The Golden Yarn

by Cornelia Funke

  They flowed down the walls like woven water, and their patterns conjured a thousand and one faraway places. Flying carpets.

  Jacob’s heart began to beat faster. There it was, the magic that could help him find Will. How could he have forgotten that the Tzar’s collection was famous for its flying carpets? Because your jealousy won’t let you think straight, Jacob. Most flying carpets would take the rider to a place, but a few could also be steered toward a person. The pattern for that rare kind of magic was so complex that even the most talented weavers rarely managed it without flaw.

  The first carpets Molotov limped past were woven and could at best be used for short trips. Then came carpets with knotted patterns that indicated they could fly neither very fast nor very high, let alone do any other magic. But Molotov had much to say about each one, and Jacob had to restrain himself not to leave the old man standing there to go off in search of the right carpet.

  The patterns became more complex. Knotted thickets of flowers and animals, abstracts, celestial constellations.

  “This carpet brings love if you ride it with the lady of your dreams during a full moon.”

  Yes, yes, fine. Next.

  “This specimen will throw off everything if one shouts the words hidden in its pattern. It was used to eliminate enemies.”

  Great. And next?

  Carpets that could serve sumptuous meals in flight, carpets that would float like canopies over crowned heads, carpets that could act as bodyguards. Carpets that could steal, kidnap... He’d probably fooled himself. There couldn’t be more than a dozen carpets in existence that did what he was looking for, and none of them had probably ever left their homelands, but were all tucked away in the treasure chambers of sultans and suleimans.

  “Now this specimen”—Molotov had stopped in front of a carpet hung over a rod with golden Dragon heads at each end—“is the most precious in this collection, not only because of its size.” He mumbled his words as if he were talking about a bath mat. “It can carry six men and their horses, and it will find any destination desired.”

  The carpet was bluish-green and not only covered the very high wall but spilled onto the floor in so many folds that Jacob estimated it to be at least fifty feet long. But size wasn’t important. The magic was in the pattern. This one was so convoluted that the words were all but invisible to even the most experienced eye. They were written in Lahkmid, the secret language of carpet weavers. Every treasure hunter worth his mettle knew at least the most important words, as well as how to pronounce the ones he didn’t know. Jacob found the words he’d been hoping for, in the very center, hidden among blossoms and fabulous birds:

  I shall find the one you speak of.

  It became almost impossible to listen to Molotov with a calm expression, but Jacob reminded himself that he’d never again get the opportunity to see this collection— and that he’d look rather stupid at his next audience with the Tzar if he offered to find a treasure Nikolaij already possessed.

  He would find Will.

  But what for? Because the Alderelf was trying to stop him? Was that enough?

  What did his brother want?

  “And now...erm...” Another staircase, another floor. Molotov was so winded, every step they climbed made Jacob fear for the old man’s life. “...we come to the final room of the collection.”

  There—an end in sight.

  I shall find the one you speak of.

  Molotov stopped in front of the portal at the top of the stairs and wiped the sweat off his parchment-skinned face. The locks were secured with flame-wires and Pashtun copper, promising extraordinary treasures.

  “He has a skin of stone.”

  What did his brother want? But when had Jacob last been able to answer that question with any certainty? A long time ago.

  Molotov instructed Jacob to turn around while he unlocked the portal. Jacob always carried a pocket mirror for such situations, but he didn’t bother. All this treasure made him think of the presents he used to bring back from this world for Will, the delight on his brother’s face, the absorbed wonder. Will had once been as enchanted by this world as he. Even more so, Jacob. She gave him a different skin. What if he liked it?

  Yes, what then?

  Did Spieler understand his brother better than he did? “Oh, please! You’re talking to an Elf. I know your most intimate wishes. It’s my business to fulfill them.”

  The smell that assaulted them as Molotov pushed open the heavy portal made it very clear what kind of room they were about to enter. The despair of magical creatures smells just as sharply as that of ordinary animals. Therese of Austry had never been interested in collecting living creatures, which was why Vena’s Chambers of Miracles only contained stuffed and mounted specimens. All living creatures had been processed into tinctures or had met their ends in the imperial kitchens. The creatures in the cages Molotov was now leading him past would’ve probably preferred such a death to an imprisonment that, thanks to their long life spans, might have already lasted centuries.

