The Golden Yarn

by Cornelia Funke

  Moskva seemed to be expecting the Dark One with bated breath, even that night, even in this hall. And what would have given her a better entrance than the Tzar’s ball? Every time the master of ceremonies banged his staff on the floor, all eyes went to the door, even Kami’en’s.

  The Varangian officer bowing and proffering his hand in front of Fox was picture-perfect beautiful. More fish in the sea, Fox. She placed her hand on his proffered arm. Maybe she’d learn more about the Fairy on the dance floor than Jacob could from a Tzar who only wanted to speak about magical treasures. It wouldn’t have been the first time truth left its trail in a most unexpected place.

  The orchestra started again, and music filled the hall like an enchanting scent neither Celeste nor the vixen could resist. The officer spoke neither her mother tongue nor the language of Austry or Albion. No answers from him, just smiles and the kind of silences that reminded Fox she was in a faraway and strange land. He didn’t dance as well as Ludovik Rensman, who’d shown her the latest dance steps from Vena at his father’s ball, so it was all Fox could do to try and keep her feet and the hem of her dress out from under his shiny boots. And Jacob was still standing between Kami’en and the Tzar...

  The minister who asked Fox for the next dance was a much better dancer than the officer, and he spoke fluent Lotharainian, but he had nothing more to offer than court gossip: the Tzar’s newest mistress (apparently not the woman next to him), the best tailor in Moskva, the most in-demand hatmaker…He was clearly convinced the topics of interest to women were very few and limited. Fox wished the orchestra would play louder and drown out the nullities pouring from his mouth. His voice was like a badly tuned instrument among the strings and clarinets.

  Her third suitor was an admiral whose sweaty hands left damp imprints on the red silk of her dress. After he pressed a moist kiss on her hand and asked for her address, Fox truly regretted she couldn’t have left the dancing to Jacob and instead conversed with the Tzar about treasures.

  Someone next to her cleared his throat.

  “I shall not presume that my dancing skills do justice to the dress or the lady wearing it, but I promise I will give it my utmost.”

  The Windhound had barely changed. He still didn’t look like a spy. The Barsoi—Fox definitely preferred his Russian nickname. He’d addressed her in her own language, the Lotharainian rolling off his tongue quite naturally (Fox recalled that he spoke more than a dozen languages fluently), though he tinted every word in Caledonian colors: gray and green, stony mountains, oxblood housefronts, valleys scarred with the footprints of Giants, and salty lakes that blurred the reflections of crumbled castles and in which monsters with iron scales prowled for fish. Nowhere else were the beaches as white from naiad tears, and nowhere else could one find valleys where the fog created rain warriors. Fox loved Caledonia. And she liked the Windhound. She’d been looking forward to meeting him again.

  He was good-looking and yet not quite so, as slender as a reed (which gave rise to the misunderstanding that his figure had something to do with his nickname), with stubborn ash-blond hair that he had to keep brushing away from his eyes as he spoke. His eyes were brown, unusual for Caledonia, and they were almost as disconcertingly bright and as fearless as Jacob’s.

  “Pray, what name goes with such a beautiful face and that wonderful dress?”

  Fox had expected him not to recognize her.

  “Celeste Auger. And yours?”

  His smile showed how pleased he was with himself. He had addressed her in the right language.

  He gave the hint of a bow, which showed that he did not like to curtsy. “Tennant. Orlando Tennant.”

  Fox was surprised. She had expected a false name. Or...maybe it was false.

  “Mademoiselle Auger.” He offered his arm.

  “Under one condition.”

  He smiled. Fox suspected everything was a game to the Barsoi, maybe even more than to Jacob.

  “Which is?”

  Fox cast a furtive glance toward Jacob. He was still talking to the Tzar. The Tzar’s companion, however, had eyes only for Kami’en.

  “I decide the topic of conversation,” she said. “I cannot bear another dance spent talking about the newest hat fashions.”

  The Barsoi laughed. “Pity! My favorite topic. But I shall do my best to find another.”

  This time Fox accepted the arm.

  “Is it more enjoyable to serve Wilfred of Albion in Moskva or in Metagirta?”

  Ah, his eyes said, you know more about me than I about you. That needs to change. “To serve is never enjoyable.”

  She liked the answer. The vixen caught the scent of duplicity, but no deviousness. Still, her senses hadn’t warned her of the Bluebeard, had they? The memory briefly made Fox pull back her hand as Orlando Tennant reached for it, but she caught herself. She did sometimes fear she might never again completely trust the touch or the smile of a man. Even Jacob’s face was forever linked to the Bluebeard’s blood chamber.

  The dance floor gleamed in the light of the chandeliers like a frozen lake. The orchestra was playing a polka. Fox felt the music like a second heartbeat.

  “Is it true the Tzar has made the daughter of a serf his lover?”

  “Oh yes. He’s even had a palace built for her, where he keeps her hidden. She has a beautiful voice, but she may sing only for him. All his other lovers are just to show his nobles he doesn’t prefer a serf’s daughter to theirs.”

  The Barsoi was a good dancer, a very good one. Fox had rarely enjoyed her human body more.

  “Would you like such a life? The lover of a Tzar, your own palace, as a prisoner of love?”

  “Love is always a prison.” The words came easily, as though Fox had spoken them many times, yet she hadn’t even known she felt that way until this very moment.

  “Interesting. What makes you say that? Experience?”

  “I decide the topic, remember?”

  “Touché. The men we serve, the women we love… What shall we speak of next?”

  “Will the Dark Fairy bring her magic to Moskva?”

