by Kyle Shultz
“Thanks.” I slipped them off and handed them to him.
“Clarkson,” he said to a nearby waiter, “direct this gentleman to Lord Whitlock’s table.” He carried the hat and coat away, holding them at arms-length as if afraid they might suddenly come to life and order an appetizer.
The waiter led me through the maze of tables. The light from ornate crystal chandeliers glinted off the fine china and sparkling champagne all around me, dazzling my eyes. The walls were decorated with elaborate murals, illustrating various stories that involved spinning wheels – mainly Sleeping Beauty and Rumpelstiltskin. In the orchestra pit, a string quartet played a frosty aria from some opera or other. The music was barely audible over the constant murmur of conversation from expensively-dressed patrons. As I followed the waiter through the crowd, however, the talk grew quieter. People turned and fixed me with suspicious glares. I found myself brushing a speck of lint from my vest.
The waiter stopped by a table near the edge of the gathering. “Mr. Beasley,” he announced to a man I took to be Lord Whitlock. He and the young woman sitting next to him were both halfway finished with a repast of steak and shrimp.
I had caught a glimpse of Lord Whitlock’s face in the papers once or twice. It was hard not to, given his infamy in Talesend. He’d been accused of all manner of criminal enterprises - some of which I had investigated personally - but there had never been sufficient evidence to put him behind bars. The ordinary people of Talesend chuckled at his name, entertained by his bravado. The criminal classes, however, spoke of him in a whisper. Even though he kept his hands clean so far as the law was concerned, everyone knew he was the true ruler of the Talesend underworld. He was a large, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with steel-grey hair and a square-jawed face. His smile was disarming, and gave him the air of a much younger man, but something cold and ruthless glittered behind his eyes. This was a man who would not hesitate to destroy anyone who stood in his way.
Lady Cordelia, on the other hand, did not strike me as threatening. She was petite in build, and wore a light green evening gown. She looked to be about Crispin’s age; twenty-three or twenty-four. Her curly blonde hair was cut in a bobbed style, and her eyes, like her father’s, were a striking shade of blue. There was nothing cold or calculating in them, however; merely a flicker of mischief. She was stunning, but fortunately, as a hardened and experienced detective, I was impervious to this.
More or less.
All right, not at all. But I’m fairly certain she didn’t notice. I managed to force my attention off the alluring scent of her perfume and back to her father, reminding myself that Lady Cordelia was just a typical daughter of wealth - dressy, pampered, and uninteresting.
At least, that’s what I thought until she picked up a buttered roll and flung it at a nearby woman’s hat.
The missile struck its target, knocking the hat to the floor. Admittedly, the headpiece was an unpleasant affair; a tower of feathers dyed a bright fuschia. The hat’s owner squeaked in astonishment, then turned and directed a withering look at Cordelia.
Lord Whitlock gave his daughter a reproachful look. “Cordelia,” he said, with fatherly disapproval.
“Sorry,” she said, turning to me. “I couldn’t stand to look at that thing anymore. It seemed like the poor woman was being attacked by a big purple chicken.”
I was unsure how to respond to this. In the end, I settled for “Oh.”
Lord Whitlock shook his head. “How do you do, Mr. Beasley?” he asked, standing up and enveloping my hand in his own meaty paw. He gave it a bone-rattling shake. “Jackson Beaumont, Earl of Whitlock. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I didn’t return the compliment. There was nothing to be gained by pretense. I didn’t like him, and underneath all that bluster, he probably didn’t like me.
“How do you do,” I said. “I - oi!”
Quick as a flash, Cordelia had darted around the table, and was now prodding me in the ribs. I recoiled from her in surprise. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
Lord Whitlock rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to check him for weapons, dear.”
“You can never be too careful,” Cordelia argued, returning to her seat. “I’m his bodyguard,” she explained to me.
“Self-appointed bodyguard,” added Whitlock. “I’m quite capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.” He motioned to a chair across from him. “My apologies, Mr. Beasley. Won’t you sit down?”
Still somewhat flustered, I sank into the chair, nearly upsetting a glass of water in the process. It’s usually quite difficult to rattle me. But I didn’t often meet anyone as unpredictable as Cordelia.
I cleared my throat. “So…you wanted to see me.”
“Yes,” said Lord Whitlock with a grin, his loud voice drowning out the music in the background. “And here you are. Well done. You hungry?”
“We started without you,” Cordelia explained, spearing a large piece of steak with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “You were late.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” I said with austerity, trying to regain the upper hand in this conversation. “Besides, given the way the staff looks at me, I’m not entirely sure they wouldn’t poison my soup.”
“Oh, don’t mind them,” Cordelia urged, speaking with her mouth full. “They’re just very loyal to Father. They don’t like people who go about the place claiming that he doesn’t really possess terrifying magical powers.”
I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair. “Well, that’s too bad,” I said, fixing Lord Whitlock with a glare. “Because I don’t plan to stop doing it any time soon.”
