Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(83)

Faraz calmly welcomed Skandar back to its usual shoulder perch while everyone else stared openmouthed at the dead wolf-monster.

Leo picked himself up off the ground and straightened his waistcoat, but his attention was on Faraz. “You told me that thing was harmless!”

Faraz regarded him mildly. “Because you have never lied about something important before.”

“But … but it can electrocute things,” he sputtered. “To death. And you carry it around on your shoulder.”

“Well, Skandar wouldn’t do that to a person. At least not unless I told it to, and probably not even then.”

Porzia gave him a scathing look. “You don’t know whether your tentacle monster would kill a human?”

“It’s not as if I’ve had an opportunity to test the theory.”

“Personally,” said Elsa, “I think Skandar did a lovely job of vanquishing our foe. Thank you, darling.” She reached out with her free hand to scratch the hollow under its wing, and Skandar’s eyelid drooped with contentment at her touch.

Leo crouched beside the felled beast and tentatively tapped the pommel of his rapier to check that it wasn’t too hot to touch. He must have found it acceptable, because he took hold and yanked it loose from the beast’s throat. The rapier made an unpleasant wet noise as he pulled it free, and it came out dripping viscous yellowish fluid. Leo took a rag from his pocket and scrubbed the blade clean before returning it to its sheath.

Elsa decocked the revolver and holstered it. “So what now?” she said.

Porzia, hands on hips, walked a slow circle around the clearing. “I don’t understand. The important things are always supposed to be located at the center of the labyrinth. Everyone knows that!”

Faraz stroked Skandar’s wing, only half paying attention to Porzia’s ongoing inspection of their surroundings. “Perhaps Montaigne needs to read up on his Minoan mythology.”

“Very helpful, thank you,” Porzia snapped.

Elsa started walking the perimeter, running one hand lightly over the curved wall that bounded the courtyard. There must be something they were missing—a secret passage, a hidden compartment. He was a man of ample ego—he would place the important object in the center of everything else.

Porzia stood in the middle of the courtyard, examining how the paving stones had been set in a spiral pattern. “Look at this,” she insisted. “There should be something right here!”

Elsa’s fingertips ran across a washboard of indentations in the stone, and she stopped to examine it more closely. An inscription.

“There’s something carved into the wall here.” She brushed the dust from the stones. “It looks like … French. ‘Si c’est ici le meilleur des mondes possibles, que sont donc les autres?’” If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others?

Porzia came over to see. “That’s strange. It’s a quote from Voltaire.”

At the word Voltaire, the carved stone made a grinding noise and shifted, sliding backward ever so slightly relative to the rest of the wall.

Porzia and Elsa exchanged a look. Then Elsa leaned close to the stone and clearly enunciated, “Voltaire.”

The stone slid farther away, as if it were a button pressed by an invisible hand, and when it stopped there was an audible clank from inside the wall. It was a test, Elsa realized—a kind of locking mechanism where the name was the key. But the unlocking process was not yet complete.

“Find the quotes,” Porzia said, turning to the boys. “Find the quotes!”

They spread out around the periphery of the courtyard, scouring the walls for more inscriptions. The stones had a weather-worn feel to them, caked with dirt in some places and hidden behind ivy in others.

“Found one,” said Faraz. “‘Un sot savant est sot plus qu’un sot ignorant.’”

“Molière!” Porzia called from across the courtyard. Faraz repeated the name into the stone, which slid into place and clanked audibly, just like the first one.

Elsa’s fingertips detected a pattern on the stone, and she pulled the vines aside to get a clear look at the carving.

Frowning, she read, “‘Le grand architecte de l’univers l’a construite on bons matériaux.’”

“Ooh! I know that one,” Leo said. He jogged over and announced to the stone, “Jules Verne!”

The stone slid inward. Everyone looked at Leo.

“What? I read,” he said defensively. “What’s with all the French literature, anyway?”

Quietly, Elsa said, “It’s meant to keep out Veldanese. My mother would borrow books from Alek sometimes, but it’s not as if we have a library in Veldana. So I don’t recognize the quotes.”

“Oh,” he said.

Typical Montaigne—making a show of his superiority as a real person and as a Frenchman. Elsa knew she shouldn’t let it bother her, but the slight stung. She shook off the insult and said brightly, “Smart of him. It might have worked, if I’d come alone.”

Leo grinned. “Good thing you didn’t, then.”

In all, they found eight quote-puzzles. Porzia solved most of them, with occasional help from Leo and Faraz. Elsa tried not to despair at her own uselessness. With all her talents for creation, she could not make herself recognize words she’d never read.