The Queen's Necklace

by Teresa Edgerton

  “If and when we run him to earth, he is likely to prove just as dangerous as the female.”

  47

  Will woke in the middle of the night, and Lili was no longer pressed against his side. Reaching out blindly, he realized that her half of the bed was empty. “Lili!” he said sharply, into the darkness.

  There was a soft sound of movement on the other side of the room. “I’m here, Will. Did I startle you?” The words were followed by a rattle, as she unlatched and opened a pair of shutters. A moment later, the room was flooded with moonlight.

  A curiously wavering moonlight, soft and shadowy. Dark feathers appeared to be falling past the window. With a shock, Will suddenly understood that it was snowing.

  Lili appeared at the foot of the bed, very pale in her white nightdress, with a length of grey woolen shawl wrapped around her. “I couldn’t sleep, and now I know why.” She opened her hand so that Will could see the lump of cloudy crystal she held in her palm. There was a shrill sound in the room, like a piece of glass vibrating; as Lili moved around to his side of the bed, Will felt the smoke-colored stone in his own intaglio ring begin to resonate.

  “The Chaos Machine is moving across country again.”

  “It has moved in the last few hours, yes,” said Lili. “But that doesn’t account for such a strong fluxuation in the magnetic currents. Either someone has made a mistake—or they deliberately court disaster, by bringing two of the Goblin Jewels into close proximity.”

  A sudden blaze of light flashed outside and peal after peal of thunder rocked the entire building. The beams overhead shivered; the walls creaked. The floor under Lili’s feet shook so violently, it was almost impossible to keep her balance. Will reached out and pulled her onto the bed with him. Gradually, the shaking and the clatter died down.

  “Thunder—in the midst of a snowstorm?” he asked, just before another peal sounded, and the building rattled again with the shock. “Or was it an earthquake?”

  “Thunder, I think.” There was another flash and another rumble, but more distant this time; the storm seemed to be passing. “Though I’ve never heard anything like it before. Not—not a natural phenomenon, that much is certain.”

  Lili climbed out of the bed, clutching at the post in order to steady herself. “You should get dressed and find Blaise and Sir Bastian, while I pack up our things. We ought to leave as soon as possible. This may be our very best opportunity to overtake the Jewel.”

  Will nodded wordlessly and slipped out of the bed. Throwing on his clothes, he was out of the room in two minutes, and halfway down the corridor—where he all but collided with Blaise, already booted and spurred, coming to meet him. A moment later, they were joined by Sir Bastian.

  “I have been restless,” said the old gentleman. “I thought that something was about to happen, and my bags are already packed. I will see to the horses and the carriage, and meet the rest of you by the stables.”

  While Will went off to wake the landlord and pay what was owed him, Blaise went back to his room to pack. In half an hour they were down in the inn yard, impatient to be off.

  The horses had already been saddled and bridled, but they were shivering and snorting, dancing with excitement, held under control only by the combined concentration of the two magicians. Blaise tossed the baggage into the barouche, and Will helped Lili to climb in after them. She sat on the seat, muffled up in her cloak, while Sir Bastian took his place on the box. The snow had stopped falling, it was already melting, and light from the stables reflected off the wet cobblestones.

  A sleepy hostler lit two lanterns, one for the carriage and one for Wilrowan to carry. Then Will and Blaise mounted in a trice, Sir Bastian took up the reins, and the whole party went careering off into the night.

  They travelled through the cold hour before dawn, on past sunrise, and into the afternoon: bowling down the long winding roads that snaked across the mud-flats of northern Catwitsen; fording the broad, shallow Catkin and the chocolate-brown Windle; stopping only when the horses needed to be watered and rested, or when Lili or Sir Bastian desired to take a bearing with her crystal or his pendulum.

  At one o’clock, Lili caught her first hint of the sea, carried on a freshening breeze from the west. At two, Sir Bastian pointed out the first fiat-bottomed eel boats—half raft, half shanty—which were never seen more than a mile or two from the coast. At two-thirty, they entered the salt-crusted gates of the seaside town of Penmorva.