“Now, now, there’s no need for unpleasantness,” said Whitlock, his oily smile never wavering. “We’re all friends here. For tonight, at least.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t make friends with people who mislead other people into believing in magic.”
Cordelia looked at me with interest. “How can you be so sure that they’re being misled?”
“And if they are,” added Lord Whitlock, “what harm will it do?”
I toyed with a napkin, blocking out a surge of unpleasant memories. “Actually, I’ve seen it do plenty of harm in my time.”
“Interesting,” said Whitlock. “I do hope that won’t be an obstacle to our professional relationship.”
“We don’t have a professional relationship.”
“Not yet,” he countered. “I’m in need of your services, Mr. Whitlock, and I’m prepared to pay a great deal of money for them. Are you interested?”
I opened my mouth to say “no”…but the mention of a great deal of money made me hesitate.
Whitlock apparently took this as a cue to press on. He gave Cordelia a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Show him,” he urged.
Cordelia nodded, then reached down and retrieved a satchel from under the table. It was bulky and battered; hardly the sort of handbag I would have expected to see her carrying. She set it down in front of her with a heavy thud, rattling the silverware. After rummaging around inside it for a bit, she resurfaced with a long cardboard tube. “Here,” she said, handing it to me.
I examined the object quizzically. “What’s in here, a painting?”
“No,” she said, shoving the satchel back under the table. “It’s a map, of sorts. Take a look.”
I carefully removed the yellowed parchment and unrolled it, pushing aside plates and utensils to clear space for it on the table. It was more of a floor plan than a map, showing diagrams of the different levels of a large building. “Le Château de Villeneuve” was written in bold, ornate lettering in the bottom left corner.
“You speak Contefais, I presume?” said Whitlock.
“Of course,” I said. “‘The Palace of Villeneuve.’ I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it’s a remarkable place.” I pulled my spectacles out of my pocket, slipped them on, and peered closer at the other notations on the map. “Not all this text is Contefais, though.” T
he map was scattered with lines of unusual symbols, shaped like circles with various patterns drawn inside of them.
“Correct,” said Whitlock, “which is why you’re here. I understand you’re an expert in obscure ancient languages.”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Do you recognize this one? Because none of the experts I usually employ could translate it.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “It’s Soloveyan.”
“Pardon?”
“More commonly known as the ‘language of the birds,’” I explained. “According to legend, it’s what everyone spoke in pre-historic times. They say it was preserved by the Fae, who used it to hide their secrets.”
“So it’s a fairy language,” said Cordelia.
“Or, more probably, a language belonging to a lost civilization of ordinary humans.”
“The point is,” Whitlock interjected, “can you translate it?”
“I think so,” I said, nodding. It was used heavily by the Cult of Rumpelstiltskin.”
Cordelia blinked. “The who?”
“Don’t ask. The point is, their founder got his hands on some old texts that helped him translate Soloveyan, and I practically memorized all his findings when I was working to expose him. So yes, I can figure out what these notations mean.” I tapped on one of the strange inscriptions and looked up at Lord Whitlock. “Now, the question is, why do you want to know what they mean?”
Whitlock drummed his fingers on the table, as if mulling over what to say next. “I believe that this map leads to the Clawthorn Rose.”
I whistled. “Well now, that’s interesting.”
“To be more specific,” said Cordelia, “those weird notations reveal a path through the various secret passageways and booby traps one has to navigate to find the Rose.”
“I take it you’ve heard of the artifact in question?” Whitlock inquired.
I nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“What do you know about it?”
“As much as anybody else – which is to say, nothing. People have been talking about the Rose for centuries, but nobody even knows for sure what it is. Most scholars think it’s either a priceless jewel or a painting by one of the old masters.”
“Or a source of unimaginable power,” said Cordelia, “used by an evil fairy to transform the Beast Prince.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you actually believe that?”
The corners of her mouth twitched into a smile, just for a split second. “No comment.”
“The point,” said Lord Whitlock, “is that I’d like you to help me get my hands on the Rose - whatever it may be.”
“So you want to hire me to translate the map for you?”
“More than that.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I want you to come to the Palace of Villeneuve with me and my daughter and help us find the Rose.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Do we look like we’re joking?” asked Cordelia.
I motioned to her father. “He doesn’t. With you, it’s really hard to tell either way.”
“It’s not a joke,” Whitlock assured me. “Will you do it?”
I bit my lip as I considered the proposition. “It’s not the sort of thing I’m usually asked to do. My skillset is a little more…urban. I don’t generally go poking about in old castles.”
“Oh, come on,” said Cordelia, kicking me playfully under the table. “It’ll be fun! And quite lucrative for you, as well.”
“There is also,” I continued sternly, “the question of just what, exactly, you want to do with the Rose.”
“Well, what do you care about that?” Whitlock scoffed. “After all, you don’t believe it’s really got any magical properties, do you?”
“No, but I know a lot of other people do believe it’s magical.” I gave him a defiant look. “And I imagine you’ll find a way to exploit that.”
