The Gilded Wolves

by Roshani Chokshi

  Hela was half-wrong. Zofia was not in school. But she was learning plenty outside of a classroom. In the past year and a half, she had learned how to invent things the École des Beaux-Arts never imagined for her. She had learned how to open a savings account, which might—assuming the map Séverin acquired was all they’d hoped it to be—soon hold enough money to support Hela through medical school when she finally enrolled. But the worst lesson was learning how to lie to her sister. The first time she had lied in a letter, she’d thrown up. Guilt left her sobbing for hours until Laila had found and comforted her. She didn’t know how Laila knew what bothered her. She just did. And Zofia, who never quite grasped how to find her way through a conversation, simply felt grateful someone could do the work for her.

  Zofia was still thinking about Hela when the marble entrance of the École des Beaux-Arts manifested before her. Zofia staggered back, nearly dropping the letters.

  The marble entrance did not move.

  Not only was the entrance Forged to appear before any matriculated students two blocks from the school, but it was also an exquisite example of solid matter and mind affinity working in tandem. A feat only those trained at the École could perform.

  Once, Zofia would have trained with them too.

  “You don’t want me,” she said softly.

  Tears stung her eyes. When she blinked, she saw the path to her expulsion. One year into schooling, her classmates had changed. Once, her skill awed them. Now, it offended them. Then the rumors started. No one seemed to care at first that she was Jewish. But that changed. Rumors sprang up that Jews could steal anything.

  Even someone else’s Forging affinity.

  It was completely false, and so she ignored it. She should have been more careful, but that was the problem with happiness. It blinds.

  For a while, Zofia was happy. And then, one afternoon, the other students’ whispers got the better of her. That day, she broke down in the laboratory. There were too many sounds. Too much laughing. Too much brightness escaping through the curtain. She’d forgotten her parents’ lesson to count backward until she felt calm. Whispers grew from that episode. Crazy Jew. A month later, ten students locked themselves in the lab with her. Again came the sounds, smells, laughing. The other students didn’t grab her. They knew the barest touch—like a feather trailed down skin—hurt her more. Calm slipped out of reach no matter how many times she counted backward, or begged to be let go, or asked what she had done wrong.

  In the end, it was such a small movement.

  Someone had kicked her to the ground. Another person’s elbow clashed into a vial on a table. The vial splattered into a puddle, which pooled out and touched the tips of her outstretched fingers. She had been holding a piece of flint in her hand when fury flickered in her mind. Fire. That little thought—that snippet of will, just as the professors had taught her—traveled from her fingertips to the puddle, igniting the broken vial until it bloomed into a towering inferno.

  Seven students were injured in the explosion.

  For her crime, she was arrested on grounds of arson and insanity, and taken to prison. She would have died there if not for Séverin. Séverin found her, freed her, and did the unthinkable: He gave her a job. A way to earn back what she’d lost. A way out.

  Zofia rubbed her finger across the oath tattoo on her right knuckle. Luckily, it was only temporary or her mother would have been appalled. She could not be buried in a Jewish cemetery with a tattoo. The tattoo was a contract between her and Séverin, the ink Forged so that if one of them broke the agreement, nightmares would plague them. That Séverin had used this tattoo—a sign of equals—instead of some of the cruder contracts was something she would never forget.

  Zofia turned on her heel and left rue Bonaparte behind. Perhaps the marble entrance could not recognize when a student had been expelled, for it did not move, but stayed in its place until she disappeared around a corner.

  * * *

  IN L’EDEN, ZOFIA made her way to the stargazing room. Séverin had called for a meeting once he and Enrique got back from their latest acquisition, which she knew was just a fancy word for “theft.”

  Zofia never took the grand lobby’s main staircase. She didn’t want to see all the fancy people dressed up and laughing and dancing. Plus, it was too noisy. Instead, she took the servants’ entryway, which was how she ran into Séverin. He grinned despite appearing thoroughly disheveled. Zofia noticed how tenderly he held his wrist.

  “You’re covered in blood.”

  Séverin glanced down at his clothes. “Surprisingly, it hasn’t escaped my attention.”

