The Inquisitor's Apprentice

“And you’ve lived up to them. You must be a very able man to have risen so fast without money or family to smooth your path.”

“I’ve been lucky in my friends.”

“Or maybe not so lucky.” Morgaunt leaned back into the shadows of his wing chair and put his foot up again. “Roosevelt didn’t take you to Washington with him. Your choice or his?”

“Mine. I don’t have the stomach for politics.”

Morgaunt chuckled. “What real man does? Politics is just lies, bribes, and flattery. There are better ways for a man of action to make his mark on the world.”

“Is that why someone tried to kill you last night? Because they didn’t like the mark you’ve made on the world?”

Instead of answering, Morgaunt signaled to his librarian, who slithered silkily out of the room and came back a moment later with fresh ice for his ankle. When she had tended to him, Morgaunt began speaking in clear, efficient sentences that seemed to Sacha like they could have been stamped out by the hydraulic presses in one of his steel mills.

“The assassin struck here in my house last night, after a private dinner party. But I wasn’t the target. The target was Thomas Alva Edison. And the assassin was no ordinary killer. It was a dybbuk.”

Sacha’s blood ran cold in his veins at the sound of the word dybbuk. What madman would set a dybbuk loose in New York? A dybbuk was the most terrifying creature in all of Jewish magic. It was hunger incarnate. It devoured souls and grew fat on shadows. The crowded warrens of New York’s tenements harbored more souls — and more shadows — than any place on earth. Worst of all, a dybbuk could only be summoned by a Kabbalist. And that meant that Morgaunt was accusing a rabbi of the crime.

Sacha glanced sideways at Wolf, trying to gauge his reaction. But Wolf seemed more struck by Morgaunt’s other piece of news. “Thomas Edison?” he asked. “The inventor? The Wizard of Luna Park?”

Morgaunt snorted. “A silly name for a gullible public. He’s no more a wizard than Commissioner Keegan here. He’s a man of science. A man for a new country and a new century. A man who puts the spellmongers out of business by turning magic into machinery. That’s the way of the future, Wolf. No more of your quaint European superstitions and your mom-and-pop spell shops. The age of magic is over. This is the age of machines. And the future will belong to the men who have the machines.”

“And what’s your interest in Mr. Edison’s machines?”

“Money, Wolf. Money and power.”

Wolf gazed impassively at Morgaunt. Since arriving in Morgaunt’s house, Wolf had risen to new heights of blandness. Was it possible to be this dull by accident? Or was boring people to death part of Wolf’s famous investigative method?

“Oh,” Morgaunt said, picking up his glass of Scotch and swirling it so that the golden liquid flashed and glimmered in the firelight. “You think I should beat around the bush a bit more? Spin you some idealistic little fairy tale about how I’m really in it for the good of the common man? Well, I don’t beat around the bush, Wolf. And I don’t lie either. I can’t be bothered to.” His steely eyes sparked with amusement. “Sometimes I think I’m the last honest man left in New York.”

“You mean, now that you’ve gotten rid of Roosevelt.”

“Yes. I suppose that is what I mean. But you’re still here, aren’t you, Wolf? And I’m starting to think you might be an honest man too. That would be a pity. Honesty isn’t a very healthy hobby for a policeman.” He smiled his terrifying smile. “Not in New York, anyway.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Wolf said, as calmly as if they were discussing the chances of rain showers that afternoon instead of the chances that he’d get shot in the back if he got in Morgaunt’s way. “I’ll bear it in mind next time I get the urge to commit a reckless act of honesty while on duty. Meanwhile, do you have any thoughts about who might have wanted to kill Mr. Edison?”

But Morgaunt wasn’t ready to tell him that. He turned away from Wolf and shot a canny look at Sacha from under his steel-wool eyebrows. “Is that your new apprentice? The one who sees magic?”

“So they say.” Wolf sounded like a reluctant witness repeating inadmissible evidence acquired by hearsay.

Morgaunt looked Sacha up and down. “I’m about to render you obsolete, young man. Edison’s just invented a machine for me that will do what you do — and most likely do it better and cheaper. What do you say to that?”

