Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 47 of 150

Ben led them off the pines road at first light. Six boxes still unverified. The herbalist's men knew the music hall now, and every place he had used before was burned. He needed a room no one tied to him. Joe pointed down a track Ben had never walked. "Small house. Boarded front. Nobody's been in a week." The building sat low and square, its walls stacked with slatted crates behind reinforced timber. A faded sign over the door read Collect. It looked like a trader's stow-house, the kind that took goods on consignment and never asked names. The lock was cheap. Amanda opened it with a wire. Inside smelled of straw and old wax. Crates lined every wall. A counter held a ledger left open to a blank page. Ben set the chest on the counter and slid the bolt behind them. "Two hours," he said. "Six boxes. Then we move." Anita spread the ledger page beside Anita's list. Ben cracked the wax on the seventh box. The hum lifted, thin and short, and died in the crates. He held the piece up to the lamp. A small carved figure, blue paint, gold lines, a heart cut into the brow. Anita ran her finger down the list. "Seventh entry. Painted guardian. Match." Ben sealed it and moved on. Comb. Cup. He worked fast. Justin stood at the shuttered window, listening. Joe watched the back. On the tenth box, something moved in the crates. Ben froze. A small striped creature climbed down from a shelf, blue-coated, yellow-spotted, with one bright eye and one dark. Not the hunter. Smaller. It sat on the counter and stared at the open box. "Kit," Amanda whispered. "Young. Hasn't called yet." Ben closed the lid slow. The kit sniffed at the wax. Then at the chest. Then at a woven satchel hanging on a peg by the door, its drawstring loose. Ben lifted the satchel down. Sturdy weave. Deep bag. He set the kit inside and pulled the string tight to the neck. The kit turned once and settled. Muffled. Quiet. "Finish," Anita said. He opened the eleventh. Small stone disc. Match. He opened the twelfth. Bone shard, wrapped in linen. Match. Anita drew a line under the last entry and closed the ledger. "All twelve confirmed," she said. "The set is real." Ben dropped the wax across the final seam and pressed it flat. Twelve pieces. Every one genuine. No fakes in the chest. The satchel shifted against his hip. The kit inside had gone still, but its mother would come looking. It always did. And the herbalist's men were half a day behind, closing on any place that smelled of him. "Out the back," Ben said. "Now." He lifted the chest. The satchel bumped his side as he crossed the threshold. Complete, verified, and carrying a lure he couldn't drop.