The Golden Yarn

  They were made to wait for the man whom Chanute had saved from the fangs of a Wolfling. Chanute’s face turned darker with every minute he had to sit idly on a leather sofa that was probably worth more than the entire furnishings of The Ogre, and watch Sylvain down one glass after another of the potato liquor the servants offered on Parsian silver trays. Jacob was glad Chanute was staying away from drink, though he knew the only reason was the grave-bitters he was taking.

  Fox stood by one of the fur-draped windows (even summer nights could be bitter-cold in Moskva) and looked down at the city’s skyline, spread out like layers of colored paper. Jacob knew that silent look on her. She could stand like that for hours. Images, sounds, scents… Even years from now, she’d remember every detail. Jacob loved watching her face when she was so absorbed, so in the moment. Not allowed, Jacob. Chanute was telling them for the third time how he’d earned the eternal gratitude of Aleksei Fyodorovich Baryatinsky, and Jacob longed for what couldn’t be, a longing more painful than Seventeen’s fingers or the ravens of the Baba Yaga.

  An elaborately carved clock ticked on the mantelpiece. On the hour, a golden bear would come out of the large dial and dance to the tune of the chimes. When the bear appeared for a second time since they’d arrived, Chanute rose with a curse he’d picked up from Sylvain. At that very moment, the servants pulled open the doors as though Aleksei Fyodorovich Baryatinsky had only been waiting for this vulgar cue. He was the most corpulent man Jacob had ever seen. Even the Olchs from Fron, who fended off the cold of their icy homeland with six layers of fat, would have bowed with respect. Hard to believe Chanute’s story that Baryatinsky was a highly decorated officer who’d fought in two wars. His first glance at Fox, however, did confirm what Chanute had said about his fondness for beautiful women. Their host was also a passionate dueler. The following morning, one of the servants would tell them his master had just shot one of Varangia’s most famous pianists in the left arm because he’d suspected the musician of having an affair with his wife.

  Baryatinsky shot a quick look at Jacob, and he commented on Sylvain’s tattooed neck: “Not bad. Yakutia or Constantinople?” But he didn’t wait for a reply before burying Chanute in a bear hug that was probably meant to compensate for the long wait.

  “An unexpected invitation…the ambassador of Louisiana. Always good for a card game, but I lost a fortune!” Baryatinsky’s voice sounded like that of an opera singer—not surprising, considering his girth—and at the same time as soft as the bear fur he wore around his wide neck.

  “What did you do to your arm, old friend?” he called out, poking a heavily ringed finger at Chanute’s chest. “Look at you—you’ve grown old. Weren’t you looking for the fountain of youth at some point?”

  “Didn’t find it,” Chanute replied crankily. “What about you? Did you get bitten by a Kyrgyz flesh-fly? Hope it was worth it. Did it at least make you shit gold?”

  Baryatinsky stroked his belly with a smug smile. “Interesting. But, no, I blame my new incisors. You wouldn’t believe it, but they make me hungry.” He bared them like a dog: four teeth made of pale red carnelian. “A wager. I had to get them after the Goyl sank Albion’s fleet. And you know what? I enjoyed doing it! I made so much off the war against these island dogs, and it was about time someone showed them they aren’t the masters of all seas. Nothing personal,” he looked at Jacob. “You’re from Albion, aren’t you? One of my dearest friends is from there. He even spies for your King. He denies it, though all of Moskva knows. Too bad. A fantastic drinking companion. I tried to convince him once to work for me, but he wouldn’t have it. Patriotism. How you can love any country but Varangia is beyond me.”

  Chanute joined his laughter, but the look he gave Jacob was controlled and cool.

  “And so what? I’m sure you have better spies than him in your employ,” Chanute said, wrapping his arm around Baryatinsky’s massive shoulders. “Now tell us, is the Dark Fairy already in Moskva?”

  Baryatinsky tugged angrily at his golden cuff links. He suddenly looked like a schoolboy who’d been caught bragging.

