The Queen's Necklace

by Teresa Edgerton

“Oh, but they all ask such searching questions. The ambassadors from everywhere. Of course, they may only be concerned for their own safety, thinking the footpads have grown so bold.”

  Wilrowan experienced an uneasy twinge. There was something very wrong here: the thieves of Hawkesbridge so ignorant, the ambassadors so interested. “I wonder if everything is quite as it ought to be in Chêneboix, Nordfjall. Winterscar, and those other places? I wonder if Rodaric is the only one who is missing something of inestimable value.”

  Dionee opened her eyes very wide. “Please don’t say that; you will give me nightmares. The king has people in all those places; if there were really anything wrong, surely we would have heard something?”

  “Perhaps. Yes, we must have done. They all know something is amiss here, even if they don’t know what.”

  When Will opened the door to his chilly attic room, he was surprised to see that somebody else had already been in to light the candles. He hesitated in the corridor, sniffing the air for perfume. There was a certain Letitia Steerpike, the boldest and most predatory of Dionee’s women, who had taken to paying him unexpected visits, despite the cool reception he always gave her. There was a faint scent, but of neroli rather than jasmine, and as Will entered the room, a figure gorgeously attired in plum-colored velvet and silver lacings rose slowly from a chair and favored him with a long hard look through a jeweled eyeglass.

  “I had almost given you up for dead. But I see you are strong of wind and of limb—it is only your memory that suffers.”

  Will responded with a sheepish grin. “You are undoubtedly going to tell me I’ve forgotten some engagement. I beg your pardon, Blaise, but whatever it was has slipped my mind.”

  Trefallon dismissed his apology with a graceful gesture of one white hand. “We were to hire a carriage and visit my family at Crowsmeare. Don’t let it trouble you, I beg you. No doubt whatever appointment you had in the stews was far more pressing.”

  Will groaned, tossed his hat on the floor, and collapsed into a chair. “And you’ve wasted the entire afternoon waiting here for me to return and explain myself.”

  The worst of all this secrecy was that Will had not been allowed to tell Blaise about the missing Jewel. “I have nothing against young Trefallon,” the king had said. “But I don’t see how he can possibly be of use in recovering the Chaos Machine.” Lacking any explanation, Will could only imagine what his friend must make of his present behavior.

  “I think I’d rather feed than revile you, Wilrowan. I don’t know what you have been doing to yourself, but you have a certain lean and wolfish look that I find altogether distressing. Come with me to the Imp and Bottle, and I will buy you supper.”

  Will considered this offer. He wanted his bed almost as much as he wanted his supper. And while a meal at an inn like the Imp—famous for its ale and for immense sea-pies stuffed with shad, haddock, cod, salmon, sturgeon, and lampreys between thin layers of pastry—would be far superior to anything he might find here at the barracks, he could hardly put in an appearance as he was now. “Oh, very well,” he said at last. “It’s very good of you, Blaise. I’ll ring for Young Swallow and try not to keep you waiting too long.”

  He crossed the room and gave a hard pull on the velvet bellrope, then he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a chair. When he looked back up, Blaise was watching him with an expression of intense concern on his face. “What is it now?”

  “You’re bleeding. Fiend seize you, Wilrowan, didn’t you even notice?”

  Will looked down at his right sleeve, where he had knotted a strip of dirty muslin some twelve hours earlier. There was a fresh red stain. “Oh—did that start again? But I expect it’s already stopped; it was never more than a scratch. I was in a knife fight last night.”

  “You were—in—a knife fight?” It was evident from Trefallon’s voice that he did not believe a word of it. “My dear Blackheart, since when do you carry a knife?”

  “I will after this. I was forced to borrow some damned clumsy thing from somebody else. Please don’t concern yourself on my account. It was done for a wager, and no serious harm done on either side.” He did not like to mention the scuffle in the alley, which had probably started the bleeding again. If Blaise knew, he would undoubtedly side with Nick and call in some cursed saw-bones.

  Resuming his seat, Will was still struggling out of his high boots when Blaise picked up a folded piece of paper from a table by the door and examined it with his glass. “What is this? It looks to be of some importance.”

