There was another uncomfortable silence, until Sir Frederic cleared his throat. “As you say. Situated as you are—as the king assures us—so completely in the Royal Confidence, even for you to form friendships with trained magicians might be viewed as potentially dangerous.”
Wilrowan smiled to himself, thinking of those secret apartments where “Wilobie Culpepper” conducted experiments in alchemy which sometimes veered dangerously close to experiments in magic.
Professor Marlowe shifted his attention back to the king. “But we digress. I spoke, a while since, of the Universal Magnetism. Though it exists everywhere, there are exceedingly subtle variations in the magnetism as one travels from place to place, according to the species of metals which lie under the ground and a variety of other factors. Through long proximity, these Philosophic Engines have become attuned. To suddenly remove one of them at any great distance from the site it has occupied for more than a millennium would cause an abrupt repolarization of the internal gemstones, and consequently a massive disruption in the nearby magnetic currents.”
“And you were about to explain,” said Rodaric, “when Captain Blackheart came in, what was likely to result from such a disruption.”
“It might be anything,” Doctor Fox said, joining the discussion for the first time. “As the influence of magnetism is universal and as living creatures are most particularly affected—for the fluid of which we speak penetrates the nerves and influences them directly—so a disturbance in the magnetic currents might become apparent in many ways: civil unrest, natural disaster, outbreaks of disease, madness in animals, even accidental mishaps, such as fires and explosions.
“The larger events, such as floods and earthquakes, would tend to occur in the immediate vicinity of the Jewel itself, and the minor mishaps spread out to encompass an area of eighty, ninety, perhaps even a hundred miles. For this reason, if anyone were to rapidly transport the Mountfalcon Jewel out of the country, he would leave so clear a trail of disasters both large and small in his wake, it would be possible to chart his course and possibly overtake him. As no such wave of destruction has appeared, we assume the Chaos Machine is still in the country, or only a very few miles beyond her borders.”
Rodaric considered that. “You suspect one of our neighboring monarchs of plotting this theft?”
“That would not necessarily follow,” said Sir Frederic. “Even if the Jewel is now just over the border, we have no assurance it will not be removed even further at some later time. Indeed, if I were secretly moving one of these devices, I would make the journey in short stages with lengthy rests in between.”
“To what end?”
“Even under ordinary circumstances, fires, floods, and the like do occur, and if one were to plot them on a map, no recognizable pattern would develop. And so, by moving the Jewel gradually over a considerable period of time, I would not only hope to lessen the disruption, but also hope these more commonplace disasters would serve to camouflage the progress of the Jewel from country to country across the continent.”
Rodaric frowned. “I hardly see how any of this works to our advantage, if the thieves are careful. Even if the Chaos Machine remains somewhere this side of the border, that is still a considerable territory for us to search, and how are we to find it, much less recover it?”
“No,” said Will, “it does work to our advantage. If those who have taken the Jewel are forced to pause often along the way, that allows more time for mistakes, accidents, betrayals—any number of circumstances that might provide a clue to their whereabouts.”
“One such clue—” Sir Frederic cleared his throat again. “This is only theoretical, for nothing of the sort has ever happened before. But when the Chaos Machine travels so far from its original location that it ceases to act on its original object—which is to say, the pumps and the other machinery in the iron and tin mines—it may begin to react on other machinery instead.”
“The principle question at this time,” said Professor Fox, “is how many people to involve in the search. You will need to have eyes and ears everywhere, Your Majesty, both in Mountfalcon and abroad.”
“I have a modest system of spies already in place. Most of them dating back to my father’s or even my grandfather’s time, many of whom I’ve never even heard from.”
“Then pardon me for asking,” said Professor Fox, “but do you think it quite advisable to tell these agents—many of them not even personally known to you—that one of the Goblin Jewels is missing?”
Rodaric considered. “I suppose we must tell them that something of value was stolen, but I think we may conceal from them what that something actually is. We will say—I hardly know what. No doubt a suitable story will occur to one of us.”