  A golden egg-laying goose, a blinded basilisk... What good did it do that their cages had gold bars and the landscapes of their native lands were painted on the walls? A Rusalka had to share the murky waters of her tank with a couple of water gnomes, while next to her two magic ravens were pecking at the hexed glass that kept their curses from reaching human ears. Jacob was glad Fox hadn’t come with him.

  A buck with silver hooves (No, Jacob, it has nothing to do with the Elf), three bees of Vasilisa the Wise, and the Gray Wolf, savior of three Tzars. The third Tzar had shown his gratitude by locking up the poor immortal creature. The golden eyes lost some of their dull indifference as Jacob stepped closer to the bars. The wolf was almost as big as a pony, and even after decades of captivity, its fur still shimmered like moonlight. The wolf’s cage was the last one. There was a door beyond it, but Molotov bowed like an actor going offstage and gave Jacob a dusty smile.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour, Mr. Reckless. The Tzar’s chauffeur will now take you to your audience with His Majesty. Please convey my utmost regard. As a young man, I served his father as a soldier.”

  Jacob had one trait that was as uncontrollable as his impatience: his curiosity. He pointed at the door Molotov was studiously ignoring.

  “What’s in there? As far as I know, the Tzar wanted me to see all his treasures.”

  Leave it, Jacob! But there’d never been a closed door he didn’t want to open.

  “That is the secret wing of the collection.” A note of disapproval dampened Molotov’s voice. “Its contents are known only to the Tzar and his closest advisors—for reasons of state security.”

  See, Jacob? Leave the stupid questions. Every treasure hunter had heard about the secret wing of the Tzar’s collection. Varangia’s most famous treasure hunter (who, some said, was an illegitimate son of the Tzar) had once tried to enter it as part of a wager. He was now living out his days in a prison camp on Sakha.

  The portal had a magic combination lock—that much Jacob could see, even though Molotov was trying to block his view. He’d once cracked a lock just like it in Pombal. Stop it, Jacob!

  His careless question cost him dearly. Molotov never took his eyes off him, so as they made their way back, Jacob couldn’t even get a closer look at how the doors to the hall of carpets were secured.

  The Tzar’s chauffeur was waiting in the courtyard, next to a highly-polished car. Even a hardened enemy of modern times as Nikolaij the Third couldn’t resist the horseless carriages. Varangia’s double eagle spread his wings over the hood. Jacob had seen too many horses whipped half to death to find anything romantic about horse-drawn carriages, but the clatter of hooves still sounded better than a sputtering engine. Fox would’ve laughed and reminded him that the horses probably didn’t enjoy wearing iron on their feet. Where was she? He forbade himself to think about that.

  ***

  Throne rooms, army tents, stables, carriages, and trains—Jacob had met the ruler
s of this world in all sorts of places, but until now, none had asked him to take off his clothes and share wafting steam and tubs of icy water.

  The steam smelled of fresh birch leaves, pushkin-herbs, and charred wood. The white vapors revealed his royal host only after a couple of enormous servants had fanned them away with birch branches.

  Nikolaij, as naked as the day he was born, emerged from a pool tiled with mosaics depicting the diversity of Varangian mythical wildlife: Rusalkas, kraken, river sprites… The movements of the water gave them an illusion of life. The Tzar reached for the towel offered by one of the servants and wrapped it around his waist. His usually quite pale skin was now the color of amber. When the Tzars indulged in the Varangian passion for steam baths, they protected themselves with a salve supposedly derived from a Goyl recipe. Rumor had it the salve could deflect bullets. The sabers carried by the servants made Jacob even more aware of his own nakedness. Maybe the baths were the safest place for a Tzar to receive his guests.

  “Gospodin Reckless!” Nikolaij was handed a bowl of raw meat. “I hope my collection managed to impress the West’s most famous treasure hunter?”

