The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

The engineer’s face lost all color, and the King’s advisors regarded John with cold eyes. Everyone in the hall knew what the King’s answer meant. The decision was made: Albion and Lotharaine would form an alliance against the Goyl. A historic decision for this world. Two nations that for centuries had used any excuse to declare war on one another, now turned into allies by a common foe. The old and eternal game.

John decided to go to the palace gardens to write a missive informing the Walrus and the parliament of Albion of his diplomatic success, even though it turned out to be near impossible to find a bench without a statue towering over it. His phobia against stone statuary was just one of the irritating consequences of his imprisonment by the Goyl.

He finally found a bench under a tree. As he wrote the message that would shake the balance of power in this world, his uniformed guardians used the time to stare after the ladies of the court as they ambled between the pristine hedges. They certainly seemed to confirm the rumor that it was Crookback’s ambition to have all the most beautiful women of Lotharaine gathered at his court. John found a little comfort in the fact that Crookback was an even worse husband than he. After all, John had never been unfaithful to Rosamund until he discovered the mirror. And as far as his affairs in Schwanstein, Vena, and Blenheim were concerned, one could certainly wonder whether having such dalliances in a different world actually counted as adultery. Oh yes, they do, John.

As he put his signature under the dispatch (with a fountain pen he’d discreetly modernized, after having grown tired of ink-stained fingers), he saw a man rushing toward him across the white gravel paths. He’d noticed the man before, standing in the audience chamber by the crown prince’s side. The unexpected visitor wore an old-fashioned-looking frock coat, and he was barely taller than a large Dwarf. The spectacles he nervously adjusted as he stopped in front of John had such thick lenses they made the eyes behind them look as large as an insect’s. Fittingly, his pupils were just as black and shiny as insect eyes.

“Monsieur Brunel?” A curtsy, a servile smile. “With your permission: Arsene Lelou, tutor to His Highness the crown prince Louis. Could I, possibly, eh”—he cleared his throat as though his assignment were stuck there like a splinter—“bother you with a request?”

“Certainly. What is it?”

Maybe Monsieur Lelou needed help in explaining some technical innovation. It couldn’t be easy to be the teacher of a future King in such a rapidly advancing world. Yet Arsene Lelou’s request had nothing to do with the New Magic, as science and technology were referred to behind the mirror.

“My, eh, royal pupil,” he lisped, “has for these past months been fielding inquiries regarding the whereabouts of a man who has also worked for the Albian royal court. And since you are a member of that court, I wanted to take this opportunity to ask you in His Highness’s name for your aid in our search for this person.”

John had heard nasty stories about how Louis of Lotharaine dealt with his enemies, so the man Arsene was asking him about already had his deepest sympathy.

“Certainly. May I ask whom you are inquiring about?” Always best to feign helpfulness.

“His name is Reckless. Jacob Reckless. He is a famous, if not infamous, treasure hunter who has worked in the service of, among others, the deposed Empress of Austry.”

John noted with irritation his hand trembling as he handed his signed dispatch to one of his guards. How easily one’s own body could turn traitor.

Arsene Lelou noticed the trembling hand.

“A bite from a will-o’-the-wisp,” John explained. “Years ago, but I still have that tremor in my hands.” He’d never been more grateful for his new face, for he had once looked very much like his elder son. “You may relay to the crown prince that he can cease his inquiries. To my knowledge, Jacob Reckless died when the Goyl sank the Albian fleet.”

He was proud of the calmness of his voice. Arsene Lelou would not know that the news John had just related had rendered him unable to work for days. His own reaction to the news of Jacob’s death had startled John so much that at first he’d been utterly convinced the tears dripping on his newspaper had to be someone else’s.

His elder son...John had, of course, known for years that Jacob had followed him through the mirror. All the newspapers had reported on his treasure-hunting feats. Still, the unexpected encounter in Goldsmouth had been a shock, but his new face had worked even then. It had hidden everything he’d felt at that moment of meeting, the shock and the love, as well as the surprise that he still felt so much love.