Several minutes passed while everyone thought. A log collapsed on the grate in a shower of sparks. A carriage rattled by in the street outside. An idea occurred to Will, which brought a gleam of unholy amusement into his eyes.
“Let us say that the learned professors of Malachim College, in a moment of indiscretion, sought to create a Philosophic Engine of their own, and that this mechanism, recently completed, has mysteriously gone missing.”
Sir Frederic stiffened at this suggestion and even Professor Fox looked troubled and shook his head.
But Will continued on, much enamored of his own idea. “It should be something exceedingly dangerous of course, a small but potent engine of destruction, which Your Majesty seeks to recover before it falls into the wrong hands.” He thought a few moments longer. “In this way, we may even describe the effects that will reveal its presence.”
Rodaric could not repress a smile. “Ingenious,” he said. “Though I’d prefer not to slander these excellent gentlemen.”
But after an hour spent discussing alternative schemes and rejecting all of them, even Sir Frederic was forced to admit that no other story would fit the situation quite so well.
“It seems we must sacrifice ourselves, my dear Octavio, for the general good,” he said with a sigh. He bowed to the king. “Very well, Your Majesty, we will not object if you adopt this fantastic story of Captain Blackheart’s. Let it never be said that a Marlowe hung back when called on to serve his country.”
As it was well past eight, the king soon excused himself. Picking up his hat and his ebony walking-stick, motioning Will to follow, he left the room, and proceeded down the broad staircase. But he stopped at the bottom and allowed Wilrowan to catch up to him.
“You will accompany me in the coach,” he said quietly. “I have something to say that is for your ears only.”
Conscious he had not conducted himself very well up above, Will followed the king out into the blowing snow and then into the coach, flinging himself down on the opposite seat. “I suppose I have offended.”
“You haven’t offended me,” Rodaric said calmly. “And I received the impression that you did not offend Professor Fox.” He settled himself more comfortably against the green velvet cushions. “But you certainly made an extraordinary effort to annoy Sir Frederic. I wonder why?”
Will shrugged. He was always at his worst when asked to explain himself, since even he was not always perfectly sure of his own motives. “Sir Frederic seemed to expect it.”
“And you, of course, were loath to disappoint him.” Rodaric shook his head. “That was good of you, Will, though I suspect that Marlowe scarcely appreciated it.”
Outside the coach they could hear the driver hitching up the horses. Inside the coach there was a long, moody silence, broken at last by Rodaric. “Did it distress you so much, being expelled from the university?”
“No.” Will shifted his position, looked out the window at the falling snowflakes. “Yes. It wasn’t for any of the reasons that you might think, not for rioting, whoring, or public drunkenness.”
“It could hardly have been the latter,” said Rodaric, as the coach finally rumbled into motion.
“They would have forgiven any of those things—which I knew very well. It w
as for the thing that Fox said: ‘incorrect premises and faulty conclusions.’ They said I was infecting the other students.” Will gritted his teeth. “Let me not do those excellent old gentlemen a grave injustice. They were prepared to be generous, they said they would give me another chance, if I only consented to admit my errors. I would not—could not do it—and there was an end to my days at Malachim College.”
“So you sacrificed your prospects for the sake of a principle. However unwise, it was a splendid thing to do. I believe that I am genuinely impressed.”
The coach turned a corner. Will continued to gaze out the window, watching the blurred prospect of gas flares and whirling snowflakes as they passed by. “You shouldn’t be impressed; I was in error. My methods were imprecise, my thinking unclear, and as a result I sacrificed my ‘prospects’ for the sake of a stupid mistake.”
“The fact remains that you were willing to suffer for what you imagined to be the Truth. I feel that I have misjudged you, Wilrowan.”
Will twitched uncomfortably, more used to hearing ill of himself than the reverse. Seeing this, Rodaric laughed. But then, remembering what he had originally meant to say, he grew serious again.
