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Not bad, Jacob. He nearly believed it himself. The bear kept his eyes on Jacob, who hoped it was just a rumor that the creature could smell a lie.
The bear’s master, however, looked impressed. “I didn’t know about that part. Good. When can you leave? You shall have my swiftest horse.”
Even easier than he’d thought—hopefully, the next step would prove just as simple.
“The Jamantau Mountains are difficult terrain for a horse, Your Majesty. One of your flying carpets would provide a much more reliable mode of travel.” Oh, he was such a fabulous liar. After all, he’d already lied his way out of the oven of a Lotharainian Witch and the coffin of a Catalunian vampire. Practice a master does make.
Nikolaij frowned. The sweat formed glassy pearls on his amber skin. “I don’t know. Those carpets are alien magic. Are you sure? I have very good horses.”
Alien magic. The Tzar expressed a fear shared by many behind the mirror. But even if the carpets came from Fars, Pashtun, or Almohad, that made them no more fickle than the magic objects of his own country.
“Don’t worry,” Jacob said. “I’m used to handling magical objects from all sorts of lands. It’s part of my trade. You just have to take your time to understand their magic.”
Nikolaij reached for the glass one of his servants was offering. “Good. If you think so. Truth be told, I’d much rather part with one of those flying rugs than one of my horses.”
The servant also offered a glass to Jacob. Spiced wine. Water would’ve been more welcome in this heat.
“Forgive the question, Your Majesty? Who is it you want to call back with the bell?”
Nikolaij threw his empty glass against the tiled wall. The servants quickly began picking up the pieces from the blue glazed stones. It was a Varangian superstition that broken glass drove away the shadows of past woes.
“My son Maksim.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“Three hundred days, five hours, and a few minutes. Bring me the bell and you shall be a very rich man.”
The Tzar rose from his cushion, a signal for Jacob to do the same.
“I shall bring you the bell.” A difficult lie. Jacob was about to make an enemy of the Tzar of Varangia, and he felt sorry for him. He’d never had such scruples with the Empress of Austry or t
he crown prince of Lotharaine.
The servants sprinkled rose water on the oven. The vapors turned thick and white, as though they were suddenly in the clouds.
“I shall have the carpet delivered to you. Did Molotov show you one you’d prefer?”
“Yes, but it’s the most precious one you own.”
The carpet weaver had to trace the pattern with his bare feet for ten days and ten nights—that’s what put the magic in the knots. “That, and the skills of his trade,” Robert Dunbar would have added. “I keep telling you, Jacob. Every man can become a magician if only he raises himself to become a master at his craft.”
The coat that was now being put on the Tzar had clearly been designed by such a master. Firebirds spread their flame-red wings over matte-golden silk. What magic had created such skill? Or was it the other way around? And did the coat make its wearer happy?
Nikolaij beckoned the bear to his side. “I shall have the carpet brought to you tomorrow. You are still staying with Baryatinsky?”
“Yes.” So easy.
The servants rinsed the sweat off Jacob’s skin before they took him back to the room where he’d left his clothes.
“How old was the Tzar’s son when he died?” Jacob asked one of them.
“Six years, sir. Typhoid fever.”
He felt very guilty.
He would have to find the bell, make up for the lies he’d told the Tzar. One day, with Fox’s help. No Fairies, no Elves, just him and her searching for the lost things of this world.
He reached for his shirt.
