“Oh, don’t you worry; I’ll send her a mouse.” Rosamund eyed him critically. “You look about done in, my lord. Sit down, and have a restorative draught before you go.”
The restorative draught would be mead—it was always mead, whatever ailed a man—but Antony did not object. “Thank you,” he said. He would take his rest where and when he could find it.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: October 31, 1648
The group that gathered in the antechamber was not a merry one. It rarely was, even in happier times; All Hallows’ Eve did not evoke laughter or the casual flirtation that occupied many fae. But this year of all years it was grim, for London was filled with godly zeal, and the traditional protections seemed to be failing.
Which made it all the more vital to go out. The old practices of the night had largely died at the Reformation, but faerie-kind kept their own ceremonies. Those souls who lingered after death, rather than fleeing to Heaven or Hell, occupied a realm not far removed from that of the fae, and on this night each year the two worlds touched. Forgoing the rituals of the night would only encourage fear.
Thirteen stood in the chamber, ranging in rank from Lune and her knight-protectors of the Onyx Guard down to a trio of tough-minded goblins—a mara, a hobyah, and a fetch. They showed no apprehension, and grinned at those who did. Goblins were far from the most elegant of fae, and so were often scorned at court, but at least Lune was sure of their loyalty.
As she was sure of the disloyalty of others.
She felt a shiver in her bones as the churches of the City above rang out the midnight hour, the peals of their bells washing harmlessly over the charms that kept the palace safe. At one end of the chamber loomed the dark archway that would take them to a courtyard off Fish Street. Some of her more timid courtiers cast frightened glances in its direction.
Serenely, as if she had no fears in all the world, Lune said, “Come, Sir Leslic. The bells have rung.”
The golden-haired knight bowed and took up a coffer of faceted amethyst. Kneeling, he presented it to Lune, lifting the lid to reveal the carefully portioned pieces of bread within.
The bells had faded; all was silent, inside and out. Lune reached forth and took a piece. But she did not lift it to her lips; instead she looked at it curiously, then transferred her attention to the still-kneeling knight. “Tell me, Sir Leslic,” she said. “Is the plan merely for us to suffer the consequences of walking unmasked in the mortal realm—or do you plot something more? Do Puritan preachers wait above, to strike our souls to dust?” Her voice hardened and rang out from the chamber’s barrel-vaulted ceiling. “For what purpose do you offer us untithed bread?”
He almost dropped the coffer. Leslic’s head came up with a jerk, and for the barest of instants she saw his eyes unguarded. There lived the truth she had guessed at all this time, and her stomach tightened with sudden terror. If he acted upon it—
But Leslic was nothing if not a practiced dissembler. “Untithed bread, your Majesty? What—” Now the coffer did go down, cracking hard against the stone as he surged to his feet. One hand gripped his sword, but he kept his head well enough not to draw in her presence—not without better cause than he had. “Guards! Someone has attempted to deceive the Queen’s Grace!”
Lune stopped the knights with a sharp flick of her hand. “You speak it well,” she said, “and we might even believe you—had we not proof. You are the author of this deceit, Leslic. We have evidence in abundance. And, not content with the fears you have spread among our subjects, now you strike at our very heart.”
A snap of her fingers, and the goblins were there. The mara had the belt from around Leslic’s waist before he even knew it, his still-sheathed sword clutched in her bony fingers, and the fetch grinned maliciously into his eyes. It was only a death omen for mortals, but even a fae might shudder to see such a smile.
They had their orders from her the day before. Lune brought the goblins because her guard could not be trusted; she could not risk them hesitating in their arrest. Even now the knights hovered in confusion, on the balls of their feet, wanting to move but not knowing to what end. Leslic drew himself up nobly. “Majesty,” he swore, “I had no intention of giving you untithed bread.”
Which was true, as his earlier protest had not been. Leslic might seed the court with ordinary bread, never offered as a gift to the fae, but he was not foolish enough to give it to the Queen. Some of his followers, on the other hand, needed little to encourage them in their folly. Lune refused to contrive a false incident for Leslic’s downfall, however richly he deserved it; but she could and would tangle him in the fringes of his own schemes. And she needed this, an open offense, something appalling enough that her people would repudiate Leslic of their own accord, robbing him and all his faction of the influence they enjoyed.
“If you wish it,” she said, exquisite in her courtesy, “you may defend yourself in wager of battle. If you are guiltless of changing tithed bread for untithed so as to spread fear and dissension, then by all means, sir—prove it with your blade.”
A flush crept upward from his collar. That was an accusation he could not defeat; just as Cerenel’s negligence had ensured his loss in the duel of honor, so Leslic’s guilt would damn him if he fought for his innocence. They were not mortals, to rise or fall by their skill with a blade.
She broke her gaze from his at last to survey the antechamber. Her knights, courtiers, and ladies were all suitably shocked—even those who had spoken fair to Leslic in the past. “He stands silent,” she said, as if it needed pointing out. “And we have abundant evidence of his guilt. His…and others’.”
Rooting out the Ascendants in their entirety would cripple her court, but she didn’t need to. The four chief malignants would suffice; without them, the rest would crumble back into line. Even now, the other three should be in the custody of her loyalists.
Gesturing at the goblins who still held Leslic, she said, “Take him to the Tower. We shall question him there about the masters he serves—once we have fulfilled our duties tonight.” At another snap of her fingers, a spriggan came out of the shadows, bearing safe bread. “Come. All Hallows’ Eve awaits us.”
THE ROYAL EXCHANGE, LONDON: November 7, 1648
“You’re sending me away?”
The courtyard of the Royal Exchange was a poor place for a private conversation, but Benjamin Hipley had sought Antony out there, and did not look minded to hold his peace. Glancing around, Antony pulled him into the corner of the arcade, where a stretch of the bench that ringed it sat empty. “You speak as though you are the first to be asked to serve the Onyx Court elsewhere.”
Ben’s native discretion did not fail him; he kept his voice low, though intense. “It’s not a matter of leaving London. I cannot leave you. Not at such a time.”
The damp chill of the air stifled business, leaving the courtyard only half-full of its usual gentry. The flowerlike array of colors that once prevailed had given way to the sad hues favored by the godly; though the fabrics were still rich, a dull green was the brightest thing in sight. For all the fae reflected the tastes of the world above, sometimes they did so by inversion. Court nowadays was enough to make a man’s eyes bleed.
Antony gestured at his own staid murrey doublet. “I am a respectable baronet, an alderman, and a member of Parliament. By the skin of my teeth, but it suffices. I will be safe.”