The Glass Magician

by Caroline Stevermer

  “Nat, we’ve talked this to death.” Nell gave Aristides a warm smile as she served him breakfast. “Let Thalia speak.”

  “What do you know about the Sylvestri?” Thalia asked Aristides. “You’re well acquainted with Traders, and you are an absolute authority on manticores. How far does your Sylvestri expertise extend?”

  Aristides swallowed a large bite of the Ryker household’s excellent smoked fish and cleared his throat. “Let’s start with what you know about the Sylvestri. In the beginning, the world made itself. The first humans who came were the Sylvestri, who helped keep things in balance.”

  “Fairy tales?” Ryker asked dryly. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day for bedtime stories?”

  Aristides continued, “The Sylvestri moved the mountains, they cared for the forests, and they kept the water clean. After a while, the Solitaires came, and the Sylvestri felt sorry for them, so they shared some of the world with them. Last of all came the Traders, and they bought things and sold things until they ran the parts of the world the Sylvestri had shared with the Solitaires.”

  “That’s not the way the story goes,” Nell protested.

  “That’s the way the Sylvestri tell it,” said Aristides. “What exactly do you want to know, Miss Cutler?”

  “My friend is at the Dakota.” Thalia explained Nutall’s situation. “The ambassador won’t let him receive my letters.”

  “Sounds about right. There are a few Sylvestri who tolerate Traders, and more who believe in mixing freely with Solitaires. Such Sylvestri are never chosen as ambassadors.” Aristides paused as Nell refilled his coffee cup. “Thank you, Miss Ryker. Ambassador Viridian is a Sylvestri separatist. He mistrusts most Solitaires and absolutely all Traders.”

  Ryker raised an eyebrow and Nell made a small noise of disagreement, but neither actually said anything aloud.

  Aristides said, “Solitaires, he considers treaty breakers and weaklings, but he’ll take their money when they come to the embassy for letters of transit to cross Federation territory on the way westward.”

  “What does Ambassador Viridian think of you?” Thalia asked.

  “He knows my worth,” said Aristides. “He knows my word is good. He knows I’m no weakling.”

  Thalia leaned closer. “Can you get me to the embassy?”

  “And safely back again,” said Ryker firmly.

  “Let’s see if I have this straight.” Aristides produced a detailed map of Manhattan and its boroughs. He spread it out and tapped the Upper West Side in the approximate location of Riverside House. “You want to go from here—” He ran his index finger south and tapped the street running up the west edge of Central Park at Seventy-Second Street. “—to here. The Dakota. To see your Sylvestri friend, who is a guest there.”

  “And safely back again,” Nell prompted.

  “And safely back again,” Thalia echoed. “How far is it? Two miles? Two and a half? Think you can manage it?”

  “I can get you there. They probably won’t let you in.” Aristides smiled grimly. “Provided the Sylvestri haven’t sheltered a manticore without telling anyone, which even they wouldn’t do, and provided you keep yourself from Trading if we do flush out a manticore, I believe I can get you back here alive and in your current form.”

  “Right.” Thalia sat back in her chair and pushed her plate away. Food was out of the question if she was going to risk luring a manticore. Her stomach was already twisting at the mere thought. “We are in agreement.”

  “Slow down.” Aristides held up a hand. “I am the Skinner of New York, remember. My time is valuable.”

  “I’ll pay you ten dollars for the round trip,” Thalia assured him. “You offered to split the reward money if I would work with you to lure out a manticore. Consider this a rehearsal of the idea, only you won’t have to share the reward.”

  “Twenty dollars,” said Aristides. “I’m not in this for my health.”

  “Done.” Thalia shook hands with Aristides.

  Ryker said, “I know I can’t stop this, but take a moment to think. You’re not stupid, Thalia. I know you aren’t. Think it through. Explain to me why it seems reasonable to you to risk your life because the ambassador won’t deliver your note to Mr. Nutall.”

  “I have no intention of risking my life,” Thalia assured him. “If I lure a manticore out, Aristides will kill it. If I don’t, it may mean that I’ve mastered the ability to Trade, so I don’t attract them anymore.”

