Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  Caleb ran a work-roughened hand over his unshaven chin: "It come about the same way girl babbies always do—how else would it happen? I don't see nothing mysterious about it."

  Jenk shook his head. "Ah, but you see, nobody knows how female babies come about—or male ones either. It has always been assumed, though without any proof, that sexual characteristics were the gift of the mother, the result of some condition existing in the womb at the moment of conception. But here we have no mother, no living womb, only a vessel of glass, and all conditions exactly correspond to those which existed at the time I created the other homunculi. With our failed attempts it was impossible to be certain, but surely there is no doubt that the first homunculus was a little man."

  Caleb passed that off with another careless shrug. "Then they was all wrong, your doctors and your natural philosophers," he said. "As simple as that. It must of been something in the sperma viri, Gottfried, and I done fathered a dainty little daughter, without the aid of any woman."

  Caleb stood up and walked across the room. He went over to the table where the coffin rested. "I reckon I forgot to tell you, when you first come in: there was a letter and a package arrived while you was out."

  Jenk raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "A letter and a package . . . today? I had thought the coaches were not running."

  "It come by private messenger: a gnome in Zar-Wildungen livery." Caleb came back, carrying a long parchment envelope and a velvet bag tied shut with a satin cord. By the weight and the feel of it, when Jenk took it in his hands, the bag contained a considerable sum of money, all in coins.

  The letter consisted of several sheets of thin paper, written over in a small but clear hand. "Not in the Duke's hand, nor in his style; it appears to be the work of some confidential secretary. It does, however, bear his seal," said Jenk.

  "'I turned the body of the homunculus over to my personal physician,'" he read out loud, "'a man of the utmost integrity and asked him to perform a dissection.' I am sorry, Caleb, but the creature was already dead."

  Caleb hunched his shoulders, gave his grizzled pigtail a meditative tug. "Dead and past helping. But nothing like that is agoing to happen to the new one. We'll make precious certain of that."

  "We shall indeed," said Jenk, thinking of two little graves in the walled garden behind the bookshop, the pitifully small body of the homunculus he had sent to the Duke. "We have learned our lesson and will proceed more cautiously this time. It may be," he added thoughtfully, "that others who tried the experiment before us also fell victim to their own impatience and brought forth their mannikins prematurely. That would explain why so many previous attempts failed.

  "But be that as it may," he continued, "the Duke (or his secretary, writing on his behalf) goes on to say: 'The internal organs, not only in their form and complexity but in their location as well, bear an amazing resemblance to human anatomy—far more than in dwarves or gnomes, though not so marked as in fays or giants—yet for all that, there was no evidence either to prove or disprove that the tissue had ever quickened—or if it had, that the creature was (as you inform me) an artificial creation and not a human fetus which had naturally aborted due to its slight internal deformities. All this, I feel obliged to point out, speaking as a scholar and a scientist. Speaking as one gentleman to another, however, and as one who knows you of old, I reject any suspicion of a deliberate deception on your part and am ready to accept the mannikin you sent me as proof positive that you have indeed unlocked the mysteries of ages past and created a living creature by wholly artificial means. In earnest of further support in the future, I send you . . . ' He sends me," said Jenk, "a substantial sum of money, all in gold."

  He unwound a cord that had been wrapped around the mouth of the velvet bag, and emptied a shower of golden coins onto the table, where they lay in a gleaming pile. "He makes but two conditions, should I wish to obtain that future patronage: 'Whatever other experiments you may currently be engaged upon, you must not neglect this one. I am a wealthy man and have little interest in any process which purports to change lead into silver or gold, nor do I care for elixirs or precious stones. The other condition is simply this: when the present homunculus comes to term, you must send word to me at once. Immediately thereafter, which is to say, as soon as traveling conditions permit, you will admit my representative—one Baron Vodni—to examine the results.' "

  "Well then," said Caleb, with evident satisfaction, "you've succeeded so far: you've gained the old Duke's interest and his gold. Now you can meet Jakob's price and buy them tinctures, and there shouldn't be no more obstacles."

