrifice is directly proportionate to the amount of spells used and the effects of the spells on other creatures; the more spells you use, and the more creatures whom they affect, the greater your sacrifice will be. If you use the Book too frequently, it could even take your life."

Victoria looked disturbed by this news, but Beckett was firm. "I do not plan to overuse it," he said. "We only need it to heal the marks left upon Victoria by her kidnappers."

"Whatever you need it for, my Lord, you will find that once you have opened the Book, it will be difficult to avoid using it," the face said reproachfully. "There are spells for every conceivable purpose within – spells that you might be tempted to use in aiding you to defeat the pirates that you find to be such a menace."

Beckett's eyes glowed with a dangerous light. "If there are indeed such spells, they will be of use to me," he said, a small smile playing on his face.

"Only until they kill you," the wooden face said shortly. "Consider yourself duly warned."

"I shall. And thank your benefactors for the information," Beckett said with a graceful nod of his head.

The face, miraculously, gave a similar nod of respect, the wood stretching outwards and rippling like a flow of water before undulating back into place. The face, too, melted away, disappearing into the door.

Victoria stood worriedly beside him, arms crossed over her chest. "Perhaps this is a bad idea," she said apprehensively.

"Nonsense," Beckett said, straightening his frock coat and preparing to knock on the door again. "The sacrifice will be a worthy one if I can both heal and avenge you and succeed in my lofty goal of destroying the pirates."

"Cutler…" Victoria murmured, lightly touching his arm. "I don't need to be healed. I've grown used to my face, and so have you. And eventually the aristocracy will adjust, too. And anyway you've already got the faeries bound to you – what more do you need?"

"The messenger said himself that there would be spells useful to my operations here," Beckett said, lifting a hand to knock. "And I won't have the entire aristocracy mocking you behind their hands. They ought to be groveling at your feet." Without waiting for a response, he knocked loudly on the door.

A somewhat portly man opened the door, looking nervous and sweaty. An unpleasant odor wafted out from the room when the door was opened– apparently emanating from the edgy merchant. "Hello, Lord Beckett," he said, bowing aside so that Beckett and Victoria could enter the room. "Hello, Mr. – oh!" He looked rather astonished when he realized that it was not Mr. Mercer who had followed Beckett in.

"This is Mr. Huxtable," Beckett said, carelessly motioning to the disguised Victoria. "He'll be my assistant for the time being."

Thompson took in the scars on Victoria's face with a considerable sense of fear. "I… ah… see you've found yourself in some rather tight spots," he said, attempting to joke off his fright.

Victoria calmly removed a dagger from her belt and twirled it about in her fingers. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she replied, deepening her voice as much as possible without sounding ridiculous.

Thompson swallowed hard, then turned and hurried to the table at the center of the room, where Beckett had calmly seated himself. "Well," Thompson said with another nervous laugh, "You know why you're here."

"Let me see it," Beckett ordered, holding out his hand.

Thompson leaned down to a case beside his seat and carefully removed a heavy tome wrapped entirely in a purple velvet cover. Beckett took the large volume from Thompson's trembling hands and delicately unwrapped it, shoving aside the velvet and running his fingers over the worn, heavy cover of the Book with almost loving fingers. He beckoned to Victoria, and she hurried to stand beside him, leaning close over the table to look at the book. Its cover was plain black; there was no writing anywhere to be seen. It appeared a rather normal, lackluster book, if a bit large.

Beckett glanced up with a small frown at Thompson, momentarily worried that he had been duped; but when he flipped open the book, there, scrawled in Old English, was the title he had sought: The Book of Morgan le Fay. It was simple, handwritten; there was no calligraphy to it. It was almost as though it were just a note, a slipshod scribble added only out of necessity.

Beckett carefully began to thumb through the delicate pages, which quickly became increasingly elaborate in design. The entire thing was written in Old English, but that did not disturb him; he knew some of the language from previous experience, and what he didn't know the faeries could teach him. They would surely speak this language. He ran his fingers cautiously over one of the pages, decorated with a dragon at its edge. If only there were some way to change it into English…

At that thought, the page suddenly was inscribed entirely in plain English. Beckett stared at it in momentary shock. There had been no sign, no warning that the page had changed. Indeed, it was almost as though he had blinked, and in that brief space of time while his eyes were still closed the letters rearranged themselves into English words. Victoria, too, was surprised; he could tell by the sharp hiss of breath she emitted when she saw the change in the page.

The specific spell at which they were looking was one devoted to bringing out and controlling a dragon – hence the exquisite dragon lining the page's edge. Dragons, Beckett thought in an oddly detached way; Why did that never occur to me? Excalibur may control dragons as well; and if it doesn't then there's this spell to use… wouldn't that be a nasty little surprise for the pirates?

