The Queen's Necklace (24 page)

It seemed that all the world was determined to see and be seen at Doctor Van Tulp's—or at least all of the world that was idle and fashionable. When Luke and Lord Polyphant arrived, the long galleries were already crowded with the very cream of Luden Society, who had come to promenade the marble halls of the great institution, to gossip, flirt, eat nuts and gingerbread, and to ogle the poor lunatics.

Never in all his life had Luke seen such a gathering of oddly dressed people—such gowns, such swallow-tailed coats, such out-sized hoops, headdresses, jewels, and time-pieces—or the use of so much false hair and powder. Never before had he beheld such a mob of shabby peddlers and hawkers, selling everything from the aforementioned gingerbread to gloves and silver snuffboxes—or observed such an utter lack of decorum in their supposed betters. He had not been in the place a quarter of an hour when he began to experience the disorienting impression that it was going to be absolutely impossible to distinguish the visitors from the inmates. A lanky gentleman in purple hair, and garments so curiously shrunken that his abbreviated vest and trousers actually failed to meet at his middle, turned out to be Lord Catts, the Minister of Trade. And a dignified old lady, in a grey silk gown and a high lace headdress, was identified in a pointed whisper as the Dowager Duchess of Flay, well past ninety and a long-time resident.

For himself, Lucius saw nothing in her style or behavior to indicate derangement—unless it might be an insistent attempt to sell him a card of pins. But much might be forgiven a nonagenarian. Far more embarrassing, to his way of thinking, were the dress and the antics of the visiting dandies and exquisites parading through the halls—in whose company, the violet-tinted hair and bright, ill-fitting garments of Lord Catts hardly appeared extravagant.

Luke's sneer of distaste became more pronounced as he and Lords Polyphant and Catts moved from gallery to corridor. If there was nothing on earth to match the common sense and sober industry of the ordinary Rijxlander, Luke was beginning to suspect that the more exalted classes came of another species entirely. As he observed the wild behavior of several young ladies in diaphanous gowns playing a noisy game of
catch-me-quick
between the marble pillars and miniature palm trees that lined the central corridor—as he listened to the inane shrieks of laughter issuing from a painted
youth in striped stockings and a truly monstrous wig—as he watched the ambassador tottering about on the absurd eight-inch red heels of his fashionable shoes, or pulling out and consulting a pocket-watch the size of an onion—Luke began to wonder if something of King Izaiah's madness had not spread throughout the upper ranks of Luden Society.

While his two companions occupied themselves with a long and not entirely comprehensible conversation on an upcoming trade agreement, Lucius slipped off by himself. Soon, he was utterly absorbed in the bizarre workings of the great institution.

In one room, a pale young woman had been strapped to a chair, and a pair of grim-looking females were applying magnets to her bare feet. In another, a troop of old men in yellow linen nightshirts were alternately ducked in tubs of steaming hot and what
must
have been frigidly cold water, as Luke could see blocks of ice from the canals floating in every other tub. In a third room, he paused to watch while two young men, scarecrow thin, were attached to a vast and intricate contraption—a convoluted mass of copper pipes, glass vessels, and rapidly inflating and deflating leather bladders—which seemed to be pumping, by way of thin glass tubes, some sort of thick red fluid directly into their veins.

“Lamb's blood,” said a soft voice behind him. Luke turned to see a silver-haired gentleman in a bottle-green coat regarding him with a gentle smile. “A revolutionary new treatment. The blood of animals—in this case, sheep—being uncorrupted by the vices, the passions, and the inordinate appetites of Men and Goblins, is believed to impart a soothing and altogether beneficial influence.”

Luke's dark eyebrows twitched together. “Does this really work?”

“Indeed yes,” said the old gentleman, his smile broadening. “As you may see for yourself by the peaceful expressions of these unfortunate
men—who not very long ago showed all of the symptoms of Frenzy.”

Luke continued to regard him doubtfully. “But afterwards, when they are removed from the apparatus?”