  The streets were crowded with carriages, sedan-chairs, citizens, fishermen, merchants, and sailors, which made the going slow. But as they moved toward the harbor, as the briny scent of the ocean grew stronger and stronger, Lili felt her mouth grow dry and her heart begin to pound with excitement.

  “We are closer, I think, than we have ever been before,” she said to Sir Bastian, as the barouche rattled down a narrow cobblestone lane between rows of brick warehouses. There was little traffic here, but the way was so narrow, the old gentleman had all he could do to negotiate a passage. “Perhaps we could go more swiftly on foot. I almost feel as though I could reach out and touch—” Then the lane intersected with a dark alley. “To the right,” said Lili.

  They found their way blocked by a gentleman’s carriage, the horses left standing and unattended. Lili and Sir Bastian exchanged a triumphant glance. It was exactly like the carriage they had heard described at a dozen different inns between the border and the sea.

  Leaving Sir Bastian behind with the horses, signaling to Will and Blaise who were riding behind, Lili was out of the barouche in an instant and edging past the other carriage. Somewhere inside one of the buildings backing on this alley, she knew she would find the Jewel. But which building? They all looked alike: tall brick warehouses, windowless, featureless, except for a line of heavy double doors, all barred shut. Then she caught a glimmer in the shadows at the far end of the alley, where one of the doors had been left slightly ajar, allowing a faint beam of light to escape.

  Will caught up with Lili about ten feet from the open door. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a pistol.

  Lili put a hand on his arm. “No,” she whispered, directly in his ear. “Suppose that you were to fire, and you hit the Chaos Machine instead of the man who is carrying it?”

  He nodded, put back his pistol, and reached for his rapier instead. He signaled to Blaise to do the same, then turned back to Lili. “Trefallon and I will go in first. We are—expendable, but you are not.”

  Lili nodded reluctantly and fell back a step. Very cautiously, Will slipped between the double doors and disappeared from sight. Then it was Blaise’s turn to vanish. Lili waited for a moment, listening for some signal whether to advance or to retreat, but when there was nothing, she followed Trefallon through the gap.

  It was very quiet inside the warehouse. To either side of a wide aisle, there stood casks of brandy, oil, and wine; crates of fruit and rolls of coconut matting; bales of twine, hides, cotton, and tobacco—piled almost as high as the ceiling. Every twenty feet or so, an iron lantern hung suspended from a crossbeam by a long chain, casting a circle of light on the floor. Will and Blaise moved swiftly and silently, first down the long aisle, then through a half-open door at the end. They found themselves in another large storeroom, looking up at a shadowy gallery that encircled the entire room.

  The air smelled strongly of sandalwood, cinnamon, tea, and oranges. Somewhere ahead of them, down some hidden aisle, Will heard a light fall of footsteps on the hickory plank floor. Those footsteps were coming their way.

  Acting quickly, Wilrowan dodged behind a tall wooden crate, and Blaise crouched down behind a trunk, ready to pounce. A moment later, a trim gentlemanly figure came into view, through a gap in the piled boxes.

  Clearly unaware of their presence, he moved confidently forward, with a satisfied expression on his face, as though his business in this out-of-the-way spot had been entirely successful. Another few steps, and Blaise and Will leaped out at him; one grabbing him from behind and i
mprisoning his arms; the other placing the tip of a very thin and sharp-looking rapier lightly against his collarbone.

  “You will oblige us, sir,” said Wilrowan, “by producing the Maglore artifact, which you are no doubt carrying with you.” As he spoke, his fingers tightened their grip on the hilt of his sword.

  The prisoner only smiled gently. “There seems to be some mistake. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but—”

  “—nor will you have, if I allow myself the pleasure of skewering you like a pig,” Will interjected, “which I can promise you I certainly will do, if you do not instantly hand over—”

  But he, too, was interrupted, by the sudden noise of sliding boxes, which distracted his attention upwards, then caused him to leap back, just in time to avoid being crushed by an avalanche of falling crates and bales tumbling down from the gallery above. Though he was quick enough to escape serious injury, Will was knocked off his feet and sent sprawling across the hard planks. In that same instant, a long lean figure jumped down from the loft and overpowered Blaise.

