The Threads of Magic Page 3

  That didn’t seem so bad.

  By the end of the meal, she had gathered her fears together and locked them up deep inside. She curtsied good night with her usual grace, offering her hand to King Oswald, her eyes modestly downcast so she didn’t have to meet his gaze. Her ladies-in-waiting escorted her to her chamber and undressed her. She lay in her silk nightgown between her silken sheets, scratching the itchy fleabites with blessed relief, and stared at the darkened ceiling.

  No, she thought, I really don’t want to be a princess any more. And I definitely don’t want to marry King Oswald.

  I’ll have to become a proper queen.

  Chapter Six

  WHETHER YOU HAD TWO LEGS, OR FOUR LEGS, OR wings, you had to stay alert in the dark alleys of Clarel. If you didn’t pay attention, someone else would, and attention here was almost always bad news.

  As a rule of thumb, anything abnormal was a warning sign. A silence that was deeper than it should be, a shadow slipping past where no shadow should be, footsteps where feet had no business: those were the obvious things.

  Harpin Shtum, scholar and gentleman scoundrel, was heading home from a profitable afternoon playing bezique at the Five Tuns, not far from the Old Palace. He was as intimate with the streets of Clarel as anyone who had survived thirty-five years’ hard cheating, and thought he knew every variation of bad news that the alleys had to offer. But he had never seen anything like this before. According to the laws he had survived by, it couldn’t signify anything except trouble.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Surely he hadn’t drunk that much brandy? A tipple, no more… But there it was, an impossible thing. In front of him, in the murky twilight, the air seemed to have a hole in it. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. Holes didn’t glow, though, and this one glowed: a dim greenish glare that illuminated nothing. He could see into the hole – or at least, it had a sense of depth – but he couldn’t see what was inside. Whatever it might be, it was moving, with a roiling motion that made him feel faintly queasy.

  His feet told him to run, but Harpin’s curiosity overrode his instincts of self-preservation. The hole didn’t seem to be doing anything, and it gave an impression of complete soundlessness, as if it swallowed noise. He looked up and down the street. Nobody was about; otherwise he might have called them over to check that it wasn’t some strange trick his eyes were playing on him. Cautiously, keeping his distance, he walked around the hole. It wasn’t visible at all from behind, and from the side it was a mere flicker in his vision. He could only see it clearly from the front, just at the angle at which he had turned the corner.

  He picked up a pebble and threw it at the hole, again keeping his distance. It didn’t land on the ground, as he had expected; it disappeared into the green space completely, as if it were somehow sucked inside. He walked behind, where the hole was invisible, and tried his experiment again. This time the pebble fell to the ground. Then he returned to where he could see the hole, and tried throwing in another pebble. Yes, it definitely vanished.

  By now Harpin was fascinated. Gingerly, ready to spring back if anything happened, he reached out and touched the edges. Aside from a slight coolness, he felt nothing. He regarded the hole cautiously and reached forwards again. Again, nothing. Perhaps it was humming slightly, just underneath the range of his hearing. It was almost as if, he thought, it were saying his name. No, that was silly. But he did have an intense desire to step inside the hole, a desire which was growing stronger with every moment.

  “What in holy hell are you doing, Harp? I didn’t think you were that cut.”

  The voice, ringing cheerily from behind him, made Harpin leap out of his skin. He had been so engrossed that he hadn’t heard footsteps. As he turned, he twisted his ankle and tripped into the hole. It flared so brightly that it cast bewildering shadows over the alley, and then seemed to fold itself up until it completely disappeared.

  Harpin’s fellow card-sharp Erasmus Quinn staggered, temporarily blinded, and blinked at the after-images that hung in the darkness.

  “Harp?” he said, suddenly much more sober. “Harp? Don’t play tricks on a man, Harp.”

  Nobody answered. Erasmus peered around. It wasn’t completely dark yet, and he could see clearly all the way to the end. There was no sign of Harpin anywhere.