Beckett began carefully turning pages, looking over the various spells, incantations, ingredients and gestures required. Everything was neatly specified on the same page as its parent spell. And there were spells for everything – spells for curing impossible illnesses, spells for creating love in a reluctant heart, spells to bring wealth, spells to bring sons. Beckett hovered over this spell for a moment, eyes flicking rapidly over the page, before his gaze turned slyly upward to Victoria. She pursed her lips and turned the page for him. Her eyes widened abruptly and she let out a little gasp. Astonished, Beckett looked back at the Book – and saw what had so startled her.

The page was decorated with an exquisitely beautiful woman, drawn flawlessly with ink and preserved in all her bright-colored glory despite time's ravages on the mystic Book. On the page, in neat, perfect calligraphy, was the spell for creating beauty where there had been none before.

Beckett had been hoping for something more along the lines of a healing spell, or a spell to remove scars. Victoria had certainly been lovely before, but her beauty was not such that it had stood out amidst a crowd. To change her into an inhumanly beautiful creature somehow seemed to defeat the purpose of finding the spell to him; the scars had taken away some of who she had been before, and absurd, alien loveliness would take away still more of that woman. He glared down at the spell book, wishing it had offered a less blatant solution to his difficulty. The beautiful maiden smirked up at him, eyes twinkling on the page.

He closed the Book with a swift snap that caused Thompson to grimace; the volume was old and highly valuable, and Beckett's quick gesture could potentially have ruined it. "Are you displeased, my Lord?" Thompson ventured to ask in a quavering voice.

"I had hoped for something a bit different," Beckett said offhandedly, reaching for the purple velvet cover and wrapping the valuable tome within it. "I'm not certain I can use it."

He glanced at Victoria and saw her crestfallen expression, but ignored it. He still had every intention of purchasing the Book from Thompson, but he knew he could use his disappointment to force an even lower price than the already low offer he knew Thompson would suggest.

"That's a pity," Thompson said, sounding a bit angry. "It's a very expensive book, you know, and I went to a good deal of trouble to fetch it for you. I lost a good deal of money hunting it down."

"And gained more, I'm sure, by smuggling some extra loot back in the ship with you," Beckett observed, his tone threatening. Thompson flushed darkly, and Beckett smirked. Thompson had a very bad habit of smuggling extra cargo onboard his ships to sell in the illegal markets when he returned, and Beckett knew it; thus, he kept several spies aboard Thompson's ships, and they in turn kept track of the extra cargo that Thompson smuggled in with him. "I believe you have a shipment of pearls meant for Company purposes that you claimed were lost. Or did you simply forget their location in your ship? It is rather strange for you to keep them in your cabin as you apparently did."

Thompson was sweating heavily now; he knew he could face a hanging if Beckett pressed charges against him. "I – I didn't realize they were – it was an odd place that my cabin boy stowed them, you see -!" Thompson started.

"Don't try making excuses," Beckett said disgustedly. "I don't need them from you. This isn't the first time you've smuggled, Thompson. In fact, it isn't even the second or third or fourth time, is it?"

Thompson was quivering violently in his seat now, staring wide-eyed at the cold man across from him. "I've got to survive, sir," he said pleadingly. "I've got to, and when you keep sending me on these cockamamie missions -!"

Beckett arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?" he said icily.

Thompson cowered back momentarily, then gathered himself in an impressive display of courage. "Ever since you learned of my interest in ancient artifacts you've been using me," Thompson accused, drawing himself up in his chair. "You sent me after that sword, and that took years to find – years where I could have been doing something more productive for the Company – years of my life, wasted! And – and – and – and then you send me after this ridiculous book, which some of my men died to retrieve -!"

Beckett held up a hand to stop the tirade. "Died?" he repeated.

Thompson nodded, shuddering slightly. "When we offered to purchase the book from the monastery at which it was kept, we were driven out at once," he said. "And then when we kept coming back for it, they started coming after us. They're bloody monks, for God's sake, and they carried daggers. Daggers! Poisoned ones! And they killed five of my men. Me and my first mate barely escaped with our lives." He shuddered again, then quickly returned to his former haughty position. "The point being," he continued, "That I've risked my life on your missions multiple times, and I'm getting nothing out of it but lies, blackmail, and an empty pocket. You ought to compensate me better for the work I do, else you're not any better than the thieving scum on the street."

Victoria recognized the still, hard look that came across Beckett's face at those words, and for a split second she pitied the poor merchant. Usually when that look appeared, it meant death for whoever was receiving it. In Victoria's case it usually meant at least two good weeks' ignoring, and sounder punishments than that. Victoria was fairly certain that in this case it meant the former.

She watched as Beckett reached down and swept up his cane – an elegantly carved thing tipped with silver at both ends – and set it calmly at Thompson's chest. "You're right," he said easily. "I ought to compensate you for risking your life in such a valiant way. And so I shall." He set down the walking stick and opened the book again, casually looking through it and pausing to peer at a particularly interesting page. "How much gold do you want for it?"

Thompson gasped sharply in surprise. "Gold, sir?" he asked in a strangled tone.