  Will put out a hand to take the letter, turned it over to look at the seal. The thick red wax was imprinted with Rodaric’s cypher. “I wonder how long it’s been waiting.” He broke the seal, unfolded the heavy sheet of embossed paper, and read the contents with little enthusiasm.

  It was a request to attend the king—not in his own apartments at the palace, but at the home of one of the two Malachim professors the chancellor had recommended. To arrange a meeting had been far more difficult than either Wilrowan or the king had imagined, as both men were out of town. Now it appeared that one or both of them had finally returned.

  Will’s fingers closed around the letter, crumpling the paper. Weary and out of sorts, he had no desire to spend what remained of the day in the dry, repressive company of two Hawkesbridge dons. Even under the best of circumstances, it was a meeting he would have given worlds to avoid.

  But unfobbing his pocket-watch, flipping open the cover and taking note of the hour, he saw the time was just after six. Rodaric was expecting him to appear between five and eight.

  “I’m sorry, Blaise, but it looks like I’ve been invited to a damned supper party at the university!” He picked up one of his boots, knocked it against the floor to remove some dried mud from the heel, and pulled it back on again.

  “But Will—no really, Wilrowan! Surely you don’t intend to go dressed as you are?”

  “There is no time to change,” said Will, pulling on the other boot, shrugging back into his coat, catching up his shovel-brimmed hat as he headed toward the door. A gleam of malicious pleasure came into his eyes. “I’m afraid the reverend professors will just have to take me the way I am.” Though he did pause on the threshold to remove the silver intaglio ring from his right hand and slip it into his coat pocket.

  19

  Milrowan rode across town in a rattling hack. The threat of snow had not been in vain, and small hard flakes came blowing in on a cold wind and beat against the bull’s-eye windowpanes of the coach.

  The University of Hawkesbridge, that ancient and venerable seat of learning, was a vast uncharted maze of libraries, dormitories, lecture halls, theaters, laboratories, cloisters, chapels, and groves, occupying six square miles on the eastern bank of the river. It was divided into thirteen colleges—one, it was said, for every month of the year. There was stately Cornelius, with its starry domes and golden spires, its schools of Mathematics, Astronomy, and Navigation. Julian, with its high stone walls, shady walks, and mysterious enclosures, where the young men flocked to learn Law and Rhetoric. Manasseh, with its Physick Garden and great Hall of Surgeons; and Galerius of the famous Museum of Natural History. There was Jacinth, devoted to the study of Music and to the making of musical instruments; and grim old Sacrifice, with its entire faculty made up of Levellers. Nôdier, Augustus, Flamel, and Gemini—fantastical in their architecture, rich in their history, their learning, and traditions—Hathor and Nicodemus—like so many cities of dreams floating on the river. But the most ancient of these, the most worthy of veneration, was Malachim of the Magicians.

  When Will disembarked near his old college and paid off the driver, the hands on the dial in the great Malachim obelisk clock-tower indicated a quarter to seven. If he felt any emotion at returning once more to those sacred precincts, he took pains to conceal it.

  The narrow old houses, mantled in ivy, were shuttered and silent, nearly identical, virtually anonymous. Yet he had no difficulty picking out the right place: Rodaric�
�s gilded coach was pulled up outside, and a company of guardsmen in maroon-and-gold uniforms were lounging on the steps.

  The coachman had uncoupled two of the horses and was walking them up and down the gas-lit street. Will greeted him with a curt nod, climbed the steps, brushed past the guards with only the bare indication of a salute, and raised his fist to the oak door panels. He announced himself to the ancient servant in rusty black livery who answered his knock: “Wilrowan Krogan-Blackheart,” and walked right in without waiting to be invited.

  The old man accepted this invasion with equanimity, stepping aside to make room for Will in the hall. “You are expected, Captain Blackheart. Allow me to show you the way.”