  "I wonder . . ." said Jenk, drawing up a stool and sitting down on it. "I cannot help but wonder. Not only is the letter written in another hand, but it is scarcely like the Duke to write of sending a representative, when he might ask to view the living homunculus himself."

  "The Duke is old and ailing; you said so yourself," Caleb reminded him. "It may be that he ain't well enough to travel."

  "But he might send for me," said Jenk: "He might inquire whether I am able to travel to the Wichtelberg, carrying the homunculus with me. And as he is an old man and in feeble health, I wonder that he expresses such a profound disinterest in elixirs."

  Caleb shook his head. "The letter was sealed with the Duke's seal, delivered by the Duke's man—and someone's taken it onto hisself to send you a good fair portion of the Duke's gold. You've gained yourself a generous patron, Gottfried; why not content yourself with that?"

  Jenk opened his mouth to reply, but a loud, impatient pounding on the bookshop door distracted him. Caleb heaved himself to his feet and went off to answer it.

  He returned a few minutes later, scratching his head. "It's that foreign gentleman, Colonel Jolerei. He seems set on speaking to you, for all I told him we was closed for the holiday:"

  "I will see him, then," said Jenk. Rising to his feet, he shrugged into his coat and went into the bookshop to greet his visitor.

  Colonel Jolerei was a sleek-looking individual in the uniform of a Nordic cavalry officer. He wore his fair hair unpowdered and tied back in a neat queue with a plain black ribbon. He bowed stiffly when Jenk came into the room, and immediately stated his business.

  "The volumes we spoke of during my previous visit—most particularly Catalana's Book of Silences—you have succeeded in finding them?" The Colonel tapped a short riding whip impatiently against one highly polished boot as he spoke.

  "I am sorry that you were put to the trouble of returning here," said Jenk, removing his spectacles, "for it appears that none of those books are to be had in Thornburg, or any of the towns around. I shall, of course, continue the search. So if you would be good enough to leave me your direction—"

  "My address would be of no use—I do not remain in Marstadtt much longer," the Colonel interrupted him. "My regiment, you understand, has been recalled to active duty."

  "Then perhaps you have some friend or relative in the town, who would be willing to forward—"

  "That will not be necessary. You do not have the book; you say it cannot be obtained at the present time. I am as likely to find the book in Nordmark, I think." The foreigner bowed curtly and turned to go; Jenk followed him to the door and bolted it behind him.

  He returned to the laboratory frowning thoughtfully. "I should not like to think that the nature of our experiments were common knowledge," he told Caleb. "And yet I cannot but harbor a suspicion. It seemed to me, when the Colonel called before, that he had less interest in obtaining any books than in gauging my reaction when he named some of the authors."

  "Then why did you ask him to come back for? Why did you pretend you was going to look for them books?"

  "Because if I had not, I might have aroused his suspicion—as he must have feared to arouse mine, if he did not call again. I fear that we have both wasted our time, for I am certainly suspicious of him, and he appears to be equally distrustful of me."

  Jenk sank down on the stool he had vacated earlier. "Is it
likely," he asked, "that a man with such a pronounced limp would be recalled to active duty, even in a Nordic cavalry regiment?"

  The candle in the single lanthorn hanging from the ceiling began to flicker wildly. Caleb left his own seat, took up another candle, and opened the glass case. "He had a sly look about him, that I won't deny. But who do you reckon it was that sent him?" Caleb lit the new candle and snuffed out the old one.

  "He looked entirely the gentleman to me," said Jenk, "and acted one, too, though his manner was somewhat abrupt. Yet I had the feeling the whole time that I was in the presence of a serpent. As to who sent him . . . perhaps one of the guilds caught wind of our activities."

  "Not the Glassmakers!" Caleb protested. "I'd swear by all the Powers, it weren't Jed who blabbed." He slammed the glass case shut.

  "I am far more inclined to suspect either Matthias or Walther," said Jenk. "And to do the Glassmakers no more than simple justice, I doubt that a man such as Colonel Jolerei—who aroused in both of us such an instinctive mistrust—would ever be admitted into the inner circles of the Glassmakers' Lodge."