  “The Fairy! The Fairy! Who cares where she is?” he replied with a dismissive gesture that nearly took out his servant’s eye. “Varangia needs no magic to defeat its enemies. Not to mention our Tzar would never be so foolish to attack the Goyl for their King’s discarded mistress. But enough of that. You are in Moskva, the best city in the world. How about a new arm? I know a smith who makes artificial limbs for all the officers who sacrificed theirs in the war in Circassia. His steel arms are much more appropriate for Albert Chanute than that pitiful piece of wood you’re wearing. He can make moving fingers! And if you pay him enough, he’ll even make them in gold!”

  Chanute looked at Baryatinsky as though his friend had just claimed he could grow arms in his hothouses.

  “Nonsense...” he grumbled, stroking the wood that had been his hand for years. “This pitiful piece has served me well. But who is that friend from Albion you were talking about? The spy? Maybe I know him.” Albert Chanute never gave up easily.

  “They call him the Barsoi.” Baryatinsky pulled a watch from his embroidered waistcoat and looked at it. “He convinced the Tzar that he has Varangian ancestors. He’s a shameless liar. I have it on good authority he’s from Caledonia.”

  “The Barsoi? I once knew a man called the Windhound,” Jacob interjected. “He was Albion’s best spy in Leon.”

  “Same man, probably.” Baryatinsky patted his carefully curled hair and put his watch away. “Excuse me. The Tzar is hosting a ball tonight. I have to change, and I still have to discuss next week’s menu with the cook. Food is very important in this palace.”

  He gave Fox a carnelian smile. “I could do with some female company at this ball. My wife went to the country with our daughters. She finds Moskva tiring.”

  Fox shot Jacob a quizzical look.

  “I am sorry, Aleksei Fyodorovich,” Jacob replied for her. “But Mademoiselle Auger will be accompanying me to the ball.”

  “Is that so?” For the first time, Baryatinsky looked more closely at Jacob. “Why should the Tzar honor some recent arrival with an invitation for which even the most prominent citizens of Moskva had waited in vain? I mean, no hard feelings, but even my coachmen are better dressed than you.”

  “He will have an invite, Aleksei,” Chanute replied. “Maybe you have heard of him? Jacob Reckless? He is a treasure hunter of some renown. And no wonder. He was my apprentice, after all.”

  “Reckless? But, yes, of course!” Baryatinsky took a stuffed fig from a servant’s tray and popped it into his mouth. “You found the glass slipper for Therese of Austry. But she’s supposedly not that fond of you anymore. And didn’t the crown prince of Lotharaine put a bounty on your head?” He smiled at Fox as though apologizing for her unworthy companion.

  Fox smiled back, and with a squeeze of her hand, she reminded Jacob of their empty pockets and stopped him from giving an answer that might cost them Baryatinsky’s hospitality.

  “I had my best rooms made ready for you,” he said. “My palace is a hospitable place...even if the guests are from Albion,” he added with a look at Jacob. “Every noon I fly my flag to show all of Moskva that my cook has done his work. The whole city is invited to taste for themselves that there’s no better food in all Moskva. Sometimes I don’t know anyone at my table, but life is short and winters are cold. Where are you from?” he asked Sylvain, who was helping himself to one of the stuffed figs. “I hope not from Albion as well?”

  Sylvain nearly choked on his fig. He looked at Chanute for help.

  “Oh no, Sylvain is from L’Arcadie,” Chanute answered for him.

  Baryatinsky gave Sylvain a sympathetic look. “So barbarous, these colonies. Crookback is not having much joy with them. Varangia would love to relieve him of that burden.”

  He smiled at his own joke—and gave Fox a bow as one of his servants reminded him of the time.

  “Do svidaniya, mademoiselle,” he said,
kissing her hand. “For the pleasure of having you under my roof, I might even forgive Chanute for bringing an Albian into my house. There are many balls in Moskva, and I am an excellent dancer. I shall not give up hope.”

  Chanute barely noticed that his old friend was again leaving them alone with his servants. He was staring at his wooden hand. “Metal fingers,” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t they rust?”

  Jacob noticed Fox looking disdainfully at her filthy clothes. Yes, how would they pay for an expensive ball gown? He wished he could’ve pocketed all the silver Seventeen had poured into their bodies. Chanute was eyeing the clock on the mantelpiece, probably estimating its value on the Moskva black market. But Fox pulled a ring from her finger.