  It’s hard to hide your surprise when you’re dancing, even for a spy. But the Barsoi only skipped one beat.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer, and neither does the Tzar’s secret service.” He leaned forward until his lips nearly touched her ear. “I promised Wilfred the Walrus to telegraph an answer within a week, but I promise you will have it even before him.”

  Now it was her turn to smile. She felt light in his arms. You’re dizzy from the dance, Fox. That’s all.

  She kept asking questions so the Windhound wouldn’t notice she’d only been after one answer. “What is the most precious item among the Tzar’s magic treasures?” “Is it true the Tzar exiled two of his half brothers to Yakutia because they were after the throne?”

  They danced. And danced. And the Barsoi told Fox about an iron wolf and the flying carpets in the Tzar’s Magic Collection. He talked about the ice palaces of Yakutia, which the banished half brothers had built, and how the streets of Moskva had recently quaked, causing the Tzar to organize a search for a possible surviving Dragon under the city. Fox loved the disappointment in his voice when he added that they’d found nothing but rats and an anarchist’s bomb.

  When the musicians lowered their instruments, the world suddenly felt very still. And much cooler without the Barsoi’s arm around her waist.

  “Three days,” Orlando Tennant whispered as he led her off the dance floor. “Give me three days for your answer. Though I still don’t understand why you’d want to know.”

  Fox sensed the Bluebeard’s shadow as Orlando kissed her on the cheek, but she sent the shadow back to its bloody mansion and forced herself to forget that he’d made desire rhyme with fear.

  “Well, I never! Orlando Tennant.” Jacob was next to her so suddenly that Fox gave a start, as though a stranger had grabbed her arm. “Got tired of the hot summers in Metagirta?”

  “Jacob.” So the Barsoi remem
bered him. He frowned and eyed Fox from head to toe. “No. Impossible.”

  “I know. This one still wears her fur too often. Tell her! She won’t listen to me anymore.”

  Fox couldn’t read Orlando’s look. Maybe there was some understanding in it. How often had he changed his name, invented a new life in a new place, changed his appearance?

  “It’s not something one can just stop doing,” he said. “Please forgive me for monopolizing her. I truly had no idea that I was dancing with the girl who is so inseparably linked to Jacob Reckless.”

  “Oh no, Fox belongs only to herself.” Pride and tenderness weren’t the only feelings she heard in Jacob’s voice. Something else had come into it. Pain. Regret. Fear. Go! You are free. Save me from causing you more pain.

  The Tzar was moving to leave the ball. The musicians quickly picked up their instruments. The crowd parted like a flock of birds for the hawk while the orchestra intoned Varangia’s anthem. The Tzar nodded at Jacob as he walked past. Nicolaij was taller than most of his officers, with dark, curly hair and a profile that matched that of Varangia’s heraldic animal, the double-headed eagle. Women looked at him as longingly as the men did. “He will return Varangia to greatness.” “He will remind our nobles that our roots are in the East.” “He will reconcile the rich and the poor.” “He will free the serfs.” Fox had not heard a single bad word about him that night, but this was, after all, his palace and his ball.

  Besides his mistress, the Tzar was accompanied by a dozen officers. And Kami’en. Hentzau, Nesser, and the other Goyl joined them as they reached the door.

  “So, Varangia and the Goyl are now officially allies?” Jacob asked. “Your master won’t like that.”

  “No,” Tennant replied. “The Goyl supposedly made Nicolaij a gift that’s more useful than the jeweled swords he usually receives. But what that gift was is Moskva’s best-kept secret. What are you here for? A firebird? Golden apples? Baba Yaga skulls? Or has it to do with your companion’s questions?”

  He didn’t wait for Jacob’s reply.

  “I hope the Dark Fairy doesn’t arrive for a while,” he whispered to Fox, “if that will keep you in Moskva.”

  Then he disappeared into the throng.

  Connected

  Flowers blossomed wherever the Dark One stepped in the sharp-bladed grass. The rain kissed her skin, the trees whispered her name, but all she saw was the yarn. It was a noose since Kami’en had come to Moskva, a noose of golden yarn.

  So close.

  Why had he come? So strong was the temptation to have Chithira turn the carriage around and make her own lies come true by driving her to Moskva after all. Drive on! she tried to command herself while the rain soaked through her hair and clothes. It kept pouring down as though trying to turn the whole world into a lake, a lake like the one that had spawned her. Away from him! Instead, she stood under the wide and alien sky and wondered what Kami’en was thinking, whether he missed her... Whether he really believed she’d killed his son.

  He was so close.

  “We have to move.” Donnersmarck wiped the rain from his face. “I have a feeling we’re being followed.”

  As though she didn’t know that. Her dreams were of glass and jade. But what did it matter? Kami’en was the one she was running from. Her sisters would never understand that, just as they’d never understood her leaving them for him.

  To be free. Free of them, free of him, free of herself. That’s what had made her get into her carriage. The boy who was following her had followed her into her dreams for as long as she could remember. Maybe to be truly free she had to let him catch up to her. She’d always known he would one day. As for those who watched over him…the Dark One’s dreams only showed hazy images, two blurry outlines of glass and silver barely visible behind the dark figure of a Goyl. As though they had a way to hide themselves from her. She knew who’d sent them, even though neither she nor her red sister had ever encountered the vanished Alderelves. Years ago, she’d come upon one of the Silver-Alders near a castle she and Kami’en were staying in. Despite the thick snow all around it, the air under the Alder’s crown had been as hot and humid as a summer night. A voice had whispered through the rustling leaves. She’d liked that voice, just as she liked many of the things her sisters were afraid of.

  Why had Kami’en come to the East?

  Not for her.

  No.

  And even if he had, he would never admit it, not even to himself.

  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.