City of Dark Magic by Magnus Flyte Page A

electric zing, but chalked it up to the polyester content of the gloves, hot weather, and static electricity. That’s what her father would have said. She put the glove back on.
    Sarah sighed and stretched. Hours had a way of slipping by when she was working like this. Bending down, her eye was caught by a Post-it note that Sherbatsky must have stuck above the work table. In the stifling summer heat, it had come unstuck and fluttered down onto the orchestration for the bassoon. Sarah read the note: “Luigi—Prince L 12/31/06 Nelahozeves.” There were two asterisks below it. (Sherbatsky never gave grades, but if one turned in exceptional work, he would return it with an asterisk marked on top. Sarah was his only pupil ever to receive two asterisks.)
    Sarah flipped through the binder of xeroxed correspondence between Beethoven and Prince Lobkowicz that she had made for reference purposes. “The 7th,” as he was known among the scholars at the palace, had been scrupulous in keeping copies of all his correspondence. Actually, he sometimes didn’t open his correspondence and some of the letters to him had been read for the first time years after his death—but he didn’t throw anything out. Neither did his heirs. Even the Nazis had left the papers alone.
    There was a note from Luigi to the prince dated December 15, 1806, expressing regret that Luigi couldn’t make it to the Christmas ball. There was another on January 16 from the prince thanking Luigi for the gift of an Aztec amulet vial. Hmmm. No New Year’s Eve letter. She wondered how Sherbatsky knew about the December 31 letter if there was no copy of it, and no mention of it in the other correspondence. The gift of the Aztec amulet was interesting, too. Luigi wasn’t much of a gift-giver. He was pretty stingy.
    Deciding to do a little detective work, Sarah obediently locked the door of the workroom behind her (Prince Max had insisted on this measure) and headed down to Miles’s office. If they could find the Aztec amulet, it would make a nice part of the display.
    •   •   •
     
    “Y es, Huitzlipochtli,” said Miles, in response to her query about the amulet. “I’m told that’s the name of the figure depicted on it. We haven’t found him yet, but the Nazis took a picture of him.” Miles flipped through some files and produced a grainy black-and-white photo of a small ceramic vial with a bird god on it.
    “Beethoven used to call Prince Lobkowicz ‘Fitzliputzli’—his play on the name of the Aztec god Huitzlipochtli,” Sarah said.
    She studied the photo for a second, then laughed out loud.
    “Guess what Huitzlipochtli was famous for?”
    Miles smiled and crossed his arms, waiting.
    “The Aztecs believed he ate blood and hearts, so they made a human sacrifice in his honor every day.”
    “That’s supposed to be funny?”
    “To Beethoven it probably was. That was what he was teasing Prince Lobkowicz about, that he was expecting his pound of flesh. Beethoven sh.ace="had to tear his own heart out and put it down on paper in order to keep his patron happy. The vial is for his own blood.”
    “Conjecture,” Miles said.
    “Yeah,” Sarah said. “But I bet I’m right.”
    “Well, if we find the amulet, we could display it with the letter,” Miles said. “If you think it’s of interest.”
    Sarah felt a satisfying rush of power and, beyond that, a feeling of pride that she had deciphered Beethoven’s joke. Most people didn’t get Luigi’s sense of humor.
    Miles turned back to his computer. “Eleanor was looking for you. She’s going out to Nelahozeves tomorrow and wondered if you wanted to ride along.”
    “I do. There are a bunch of notes Sherbatsky left about things to look up there. Maybe I’ll go dig around. See what I can find.”
    Miles looked sharply at her. “Whatever you find, bring it straight to me.”
    “Of course.”
    Sarah was glad for the chance to go to Nelahozeves with Eleanor. Nearly all the originals of