  As Erasmus told some friends later, Harpin didn’t fall into the thing; it was like he was sucked in by some invisible force. “An irresistible force, gentlemen,” Erasmus said over his third gin, still trembling a little. “And then – pffft! – he just disappeared. Before my eyes. He vanished, just like that.”

  “You was seeing things,” said another man, swirling his mug. “Happens to me sometimes, when I get a fever. Or am in my cups.”

  “I don’t have a fever,” said Erasmus belligerently. “Believe me or not, that’s what I saw, with these eyes. The point is that I was seeing things, and then I wasn’t. There was this green light and Harp was kind of poking it, and then he was … sucked in … and then he wasn’t there. It’s uncanny, that’s what it is.” He liked the word. “Uncanny.”

  “Well, you do look all shook up, that’s true. We’ll have a good laugh when we see Harp tomorrow.”

  “If we see him tomorrow,” said Erasmus. He was getting sulky now at his friends’ open scepticism. “If. I don’t mind telling you that would be a mortal relief, to see his ugly face. If he can do tricks like that, he’s cleverer than any of us give him credit for. And I don’t care if you believe me. I know what I saw.”

  “It’s magic, that’s what it is,” said another man darkly. “Black magic, if you ask me.”

  All of them looked uneasy at that, and changed the conversation.

  In a corner of the tavern, another man dressed in dusty black from head to foot had been listening intently. Nobody noticed when he stood up and left. But few people noticed assassins when they didn’t want to be seen.

  Chapter Seven

  GEORGETTE LAY CURLED IN AN “S” SHAPE, WITH HER hands folded neatly beneath her cheek, and drooled a little on her pillow. Sometime after the midnight bell, she stirred and cried out, and one of her ladies-in-waiting – who, as custom decreed, spent each night propped on a chair in the corner of the room in order to protect her mistress from horrors which might fly in the window, such as moths or vampires – jumped in her sleep and muttered something about burning cakes, before subsiding back into an uncomfortable doze.

  Georgette was having that dream again.

  The first time she had had this dream was on the night of her mother’s funeral, although it had returned dozens of times since. Georgette’s mother, Queen Alsigne, had died when the Princess was six years old. This had not affected her much, since she had barely known her. On state occasions or holy days she was stuffed into an uncomfortable dress stiff with pearls and brocade and taken to a gracious and pale woman she had been taught to call “Mother” or “Your Grace”, who took her hand gravely and regarded her with sad and distant eyes.

  Ever since then, the dream had always been exactly the same.

  She was a little girl, kneeling before her mother. As she stooped to take her daughter’s hand, Queen Alsigne was haloed with a rich golden light that seemed to be beating out of her skin. Everything around them was dark, and in the shadows moved horrible, shapeless things that Georgette didn’t dare to look at. Behind the Queen was a massive stained-glass window, a window which did not exist in Georgette’s waking life. It was a magnificent picture of a crimson dragon, the sign of the Old Royals before King Axel I, rampant, its mouth spouting golden gouts of flame.

  As Georgette stood up, still holding her mother’s hand, the dragon seemed to come alive, although it remained imprisoned in the window. The Queen turned to look at it, unsurprised, and smiled sadly.

  “Ah, my little Georgette,” she said, turning back and looking at her daughter with those immense grey eyes, always so sorrowful and so beautiful. “My sweet daughter.” (She had never said any
thing so fond when she had been alive, and Georgette’s heart quickened with an unfamiliar warmth.) “Do not forget the cries in the night. Do not forget.”

  Usually then the Queen vanished, and the dragon would turn and fix its fiery eyes on Georgette, making her quail. But tonight the dream was different. Her mother grasped her upper arm. Her fingers were like ice, so cold they burned Georgette’s skin.

  “Your fate is darkening, child,” said the Queen. “Beware! Soon even Death won’t stop him.”

  “Who?” asked Georgette.

  “The one who comes for you now.”

  The dread of nightmare rose in Georgette’s throat and she pulled away in a sudden panic. But her mother tightened her grip until Georgette cried out with pain. The Queen leaned close and bent her mouth to Georgette’s ear. “Run, daughter,” she whispered. “Run.”