  Feeling somewhat chastened by this display of civility, Will followed him up a flight of stairs and into a large drafty chamber. As he crossed the threshold, Will groaned inwardly; it was all too evident he had missed his supper. This was no dining room, but a magician’s laboratory, with a mosaic floor set with mystic diagrams—sunbursts, calipers, snakes, and keys—and a vaulted ceiling painted with planets, constellations, and wandering comets. Rodaric and two old gentlemen instantly identifiable as Hawkesbridge professors, by their full-bottomed wigs and long, plain coats, were seated in tall leather armchairs drawn up before a large fireplace flanked by black marble sphinxes.

  Will swept off his battered hat at arm’s length and made a flourishing bow. Reaction to his appearance, by at least one of those present, was all that he could have wished: the stouter of the two old gentlemen stiffened and glared. Yet the other professor merely nodded politely, and Rodaric gave a deep, half-humorous sigh, and rolled his eyes expressively.

  “I must apologize for Captain Blackheart, who has adopted this disguise at my request, in order to prosecute certain inquiries into the disappearance of the item we were just discussing. Allow me to present you, Wilrowan, to our host: Professor Octavio Prenderby-Fox, Doctor of Magic.”

  Will made a slight bow. “I had the honor of attending Doctor Fox’s lectures on several occasions, though I scarcely expect he remembers me. I was hardly one of his most promising students.”

  “On the contrary,” said Professor Fox, with an unexpected twinkle. “I remember you, Wilrowan Blackheart, very well. The papers you wrote contained some very interesting ideas. Your conclusions were entirely faulty, of course, founded as they were on inadequate preparation and incorrect premises, but you displayed a certain ingenuity in reaching them. I wish you had been able to stay with us longer—but the chancellor, as I recall, had a different opinion.” He gestured toward the other old gentleman. “You are not, I think, acquainted with Sir Frederic Tregaron-Marlowe, who has made an extensive study of the Maglore and their sorcery.”

  As Sir Frederic did no more than return Will’s bow with a chilly inclination of his head, a momentary silence fell over the room. A silence that ended when Rodaric cleared his throat. “Take a seat, Wilrowan. No, not there. Your work for the day is done, and there is no need to skulk in the shadows.”

  With a shrug, Will cast himself down into an empty armchair and assumed a negligent pose. Doctor Fox offered him port, which he declined, though he did accept a cup of weak tea and a thin slice of plum cake. The formalities satisfied and the servant dismissed, Rodaric immediately addressed the subject on everyone’s mind.

  “You will be pleased, Wilrowan, to hear that Sir Frederic is convinced the Chaos Machine can’t have gone far. You will oblige me, Sir Frederic, by explaining to Captain Blackheart what you were just telling me.”

  Will and Marlowe exchanged unfriendly glances. He and Sir Frederic had never met, yet Will had an idea the other man knew him, if only by reputation. It seemed as if he could go nowhere, lately, and do nothing, without tripping over reminders of his past misdeeds.

  “If Your Majesty desires it,” Sir Frederic was saying, “of course I will acquaint this gentlemen with all the particulars of our conversation. Though if you will permit me to say so, in a matter so delicate, so—”

  “Thank you,” said Rodaric firmly, “but any such caution is entirely unnecessary. Captain Blackheart enjoys my complete confidence in this, as indeed in all matters, and you may speak as freely before him as you would before me.” And under the king’s cool and steady gaze, Sir Frederic resigned himself to speak, just as Will resigned himself to listen.

  “You are no doubt familiar,” said Marlowe, “with the theory of Universal Magnetism. I am speaking of a subtle spirit, an astral vapor, which penetrates even the hardest bodies. Through the activity of this spirit, bodies are attracted one to another; by the action of this spirit, electrical bodies may operate at even the remotest distance.

  “The influence of this magnetism is to be found everywhere, sometimes creating magnetic currents or rays that exert a force so powerful it can actually be detected by particularly sensitive magicians. Moreover, there are different species of magnetism: of one sort in animals, another in plants, another in metals, and so on and so forth. Man himself is but a miniature of the earth, possessing his own magnetic poles that attract and repel. His very thoughts may be regarded as magnetic emanations, which—”

  “As you have already suggested,” Will interjected impatiently, “I am familiar with the principle.” Though he expected Sir Frederic would eventually get around to revealing something of importance, he was not prepared to listen to an entire lecture on elementary magical theory. “Perhaps you will tell me how all this relates to the Goblin Jewels—and most particularly to the one that is missing.”