The old man stopped to pat one of the emaciated patients on a bony shoulder before answering Luke's question. “Those who do not die in the course of the treatment are usually cured by it.” Seeing how Lucius frowned, he continued on: “But perhaps you consider the risk unacceptable? Yet you are a healthy young man. I wonder what you would think if you suffered from a malady which seized your limbs as in an iron vise and caused them to twitch uncontrollably; which caused you to screech and howl and pour forth obscenities; which robbed you not only of reason, but honor, dignity, manhood—of everything, in short, that makes life worth living. Would you not, then, think almost any risk acceptable, if it accompanied the reasonable hope of a full and permanent cure?”

“Yes,” said Luke, his frown lifting. “Yes, I would.” And he made a deep bow to show how very much obliged he was for the explanation.

His new acquaintance responded with a dignified bow of his own. “You show a sincere interest in our work, sir. I find that refreshing. All too often—but you have undoubtedly seen the sort of visitor we usually attract here. Perhaps, as you
are
so interested, you will permit me to show you through the asylum, and to explain to you just a little bit more of what it is we do here?”

Luke accepted eagerly. He had already decided this intriguing old fellow
must
be one of the senior physicians, and that opinion was strengthened during the next memorable hour, as he strolled through the institution with the genial old gentleman, before whom all doors opened, and for whom the healing arts appeared to hold no mysteries.

“It was once thought that Hysteria, which afflicts the tender sex
by far the most frequently, was the result of a wandering uterus. This has since been proven the merest nonsense, and the disorder properly ascribed to a severe Ataxy and a consequent shattering of the animal spirits. As a result, we have finally discovered a rational treatment.”

“And that is?”

“Fresh air and exercise, preferably on horseback. And daily doses of
steel syrup
—that is, of iron filings steeped in wine. I wonder my dear young sir—” The old gentleman paused, as though struck by a sudden inspiration. “There are a number of interesting volumes in my chambers upstairs, my records of some difficult cases. Perhaps you would care to examine them?”

“I would like that very much. But it occurs to me, sir, I still don't know to whom I am indebted—?”

The old gentleman inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I thought that you knew. I am Titus Van Tulp, very much at your service.”

At this, Luke felt his first twinge of doubt. “The—son of the founder?” That would at least explain the distinguishing attention which had greeted them on all sides. “Or perhaps—the nephew or grandson?”

“Nothing of the sort. I
am
the founder.” The old gentleman made an expansive gesture. “All this has been my sole care and concern for considerably more than a hundred years.”

It was then and only then that Luke finally realized just how completely he had been taken in.

He hesitated, torn between dismay and delight. Dismay, because it was humiliating to reflect how truly gullible he had been, and delight, because he had apparently spent the hour just past in company with the man who had once possessed perhaps
the
most brilliant mind of the century: King Izaiah of Rijxland.

King Izaiah had been given rooms on the top floor, up three long flights of increasingly steep and uneven stairs, right under the roof. Despite a remote location, these were luxurious chambers, if very much cluttered: with books and pipes, a pair of embroidered velvet slippers, any number of maps and globes, and the rare museum of curios and artifacts he had been allowed to bring to the madhouse with him.

“A petrified oyster,” said the king, displaying for Luke's edification a very fine specimen. “And a phial of blood, said to have rained from the sky over the Isle of Finghyll.”

There was also a vast collection of strange worms and insects; a giant's tooth, somewhat decayed; two brains, one Human and one Goblin, preserved in a greenish fluid; some dried fishes; and a number of bones, one said to be the rib of a triton. Nor were man-made curiosities lacking. There was the tusk of a mammoth exquisitely carved, and a set of ivory chessmen, so miniscule they were all kept inside a hollow cherry stone. There were trays full of coins and ancient military insignia that made Luke's fingers itch to acquire them. And there was an exceedingly fine chain and a tiny lock of iron, steel, and brass—so very, very small that a flea might wear them. As indeed (the King said) a flea had, when they belonged to the proprietor of a travelling flea circus.

In the Mad King, Luke was delighted to discover a kindred spirit. Even in his present state of mental infirmity, there were few matters on which he could not discourse at length, fluently, and with an impressive degree of familiarity. In the course of a long life he had been a sort of intellectual magpie, gathering together not only his cabinet of curiosities but also such diverse glittering nuggets of information as came his way.