  “Are you dying?”

  “No more than usual or expected.”

  Zofia frowned.

  “I’m well enough. Don’t worry.”

  She reached for the door handle. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  “Thank you, Zofia,” said Séverin with a small smile. “I will join you soon. There’s something I’d like to show everyone through a mnemo bug.”

  On Séverin’s shoulder, a Forged silver beetle scuttled under his lapel. Mnemo bugs recorded images and sound, allowing projection-like holograms should the wearer choose. Which meant she had to be prepared for an unexpected burst of light. Séverin knew she didn’t like those. They jolted her thoughts. Nodding, Zofia left him in the hall and walked into the room.

  The stargazing room calmed Zofia. It was wide and spacious, with a glass-domed vault that let in the starlight. All along the walls were orreries and telescopes, cabinets full of polished crystal, and shelves lined with fading books and manuscripts. In the middle of the room was the low coffee table that bore the scuff marks and dents of a hundred schemes that came to life on its wooden surface. A semicircle of chairs surrounded it. Zofia made her way to her seat. It was a tall metal stool with a ragged pillowcase. Zofia preferred to balance upright because she didn’t like things touching her back. In a green, velvet chaise across from her sprawled Laila, who absentmindedly traced the rim of her teacup with one finger. In a plushy armchair crowded with pillows sat Enrique, who had a large book on his lap and was reading intently. Of the two chairs left, one was Tristan’s—which was less of a chair and more of a cushion because he didn’t like heights—and one was Séverin’s, a black-cherry armchair Zofia had custom-Forged so that an unfamiliar touch caused it to sprout blades.

  Tristan barged into the room, his hands outstretched.

  “Look! I thought Goliath was dying, but he’s fine. He just molted!”

  Enrique screamed. Laila scuttled backward on her chaise. Zofia leaned forward, inspecting the enormous tarantula in Tristan’s hands. Mathematicians didn’t frighten her, and spiders—and bees—were just that. A spider’s web was composed of numerous radii, a logarithmic spiral, and the light-diffusing properties of their webs and silk were fascinating.

  “Tristan!” scolded Laila. “What did I just tell you about spiders?”

  Tristan lifted his chin. “You said not to bring him into your room. This is not your room.”

  Faced with Laila’s glare, he shrank a bit.

  “Please can he stay for the meeting? Goliath is different. He’s special.”

  Enrique pulled his knees up to his chest and shuddered. “What is so special about that?”

  “Well,” said Zofia, “as part of the infraorder of Mygalomorphae, the fangs of a tarantula point down, whereas the spiders you’re thinking of have fangs which point and join in a pincerlike arrangement. That’s rather special.”

  Enrique gagged.

  Tristan beamed at her. “You remembered.”

  Zofia did not find this particularly noteworthy. She remembered most things people told her. Besides, Tristan had listened just as attentively when she explained the arithmetic spiral properties of a spiderweb.

  Enrique made a shoo motion with his hands. “Please take it away, Tristan. I beg you.”

  “Aren’t you happy for Goliath? He’s been sick for days.”

  “Can we be happy
for Goliath from behind a sheet of glass and a net and a fence? Maybe a ring of fire for good measure?” asked Enrique.

  Tristan made a face at Laila. Zofia knew that pattern: widened eyes, pressed-down brows, dimpled chin, and the barest quiver of his bottom lip. Ridiculous, yet effective. Zofia approved. Across from her, Laila clapped her hands over her eyes.

  “Not falling for it,” said Laila sternly. “Go look like a kicked puppy elsewhere. Goliath can’t stay here during a meeting. That’s final.”

  Tristan huffed. “Fine.” Then he murmured to Goliath, “I’ll make you a cricket cake, dear friend. Don’t fret.”

  Once Tristan had left, Enrique turned to Zofia. “I rather sympathized with Arachne after her duel with Minerva, but I detest her descendants.”