  The queen let go and stood up, and before Georgette’s eyes her graceful beauty shrivelled into a skeleton, which collapsed into a dry pile of bones on the floor. The dragon in the window turned its terrible eyes on the Princess and began to laugh. It knew that she couldn’t run away.

  Georgette screamed and screamed, but no sound came out of her mouth.

  At the same time she heard a little boy weeping inconsolably. It was the most lonely, the most unbearable sound in the world. She knew the boy was alone and terrified and in pain.

  This child was always in the dream. Every time before, Georgette had woken up torn between fear of the waking dragon and pity for the child. But this time she broke free of sleep in simple, undiluted terror, her nightdress drenched with sweat, her whole body shaking.

  It’s only a nightmare, she told herself. It isn’t real. Then she looked at her arm and saw red fingermarks already purpling to bruises, exactly where the Queen had held her in the nightmare.

  She stared in disbelief, her heart hammering. Maybe she had clutched herself, in panic? She crept out of bed to the window, where the moonlight was brighter, and tried to fit her fingers to match the marks. They were on the front of her arm, as if someone had clasped her from behind. And yes, there was a thumbprint on the back of her upper arm. No matter how she twisted herself, she couldn’t replicate the bruises.

  Georgette looked suspiciously at the snoring lady-in-waiting, but Lady Agathe wasn’t the kind to play cruel tricks. Even if she was, there hadn’t been enough time for her to return to her chair and fall asleep.

  The terror wasn’t fading like it usually did. It was thickening, a heavy dread coiling inside her, threatening to choke her.

  It wasn’t a dream. This time, Georgette knew it was real.

  Chapter Eight

  OLIBRANDIS SNIFFED AS HE TURNED THE SILVER BOX over and over in his hands. He sniffed continuously, so it didn’t mean much, but Pip was on the alert for every tiny sign. “So, you picked this up in the alleys?”

  “A quick pocketing, like I said,” said Pip.

  Olibrandis, Purveyor of Antiquities and Curiosities, screwed a glass into his eye and closely inspected the jewels. “Amethysts and garnets, my boy, nothing to write home about. But some nice chasing and repoussage work there, on the lid.” He indicated the coat of arms – a dragon embellished with red stones – with a grimy forefinger. “That’s craftsmanship, that is.” He clicked open the lid and stroked the soft velvet interior. “Likely held some gentleman’s buckles.”

  “A nobleman,” said Pip. “That’s a dragon, that is.”

  “It is indeed.” Olibrandis put the box down on the table and sat back. “That there, in fact, is the coat of arms of the previous Royal Family, what we don’t name these days, because none of us is supposed to remember.” He took out a large red handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

  “You mean it belonged to a king?”

  “More likely his privy counsellor, or some other such minion.” Seeing the uncomprehending expression on Pip’s face, Olibrandis expanded: “The nobleman who is honoured to help the king onto his privy and wipe his arse.”

  “Really?” said Pip, his eyes wide.

  “When you’re King, even your turds smell like roses.” Olibrandis laughed wheezily at his poor joke, and then collapsed into a fit of coughing. He drew out his handkerchief again and spat into it, examining the result carefully before he folded it up and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll give you four marks for it.”

  “Four marks! For a box of solid silver and jewels from a king?”

  “Take it or leave it, my boy. I’m being too generous; most wouldn’t give you three. Its value is scarce more than silver. The extra mark is for the craftsmanship, but I’m not sure it’s worth my while. The Old Royals aren’t in fashion, but someone might be curious.”

  Pip frowned and stared at the box, plucking at his lower lip. He had come to Olibrandis, with whom he had enjoyed a long and mutually profitable relationship, because the dealer was honest, or at least, not as dishonest as the other fences he knew. The box would likely be sold for twenty marks or more in less than an hour. But Pip was hungry.

  “Make it six and it’s a deal,” he said.

  “Five, then,” said Olibrandis. “And not a farthing more, if you break my back.”

  Pip watched gloomily as Olibrandis counted out the coins. He and El had argued that morning over selling the box. Her attitude towards it had changed sharply. She now said the box was giving her chills and she didn’t want it in the room.

