The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

The Dark Fairy kept standing there, despite Donnersmarck’s obvious impatience. She reached out, with the heart she did not possess, to the one she’d fled from. Kami’en had given her a heart. She’d always felt it when she was with him.

Dusk was falling when she finally climbed back into the carriage. Chithira urged the horses on. The Golden Yarn tightened like a string, and it sang and sighed.

The Dark One ordered her coachman to go faster.

Not because of the silver.

Or the jade.

Because of him.

She Belongs Only to Herself

They returned from the ball shortly after midnight. Their host spent the rest of the night playing cards with the Lotharainian ambassador. Jacob lay in a bed made of singing wood, which Baryatinsky must have gotten from Suoma, and despite the beautiful sounds, he could not find sleep. The Fairy had not come to the ball. There was no sign of her, let alone of Will. Dunbar had not sent word, and the Tzar would only meet him in two days’ time to tell him whether and what for he might need the services of a treasure hunter. Waiting. He’d never been good at waiting. He should’ve done as Fox did and dance himself weary. With her...

Dawn was breaking (Moskva’s summer nights were short) when he finally gave up and put on his old clothes. Baryatinsky’s servants had cleaned and mended them, but that hadn’t made them any more presentable, not even the waistcoat that had been a gift from an Empress. Fox liked to tease him about his weakness for good tailors, and he always retorted it was her world’s fault for still making him feel he was playing masquerades. Of course, he knew that was not the whole truth.

This time the card fell from his waistcoat pocket. The green words appeared as soon as Jacob picked it from the floor.

I see you have competition now. Which was only to be expected, right?

Jealousy. Of course. The perfect means for the Elf to drown Jacob’s sanity. He should have followed the Red One’s advice and buried the card.

She’s probably tired of this never-ending journey. But you’d rather take the advice of a former lover instead of thinking of her for once. Your brother. The Fairy. Clara. Others are always more important. You really only have yourself to blame. She could not take her eyes off the Windhound.

Every word like a drop of poison, and knowing who was writing them was no antidote.

Jacob stepped out of his room. Baryatinsky’s palace was still steeped in early-morning silence. The only sounds were the muffled steps of the servants who were placing bowls of honey in the windows for the Kikimoras, or sweeping out the Malenk’y who’d sought refuge from the cold overnight. All was quiet behind Fox’s door. Jacob didn’t wake her, though he would’ve liked to talk to her. The sleepless night had given him an idea, but his tired mind couldn’t decide whether it was a good one.

Jacob didn’t really believe in soothsayers and prophets—he’d never wanted to know the future, neither his nor anybody else’s—but it was said that the glass-sayers of Moskva could see what was happening at any moment in any place in the world. It could be worth asking them about his brother instead of sitting around waiting for the Fairy or news from the Tzar. Moskva’s glass-sayers came from all corners of the East: Mongol, Kazakh, Zhonghua. Most were of the Sintisa, as traveling folk called themselves on this side of the mirror. “Their home is any place and no place, so their time is any time” was how Alma explained their gift. “Of course, that scares the settled people, who also envy them their freedom.” Enough reason to set their colorful caravans on fi

re from time to time.

Jacob found Baryatinsky’s kitchen by following the scent of freshly baked bread. The cook was nearly as fat as her master, and after she’d recovered from the shock of one of her master’s fancy guests having found his way into the palace’s deep bowels, she poured Jacob a cup of tea from the samovar and served him a bowl of wheat porridge with cinnamon.

“I hear their spot is behind the slaughterhouses” was her answer to where he might find the glass-sayers. “But they’ll tell you nothing but lies. They keep the truth for their own kind.”

And yet even the Tzar went to them, and he was not the only one.

It was still early when Jacob left the palace. Peddlers were sleeping on the curb in front of the gate. The only ones up were a couple of officers returning from a late party and the men who collected horse manure from the cobbled streets. Jacob only noticed the Goyl because he caught a glimpse of him in a shop window. He turned around quickly, but the Goyl had disappeared. He again caught a glimpse at the next corner. A moonstone Goyl, like most of their spies. Their pale complexion was most easily mistaken for human skin.

Jacob stopped at the window of a furrier, though the fox pelts made him nauseous. At first he thought he should simply ignore the Goyl. What was he going to report to Hentzau, anyway? That Reckless had consulted a glass-sayer? On the other hand, if Hentzau’s shadow found out who he was inquiring after... No.

He decided to change direction. For a while he pretended to be strolling the streets. The Goyl was good, but Jacob had shaken better tails.

The beggars’ square was busy even at this early hour. Its church was one of the prettiest in Moskva. The steps were crowded with men, women, and children, standing, sitting, crawling, trying to attract the pity of the more fortunate. Some managed by playing instruments; others displayed their scars and wounds or some other stigma of misfortune. Cripples, lepers, veterans of Varangia’s wars...They all filled the square with what was only a semblance of equality in wretchedness. The hierarchy among the beggars of Moskva was as strict as at the Tzar’s court. They had their own lords and serfs, their rebels and lickspittles. The rag-clad bodies came from all corners of Varangia’s domain. Trained monkeys and small children grabbed at his legs as Jacob tried to wade through their masses. He looked around and noticed with satisfaction that the Goyl had stopped because a leper was trying to touch his face. Jacob intended to make it even harder for him.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of the coins he had left from selling Fox’s ring. He didn’t wait for the beggar lords up by the church columns to notice him. He needed their masses who filled the square like a carpet of bodies. Jacob threw the coins into the crowd, and the carpet turned into a raging sea. The Goyl sank without a trace. Jacob nearly felt sorry for him. He was not going to have an easy time reporting to Hentzau how he lost his prey in a swarm of beggars.

***

An abandoned abbey on one side, the stables of two slaughterhouses on the other... The Sintisa had not gotten the best place to make camp. And still it was not a sad sight. The carts and tents were colorful enough to compete with any rushnyky woven by a Baba Yaga. A viola and an accordion sowed wanderlust into the fresh morning air. The music was a reliable source of income for the traveling folk. The rich liked to pay to have their salons filled with dreams of freedom and adventure. The Tzar himself could only breakfast to the sound of a Sintisa viola.

A tame bear, whose nose ring still showed that his taming had not been entirely voluntary, was yawning in front of one of the wagons. Chickens were pecking at the ground between the tentpoles, and a one-eyed cat was watching a fight between two amber-eyed dogs. It was as though a long-lost past had snuck into the modern era.

A man whom Jacob asked for directions to the glass-sayers had a Malen’ky hanging from his beard.

The man pointed at some tents by the walls of the abbey. According to legend, the monks there had worshipped the Devil. Jacob didn’t allow himself to wonder whether the Alderelves had been behind that as well. He hadn’t touched Spieler’s card since the Elf had so successfully stoked his jealousy.