  While Trefallon and the newcomer fell to the floor in a furious struggle, the soft-spoken gentleman slipped quickly past the fallen boxes and raced down the aisle, back in the direction he had originally come. Will was on his feet in an instant. Scrambling up and over the crates that blocked him, he took off in hot pursuit.

  He finally cornered his quarry at the end of another aisle, where he was attempting to lift an iron bar and open a heavy oak door. At the sound of Wilrowan’s approach he spun around, drew a pistol out of his coat pocket, aimed, and fired. There was an explosion of sound. Will felt a sudden sharp pain in the fleshy part of his upper right arm, as the ball passed through, then a soft thud as it hit one of the boxes behind him.

  Meanwhile, Trefallon was engaged in a life-and-death struggle with an unnaturally agile and flexible opponent. As they rolled about on the floor, it came to Blaise that he was wrestling with one of the rare and mysterious Grants. On top for a moment, the Goblin produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a silver-hilted knife with a long blade, which he aimed in a vicious left-hand stroke at Trefallon’s throat.

  Blaise threw up his arm and managed to deflect the blow, so that it caught in the heavy sleeve of his riding-coat instead. As the Grant drew out the blade and prepared to strike again, Blaise caught at the hilt with his own left hand and tried to wrench the knife out of the creature’s grasp. The Grant seemed to be loosening his grip; it seemed that Trefallon was about to gain control of the weapon—when the Goblin doubled up his other hand into a fist and struck Blaise a hard blow to the side of his head.

  Momentarily stunned, Blaise lost his grip on the hilt; for a moment he felt the knife graze the skin on his throat. Somehow, he managed to catch hold of the Goblin’s arm with both of his and slowly force the blade away. There followed what seemed like an eternity of panting and rolling about on the floor. Then the creature reached out with his free right hand, and snaking his flexible arm through the circle of Trefallon’s more rigid limbs—the Grant simply passed himself the knife.

  The blade was descending again, this time unimpeded, when a shadowy figure loomed overhead. Something bright flashed in the air, then the Grant cried out, lost his grip on the knife, and went entirely limp.

  In another part of the warehouse, Wilrowan required but a moment to recover from the impact of being grazed in the arm. Knocking the pistol out of the older man’s grip and picking up the sword he had dropped when the ball winged him, he took the hilt in his left hand, indicating with a movement that his opponent was to draw his own sword. This the stranger did very readily, pulling his rapier out from its scabbard in one smooth, easy movement.

  Will was the first to attack, but his opponent was swift to parry. There followed a brief exchange of blows, each man taking the other’s measure. Wilrowan was the younger, the quicker, and the more experienced. Ordinarily, the advantage would have been all his, but as matters stood now—when he was forced to fight left-handed, when he was growing steadily weaker with the flow of blood from the shallow wound in his upper arm—he knew he would have to fight for his life.

  Thrust and parry, feint, beat, attack, and retreat. As the contest continued, Will wondered what had happened to Blaise and to the others. He was growing light-headed—how much longer could he continue? He attacked high, slashing at his opponent’s face, but his blade was deflected; a moment later he was blocking a blow aimed at his right arm.

  There was another flurry of blows. Wilrowan gasped for air, but his opponent was breathing hard, too, and did not press the advantage. Then Will saw his chance. Much as he might have liked to disarm the man and question him, he had no such luxury. The stranger took the full length of Will’s rapier right through the heart.

  “I arrive somewhat tardily,” said Sir Bastian to Blaise, “but not, it seems, too late.” Something crunched under his feet as he moved around the unconscious Goblin and offered Trefallon a hand up. A barrel of rock-salt lay shattered and scattered across the plank floor. “I trust that you took no harm from this extraordinary creature.”

  Blaise rose stiffly to his feet. He looked from Sir Bastian to Lili. “I am well enough. But Wilrowan—”

  “I, too, am well enough.” Will came slowly around the corner, looking pale and shaken. “Although I will ask Lili to take a look at this arm.”