“Regarding the Chaos Machine: as I cannot leave the city, you must be the one to pursue any trail my spies or our Malachim friends may chance to uncover. I could not trust anyone else. No, Will, spare me your blushes. You seem to have been chosen for this particular task, but not by me. Let us say that Providence has singled you out.” He considered for a moment. “For all that, I don’t mean that you should do everything alone, or attempt to be in several places at once. Choose three men, three trustworthy men from the palace guard—you may take any of mine you like—and tell them this tale we have concocted today. They will help you to expand your inquiries beyond the city proper; if a longer journey should be necessary, they can accompany you.”
Wilrowan was forced to think. With his lieutenants dead, his choices were limited. He named two of his own men and Nick Brakeburn, and the king gave his approval at once.
“I am sorry if this affects any of your plans, but I wish to be apprised of your whereabouts at all times. Moreover, you must maintain yourself ready to depart the city immediately, should any such leads materialize.”
Will nodded gloomily, thinking of Lili’s impending visit in the spring. He could hardly cry off, now that he had invited her, and it was going to be embarrassing, once he had Lili in Hawkesbridge, if he had to go running off on a series of unexplained wild-goose chases. The revelations of the day had only served to lend a sense of urgency to the plan he had conceived so impulsively at Brakeburn.
Still, she would not arrive in Hawkesbridge for nine more weeks, and it was even possible the Chaos Machine would be safely back with Rodaric’s other treasures long before that. For now, at least, he allowed himself to hope.
So he mustered up a weary smile, tried to look as though he actually enjoyed the prospect of chasing after the damned Jewel on a moment’s notice. After all, he had his reputation as a scapegrace adventurer to maintain. “I am naturally at Your Majesty’s disposal. In this as in all things.”
Book Two
Spring had finally arrived in the north, and the skies over Tarnburgh were filled from dawn to dusk with the angular black shadows of migrating waterfowl. At twilight, they settled on the mud flats outside the city, where the snow-melt created acres of marshland. Even in the heart of town, one could hear their incessant mournful honking.
On the high peaks to the north and east, the snow never melted—except during an eruption, when the slopes ran with rivers of liquid fire. But the mountains were slumbering now, and their flanks were a dazzling white, uncomfortable to look at in the cold spring sunlight. Though days were long, the air remained biting sharp; at Lindenhoff, coal fires burned in all of the public rooms.
In those gay, gilded over-heated salons, a semblance of courtly life was returning after a prolonged period of mourning. It began with card parties, where ladies in flowered silks and quilted satins sat up late playing Whisk, Ruff, and Honors; and gentlemen in gold-embroidered waistcoats staked modest fortunes on the fall of a pair of silver dice. Then a gambling fever took hold, and everyone wagered on everything, from spider races to the probable color of a newborn foal in the king’s stables. There followed a passion for practical jokes—though of the prettiest, most civilized kind. Eggshells were filled with confetti and sweet perfumes, then cast by pranksters into crowded rooms, showering the occupants with tiny pellets of pastel plaster and the scent of roses. Colored sugar-water replaced brandy in palace decanters, and cross-dressing, combined with a fashion for black velvet masks, yielded many a humorous incident of sexual confusion.
There were midnight picnics by torchlight in the palace gardens by the marble fish ponds. In that northern climate, it was impossible for goldfish to survive under ordinary conditions, so the ponds were heated by a constant supply of the mineral-rich thermal waters, which were blended with the icy snow-melt that came down from the mountains in crystal streams. There was something in the resulting tepid mixture that affected the fish, made them grow to an enormous size, assume strange shapes, and burn through the water like comets in rare and vivid colors: blood-orange, cerulean, magenta, and a peculiarly glowing shade of yellow. In such an inspiring setting, under a silvery arctic moon, was it any wonder that fancy waxed eloquent, and daily the court produced more and more fantastic conceits?
Next came a rage for fortunetelling. Madame Zaphir, the Ouph seeress, who had been relegated to the kitchens a few months earlier to entertain the scullions, was promoted to the drawing room, where she read the white palms of duchesses and examined the dregs at the bottoms of porcelain teacups as fragile as flowers.