Beckett looked up in amusement. "I was to understand that you risked your life and lost the lives of five crewmen," he said. "I assumed you would need a significant amount of gold to compensate you for such a loss. Am I correct?"

Thompson nodded, a greedy gleam coming into his eye. "Are these gold pieces, sir?" he questioned, rubbing his hands together.

Beckett nodded.

"Two hundred, then," Thompson ordered pompously. "To make up for my losses when I went after that sword, as well."

"Two hundred," Beckett repeated in a bored tone. "Very well; you shall have two hundred." With that, Beckett nonchalantly lifted his walking stick again, studying it momentarily and twirling it about in his hand; then, with a sharp twist and a hiss of, "Glendran pening," he thrust the slender staff into Thompson's mouth.

Thompson gurgled in surprise before suddenly gasping and sputtering, flailing desperately in his seat. Victoria frowned slightly in confusion as she watched the man wriggling, tilting her head slightly to the side to listen closely. She could swear she heard an odd clinking sound…

Beckett held the walking stick in its place for a few moments, then was forced to remove it swiftly as Thompson bent forward. The portly merchant began gripping desperately at the table's edge, his mouth still open – and suddenly he was vomiting coins out his mouth, trying to draw in a breath and quite unable to do so.

Victoria watched solemnly as more gold coins poured from the unfortunate merchant's mouth. He clutched at his throat and reached out desperately for her, but she simply stared at him with a cold, unfriendly gaze. Wheezing slightly, the merchant gagged a final time, then collapsed forward with another shower of coins and was still.

She watched quietly for a moment, waiting to see if the man would stir. When he didn't, she glanced curiously at Beckett. "Is that a spell in the Book?" she asked.

"Yes; I noticed it on our first viewing," Beckett said calmly. "Thought it might make an interesting first spell to try. And knowing that one's greed… it seemed an appropriate punishment."

"If a bit unpleasant." Victoria glanced with considerable distaste at the coins nearest her on the table. "How are you going to explain this your old friend Baxley?" she questioned.

Beckett waved the staff casually and murmured, "Géanhworfennes." The gold coins melted and became a disgusting splatter of vomit across the table.

"Bloody hell," Victoria swore, leaping back and covering her face with her arm as the fluid began to reek. "So, what? He mysteriously died in the midst of negotiating with you?"

"Not so mysteriously," Beckett said, gracefully pushing his chair back and walking to stand by Victoria. "He ate some bad meat, perhaps, or mayhap he had been ill for a long time. He was out to sea for a long time; God only knows the plagues he might have caught out there. His unfortunate demise can hardly be seen as our fault." Beckett put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her towards the door. "Now, please God, get out of here before I vomit myself. His insides smell worse than his outsides."

Victoria didn't need more encouragement; she moved quickly towards the door and threw it wide open, rushing hurriedly out. She did not need any prompting from Beckett to know that he needed her to fetch Baxley, or Baxley's son, and inform them of the death. She caught sight of both Baxleys seated at a table in a corner, and she hurried towards them. "Begging your pardon, gentlemen," she said, her voice dropping an octave lower than usual, "But there's been an unfortunate accident."

The elder Baxley leapt up in concern. "Is Beckett all right?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, Hector," Beckett assured him, walking up to the trio. "Thompson, unfortunately, is not doing so well."

"Is he ill?" the younger Baxley asked.

"I'm afraid he's dead," Beckett said, his voice monotone.

The younger Baxley looked stricken. "Dead? God bless his soul…"

Baxley senior glanced towards the back room. "How did he die?" he asked, arching a brow. Apparently he didn't think that the death was a natural one at all.

"I'm not sure; some kind of illness, I imagine," Beckett said, wrinkling his nose. "I believe you'll find he vomited rather copiously on your table. My apologies for that."

"Well, I don't suppose it could be helped," Baxley said with a sigh. He lightly laid a hand on Beckett's shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea why the man would be vomiting all over my furniture, would you?"

Beckett was the picture of innocence. "None," he said remorsefully. "He didn't seem very well when we entered the room, and just as we were settling on a price…"

"I get the idea," Baxley said, waving a hand. "I don't need to hear about what he did next; I'm sure I'll get to see it for myself in a moment. Well, I hope that his death won't put too much of a damper on your evening."

"I don't imagine it will," Beckett said dryly. "Thank you for giving us the use of your back room. Sorry for the mess." He slipped a coin into Baxley's hand as he turned to leave.

Baxley snorted and handed the coin to his son, who seemed much happier to accept it. "You'll bring the wife and baby next time as you promised, won't you?" Baxley called after Beckett's retreating back. "And try not to kill any of my other customers?"

Beckett chuckled. "I'll do my best," he agreed with a respectful nod. "Good night to you, Baxley."

"Good night, Beckett. Night, Huxtable."

Victoria hid a smile as she bowed slightly in Baxley's direction; then she turned and hurried out after Beckett into the darkening night.