  A bear suddenly emerged through the wafting steam, sniffing the air, wearing an embroidered waistcoat over his black fur. The Tzar was hardly ever seen without the animal by his side. On official occasions, the bear was dressed in a cavalry uniform, a sight Jacob had hoped to see at the ball, but Ivanuska-Dyracok had been indisposed due to a swallowed fish bone. The Tzar’s tame bears were always christened after the hero of many Russian fairy tales, who, though he spent most of his life sleeping behind an oven, always ended up saving the world. With his massive paw, Ivanuska caught the meat his master threw at him, and Nikolaij handed the empty bowl back to the servant while his eyes stared at Jacob’s naked chest.

  “The Goyl claim that one of them shot Jacob Reckless through the heart. But I can’t see a scar. So it’s a lie?”

  “No. The Goyl aimed well and his bullet hit its mark, but there’s no longer a scar.”

  “And how does one survive something like that?”

  “I didn’t survive.”

  Jacob Reckless and his heart... The Tzar didn’t look surprised. His spies had probably told him every version of that story. There were quite a few. Jacob’s favorite was the one in which the Red Fairy planted the heart of a moth in his chest.

  “How does death feel?”

  “I wasn’t dead long enough to answer that question.”

  The servants brought embroidered cushions as colorful as the rushnyky of the Baba Yaga. Varangia and Ukraina not only had the same Witches; the two countries had so much in common that the larger neighbor kept swallowing the smaller one.

  His royal host settled on one of the cushions and nodded at Jacob to do the same.

  “The Magic Collection is much larger than what you saw today,” he began. “It fills two more palaces, and their locations have been kept secret for centuries. My father had both of them searched for decades for two enamel eggs containing the waters of life and death. One of our ancestors supposedly lived for a hundred and ninety-eight years thanks to those eggs. But they are untraceable.”

  He spoke Albian with a Lotharainian accent. Varangian nobles traditionally had their children educated by Lotharainian teachers, but Nikolaij’s two wars with Lotharaine had put an end to that. The East now looked to the East. What was it going to mean for Albion and Lotharaine if Varangia forged an alliance with the Goyl? Jacob would’ve liked to talk to Orlando Tennant about that, but… Yes, Jacob, Fox is with him. He should’ve stolen one of the nuts that made a person fall in love with the first woman he met. Though, as he recalled, that had been an old beggar who’d shoved her plate at him. The sight of his own naked skin confused his thoughts. Damn it, Jacob, remember where you are.

  “Your collection is truly remarkable, Your Majesty,” he said, “but there is plenty I could still find for you.”

  Ivanuska-Dyracok rested his muzzle on the Tzar’s naked shoulder. The bear’s eyes were almost the same color as his master’s salved skin. There was a story that during a particularly harsh winter that took the lives of thousands of subjects, one of Nikolaij’s ancestors offered himself to his bear to keep him from starving to death, but the bear took only the Tzar’s left hand. Maybe that was why they made such exquisite artificial limbs in Moskva.

  “Magic objects only rarely help with political goals, don’t they?” Nikolaij patted the bear’s head. “Has any country ever been conquered by seven-league boots or by a Witch’s brew?”

  My brother is just now carrying something through your lands that already destroyed three armies. The words were on Jacob’s tongue, but of course he didn’t say them aloud. Nikolaij was right. Most magical objects fulfilled very private wishes—beauty, eternal youth, everlasting love...

  He knew a woman in Caledonia who’d had a long affair with Orlando. She’d even followed the Windhound to Leon. Stop it, Jacob.

  The Tzar nudged the bear’s muzzle off his shoulder. No matter what fancy clothes the bears wore, their breath still reeked like that of any wild animal.

  “I want you to find a bell.”

  The servant gave the bear a fistful of leaves to eat. Jacob smelled mint.

  “Its sound is supposed to bring back the dead. I assume you’ve heard of it? And who better to find it than a treasure hunter who’s already been in the Land of Shadows?”

  No, Jacob had never heard of such a bell, but he knew better than to admit it.

