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“Some things are best never found, Jacob.” Fox wasn’t exactly sure what made her repeat Dunbar’s warning about the crossbow.
“Don’t worry.” Jacob handed her the clothes she would need in the other world. “I don’t have any wish to find the lost Elves. I just want to make sure we haven’t already found them.”
She should stay, but she had no idea which world he was talking about. She believed him safe in his.
Jacob leaned against his father’s desk as Fox stepped toward the mirror. She touched the glass. She already missed him.
A Safe Haven
The Metropolitan Museum of Art stood above the constant flow of traffic like a temple, though Jacob couldn’t say what gods were worshipped here: the arts, the past, or the human urge to create useless things and then dress up useful things in beauty. The wide steps were teeming with schoolchildren. When Jacob didn’t join any of the admission lines, a grouchy guard asked him where he thought he was going, but the guard immediately became chatty when Jacob mentioned Fran’s name. She was probably the only curator who brought home-baked bread (after a French recipe from the Middle Ages) or Russian walnut cake for the museum employees. Frances Tyrpak would have fit in perfectly behind the mirror, and not only that but her knowledge of antique weaponry would have served her very well there.
Jacob had borrowed Will’s backpack to transport the crossbow. His own bag was so tattered that it was much more fitting for a treasure hunt than for visiting a museum, and even Fran would’ve found it hard to accept seeing him pull a weapon of that size from a barely palm-sized pouch.
Swords, sabers, spears, maces... One could have outfitted an entire medieval army with the items on display in the Met’s Arms and Armor collection, and the halls Jacob walked through showcased only a fraction of that collection. Every modern museum of this world had treasure vaults that often filled entire floors of their buildings. They were, of course, much less romantic than the vaults behind the mirror, but they did preserve their treasures much more effectively: climate-controlled, windowless rooms, precious items hidden in white drawers, in boxes, and behind metal doors. The perfect hiding place for a weapon that should never see the light of day again.
Fran was supervising two men who were dressing the figure of a horseman in a rich armor bristling with gold and silver. Not an easy task, and the stiff mannequin sitting on an equally stiff horse made it even harder for the two, who didn’t seem to be adept at their task. Fran had deep furrows in her brow.
“A suit of presentation armor from 1737 Florence.” She greeted Jacob with a deadpan voice, as though she saw him in her exhibition rooms every day. “The only time this was worn was for a royal wedding. Quite ridiculous and almost sensationally tasteless, but it’s quite a sight, isn’t it? I read it was too big for its owner, so he had stuffing added to it and then nearly died of heatstroke.” Fran pointed to one of the glass-fronted cabinets along the wall. “That spear you sold me is quite the attraction. But I still don’t believe it’s from Libya. I will find the truth one day. But it’s a gem.”
Jacob had to smile. It really was a pity he couldn’t take Fran Tyrpak on a trip behind the mirror.
“I admit the spear has its secrets,” he said, putting the backpack on one of the padded benches where people could sit and marvel at the artistry of objects whose sole purpose was to kill. “But I promise you, I never lied about where it’s from.”
Behind the mirror, they called it Lubim, but its borders were almost identical to those of what Fran knew as Libya. The equivalent country behind the mirror was ruled by a deranged emir who drowned his enemies in vats of rose water. The spear brought forth armies of golden scorpions wherever it struck the ground. Jacob had, of course, always assumed it would lose that power on this side, but since the swindlesack and Fox’s fur dress had kept their magic, he couldn’t be so sure anymore. The spear’s thick glass home gave him some consolation. Just two nights earlier, he’d spent hours making a mental list of all the things he’d brought into this world.
Fran’s eyes widened behind her tortoiseshell glasses as Jacob pulled the crossbow from the backpack.
“Twelfth century?”
“Sounds about right,” Jacob answered as he handed her the weapon, though he didn’t have the faintest idea when or where the Alderelves had created it. Should Fran ever have its wood examined, she’d certainly get some very mysterious results.
One of the men dressing the knight lost his footing on the ladder, and a jewel-encrusted arm-guard barely missed Fran’s head before it clanged on the floor by her feet. She shot a barbed glance at the man, but her real concern was neither for her head nor for the precious arm-guard, but for the crossbow, which she had pressed to her chest.
Jacob picked up the piece of armor and examined the jewels set into the metal. “Glass.”
“Sure. The descendants sold off the original jewels. Quite normal. The Italian nobility was perpetually bankrupt.”
Fran pointed at the silver covering the crossbow’s handle. “These embellishments look like nothing I’ve seen before.”
“You should avoid touching those for too long.”
Fran raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why?”
“There are...stories about the crossbow. The silver may have been laced with some poison. And there’s supposedly a curse on it, one that works even in our godless times. Whatever it is, the last owner of this crossbow succumbed to a fatal madness.” And I met his living corpse. He could hardly tell Fran that most magical weapons were known to be devious and evil, and more than eager to do their work.
“Who’d believe it—Jacob Reckless is superstitious?” Fran’s smile was so incredulous Jacob felt quite flattered. She put the crossbow on the display case next to them. “You acquired this legally, did you?”
“Fran Tyrpak!” Jacob managed to sound truly offended. “Hasn’t my paperwork always been beyond reproach?” He’d learned to forge documents and seals from one of the most talented forgers behind the mirror. An indispensable skill when one dealt in goods from another world.
“Yes.” Fran eyed the
crossbow with obvious desire. “Your papers are always flawless. Maybe a little too flawless.”
A dangerous subject.
Jacob handed the arm-guard up to the workers.
Fran was not paying attention to anything but the crossbow. “I’ve never seen such a bowstring,” she mumbled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was made of glass.”