  “It won’t mean that at all. You have to pass your ordeal to be certain you’re safe,” Ryker retorted. “I know you are a stranger to our ways, but this should be a simple enough concept to master.”

  “I have to do this,” said Thalia.

  “I thought she was brighter than this,” Ryker told Nell.

  “Well, I’m not.” Thalia opened her reticule, the largest she owned, showed Ryker the pearl-handled pistol nestled within, and closed it again. “I inherited it from my mother.”

  “Do you know how to handle that?” Ryker was dubious.

  “I had more than just piano lessons,” Thalia said. “If a manticore gets past Aristides, I know what to do.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Aristides told Ryker. “Miss Cutler won’t need her weapon, but it won’t hurt to let her carry it.”

  “Thanks.” Thalia turned from Aristides to the Rykers. “Given that the ambassador told me Nutall didn’t want to hear from me ever again, I think I should make my visit a surprise.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tycho Aristides used his map of the city to show Thalia and the Rykers the route he intended them to take and what he expected to happen on the way to the Sylvestri embassy. There were places a manticore was more likely to hide than others. There were places that would probably be safe, given the number of people likely to be there in the middle of a weekday afternoon. There were places that weren’t safe under any circumstances.

  “We need to take your motorcar,” Aristides said to Ryker. “Speed is safety.”

  Ryker’s jaw tightened. “Fine. I’ll drive.”

  “Oh, by all means,” said Nell. “I have to stay home all alone while you will be off having fun without me.”

  “Yes, poor you.” Ryker turned his attention from his sister to Aristides. “When will you be ready to start?”

  “Now. I don’t go out until I’m equipped to do my job.” Tycho Aristides spread his arms. His black coat, unbuttoned, fell open. Thalia could see the butt of a gun protruding from a shoulder holster on either side. Throwing knives were ready in two leather bandoliers that made an X on Aristides’ chest. At either hip, another set of pistols rode in low-slung holsters. A sling over one shoulder held a sawed-off shotgun. “Any more questions?”

  Thalia counted five guns and twelve throwing knives. “How many manticores are you expecting?”

  “This outfit”—Aristides gave a little shrug of his shoulders so all the weaponry shivered menacingly—“is just for daytime.”

  Thalia said, “You have a lot of experience in this line of work.”

  “I have, yes.” Aristides stood a little taller. “I killed my first manticore when I was fifteen. That made me a Skinner, but I became the Skinner for Manhattan and its boroughs two years ago. I went up for it the time before that, but they chose the mayor’s nephew instead. He got killed in the Bronx in 1903. After that, they picked me for the job.”

  Thalia asked, “What’s the difference between a Skinner and the Skinner?”

  Aristides smiled. “The manticore that attacked you outside looked like a man at first because that’s the shape they Trade to. A Skinner makes the manticore Trade. Anyone can call himself—” With a glance toward Thalia and then Nell, Aristides added, “— or herself, as the case may be—a Skinner the first time they kill a manticore on purpose. The Skinner, on the other hand, has to take responsibility for any manticores in his range. He—or she—has to manage any freelance Skinners on the job, lest they muck things up. He has to talk politely to the mayor
and the chief of police upon any manticore topic they’d like to discuss. He has to be brisk with the newspaper reporters—lie to them sometimes, even.”

  Nell looked intrigued. “Can women truly be Skinners?”

  Aristides nodded. “There have always been women who were Skinners, yes. Not so much these days, not here in the East. It’s civilized here, in the nicer neighborhoods anyhow. But last I heard, the Skinner of San Francisco is a woman.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ryker cautioned his sister. “You may train to be a stage magician. You may operate your kinetoscope. Under no circumstances may you undertake a career killing manticores.”

  Nell frowned. “You never let me do anything fun.”

  Ryker frowned back. “No, and I will never let you get yourself killed either.”

  To forestall Nell’s next objection, Thalia clapped her hands briskly. “Time we set off.”

  Aristides made short work of loading up Ryker’s Pierce-Arrow. Ryker was behind the wheel, Aristides in the front passenger seat, and Thalia in the rear seat immediately behind him.

