They reached Moskva on a cool July afternoon. There were more wolf and mink pelts on display than in Schwanstein in winter, but the golden towers seemed to warm even the north wind, and the mustard-yellow and mint-green facades reminded visitors from the West that Varangia was closer to the Orient than to their home countries.
Jacob had first visited Moskva as Chanute’s apprentice. They’d been on the hunt for a magic doll that had once belonged to Wassilissa the Beautiful. Chanute had started his days with a breakfast of Varangian potato liquor, and Jacob had mostly been left to roam the streets on his own. He’d never seen a city like Moskva on either side of the mirror. Varangia’s capital was a combination of North and East and West, and though the September air had already smelled of snow, the South was still present in its streets. One of its recent Tzars, Vladimir Bear-Friend, had been so captivated by the architecture of Venetia he’d had entire streets torn down and replaced with the designs of an Lombardian architect. Still, Moskva’s heart was beating to the east. The carved Dragons on the roofs looked like they’d flown in from Drukhul, and the golden horses spreading their wings on the pediments of the palaces recalled the wide steppes of Tangut. So what did it matter that even in the midst of spring, you’d find frozen Malen’ky on the cobblestoned streets? (That’s what Varangia’s Heinzel were called.) The burghers of Moskva weathered the rough climate in the countless steam baths while they dreamed of Constantinople and the beaches of the White Sea.
Jacob remembered how much he’d wanted to stay back then, but Chanute had heard in one of the taverns he frequented about a magic hammer in Suoma, which immediately redirected their hunt, as such news so often had before. They’d found the hammer and sold it to a count in Hostein—and Jacob had not returned to Moskva until now.
Before they boarded the train, Chanute had wired one of his old friends about accommodations. “Aleksei Fyodorovich Baryatinsky owes me his life,” he replied (loudly enough for the entire train to hear) to Sylvain’s question about who exactly that friend was. “It’s time to settle that old debt. I saved him from being torn to pieces by a Wolfling. Back then he was just the lost son of some bankrupt local nobleman, but now he supplies weapons to the Varangian army. The war in Circassia has made him filthy rich, so I’m counting on first-class accommodations.”
Jacob had met some of Chanute’s old friends over the years, and those encounters had rarely gone well. But unless they found a way to earn money, they couldn’t afford a hotel. Jacob had tried to fix the handkerchief that for years had faithfully filled his pockets with gold coins, but even Ukraina’s seamstresses, so famous for their dexterity, had shaken their heads with regret. He was going to have to find a new one, though he still had horrible memories of the kiss he’d had to plant on some Witch’s hot lips for it.
Chanute’s message had reached Baryatinsky. As they disembarked in Moskva’s extravagant railway station, they were greeted on the platform by a liveried footman. When Jacob asked him whether the Dark Fairy had arrived, he made the sign of the cross three times and voiced his hope that she’d turned herself into a swarm of moths and flown south to Constantinople. Moskva’s newspapers were all putting out their own predictions about when she would present herself to the Tzar. Chanute knew some Varangian, and he could read enough Cyrillic to decipher the headlines: “Dark Fairy Expected at Tzar’s Ball.” “Dark One Less Than a Day Away.” “She Has Arrived and Is Hiding in the Tzar’s Palace.”
Jacob caught himself scanning the crowds for Will and the Bastard as they pushed toward Baryatinsky’s carriage, which was drawn by a silver horse. Trying to protect Will from the Goyl still sounded much more feasible than saving the Dark Fairy from Will. But her red sister’s fear had been all too real. The Elf’s card had stayed blank since her visit, but Jacob had yet to follow her advice to bury it. He had to admit he was afraid to cut his only connection to the Alderelf. “But how will you save him next time? ” He had no idea. Maybe he was going to have to beg for mercy, though he was clueless as to what gave him any hope it might be granted.
He’d told Fox about the invisible butterfly cocoons. “If they exist, we will find them” had been her reply. “But first we find your brother.” She’d kept quiet for a long time after he told her what the Red One had said about Will. “Do you believe her?” he’d finally asked her. “Yes” was all she’d said. Then she’d gone back to looking out the train window, as if trying to imagine her world without Fairies.
They had not spoken again about Spieler’s price, but Jacob was reminded of it by every touch he avoided, and every time Fox looked at other men
. He just had to look at her to know she was feeling the same about him as he did about her. She didn’t care about the Fairy, and, like Chanute, she believed Will should look after himself. She was still on this hunt because it was the only way to get back at the Alderelf for what he was stealing from her. But all Jacob could think was that he’d been unable to protect her, and even the rare silver gelding pulling the carriage reminded him of Seventeen.
Love makes cowards of us all. He’d never really understood what that meant.
***
Chanute had been right to promise them princely accommodations. Aleksei Fyodorovich Baryatinsky resided in the best part of the city, just a few blocks from the Kremlin, the medieval fortress that the current Tzar, much against the protests of his nobility, had turned into his residence and seat of government. His predecessors had ruled from St. Vladisburg, the port city built in the Western style, but Nicolaij the Third wanted to remind Varangia that its roots lay in the East.
Aleksei Fyodorovich Baryatinsky’s city palace lay behind a gate plastered with more gold than the one in front of the imperial palace in Vena. The dogs that were paired with the guards were as rare as the geldings that had brought them here: Barsoi, Yakutian windhounds. Despite their size, they were as slender as if the wind had shaped them, but that wasn’t what had given them their name. Their fur changed color when the wind brushed through it. The most valuable ones turned light blue, the others more silver, as though their short-haired coats caught the starlight. This trait had nearly caused the Barsoi’s extinction, until the Varangian nobility began to use them as guard dogs instead of for their coats. A Barsoi would attack without warning, and it did so quickly and silently, as if by magic.
They raised their heads, catching Fox’s scent as she stepped out of the carriage. The palace was quite typical for Moskva, where all people, rich and poor, dreamed of country life. Peacocks and turkeys were pecking the ground between the many vegetable beds in the wide courtyard. There was a shed for firewood, and a greenhouse where orange trees thrived, despite the biting cold. The palace’s roof was as colorful as an Oriental rug, and its towers pushed their gilded roofs into the sky like golden bulbs.
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.”