The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

“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.