  Sir Frederic bridled, apparently unaccustomed to being interrupted in the full flow of his eloquence. He looked to the king as though expecting him to issue some sharp reprimand. But Rodaric merely nodded encouragingly, and Sir Frederic was forced to continue.

  “The ancient Maglore were creatures of extreme ingenuity. Among their most notable inventions were artificial gemstones, closely resembling their natural counterparts but different in one important way: the Maglore gems could be used to absorb and channel the Universal Magnetism. These gems, occasionally carved intaglio, were set into rings, necklaces, and brooches, and became what we may term the Lesser Goblin Jewels. They were employed in a number of interesting ways—most frequently as a means of projecting the thoughts of one individual into the mind of another.”

  As Marlowe said this, Wilrowan absent-mindedly put his hand in his coat pocket, searching for his grandmother’s ring.

  “But it is not of the Lesser Jewels that I mean to speak,” Sir Frederic continued. “The Maglore also excelled at inventing miniature mechanisms of remarkable complexity, which came to be known as Philosophic Engines. Originally, they regarded these devices as mere toys, but as their makers waxed more and more ingenious, the engines themselves became more and more powerful. When someone conceived the idea of incorporating into their design such artificial gemstones as I mentioned earlier, the Great Jewels came to be made, and marvels hitherto unsuspected suddenly became possible.”

  While Marlowe continued to speak, Will glanced listlessly around him. Two long walnut tables occupied the center of the room, and the walls were lined with shelves and cabinets filled with the books and magical artifacts which were the lifetime study of the academic magician. Without thinking what he was doing, Wilrowan put down his teacup, left his chair, and began to wander around the room, examining some of the more interesting objects.

  There were scrolls of white snakeskin covered with spells written out in vermillion letters, and marble tablets inscribed with gold. In a glass vessel, Will discovered an aborted mandrake just developing the distinguishing features of an infant Wryneck. Displayed on both long tables he saw golden triangles, divining rods, magic lamps, and a number of curious old talismans stamped with ankhs, solar disks, and ram-headed deities. The Malachim professors examined these objects and noted their qualities in obsessive detail, wrote long monographs on the magical principles each one embodied, but to actually use magic on a frequent basis was deemed far too dangerous. In the ste
rile academic world they inhabited, Theory was everything and Practice was only a way of demonstrating what had already been “proven” by other methods.

  “I simplify, of course, rather than try your patience with irrelevant details,” Marlowe concluded with heavy irony. “I trust I have not been obscure.”

  But Will had been listening far more carefully than it might have appeared. He looked up from his inspection of some soap-stone idols. “You said that the Lesser Jewels were used for the projection of thoughts. I suppose you might say, to impose the will of the magician. But not so with the Greater Jewels?”

  “With the Great Jewels, the will of the magician is imposed on the mechanism itself. That is how the engine, so remarkably delicate, is constantly adjusted and attuned.” Sir Frederic smiled complacently, warming to his subject. “But more is required than an understanding of the principles involved; these adjustments require a species of magical sympathy, which can only be established under the guidance and control of one who is already perfectly attuned to the device in question. Only our rulers and their nearest heirs are trained in this way, and each knows only enough of the rudiments of magic to make use of the Jewel that is in his keeping.”

  “Do you mean,” said Rodaric, “what I have long suspected, that with greater knowledge it might be possible for someone—say myself or any other ruler you might care to name—to exercise his skill on one of these little jeweled engines other than his own?”

  “He might be rash enough to suppose he could, should a second engine fall into his hands, but his chances of failure would be very great, lacking the requisite sympathy. And a failed attempt would have devastating consequences. That is why colleges like Malachim are forbidden by law to admit young men of royal blood, and our rulers are so strongly cautioned against including magicians among their nearest friends and advisors.”

  Will raised his eyebrows. “Then it is just as well my days at Malachim College were so mercifully brief. Had I gone on to take my degree in Magic, I would never have been permitted my present commission.”