“What’s the worst he can do?” Cordelia pointed out. “Like you said, it’s probably just a jewel or a painting or something.”
I sighed, thinking hard about every possible way this plan could come back to bite me. Numerous ways suggested themselves. “Here’s another question,” I said. “Won’t the government of Contefay have something to say about us plundering their historical sites?”
Whitlock smiled. “Not to me, they won’t. Ever since the downfall of the Crimson Sisterhood, the House of Whitlock has had control of the artifact trade in Contefay as well as Camelot. We decide what happens to their relics.”
“I see.” I was tempted to ask what had caused the downfall of the Crimson Sisterhood, whoever they were, but decided against it.
“I’m going to need your answer soon,” said Whitlock. “And by ‘soon’, I actually mean ‘now’.”
“Roughly how much money are we talking about?” I asked, half-hoping he would name a low figure and give me a decent excuse to say no.
He didn’t.
“Fine,” I said, giving in. “I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful!” Whitlock exclaimed, smiling broadly.
Cordelia shoved the map toward me. “Take that home and figure it out. Then be at Featherstone Airfield the day after tomorrow. Bright and early.”
I swallowed hard. “Airfield?”
“Yes. We’re taking Father’s private zeppelin.”
“Oh.”
“Not fond of air travel?” Whitlock inquired.
“Not really, no.”
“A pity,” said Cordelia. “Be there at seven sharp.”
When I returned that night to our little flat on Greatfall Street, I found Crispin sitting dejectedly at the dining room table, resting his chin on folded arms and staring into the beady eyes of Reginald the Toad.
I laid the cardboard tube containing the map down on the table. “I thought you were going out tonight,” I said, giving him a puzzled frown. “With that blonde girl, what was her name…” I snapped my fingers, trying to remember.
“Sally,” said Crispin, sounding as if it pained him to talk about her. “We finished our dinner early.”
“I see.”
“Tell me, Nick—”
I groaned. “Please don’t start asking me for advice again.”
“—when a woman asks you what you think of her new hairdo, and tells you to be honest, should you be honest?”
“No,” I replied, without hesitation. “Never.”
“Well, I got it wrong, then.” He sat up and stretched. “She called me a thoughtless twit.”
“A bit harsh,” I remarked, heading for the kitchen cupboards to get the fixings for a midnight snack.
“I did say she looked like a cocker spaniel.”
“Not so harsh, then.”
“I only meant her hair. Not her face or anything like that. You know how a cocker spaniel’s ears—”
“I get the point,” I said wearily, pouring some cereal into a bowl.
“How did your date go?”
“It wasn’t a date. It was a business meeting with the daughter of a ruthless criminal.”
He seemed to notice the cardboard tube for the first time. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up.
“Don’t open that,” I warned.
He opened it and pulled out the map. “This looks intriguing,” he said, spreading it out on the table. Reginald hopped closer, as if interested.
“Put it back.”
“Where did you get this from?”
“Lady Beaumont gave it to me.”
“Lady Cordelia.”
“Whatever. She and Lord Whatshisname want me to find a valuable artifact in the Palace of Villeneuve.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I certainly hope it won’t be. If I pull it off, however, her father will pay me enough to support us in the manner to which we have become accustomed.” I doused the cereal with milk and brought the bowl to the table. “As in food, clothing, et cetera. And a lot more besides.”
“Was she nice?”
He punched me on the arm. “Lady Cordelia, of course. Who else?”
I crunched my cereal, pondering how to answer this question. “She was…unique. Beautiful, vivacious - and I think possibly a bit insane.”
Crispin seemed unconcerned. “It wouldn’t be the first time you dated a girl of questionable sanity. Remember that one you went out with who thought she was the reincarnation of Snow White?”
“All right, first of all, I only went out with that girl because I was doing an undercover investigation, and second, I’m not dating Lady Beaumont.”
“No, you’re just going to fly off to Contefay and roam through a castle with her for hours. Tell me that’s not romantic.” He leaned back in his chair and swung his feet up onto the table.
“It’s not,” I insisted, grabbing his ankles and tossing them back to the floor. “Her father will be joining us.”
He made a face. “That’s a shame. When are you leaving?”
“Day after—” I glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. A quarter after twelve. “Actually, it’ll be tomorrow morning.”
“Can I come?”
“Certainly not. You need to hold down the fort at the office for me.”
“But we’re not getting any clients right now,” he complained. “And even if we did, you never let me investigate cases for you. Not since that time I accidentally insulted the Prime Minister.”
I shuddered at the memory. “Just take down names and numbers. If anyone calls or drops in, I’ll deal with them when I get back.”
“What if you never come back?”
“It’s just an old castle, Crispin. What’s the worst that can - whoops. That was a close one. Almost jinxed myself.”
“For somebody who doesn’t believe in magic,” Crispin remarked dryly, “you’re very superstitious.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Perilous Palace
“It looks like a gigantic, sinister wedding cake.” Cordelia gazed up at the Palace of Villeneuve, her eyes following its tall spires as they stabbed into the gray sky.