  "Well, whosoever he was, and whosoever it was that sent him, he didn't learn nothing from you," Caleb said. "You was as cool as ice, and I'll lay any wager he never suspected you had the book right here in the shop the whole time."

  "We must hope not," said Jenk. "But of course you are right. If he had gained any inkling during his previous visit and passed that information on to anyone else, someone would have attempted to break into the shop long since and taken the book either by force or by stealth."

  He shook his head and smiled a weary smile. "Perhaps it is only that I am inclined to mistrust our current good fortune. Our luck has turned on us so many times before, and now it all appears to be going our way: the books, the homunculus, the Duke and his gold." He took one of the coins into his hand, held it close to the lanthorn, so that it caught and reflected the light. "And yet . . . why should we not finally come to good fortune, after all the long years of struggle and regret?"

  He came to a sudden decision. "I believe you are right, Caleb. We should not ask too many questions, but simply accept the gold. I shall take a few of these coins with me on the morrow, and with them I shall purchase the tinctures. It may well be that our luck has turned, for the better this time, and that the Elixir and the stone Seramarias have finally come within our grasp."

  CHAPTER 18

  In which Sera appears at a considerable Disadvantage.

  It was Count Xebo's custom, each year, to hold a grand ball at some time early in the season of Ripening. For this event, invitations were eagerly sought and eagerly awaited, for Count Xebo's ball was the focal point of the entire season.

  This year, however, anticipation ran even higher than usual, for in addition to the customary feasting and dancing, the Count promised his guests an opportunity to view the splendid new wax statues depicting the Nine Seasons, which he had recently commissioned. Count Xebo was known to be a collector and a connoisseur of wax; moreover, it was rumored that he had spent a princely sum on these latest acquisitions, therefore an expectation grew on the part of the Thornburg elite, that the new statues would be truly extraordinary.

  As might be expected, Clothilde Vorder was more than willing to accept the Count's intriguing invitation, while her husband would have preferred a quiet evening at home, sequestered in his study. But the lady carried her point—in part because Jarl Skogsrå offered to escort the ladies home afterwards, offering the reluctant Benjamin an early escape. So it was arranged that the family would attend.

  A pair of sedan chairs were ordered for eight, but the ladies dressed early and assembled in the downstairs sitting room at seven forty-five: Clothilde, imposing in diamonds and purple satin; Elsie, as dainty as meadowflowers and twice as sweet, in a gown consisting of layer upon layer of spangled tulle; and Sera, in one of Clothilde's cast-offs, cut down and remade to fit.

  Sera sat on a loveseat by the fireplace, utterly dissatisfied with her own appearance. With a sigh, she spread out the skirts of her gown. It was an excellent wine-colored watered silk, trimmed with black lace, and still in good condition—but decidedly matronly in color and cut, manifestly unsuitable for a girl of eighteen. Compared to Elsie's youthful freshness, Sera in her heavy claret silk felt old and plain and dull.

  Not that it's entirely the fault of the dress, thought Sera. I wish I had a tenth of Elsie's beauty! Here am I with these dreadful crow-colored locks . . . and there is Elsie with her pure living gold. But I think the difference between us might not be so very noticeable, if only I had something attractive to wear.

  That, however, would never happen while Sera lived under Clothilde Vorder's roof. Elsie was generous; she always shared her fans, her lace mittens, her parasols, and her Mawbri silk shawls. It was not her fault that Sera was too large to fit into her dresses as well. But Cousin Clothilde seemed to take a positive delight in playing up the contrast between them. She might have given me the primrose satin—she hasn't worn it in years. It would have looked well with Elsie's white . . . but perhaps then Elsie's gown would not have displayed to such particular advantage.

  "Dearest Sera," said Elsie, sitting down beside her and lifting a raven lock, "your hair is so thick and glossy, and the color in your cheeks so ravishing, I vow you'll be the prettiest girl at the ball."

