American Craftsmen Read Online Free Page B

player with a bridge cue slung over his shoulder. Perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered hiding his thirty-inch sword; in this town, carrying an archaic weapon with a decorated hilt wasn’t so unusual. Endicott’s weapon was the source of his code name. He bore the blade of the first American of his ancestral line.
    Endicott was proud of his family, whatever its excesses, and Old John of Salem was the most excessive Endicott. John had used this sword in May 1628 to hack down Thomas Morton’s maypole and drive away his drunken followers. John had brandished this sword during the trial of Ann Hutchinson, ancestor of the colonel. In America’s first declaration of independence, John’s sword had sliced the red cross of Saint George the Dragon Slayer from every flag he could find.
    Major Endicott could laugh at a man who had wanted veils for women. But Old John had been right about the things that mattered: faith, discipline, and freedom.
    Old John took a distant second place in Endicott’s heart to his later ancestor, Abram. At the siege of the House of Morton, Abram had carried this sword. With it, he had defeated Roderick, leader of the Left-Hand Mortons, the man who had taken the name and guise of the Red Death. Abram had slain the greatest evil in the history of the Fighting Families. Just thinking of Abram gave Endicott an electric feeling of pride.
    From generation to generation, the Endicotts had handed down this sword as the symbol of their Fighting Family’s commitment to military service. Other talents in other Families might forget their duty to country and either forego their spiritual gifts or use them only rarely and in secret from government practitioners, but Endicott could not imagine living without either his spiritual duty or practice.
    He reached the entrance to the baroque monastery, now a tourist haven. A long line of stocky Germans chattered in soft gutturals at the entrance. Germans still had a way of annoying everyone in American spiritual ops. Dear God, was this Sphinx’s sense of humor? Send the Puritan to a Catholic monastery to meet an atheist with a bunch of Germans nearby. Endicott was tolerant, but he didn’t appreciate being laughed at.
    Endicott’s target was Karel Macha, an aging Cold War leftover. Macha had double-dealt too many times, and any number of nationalities would still love to kill him. The Czech wanted to eyeball his contact before coming over.
    Endicott didn’t ready any specific spells. He would rely on his strongest spiritual gift: the power of command. His Family had centuries of practice at telling others what to do. Unlike some other Families, his didn’t believe that God played dice with the universe. When Endicott prayed, he felt like a vessel for divine certainties, not skewed probabilities.
    “In the name of Jesus, let me through.” Endicott gave commands in simple panglossic, another useful gift of the Spirit. Repeating this simple prayer, he was admitted to the limited tour area, then the caretakers-only area of the monastery library.
    In the old library, Endicott’s nose itched. Despite preservation and cleaning efforts, the air was saturated with the dust of decaying books. Many rows of volumes were rebound in bland communist gray, contrasting with the rich dark woods of the shelving. A brief search and he found his goal: a not-terribly-secret passage led downstairs.
    On the steep stairway, fancy stone gave way to brick and natural rock. The further belowground Endicott went the more the very air pulsed with hostility. He remembered what Abram Endicott had written about the House of Morton under the Left-Hand Roderick and Madeline, how he could feel its malice against him. This place was like that, a vessel for the chthonic power of those who dwelt here.
    When Endicott reached the last stair, he found a source for the anger. An old man glared at Endicott, his head bald and choked with veins, his glasses almost bulletproof thick.
    The man’s splotched face