  “Sure,” he lied. “It’s supposed to be in a church in the Jamantau Mountains. But its magic only works if its tongue is sprayed with seawater. The bell once belonged to a Mer-king.”

  Not bad, Jacob. He nearly believed it himself. The bear kept his eyes on Jacob, who hoped it was just a rumor that the creature could smell a lie.

  The bear’s master, however, looked impressed. “I didn’t know about that part. Good. When can you leave? You shall have my swiftest horse.”

  Even easier than he’d thought—hopefully, the next step would prove just as simple.

  “The Jamantau Mountains are difficult terrain for a horse, Your Majesty. One of your flying carpets would provide a much more reliable mode of travel.” Oh, he was such a fabulous liar. After all, he’d already lied his way out of the oven of a Lotharainian Witch and the coffin of a Catalunian vampire. Practice a master does make.

  Nikolaij frowned. The sweat formed glassy pearls on his amber skin. “I don’t know. Those carpets are alien magic. Are you sure? I have very good horses.”

  Alien magic. The Tzar expressed a fear shared by many behind the mirror. But even if the carpets came from Fars, Pashtun, or Almohad, that made them no more fickle than the magic objects of his own country.

  “Don’t worry,” Jacob said. “I’m used to handling magical objects from all sorts of lands. It’s part of my trade. You just have to take your time to understand their magic.”

  Nikolaij reached for the glass one of his servants was offering. “Good. If you think so. Truth be told, I’d much rather part with one of those flying rugs than one of my horses.”

  The servant also offered a glass to Jacob. Spiced wine. Water would’ve been more welcome in this heat.

  “Forgive the question, Your Majesty? Who is it you want to call back with the bell?”

  Nikolaij threw his empty glass against the tiled wall. The servants quickly began picking up the pieces from the blue glazed stones. It was a Varangian superstition that broken glass drove away the shadows of past woes.

  “My son Maksim.”

  “How long has he been dead?”

  “Three hundred days, five hours, and a few minutes. Bring me the bell and you shall be a very rich man.”

  The Tzar rose from his cushion, a signal for Jacob to do the same.

  “I shall bring you the bell.” A difficult lie. Jacob was about to make an enemy of the Tzar of Varangia, and he felt sorry for him. He’d never had such scruples with the Empress of Austry or t
he crown prince of Lotharaine.

  The servants sprinkled rose water on the oven. The vapors turned thick and white, as though they were suddenly in the clouds.

  “I shall have the carpet delivered to you. Did Molotov show you one you’d prefer?”

  “Yes, but it’s the most precious one you own.”

  The carpet weaver had to trace the pattern with his bare feet for ten days and ten nights—that’s what put the magic in the knots. “That, and the skills of his trade,” Robert Dunbar would have added. “I keep telling you, Jacob. Every man can become a magician if only he raises himself to become a master at his craft.”

  The coat that was now being put on the Tzar had clearly been designed by such a master. Firebirds spread their flame-red wings over matte-golden silk. What magic had created such skill? Or was it the other way around? And did the coat make its wearer happy?

  Nikolaij beckoned the bear to his side. “I shall have the carpet brought to you tomorrow. You are still staying with Baryatinsky?”

  “Yes.” So easy.

  The servants rinsed the sweat off Jacob’s skin before they took him back to the room where he’d left his clothes.

  “How old was the Tzar’s son when he died?” Jacob asked one of them.

  “Six years, sir. Typhoid fever.”

  He felt very guilty.

  He would have to find the bell, make up for the lies he’d told the Tzar. One day, with Fox’s help. No Fairies, no Elves, just him and her searching for the lost things of this world.

  He reached for his shirt.

  The card dropped from it.

  She was with him for quite a while. Who knew a vixen and a windhound could make such a good couple?

  Straight into the heart.

  The Tzar did pay an advance. After Jacob received the coins, he asked the chauffeur to wait while he approached a boy begging by the palace gate. “Bury this by the river,” he said, pressing the card and a shiny silver ruble into the boy’s grubby hands. “But I’m warning you, if you just throw the card away, or if you try to keep it for yourself, it’ll bring you bad luck for a hundred times a hundred days.”