Was there, in all of this, no presentiment of disaster? No uneasy sense that something old and wicked and inimical to Man had found its way inside Lindenhoff? If there was, it went unacknowledged. The card parties continued, and the salons were animated night and day by the brittle music of harpsichords and the murmur of discreet laughter.
20
Tarnburgh, Wintencar—
Nine Months Before the Events of the Previous Chapter—5 Pastoral, 6537
In the very tallest of the Iindenhoff towers—in a suite of tiny, airless rooms—a dutiful Ys spent much of that spring meeting twice a week with Lord Wittlesbeck, the Master of Ceremonies, there to be instructed in matters of protocol and court etiquette.
Not for Ys the card parties and the light flirtation. She would be queen, and it was up to her to learn the almost dizzying intricacies of a highly ritualistic way of life. “You will,” said Lord Wittlesbeck, “carry on your shoulders the weight of a thousand-year-old tradition.”
It was a tradition, apparently, that could make even a simple act like drinking afternoon tea as elaborate a ceremony as a coronation.
“Always at the same hour. There can be no room for deviation. The teapot shaped like a silver lion. The macaroons and the almond biscuits arranged on the plate in a rayed pattern. You lift your cup so, with the handle between your thumb and middle finger, take the smallest possible sip—”
“But what if I am thirsty?” she interrupted impatiently. “And if I don’t want tea at all? What if I prefer chocolate, or cinnamon-water, or even sherry?”
“No doubt there will be suitable occasions for indulging those tastes. But not at afternoon tea. Now as I was saying, mademoiselle: You will have precisely twenty minutes, after which time you exit the room through the south door, and proceed, with a slow and stately gait, to the west balcony, where—”
As Doctor Purcell had predicted, Ys was dismayed. When she was queen, she was rapidly discovering, her time would no longer be her own. It had all been assigned and parcelled out, restricted by ritual, ordered by custom. At last, she was moved to protest. “But is this how King Jarred lives his life? I don’t believe it! Surely the king does not live a virtual prisoner in his own palace.”
“Indeed he does,” said
Lord Wittlesbeck primly. “Except for a few hours he spends each evening with his old tutor, an occasional visit to an old friend, that is substantially how he does live his life. Though for him, of course, having been born to it, it is all as natural as breathing.”
Ys was incredulous, but she was also determined. If Jarred could, she could. She was a hundred times more royal than he was. After all, her ancestors had ruled the earth for five thousand years, while his—what were they? They were less than the lackeys that waited on him now.
Yet the hours were long and her heart was weary in those stifling little rooms, crowded with books and rolls of parchment, with maps and diaries and documents so old as to be practically primeval, with chests and cabinets bursting with regalia—most of it pinchbeck and paste, for real jewels were so common at Lindenhoff that only stage props could possibly be magnificent enough for state occasions—and over it all lay the dust, dust, dust.
For these were the Lindenhoff Archives, where the records of births, deaths, marriages, coronations, and christenings had been kept for more than a thousand years. On the walls, between the inevitable golden cupids and arabesques, crowded an immense collection of dim oil paintings in gilded frames, Jarred’s ancestors and not a few of her own—dating back to the days when Lindenhoff was a summer palace of the Maglore Empress.
As for Lord Wittlesbeck, he was a little old man, very quick, light, and active, exquisitely attired on all occasions. His fluttering movements, his thin painted eyebrows, the two exceedingly high points of his white wig, lent him a perpetually startled appearance—or perhaps that was only owing to Ys, whose sharp tongue and uncooperative spirit might well keep him in a constant fever of agitation.
When Lord Wittlesbeck recited in his high quivering voice the details of endless court ceremonies—when Ys leafed through the thick old books he placed before her, learning by heart the Order of Precedence, the Order of March—when she listened with growing dismay and contempt to Lord Wittlesbeck’s hoary old tales of ambitious courtiers and their social-climbing wives—a claustrophobic panic set in.
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