  Zofia went still. People and conversation were already a cipher without throwing in all the extra words. Enrique was especially confusing. Elegance illuminated every word the historian spoke. And she could never tell when he was angry. His mouth was always bent in a half smile, regardless of his mood. If she answered now, she’d only sound foolish. Instead, Zofia said nothing, but pulled out a matchbox from her pocket and turned it over in her hands. Enrique rolled his eyes and turned back to his book. She knew what he thought of her. She had overheard him once. She’s a snob.

  He could think what he liked.

  As the minutes ticked by, Laila handed out tea and desserts, making sure Zofia received exactly three sugar cookies, all pale and perfectly round. She settled back in her chair, glancing around the room. Eventually, Tristan returned and dramatically plopped onto his cushion.

  “In case you’re wondering, Goliath is deeply offended, and he says—”

  But they would never know the tarantula’s specific grievances because at that moment a beam of light shot up through the coffee table. The room went dark. Then, slowly, an image of a piece of metal appeared. When she looked up, Séverin was standing behind Tristan. She hadn’t heard him enter.

  Tristan followed her gaze and nearly jumped when he saw Séverin. “Must you creep up on us like that? I didn’t even hear you come into the room!”

  “It’s part of my aesthetic,” said Séverin, dangling a Forged muffling bell.

  Enrique laughed. Laila didn’t. Her gaze was fixed on his bloodied arm. Her shoulders dropped a bit, as if she was relieved it was only his arm that was bloodied. Zofia knew he was alive and well enough, so she turned her attention to the object. It was a square piece of metal, with curling symbols at the four corners. A large circle had been inscribed upon the middle. Within the circle were small rows of stacked lines shaped like squares:

  “That’s what we planned for weeks to acquire?” asked Tristan. “What is it? A game? I thought we were after a treasure map hidden in a compass?”

  “So did I,” sighed Enrique.

  “My bet was that it was a map to the Fallen House’s lost stash,” said Tristan.

  “My bet was on an ancient book the Order lost years ago,” said Laila, looking terribly disappointed. “Zofia? What’d you think it’d be?”

  “Not that,” she answered, pointing at the diagram.

  “Looks like all of us were wrong,” said Tristan. “So much for blackmailing the Order.”

  “At least because all of us were wrong, none of us have to play test subjects to whatever strange poison Tristan makes next,” Laila pointed out.

  “Touché!” said Enrique, raising a glass.

  “I resent that,” said Tristan.

  “Don’t call it a loss yet,” said Séverin, pacing. “This diagram could still be useful. There has to be a reason why the patriarch of House Nyx wanted it. Just like there has to be a reason why all of our intelligence was on high alert with this transaction. Enrique, care to enlighten us on what this diagram is? Or are you too preoccupied with praying for my immortal soul?”

  Enrique scowled and closed the book on his lap. Zofia glanced at the spine. He was holding the Bible. Instinctively, she leaned away.

  “I’ve given up on your soul,” said Enrique. He cleared his throat and pointed at the hologram. “What you see before you might look like a board game, but it’s actually an example of Chinese cleromancy. Cleromancy is a type of divination that produces random numbers that are then interpreted as the will of God or some other supernatural force. What you see in this silver diagram are the sixty-four hexagrams found in the I Ching, which is an ancient Chinese divination text that loosely translates to ‘Book of Changes.’ These hexagrams”—he pointed at the small squares composed of six stacked lines in an eight-by-eight arrangement—“correspond to certain cryptic words, like ‘force’ or ‘diminishing.’ Supposedly, these arrangements translate fate.”

  “What about the spiral things on the edge?” asked Tristan.

  The four symbols bore no resemblance to the Chinese characters or sharp lines forming the hexagrams.

  “That … That, I’m not entirely sure,” admitted Enrique. “It doesn’t match anything recognizable from Chinese augury. Perhaps it’s an added-on signature from whoever possessed the compass after it’d been made? Either way, it doesn’t seem like a map to anything. Which, honestly, is disappointing, but that doesn’t mean it won’t fetch a good price on the market.”

  Laila drew herself up on her elbows, tilting her head to the side a little more. “Unless it’s a map in disguise.”

  The room fell silent. Séverin shrugged.

  “Why not?” he asked softly. “Any ideas?”