  “Here,” she said, dropping it into Jacob’s hand. “I am sure its previous owner wouldn’t mind us trading it for a ball gown and a suit.”

  She’d found the ring in a cave. The Ogre she’d killed there had just been polishing his victim’s jewels.

  The Tzar's Ball

  Voices filled the great hall like the hum of wild bees. Even the thick gold covering the walls looked like honey. And the music! As a child, twirling through the forest with closed eyes, the birds and the wind as her orchestra, Fox had dreamed of dancing in a hall like this. She could hardly wait to do the same here, between the malachite columns that had supposedly been a Witch’s gift to the Tzar of Varangia.

  The huge hall seemed not big enough to hold the crowd of people streaming through the high doors. Many of the men were in uniform, and it was impossible to count all the countries and their colors. Fox saw the black uniforms of Varangia, the blue of Albion, Lotharaine’s red, the peacock green of the Suleiman Empire. The women wore naiad tears and nets of gold in their hair, veils of Lotharainian lace, dresses sewn from Zhonghua silk, all shades of night blue, violet, emerald green, hemmed with elven glass and diamonds. And yet it was Fox who attracted the most looks as she made her way through the crowd on Jacob’s arm. Her dress was vermillion red.

  “I stick out like blood on snow,” she whispered to Jacob.

  “More like a wild poppy in a bunch of fake flowers,” he whispered back. He picked two glasses of champagne off a servant’s tray. “Are you sure you can look after yourself while I offer our services to the Tzar? Baryatinsky will hone in on you as soon as I leave.”

  “As long as he’s a good dancer. If not, I’ll just step on his toes,” Fox whispered back. “Our host is probably very particular about his shoes.”

  She’d danced with Jacob only once, during a village fair in Albion. They’d barely taken a couple of turns when a bunch of drunken soldiers set fire to Jacob’s friend Dunbar’s rat tail.

  She would have so loved to dance with Jacob right now in this hall, in this dress, but the Alderelf had taken what she’d just begun to hope was hers. The last few months, the signs of tenderness they’d begun to show each other. And now they avoided even touching hands. Fox knew Jacob well enough not to hope that would change again. Not as long as he felt it was the only way he could protect her.

  The Tzar had been very pleased to receive the news that the West’s most famous treasure hunter had come to Moskva. He’d not only extended Jacob an invitation to the ball but also offered him a tour of his Magic Collection, which, in contrast to Vena’s Chambers of Miracles, was not open to the public. Fox had a bet with Sylvain that the Tzar would ask them to find a firebird, while Chanute believed he was after the feather-dress of Vasilisa the Wise, the legendary daughter of the Sea King, whom many Tzars had tried to lure to their court. Whatever the job would be, the down payment was going to fill their empty pockets, and the protection of the Tzar would allow them to travel freely throughout Varangia in case Will and the Fairy were not coming to Moskva.

  A Varangian officer tried to push past Fox, nearly knocking the glass out of her hand. His smile was part apology, part compliment. Baryatinsky’s doorman, who spent most of his time playing cards with the errand boys, had told Fox that Varangia’s officers were as proud of their dancing skills as they were of their marksmanship. Most of them went to at least one ball every night. When she asked him whether they also dueled at least once every night, he’d replied with a proud nod.

  So many men.

  Look at them, Fox. There are more fish in the sea.

  But her eyes wandered back to Jacob. He seemed to have seen something he didn’t like. Fox followed his eyes. Five gray uniforms. Goyl. Baryatinsky had told Chanute that Kami’en was in Moskva. Not, as his aides never forgot to stress, because his former lover was expected to come here but to forge an alliance with the Tzar.

  Three of the Goyl were unknown to Fox, but two of them were old acquaintances. Hentzau’s presence was not surprising. Kami’en never went on a state visit without his Jasper Bloodhound. And the soldier at Hentzau’s side—Fox had last met her in a Goyl dungeon. Not a pleasant memory.

  Hentzau had also noticed Jacob. He stared at him as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, the left of which was already as white as snow, blinded by the sunlight. Hentzau said something to the other soldiers, then came toward them. His female shadow followed him.