Yet there were lapses into pure fancy as well. As when, in the midst of showing Luke a particularly fine telescope, he spoke of great cities encased in opalescent bubbles of steel and glass, endlessly
circling the sun—first theorized and then discredited by ancient philosophers, though he claimed to have seen them himself on more than one occasion, with the help of a very strong lens.

And later on, explaining the disappearance of his emerald pocket-watch, he declared that no one else would be able to find it, as he had buried the watch fathoms deep in an iron chest under the sea, and set whales and narwhals to guard it.

“They want it very much, Marjote and the others, but I simply don't choose that they should have it.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “An excellent chronometer actually set inside a single enormous gemstone—far too valuable—and the truth is, I trust no one.”

He looked vaguely around the room, as though he had just missed something else, began alternately patting his waistcoat and the pockets in his coat.

“Is there something you want?” Luke asked politely.

“My spectacles,” said Izaiah, on a rising note of distress. “I
do
want them, but they have been missing so long, I doubt I will ever find them.” He lowered his voice again, adding with an angry look, “My doctors are always taking my things away, though they pretend otherwise.”

Luke shook his head doubtfully. “Infamous if true,” he heard himself saying, then wished he had held his tongue. There was no purpose to be served by distressing the old man, or contributing to an already lively sense of persecution.

Just then, the king gave a crow of delight and pointed at something behind Luke's back. Turning, Luke saw that a very pretty young girl had just entered the room. Apparently just in from a walk or a carriage ride, she wore an immense black velvet hat and carried with her a muff made of silky white fur.

As she stepped past the threshold, his first impressions were all of light, motion, and color: a little firefly of a girl in a gown of spangled
blue satin, a riot of dark curls under the big feathered hat, a brilliant complexion, eyes of an indigo blue so dark and intense he had never seen anything like them before.

“Allow me to present,” said the king, with a glowing look, “my eldest grandchild: the Grand Exalted Hereditary Duchess, recently come to earth from her palace on the moon, on the back of that fabulous bird, the Roc.”

Who this enchanting creature could actually be, Luke did not know. The eldest offspring of the Princess Marjote was a boy of twelve or thirteen, the three princesses several years younger—and naturally, he did not believe any farrago of nonsense about lunar palaces or interplanetary travel.

But when the “Grand Exalted Hereditary Duchess” crossed the room, with a swaying of hoops and a sweep of her starry skirts, when she offered a tiny gloved hand in a
truly
regal gesture, he could not resist playing along. He responded with a bow and a flourish as he raised her hand to his lips.

“Sir,” she said, “it is my pleasure.”

“Madam,” he replied in all sincerity, “it is entirely my own. I am her Grand Exalted Hereditary Grace's ever grateful and devoted perpetual servant.”

She was as fashionably attired as anyone he had seen that day, but what had seemed like a bizarre extravagance in Lord Catts and Lord Polyphant, a vulgar singularity in the romping damsels and their dandified escorts, had been here refined to a charming originality, a delicate ingenuity. Certainly, nothing could be more dainty or tasteful than her perfumed gloves, or the pale blue flowers painted on the heels of her red leather shoes, or the little crimson heart-shaped beauty patch she wore high on one cheek.

And now that he saw her so close, Luke realized that he had at first mistaken her age, perhaps deceived by her tiny stature. He revised his estimate upward: say fifteen or sixteen at the very most.
Still much too young to interest a hardened bachelor of seven-and-twenty. Yet when she lowered those dark lashes against that flawless skin, for some reason his pulse gave a sudden unexpected bound.

“Now that she is here,” said the king, observing their exchange of civilities with a benevolent smile, “I believe it is time that we all drank tea.”

Though Luke had already shared tea and cakes with Lord Polyphant earlier, he was not about to decline this interesting invitation. He accepted at once, and they each found seats around an octagonal table. While the king pulled up one of the deep armchairs, Luke disposed himself on a dusty loveseat. As for the lady, she seated herself on a high stool in order to accommodate her spreading hoops, removed her gloves, unpinned her picturesque hat, and shook out her dusky curls.