  Zofia counted the lines. Then she counted them again. A pattern nudged against her thoughts.

  “This is nothing we haven’t seen before,” tried Séverin cheerfully. “Remember that underwater Isis temple?”

  “Distinctly,” said Enrique. “You said there wouldn’t be any sharks.”

  “There weren’t.”

  “Right. Just mechanical leviathans with dorsal fins,” said Enrique. “Forgive me.”

  “Apology accepted,” said Séverin, inclining his head. “Now. When it came to that code, we had to rethink the direction. We had to question our assumption. What if what we’re looking at is not just a map, but a hint to what it might lead to?”

  Tristan frowned. “A bunch of divination lines do not a treasure make, dear brother.”

  “Lines,” said Zofia distractedly. She tugged at her necklace. “Are they lines?”

  “That,” said Séverin, pointing at her, “is exactly the type of reasoning I’m talking about. Question the very assumptions. Good thinking.”

  “What if you shine it under a different light?” mused Tristan.

  “Or do those symbols at the four corners correspond to something that’s a hint?” asked Enrique.

  Zofia kept quiet, but it was as if the pattern had peeled off the metal square. She squinted at it.

  “Numbers,” she said suddenly. “If you change the lines to numbers … it becomes something else. We did a similar procedure last year with the coded Greek alphabet riddle. I remember because that was when Séverin took us on that expedition to Nisyros Island.”

  All five of them collectively shuddered.

  Tristan drew his knees to his chest. “I hate volcanoes.”

  Zofia sat up, excited. A pattern had finally taken shape in her mind.

  “Each of those hexagrams is made up only of broken and unbroken lines. If you make every unbroken line a zero, and every broken line a one, then it’s a pattern of zeroes and ones. It looks like some kind of binary calculus.”

  “But that doesn’t tell us anything about the treasure,” said Tristan.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. The ancients were obsessed with numbers,” said Enrique thoughtfully. “It’s clear in their art. Which makes me wonder what else might be here. Maybe it’s not a strange calculus after all.” Enrique tilted his head. “Hmm…”

  He pointed at the symbols tucked into the four corners.

  “Séverin, can you alter the image and break off the four corners?”

  Séverin mani
pulated the mnemo hologram so the four corners broke off. Then, he shrank the I Ching diagram, enlarged the four corners, and placed them beside one another.

  “There,” said Enrique. “I see it now. Séverin, place them in a block and rearrange the order. Turn the first symbol sideways, attach it to symbol two, symbol three should hang down, and the fourth symbol goes on the left.”

  Séverin did as asked, and when he stepped back, a new symbol took shape:

  “The Eye of Horus,” breathed Enrique.

  Envy flashed through Zofia.

  “How…” she said. “How did you see that?”

  “The same way you saw numbers in lines,” said Enrique smugly. “You’re impressed. Admit it.”

  Zofia crossed her arms. “No.”

  “I dazzle you with my intelligence.”

  Zofia turned to Laila. “Make him stop.”

  Enrique bowed and gestured back to the image. “The Eye of Horus is also known as a wadjet. It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol of royal power and protection. Over time, most Horus Eyes have been lost to history—”

  “No,” said Séverin. “Not lost. Destroyed. During Napoleon’s 1798 campaign to Egypt, the Order sent a delegation tasked specifically with finding and confiscating all Horus Eyes. House Kore sent half its members, which is why they have the largest supply of Egyptian Forged treasures in Europe. If there’s any Forged Horus Eyes left from that campaign, it’s with them.”

  “But why was it destroyed?” asked Laila.

  “That’s a secret between the government and the Order,” said Séverin. “My guess is that certain Forged Horus Eyes showed all the somno locations on Napoleon’s artillery. If everyone knew how to make his weapons useless, where would he be?”

  “What’s the other theory?” asked Laila.

  “Napoleon thought all the Horus Eyes were looking at him funny and so he had them destroyed,” said Tristan.

  Enrique laughed.

  “But then why have a Horus Eye on an I Ching diagram?” pressed Zofia. “If it’s a calculus of zeroes and ones, what would it even see?”