  Fox saw Jacob’s shoulders tighten. Not many men got the chance to meet their murderer. Hentzau smiled as he approached Jacob, as though savoring the memory of his well-aimed shot through his heart. Jacob had nearly killed Hentzau’s uniformed shadow in the valley of the Fairies, for which she had put scorpions on his chest. But Nesser’s face showed no emotions. Fox sensed the effort she was putting into concealing them.

  Memories. Jacob’s show of calmness seemed as effortless as the Goyl’s, but he couldn’t fool Fox. Hentzau had delivered Will to the Dark Fairy, and he had humiliated him, tried to break him. Jacob’s response to such offenses was belligerence, arrogance, and the coldness Fox used to fear so much before she got to know him well enough to see the vulnerability it meant to conceal.

  “Ah, the plane thief. Or should I say the man who simply refuses to die?” Hentzau greeted Jacob in Goyl-fashion, with his fist pressed to his chest. Or maybe he wanted to remind him of the bullet he’d once put there. “And I had already toasted to your drowning in the Channel with the Albian fleet. The Bastard swears he saw it with his own eyes, but I always knew he was a liar.”

  “Ah, yes, the Bastard. How is he?” Jacob’s voice expressed nothing but politely masked boredom.

  “How would I know? He comes and goes. I don’t trust him. Too much onyx blood in his veins.”

  It sounded to Fox as though Hentzau really didn’t know who the Bastard had with him. The Goyl had been searching for the Jade Goyl since the Blood Wedding. Nerron hadn’t delivered Will, which could mean many things. Had the Bastard recognized him? Did he have his own plans for revenge? Or was Hentzau just a good actor? Fox wasn’t sure which would be more comforting. She just knew that even the vixen found it hard to read Goyl faces.

  The quick glance Hentzau shot at her confirmed he hadn’t recognized her. She had looked very different the last time they met: younger, filthy, tear-stained, convinced that the Goyl had shot Jacob dead. She would never forgive Hentzau for that pain.

  “And?” He scanned the crowd of guests. “What brings Jacob Reckless to Moskva?”

  “I haven’t changed my trade,” Jacob replied. “Just like you. But I see you now have a bodyguard. All that time in the sun is taking its toll, I assume. And you’re no spring chicken.”

  Oh, how they would’ve loved to jump at each other’s throats, like two dogs who still hadn’t established which was the stronger one. Nesser stared at Jacob with such hatred that Fox was tempted to place herself between them.

  “Gospodin Reckless?” The officer who snapped to attention behind them had pronounced his last name with barely an accent. “His Highness, Nicolaij the Third, Tzar of all Varangians, would like to talk with you about the limitless magic of our land.”

  Hentzau looked after Jacob as he walked off with the officer. The Goyl had forgotten Fox. The memories Jacob had brought back to
him were almost as humiliating as the one he’d just given Jacob: escaped prisoners; a stolen plane; the Blood Wedding, which he’d barely survived...

  The orchestra began to play a waltz. Hentzau turned around abruptly, without another glance at Fox, and disappeared into the crowd with his female shadow. Fox was glad not to have to see him—or Nesser—anymore.

  Jacob was already standing next to Tzar Nicolaij, who was holding court on a garlanded gallery at one end of the hall. With him was his current favorite. The rumor around the capital was that she had Rusalka blood in her veins. The slight green tinge of her hair made that seem probable. She was laughing with a man whom Fox had never before seen out of uniform: Kami’en, first King of the Goyl. He’d undoubtedly chosen the dress coat to stress his peaceful intentions. His carnelian skin shimmered like copper in the candlelight. Fox would so have loved to hear what he was saying. The Goyl’s bodyguards seemed a little nervous about the crowds at the bottom of the gallery. The onyx lords had just recently made another attempt to kill Kami’en but had only managed to kill three of his protectors instead. Whether he really had come here to forge an alliance with Varangia, or whether he feared his former mistress might make Varangia an offer the Tzar couldn’t refuse, Kami’en didn’t really know the meaning of fear. Even his enemies said that about him. But what about love? Jealousy? Anger toward the murderess of his son? If she was the murderess. Jacob doubted it, and he wasn’t alone—though, of course, in just these past weeks, many men had paid with their lives for running into her.