Something curious happened to Wolf as Morgaunt spoke these words. He didn’t move a muscle, and yet a sort of current rippled through his body. Not witchcraft, exactly. But some kind of energy that crackled just on the edge of Sacha’s second sight. Could Wolf have honed the simple art of paying attention to such a height that it had become its own form of magic?

“Edison’s reinvented Benjamin Franklin’s etherograph,” Wolf murmured in a voice even more expressionless than usual.

“Better than that,” Morgaunt said. There was a grim rumble of satisfaction in his voice. You couldn’t really call it a purr. It was more like the sound a lion might make when it glimpsed a particularly tender-looking gazelle. Sacha told himself that this was probably as close as the man ever got to sounding happy. “Come take a look.”

Morgaunt hobbled over to a tall mahogany cabinet behind his desk. Wolf didn’t offer Morgaunt his arm, and Sacha couldn’t blame him. The mere thought of touching the man made you feel like you were freezing to death from the inside out.

Morgaunt unlocked the cabinet with a key that he pulled from his own vest pocket, and opened it to reveal row upon row upon row of tightly packed white and gold cylinders. At first Sacha thought they were bobbins of thread. But then he realized that he’d seen these little cylinders before: they were phonograph recordings.

“This is my little library of souls,” Morgaunt told them. “It might not look like much, but I daresay there’s more information in this little cabinet than in all the rest of my library. Imagine, Wolf. Edison can take everything that’s in a man’s soul and record it on a few ounces of wax and gold foil and play it back to you as easily as if it were just the latest Bowery-dance-hall song.”

“And how will this help you find witches?” Wolf asked.

“Because when you hear a man’s soul, you hear everything he is. Magic included. Magic most of all.” Morgaunt’s eyes glittered like whetted knife blades. “How about it, Wolf? Would you like to sit for the recorder? I’m told it’s a remarkable experience. You might learn something. You might surprise yourself.”

“I surprise myself plenty already,” Wolf said laconically. “I think I’ll pass.”

Suddenly Morgaunt pulled out one of the cylinders and tossed it to Sacha, who barely managed to avoid dropping it. It was surprisingly light: a delicate confection of wax and gold leaf that felt like it might crumple at the slightest pressure. Sacha turned it over. He noticed how the gold glinted in the firelight. He felt the odd pattern of grooves and ridges that swirled around it like the whorls of a fingerprint.

“Whose … uh … soul is this?” he asked.

“I could tell you,” Morgaunt said with a mocking grin, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Can we listen to it?” Lily asked. “I’d like to hear what a soul sounds like.”

“What an excellent idea, Miss Astral.” The smile that spread over Morgaunt’s face as he spoke was even worse than his normal one. It was sly and disdainful. He seemed to be making fun of them to their faces — and enjoying the fact that they were too stupid to see it. “Miss da Serpa, would you do the honors?”

The librarian undulated over to Sacha and took the cylinder from his unresisting hands. She stared hard at Sacha while she did this, and he found it utterly impossible to breathe while her dark eyes were locked on his.

By the time he could move again, Miss da Serpa had loaded the cylinder into a machine that looked for all the world like an Edison Portable Home Phonograph, cranked the machine into life, and stepped back to listen.

What came out was … music. But it was like no music Sacha had ever heard. It made him feel naked. Worse than naked. It laid bare every secret shame, fear, and desire he’d ever had. It cut into him like a surgeon’s scalpel and yanked his guts out into broad daylight for everyone to see. And short of stopping his ears with his fingers, there was nothing he could do about it.

Finally the music faded. Sacha brushed a hand across his brow and realized he’d broken out in a cold sweat. What a horrible invention! It was indecent. Shameful. Imagine taking a person’s deepest feelings and playing them as if they were the latest show tune! Even Uncle Mordechai wouldn’t expose himself like that. And Sacha didn’t have to wonder for a second what his father would think about it.

He glanced furtively at the others to see if they were as shattered by the strange music as he was. But Wolf