  Lili made a small sound of distress at the sight of blood soaking through the drab wool, but she set to work at once, very efficiently helping him out of his coat, rolling up the stained shirt sleeve beneath, and probing the wound with gentle fingers. “Not serious at all,” she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. She produced a handkerchief and a roll of linen out of a pocket in her cloak and contrived a quick bandage.

  Meanwhile, Blaise and Sir Bastian were busy with the unconscious Goblin, heaving him up to a semi-sitting position, holding him there, and securely binding his hands behind his back with a piece of dirty hemp rope, which Blaise had picked up from somewhere on the floor.

  “Do not allow him near the salt when he wakes,” said Sir Bastian. “He may try to suicide, but we want him to answer a great many questions.”

  As the old gentleman spoke, the Grant showed signs of coming around. He opened his eyes slowly, gazed around him with a confused air. Finding himself bound and surrounded by enemies, he seemed to panic. A wild look came into his eyes, and he attempted to heave himself to his feet.

  “None of that!” said Blaise, taking the Goblin firmly by the shoulders and pushing him back down into a sitting position on the floor. Then he cried out in sudden pain, as the prisoner twisted his head and neck at an unnatural angle and sunk his teeth deep into the flesh of one hand.

  Sir Bastian caught the Goblin by his lank hair and struck him blow after blow to the head. Yet it was necessary for Will to use the butt of his pistol, knocking the Grant unconscious again, before the jaws slackened and the teeth lost their grip on Trefallon’s hand.

  “Gods!” Blaise said faintly. He was bleeding copiously, and his face had gone white with shock and pain. “It looks like a Man, but it’s little better than an animal.” He swayed, and would have fallen, had not the old gentleman reached out to steady him.

  “As vicious as his behavior may seem, I believe the creature acted completely without malice. Lilliana, see if it is possible for you to save the Goblin’s life, while I attend to Mr. Trefallon’s wound. I fear, however, that our prisoner has drunk too deeply of Human blood.”

  Lili acted immediately, bending down beside the Grant and putting an ear to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. It was several moments before either Wilrowan or Blaise had the presence of mind to realize what had just happened.

  “Salt,” said Will weakly, as he leaned up against one of the boxes for support. “Your blood is full of it.”

  “So it has apparently contrived to suicide after all,” said Trefallon, with a grimace of distaste. On the floor, the Grant had begun to convulse, his long lean body writh
ing in a manner horrible to behold. Within seconds, he was dead.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by Sir Bastian. “I am afraid to ask,” he said, glancing over at Will. “The man we were following—”

  “Dead,” said Wirowan, with a weary shake of his head. “I am sorry, but I really had very little choice in the matter.”

  “And the Chaos Machine?” said Lili, rising to her feet, going over to stand beside him. “I beg your pardon, Will. I know that you were hurt, but did you search the body?”

  “There was something—not what we are looking for—but I thought you would want to see it, so I brought it with me.” Will searched in his coat pocket and drew out something heavy and bright. Lili reached out eagerly to take it.

  “A pocket-watch, set inside a single enormous emerald—how beautiful it is.” But the moment she touched it she knew: it was no ordinary piece of jewelry.

  Her heart sank as she realized the truth. She passed the watch on to Sir Bastian. “I am very much afraid we have been following the wrong man, for—for the last fortnight at least. This is one of the Goblin Jewels, but not our own. Where it came from I do not know.”

  “It came from Rijxland, and it is the property of King Izaiah,” said a deep, resonant voice. Everyone turned in surprise. So softly had the intruder entered the warehouse that no one had even noticed he was there.

  A tall lean man in a long cloak and a round black hat stepped from the shadows into the light; another man and a dark-haired girl followed after him.

  “As King Izaiah’s agent,” said Raith, extending his hand and removing the watch from Sir Bastian’s suddenly slackened grip, “I will be happy to assume the responsibility of returning it to him.”

  48

  Tarnburgh, Winterscar—Seven Days Later