  Aristides brought out one of his pistols, as Ryker signaled his servants to open the gate. To Thalia, Aristides added, “Keep your bag closed. I’ll be the one shooting when the time comes. That’s enough lead to be flying around. I don’t need you blazing away too.”

  The car pulled out of the Ryker courtyard, of necessity going slowly at first, but gathering speed while Ryker worked his way up the gears as they headed for Amsterdam Avenue. Disorderly traffic, horse-drawn and motorized, meant the potential for speed inherent in the Pierce-Arrow was never realized. They crept southward.

  Pedestrians were more than mere distractions as Ryker threaded their way among the carriages and horse-drawn buses. Any one of them could be a manticore in its human disguise. Despite Aristides’ instructions, Thalia kept one hand on the weapon in her reticule as she watched out the windows. Aristides was vigilant as they made their way downtown, but there was no sign of a manticore.

  Ryker drew up before the stately assembly of towers and turrets that housed the Sylvestri embassy. Aristides let himself out and stalked around the car, ready for any threat, until it became obvious that no one, not even the doorman, took any notice of their presence.

  Although the architecture was French château, the magnificent pile was named for the people who had funded it, the Dakota. Although some Dakota were Solitaires, and a few were Traders, many of their people were Sylvestri.

  Aristides came back to the driver’s window. “Stay in the car,” he told Ryker. He opened the rear passenger door and offered Thalia his hand. “I’ll escort you inside, Miss Cutler.”

  They were met on the doorstep by a white Solitaire doorman of great stateliness. Thalia presented her card and introduced herself and then Aristides. “I am here to see Mr. David Nutall.”

  “Come in, Miss Cutler, Mr. Skinner.” The doorman held the door for them, but from the dubious expression on his face, it was clear he didn’t think they’d be staying long. “I will see if he is at home.”

  Thalia raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t Nutall’s home, this place.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” Aristides asked.

  “No. Keep an eye on things out here.” Thalia closed her reticule and let the doorman escort her indoors.

  “Sit here.” The doorman indicated a simple wooden bench. He left the room without waiting for Thalia to obey.

  Thalia did not sit. She took her time looking around the foyer as she waited. Every inch of the anteroom was decorated, an assembly of plasterwork, frescoes, and mosaic tiles, and all the decoration had the same theme—greenery. Vines, trees, flowers, or shrubbery—it was all portrayed with such realism that Thalia could pick out individual drops of dew on the foliage.

  At last, the haughty doorman returned, accompanied by a middle-aged Dakota Sylvestri woman, haughtier still.

  “I am Mrs. Peter Viridian, His Excellency’s wife. The ambassador is busy at the moment. You are Miss Cutler?” Everything about Mrs. Viridian, from her expression to her inflection, made it clear she’d expected someone far better than Thalia. She wore a morning gown that seemed made of autumn leaves and velvet. She looked disapprovingly at Thalia through a gold-rimmed pince-nez strung from a black grosgrain ribbon, which made her eyes seem piercing.

  “I am.” Thalia stared right back. “As I told the doorman, I’ve come to see Mr. David Nutall.”

  Mrs. Viridan sniffed. “I believe the ambassador has written to tell you that the man who told you his name was Nutall does not wish to communicate with you.”

  “I know no such thing.” Thalia glared at Mrs. Viridian. “I won’t believe that unless he tells me so himself.” Maybe not even then, Thalia thought. “Let me see him. If he tells me to leave him alone, I’ll go.”

  Mrs. Viridian examined Thalia as if she were a new kind of bug. “Rudeness like yours would undoubtedly camp on the doorstep until it gets its way. I have the ambassador’s permission to admit you to Mr. Nutall’s presence for half an hour, no longer. Don’t abuse our courtesy.”

  Thalia said, “Show me some first, then we’ll see.”

  “Follow me.”

  For a lady of her years, Mrs. Viridian moved fast. Thalia had all she could do to keep up. Their way led through a maze of corridors and stairs, all decorated as lavishly with artful greenery as the foyer.

  Thalia knew perfectly well it was still morning. Yet as they climbed and descended steps, as they moved through the corridors of the palatial building, Thalia’s sense of time and place wavered as the light shifted. Surely it was late afternoon on a hot summer’s day? Unless it was very early morning? Or dusk come early on a winter day?

