The Magehound

Even so, Matteo proceeded with caution down the hall, his hands near the hilts of his daggers and his eyes keenly aware of the alcoves that lined the corridor. Such a device could easily lure a visitor into a sense of security. Three false dragons could leave one complacent and trusting, and thus easy prey for a fourth, real dragon. After all, the surest way to hide a tree was to plant a forest around it.

But Matteo got to the end of the long corridor without incident. He presented Procopio's card to the soldier at the door. The man examined it and then fixed a wry smile on the young jordain.

"I say, you're the least likely of the bunch. I could see at a glance why the rest of them got sent up here. Damned if I wouldn't have exiled them myself! What the nine hells did you do-bugger the lord mayor?"

Matteo sighed. "Figuratively speaking, I suppose you could say that. Procopio Septus, the lord mayor, is my patron. I became embroiled in dispute with the patron of Lady Xavierlyn."

The soldier raised one hand. "Say no more. We speak of those who would be king. Along with a dozen others, of course, but Procopio and Xavierlyn are the biggest roosters in the ring. Not that it's my place to talk of such things."

It certainly wasn't, but Matteo could almost understand the man's desire for conversation of any sort. He had seen no other soul since he'd left Zalathorm's court, and he didn't hear any evidence of human occupation behind the great door. A series of faint clicks and taps and whirs emanated from behind the thick wood, but no sound that could be considered remotely human.

"I have been instructed to present myself to the queen," Matteo said, determined to get on with things.

The seneschal shrugged and pulled a small silver rod from his sleeve. He touched this to the massive lock, which promptly began to fade. The door turned translucent as well, thinning and finally disappearing with a soft pop. A few paces behind it stood another door, which dissolved in much the same manner.

"Magical wards," the guard explained. "Keeps things from getting out. Can't be too careful, with the king just down the hall and all."

It seemed odd that the queen's guard should be concerned about protecting the king rather than tending his own charge. But Matteo nodded politely and waited until the third and final door swung open, this time on hinges of solid iron. He stepped inside, aware that the man was hastily barring the heavy door behind him.

The scene before him was like nothing he had ever seen or imagined. Long tables lined the room in precise rows. Here and there stood movable walls covered with large sheets of parchment. Upon them were written incomprehensible patterns of lines and runes. At second glance, Matteo recognized them as sketches for some new sort of clockwork device.

These were everywhere. A climbing vine, too vividly green to be a living thing, was studded with purple flowers that budded and bloomed and closed, over and over again. Several tiny birds darted among them, «feeding» upon the blossoms. The soft whir of their wings was faintly metallic, incredibly, these were not true hummingbirds but flying toys. A metallic tiger, its markings a lifelike pattern rendered in gold and onyx, prowled about the queen's throne, keeping guard over its mistress.

Queen Beatrix was not at her throne. She stood quietly to one side, studying one of the drawings. So still was she that for a moment, Matteo mistook her for one of her own clockwork devices. When she turned and regarded him with cold brown eyes, he wasn't entirely certain that he had been wrong.

Once she might have been a beautiful woman. Her form was small and slim, and her still features were finely molded and without blemish. But her face was utterly white, painted to resemble fine porcelain. Her mouth was a prim crimson curve and her eyes deeply framed with skillfully applied kohl. She wore a wig of mingled white and silver, elaborately curled and studded with pearls and electrum netting. Her white gown was stiff, formal, and encrusted with silver embroidery. The effect was beautiful, but cold and not quite human. Matteo wouldn't have sworn whether she was woman, goddess, machine, or some combination of all three.

"You may come forward," she said in a flat but unmistakably human voice.

Matteo dipped into a bow and gave his name and that of his patron. "Lord Procopio sends his respects."

"And has the wit not to deliver them himself," Beatrix said, without inflection of anger or humor. She turned away and gestured toward the drawing. "So, jordain. If you would be my counselor, come and tell me what you see."

He came over and studied the complex pattern of sweeping lines and curves. "In form, it looks a bit like an elephant, Your Majesty."

"Will it move? Walk? Attack?"

"I am no artificer, but I think not." He pointed to a series of connected gears. "These do not seem of sufficient size to provide much power."