  Sera's cheeks grew pinker still. How could she think of envying Elsie—Elsie with her ill health and a thousand other cares to plague her? I am becoming so wicked, I hardly know myself.

  But before she could scold herself as she deserved, the clock struck the hour and Cousin Benjamin appeared, languidly announcing that the sedan chairs were at the door. The ladies gathered up their fans and their shawls and followed him out of the room.

  The night was warm and the walk to Count Xebo's imposing grey mansion was not a long one, so Mistress Vorder and Elsie traveled by chair. Though no conveyance had been ordered for Sera, she was perfectly content to make the short trip on foot, leaning on Cousin Benjamin's arm.

  Six footmen and two page-boys escorted them, the pages to act as linkmen and carry torches, the footmen bearing the long spiked poles known as "hobstickers" that were designed to fend off marauding hobgoblins. Even though the moon was so small and young, and there was no real danger of encountering any hobs, the Vorder servants went armed—it was a matter (Cousin Clothilde liked to say) of maintaining the family dignity.

  As they climbed Thorn Hill, one of the men struck out with his pole, skewering something small and grey that squeaked and struggled at the end of the spike, then shuddered and went completely still. Sera shuddered, too, though she knew the footman had only spiked a rat. It seemed a bad beginning to the evening's entertainment.

  Surrounded by gardens and high stone walls, the Xebo mansion generally gave the impression of a walled fortress. But tonight the heavy wrought-iron gates stood wide open, the grounds glowed with a thousand tiny fairy-lanthorns, and it was possible for the coaches and the chairs which brought the Count's guests to come directly up to the front steps.

  A serving man carrying a lighted flambeau escorted the Vorders to the door and admitted them into the lower hall. Another led them up a curving onyx staircase and into the vast glittering ball-room.

  The two girls looked around them curiously, for Elsie, at sixteen, had been out less than a year, and this was their first time inside a ballroom. It was a magnificent chamber, if somewhat oppressive.

  The south and the east walls were all windows and gilded stucco; the other two walls had been covered with mirrors. The dance floor and the massive pillars supporting the roof were black marble veined with gold, polished to a glassy brightness. Crystal chandeliers suspended from the frescoed ceiling looked so huge and so heavy, it seemed they must shortly come crashing down by their very weight.

  "It is all so beautiful," Mistress Vorder told their hostess. "I have always admired your exquisite taste, Countess."

  "I have never seen anything like it,"
breathed Elsie. But when nobody else could hear her, she whispered in Sera's ear: "I think that it frightens me just a little."

  "I'll not leave you alone for a single instant," said Sera. "That is . . . not until somebody asks you to dance."

  But someone was already moving their way, and that somebody (unfortunately) was Jarl Skogsrå, impressively garbed in black velvet and snowy white lace, and a red satin sash laden with foreign orders. He had powdered his hair in honor of the occasion, and he wore an enormous ruby ring on his left hand. "Fairest of charmers, I am entirely at your service—and yours as well, my dear Miss Vorder. But pray assure me, my Elsie, that you have not promised the first minuet to anyone but me."

  Elsie colored prettily and offered him her hand, which he kissed and retained in that clinging way that Sera always found so particularly repulsive. Elsie, however, did not seem to mind. "But of course I reserved the first dance for you, Haakon—that is, Lord Skogsrå."

  The musicians were now striking up. Turning to look at them, Sera experienced a jolt of surprise—the players were all powered by clockwork; there was not one real man among them. Seated on a revolving platform, they all sawed away at their various viols, fiddles, and cellos, their short jerky movements quite at odds with the music. It took Sera another moment to realize they were only going through the motions; the tinkling tune issued from the gilded platform, which was really a gigantic musicbox.

  Sera frowned, thinking the entire effect ludicrous. She would have much preferred live musicians.

  "If you will only try to look as though you were having a good time, and not as though you contemplated murder, I feel certain that someone will ask you to dance. See, there is Mr. Hakluyt and his friend Lord Krogan, and both of them are looking at you," Elsie whispered in Sera's ear, just before Skogsrå led her away.