  Thalia kept her mouth shut but her eyes open, taking careful notice of their route. She did not trust Mrs. Viridian to bring her to Nutall without trickery. She might need to find her own way back on short notice.

  At last Mrs. Viridian ushered Thalia into a small but sunlit room, and shut the door upon her before Thalia could protest. She heard the key turn. Thalia tried the door—locked—before she registered a presence behind her. She turned quickly. The sunlight angling in through the slats of the narrow wooden window blinds made it hard to see all the way into the dim corners beyond.

  “There you are. How spruce you look.” Nutall, entirely composed, entirely calm, regarded her from a rattan chair that he seemed to find very comfortable. His feet, in carpet slippers, rested on a matching ottoman.

  To judge from the tidy blizzard of newsprint and teacups in his immediate vicinity, Nutall had been peaceably drinking tea as he read the newspapers, but he looked delighted at the interruption. “Forgive me if I don’t get up. Do sit down and join me. You’ll find the green chair most comfortable, I think.”

  “Thank you.” Thalia took the cup of tea he poured for her and sank into the chair he’d recommended.

  Her friend looked very different. His hair had been cropped so short the parts he’d dyed were gone. What little hair remained was pure gray. It made him look surprisingly old. His carefully tended mustache was gone. It made his upper lip seem longer than she remembered. He appeared to be tired but not in any kind of distress.

  Now she’d finally rejoined Nutall, Thalia could hardly choose where to start with her questions. “Who is that harpy? Does she actually keep you locked in here? Did she intercept my letter?”

  “Sandwich?” Nutall offered her a half-demolished plate of assorted tea sandwiches and bonbons that would have done credit to Mrs. Morris on a lavish afternoon. “Pay no attention to Dorcas. She has an overdeveloped sense of my importance.”

  “I came equipped. I can open the door.” Thalia read Nutall’s expression at last and found herself adding, falteringly, “—if you want.”

  Nutall still held the plate out to her, so Thalia took a sandwich—watercress, she noted—and subsided into her chair to wait for him to speak.

  Nutall helped himself to another sandwich. For a few moments, there was
the silence of utter contentment as they shared the meal. At last, Nutall sighed and put his cup and saucer down on the newspaper. “You’ve changed, my dear.”

  “I’ve changed?” Puzzled, Thalia glanced down at herself. She was wearing the tan walking dress that Nutall must have seen at least fifty times before. “Well, yes. It’s been days, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but I have an excellent excuse. Turns out, I’m a Trader after all. I turn into a swan. Well, I’m not good at Trading yet. As I’m what they call an immature Trader, I attract manticores.”

  “Dear me.” Nutall regarded her with alarm. “Don’t manticores eat young Traders? What on earth are you doing here if a manticore could eat you?”

  “It wouldn’t literally eat me, only my magic,” Thalia assured him. “I would die soon, true, but I wouldn’t be eaten.”

  “I repeat. What are you doing here?”

  “I have questions.”

  “Write me a letter, then. Don’t go jaunting about town luring out manticores. It isn’t safe.”

  “I did write to you, only my letters were returned unopened. Did you know that?”

  Nutall shook his head. “It doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Why not?” Thalia demanded. “Why would they do that?”

  Nutall left her questions unanswered. “So. Professor Evans was wrong.”

  “Couldn’t have been any wronger.”

  “I blame myself. I should never have settled for help from a professor of the humanities.”

  “Never mind that now. They didn’t let you have my letters. Why not? Are they keeping you here as a prisoner?”

  “By no means. I am treated as an honored guest. A member of the family, if you will.” Nutall poured them both more tea. “They are my family, in a far more literal way than you and I are family.”

  Thalia was warmed by Nutall’s acknowledgment of their connection. Thalia’s father was always going to be her father, of course, but Nutall’s deep friendship with him had made him a different kind of father to Thalia.

  “You never said you were Sylvestri.” Thalia hadn’t meant to put that much accusation into her voice. She tried again. “You don’t seem very Sylvestri to me.”