That Jacob had followed him had not surprised John. It had been no real accident he’d left the words to guide his son through the mirror in one of his books. (John himself had found the words in a tome on chemistry left behind by one of Rosamund’s illustrious ancestors.) John had been fascinated that his elder son had made it his mission to seek this world’s lost past while his father was bringing it into the future. In that way, Jacob took more after his mother. Rosamund had also always tried to preserve rather than to change. Could a father be proud of a son he’

d abandoned? Yes. John had collected every article about Jacob’s achievements, every picture that showed his face or illustrated his deeds. Of course, nobody, including his own mistress, ever knew this. And of course, he’d also hidden from her the tears he’d shed for his son.

“The sinking of the fleet? Oh yes. Impressive.” Arsene Lelou swiped a fly from his large, pale forehead. “The airplanes have indeed given the Goyl too many victories. I shall await with burning impatience the day your machines defend our sacred lands. Thanks to your genius, Lotharaine will finally have an appropriate answer against the Stone King.”

The toadying smile Lelou gave him reminded John of the icing the child-eaters put on their gingerbread. Arsene Lelou was a dangerous man.

“However, if I may be so bold as to correct you...” Lelou continued with obvious glee. “The Albian secret service may not be as omniscient as its reputation suggests. Jacob Reckless survived the sinking of the fleet. I myself had the dubious pleasure of meeting him a few weeks after. Reckless calls Albion his home. And through my inquiries, I’ve learned that for many of his treasure hunts he relies on the expertise of Robert Dunbar, professor of history at the University of Pendragon. All that makes it more than likely he will, sooner or later, turn up at the Albian court. He does need royal sponsors. Believe me, Monsieur Brunel, I wouldn’t have bothered you if I wasn’t convinced you could be of great service to the crown prince in this matter.”

John would not have been able to name his emotions. They were, again, surprisingly strong. Lelou had to be wrong! There had been barely any survivors, and he’d pored over the lists dozens of times. And? What difference did it make whether his son was alive or dead? To give up the only one he’d ever loved unselfishly was the price John had paid for his new life. Yet those years in the dark dungeons of the Goyl had made the wish to be forgiven by his elder son grow like one of the colorless plants the Goyl grew in their caves... And with it had come the hope that the love he’d discarded so carelessly might not be lost for good. He had to admit he’d always been forgiven most readily. His mother, his wife, his mistresses... Yet a son was probably not as eager to absolve a father, especially not a son as proud as Jacob.

Oh yes, John remembered Jacob’s pride. And his fearlessness. Jacob had been too young to recognize his father for the coward he was. Fear had dominated all of John’s life. Fear of the opinions of others. Fear of failure and poverty. Fear of his own weakness, his own vanity. His incarceration by the Goyl had been a relief at first—finally a real reason to be afraid. Cowardice was more ridiculous when one lived where the greatest physical threat came from the traffic on the streets.

“Monsieur Brunel?”

Arsene Lelou was still there.

John forced a smile. “You have my word, Monsieur Lelou. I will make inquiries. And should I hear news of Jacob Reckless, you will be the first to know.”

The bug eyes glistened with curiosity. Arsene Lelou had not bought John’s story of the will-o’-the-wisp. Isambard Brunel had a secret. John had a strong feeling that Monsieur Lelou was an avid collector of such secrets and that he was also a master at turning them into gold and influence. But John had some experience in keeping secrets, too.

John rose from his bench. Probably not a bad idea to remind the little bug that he was the taller man. “Is your royal pupil interested in the teachings of the New Magic, Monsieur Lelou?”

As a little boy, Jacob had listened for hours while his father explained the function of an electric switch or the secrets of a battery. The same son who years later dedicated his life to the rediscovery of the Old Magic. A subconscious statement against his father? After all, John had never made a secret of the fact that the only miracles he was interested in were the man-made ones.

“Oh, certainly! The crown prince is a great advocate of progress.” Arsene Lelou tried hard to sound convincing, yet his slightly awkward look confirmed what was said about Louis at the Albian court: Nothing could hold the attention of Lotharaine’s future King for more than a few minutes except dice and girls of any provenance. Recently, though, if the Albian spies were to be believed, Louis seemed to have also developed a passion for weapons of any kind. Not a very good hobby for someone as cruel as Louis, yet possibly an asset for Albion’s attempts to modernize both countries’ armies.