  “It’s no use just going to old Ollie,” said Pip. “It’s a treasure, remember?”

  “It’s evil, that’s what it is.” El flicked a glance at the box, and shivered. “It’s bad luck.”

  Pip picked it up and stroked the soft silver lid with his finger. He didn’t want to sell it. He couldn’t rid himself of the conviction that this box would change their fortunes. “I told you, it’s precious. It’s important, El.”

  “Sell the box and throw that horrible black thing inside away.” El was speaking so passionately that she was breathless. “I feel like … like it’s watching me.”

  “So the one chance we get to better ourselves, we throw it away? What about our fortune?”

  “Oh, Pip.” El took his hand and held it tight. “There’s never going to be no fortune for us. Don’t you understand? It’s just a daydream, Pip. A lovely daydream. But you can’t eat dreams. And I’m so hungry I feel dizzy.”

  So Pip had taken the Heart out of the box – he thought of it as the Heart, although he still wasn’t really sure what it was – and wrapped it in a piece of old cloth. He’d hidden it inside his breeches, where no nimble fingers could find it.

  Touching it made him feel a little sick, as if he were on top of a tall building. El was right: it felt like bad luck. He could feel it pushing into his hips as he sat in front of Olibrandis, even though it scarcely weighed anything at all.

  He left Olibrandis’s shop the same way he had come in, by the back entrance, shouldering past piles of oddments – rusting chains, buckets of nails, boxes of old bottles marked “poison” – into the tiny alley behind. Five marks was still a decent amount: it was a month’s worth of dinners, and maybe a shawl for El and a jacket for him. Two days ago he would have been cock-a-hoop, but he couldn’t get past his dragging disappointment.

  He kicked at some rubbish, deciding to go to the Mascule Bridge and throw the Heart into the river there. The Mascule Bridge was popular with suicides; it seemed like an appropriate place to drown the hope that had surged inside him so powerfully.

  Shortly after Pip left his shop, Olibrandis put the newly polished box in his window, with a tag indicating that this appealing silver buckle casket could be purchased by any person who had the necessary twenty-five marks. An hour after that, a man dressed entirely in black paused thoughtfully outside the shop, his attention arrested, and peered through the grimy panes. He glanced up and down the street, and then, as silently as a rat wearing velvet slippers, he lifted the latch and went inside.

  Chapter Nine

  PIP DRAINED HIS CIDER AND FROWNED INTO HIS em
pty pewter mug. At least in the Crosseyes Alehouse there wasn’t a cockroach at the bottom, which had happened more than once at the Duck, but this did nothing to cheer him. Even the weight of the coins hidden under his jacket didn’t lift his mood.

  He was killing time waiting for El, who had gone shopping. El had chosen the venue to meet, one of the more respectable public houses in the Choke Alleys, and Pip wasn’t in the mood. Right now he wanted to go home. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

  Jack Ranciere, apothecarist to gentlefolk, scowled at him from across the room and muttered something. Pip didn’t respond. If he started an argument with Jack it wouldn’t stop. Jack had been accusing him for years of stealing from him, an accusation Pip hotly denied with all the fervour of someone who, for once, was actually innocent. He had stolen from quite a few people in this room, but never from Jack. He turned away, leaning his elbow on the wonky table – a plank balanced precariously on two barrels – and gave the other patrons a misanthropic survey.

  “Want another jug?”

  It was Oni, El’s best friend. She had recently found work at the Crosseyes and now lived in a small apartment by herself, not far from the inn.

  Pip looked up unsmilingly into her dark eyes. “Why not?”

  Oni picked up the jug. “Is El coming on here?”

  Pip shrugged instead of answering, and Oni flashed him a look. “No need to be rude. I just asked.”

  Pip relented. Oni never looked down her nose at him, not like some others. “She’s at the market. She wanted to buy a new scarf for the Midsummer Festival, but she’s taking ages.”

  “Oh, you know El. She can never make up her mind. You should have gone with her, to help her choose.”

  “But I hate trying to help her buy anything.”