The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

Chanute and Sylvain were so enthusiastically preparing for their roles in the nocturnal rescue mission that it was almost worrying. Just a few blocks from the Magic Collection was a park with a music pavilion and a stage for concerts for Moskva’s high society—a credible target for one of the anarchist arson attacks that happened all the time all over town. And the pavilion was in the center of the park, so the fire would, hopefully, be controlled before it could spread to any of the surrounding residences.

Sylvain was so excited by the idea of playing an anarchist that he had Baryatinsky’s stable boys write down every slogan they’d ever seen smeared on a wall in Moskva. Jacob even caught him painting one of those slogans across the wall of their host’s pigsty, after which Sylvain proudly recounted all the buildings in New York City on which he’d left his mark. Sylvain Caleb Fowler was full of surprises.

He and Chanute had agreed that Chanute should be the arsonist while Sylvain would smear his slogans on the statues in the park as well as on some of the surrounding buildings. Jacob had to listen as Chanute recounted in great detail how a drunk patron once set fire to his wooden prosthesis and how much safer a metal arm was for such tasks. They could only hope they’d all survive the night. While they waited for nightfall, Jacob wished he and Fox had left with the carpet before the Windhound managed to get himself caught.

It wasn’t the first time Jacob had broken into a magical collection. The invisibility slime of a snail had gotten him into the Chambers of Miracles in Vena. He’d asked Ludmilla whether there were such snails to be had in Moskva, but she’d just given him a pitying smile and whispered, “I’ll bring something better.” The Dwarf had also promised to take care of the Goyl shadow who was still keeping vigil outside Baryatinsky’s palace.

Fox had gone to bed hours earlier (the powder worked very quickly), but the sky was still summer-night bright when a very apologetic servant brought Jacob a telegram that had arrived earlier that morning.

It was from Dunbar.

Mention of silvered animals in lotharainian travel journal STOP More than 130 years old STOP Glass assassins with many faces in tales from Cymru and Helvetia STOP Turn to trees in moonlight STOP Weapons useless STOP Invulnerable STOP Cymru hero finds safety on damp earth STOP Helvetia hero escapes into water STOP No mention of Alderelves but stories of human emissaries from immortals STOP Remember I’m quoting fairy tales and dubious travel journals STOP Best advice stay clear of mirrorlings STOP Don’t want you and vixen silver statues STOP Regards from other side of earth

“Stay clear.” Jacob wished he could follow Dunbar’s advice.

Moskva’s many church bells were chiming midnight when Jacob entered Fox’s room to make sure she was still asleep. The apothecary had not promised too much. Outside, Chanute and Sylvain were sneaking through the gate like two boys planning a nighttime prank. Seeing Chanute like that felt good after the old man had asked Jacob to proofread the inscription for his tombstone: Albert Chanute. Treasure Hunter. Still Hunting. This night could earn Chanute a grave in Moskva, but if it came to that, it’d be a death much more to the old hunter’s liking than dying in a bed in Schwanstein.

The feather on Fox’s nightstand was not the one Jacob had used to trick the Baba Yaga. It was a quill feather from a wild goose. Fox turned her head in her sleep, and Jacob wished he could see who she was dreaming of.

Really, Jacob?

He stroked her sleeping face. Why couldn’t he just leave the Windhound where he was? Even Fox would never have asked Jacob to risk his neck for Orlando. But she would also never forgive him if he let the other man die without giving her the chance to save him. And if the Barsoi died, Jacob would spend the rest of his life wondering whether Fox could’ve been happy with Orlando.

Ludmilla Akhmatova kept her promise. No Goyl shadow in front of Baryatinsky’s gate. Beggars, drunks, flower girls, crowds of nobles and officers on their way to balls or nightly card games, or to one of the city’s countless pleasure houses. Peddlers on every street corner, bear tamers, soothsayers, but the closer Jacob got to the Magic Collection, the quieter the streets became. There’d been some talk of moving the Collection inside the walls of the Kremlin; luckily, that had not yet happened. It would’ve made their nightly venture even more hopeless.

The palace that housed Varangia’s magic treasures was surrounded by government buildings and schools, all of which were completely dark at this hour. Jacob climbed out of his taxi. Ludmilla Akhmatova was waiting in a side street. She was almost invisible in her black dress. The Dwarf by her side introduced himself, whispering a name that was familiar to Jacob, as was his bearded face. Basil Sokolsky… an artist who performed in Moskva’s biggest circus. Jacob had admired Sokolsky’s daredevil acrobatics when the circus had toured Albion. In the circus tent, Sokolsky called himself the Fly, and it was not hard to guess what task Ludmilla had in mind for him that night.

“Reckless?” he repeated after she’d introduced Jacob. “You are the treasure hunter for whom that Dwarf trader in Terpevas has offered one kilo of gold.”

One kilo? Anyone who knew Evenaugh Valiant knew he would never pay out such a reward, but Jacob still felt flattered. His old enemy-turned-friend-turned-enemy was obviously still bitter about how Jacob had tricked him in the Dead City.

Ludmilla listened to the night.

The bells of the fire brigade echoed through the empty streets.

She gave Jacob an appreciative smile. “Your friends are very punctual.”

“And where is your second helper?” Jacob whispered back. Not that one more would make their venture any more likely to succeed.

At that moment, the answer came ambling down the street. A man revealed what he was not only by his size but by his gait. A Wolfling. Some very successful treasure and bounty hunters were Wolflings. Jacob had met a number of them. They could call their fur like Fox, but Wolflings were shape-shifters by birth, and unlike Fox, they had to shift every day to keep control over the Wolf. Wolflings who didn’t shift regularly ended up as werewolves, forever howling at the moon. Ludmilla hadn’t mentioned a Wolfling as part of her plan, and Jacob was especially glad Fox wasn’t with them. She’d killed a Wolfling some years ago. They could supposedly scent that.

The Wolfling didn’t introduce himself. In that respect, his kind were like Fairies and Witches—they liked to keep their names secret. He greeted the Dwarfs with a silent nod, and then his pale yellow eyes rested on Jacob. In some countries, mothers drowned their babies if they were born with wolf eyes. But in Varangia, they were treated with respect. After all, even the Tzars claimed to have descended from wolves and bears.

“It’s working. The guards wouldn’t notice if an army marched through their gate,” the Wolfling whispered. His voice was so rough it was easy to imagine it turning into a wolf’s growl. “You should see them. They’re craning their necks as though they’re trying to look over the roofs. Now we can only hope our heroic firefighters are not too quick about fighting that fire.”

Ludmilla Akhmatova reached into her coat pocket and handed each of them something that looked like a dusty ball of wool.

Sokolsky looked at it with incredulous awe. “A night skin,” he whispered. “Woven from the spiderwebs on a Baba Yaga’s fence.”

“And as hard to find as a three-headed eagle,” the Wolfling murmured. “How did you get four of them?”

“I once had an admirer who traded in these,” Ludmilla answered. She began to pluck hers apart. The cloak she unfurled made her invisible. A strange sight, how they disappeared one by one into the night. Only the Fly tucked his night skin into his pocket. He said it would just hinder him, and his small size made him almost invisible anyway.

“Forgive the question, but did you give one of these to Orlando?” Sokolsky asked.

“Yes, and it got him past the guards,” Ludmilla replied, “but it couldn’t help him with the door to the secret wing. Gospodin Reckless is here so we won’t run into the same problem.”

J