The Royal Complex stood at the center of the city of Mab, its violet hangings and golden tassels setting it apart from the rest of the inner court. Gossamer banners of blue and yellow fluttered in the breeze, hung from struts high above the wooden floor of the court. Hy Pezho's boots made a gratifying sound on the wide floor; the rest of the courtyard was silent save for the quiet titters of the robed ladies-in-waiting who clustered in groups of three and four around the potted palms and the stone fountains. A pair of the Queen's Guard stood at the entrance to the Royal Complex, allowing him access based on his sigil of rank.
Inside the complex, Hy Pezho climbed a wide stair, passing more of the youthful ladies of the Queen's cortege. He stopped to admire them. "Very soon, I will be the one about whom you whisper," he said to himself, catching the eye of one of them, a waif in blue silk who passed over his gaze without notice. Hy Pezho smiled. "Soon."
He approached the clerk's desk in the main antechamber of the palace, ignoring the guards who leaned in as he approached, waiting for him to do or say something questionable.
"I am Hy Pezho. I request an audience with Her Majesty," said Hy Pezho, in his best gentrific manner.
The clerk examined his sigil. "Do you have a grant of petition?" said the clerk, looking up at him from beneath smoked glasses.
"I do." Hy Pezho withdrew the scroll from his cloak and unfolded it on the clerk's desk.
The clerk glanced at it and snorted. "This petition is over thirty years old!"
Hy Pezho leaned in close and hissed, with just a touch of the black art, "I do not see an expiration date."
The clerk stiffened. "Wait there," he said, indicating a low wooden bench.
Hy Pezho waited for an hour, then another, then another. The clerk studiously ignored him. It would be unseemly to do anything but wait, as though waiting were the sole purpose of his existence.
Finally, as the daylight began to fade through the open windows in the gallery above, the clerk called him forward. "You will have five minutes. At the end of your five minutes, a bell will ring and you will leave." The clerk eyed Bacamar, coiled lightly around Hy Pezho's arm, nearly invisible. "Your pet must remain outside."
"Sorry, Bacamar," said Hy Pezho. The familiar undulated upward into the gallery above and wrapped herself around a balustrade, sulking.
A pair of burly guards ushered Hy Pezho into a dim parlor and searched him for weapons, poisons and hexes. The search was embarrassingly thorough. Finally the guards sat him in a chair and placed a loose binding charm on him that made his arms heavy and his legs numb. He waited there for another hour, feeling his nose itch, unable to raise his arm to scratch.
Finally, the curtain on the room's far wall drew back and Her Royal Majesty, Queen Mab, entered the room, her entrance preceded by a stream of butterflies and a gentle drift of incense and rose petals. She was taller than Hy Pezho expected, an ancient woman of impressively regal bearing, dressed in a tightly bodiced gown of pure scarlet, the Unseelie Crown woven perfectly into her silver hair. She seated herself on a cushion, drawing the curtain closed behind her.
"Royal Highness. It is a great honor indeed," said Hy Pezho, bowing his head toward her.
"Your petition is an old one, granted to your father. It is in his memory that I allow it for a son."
"You are most kind, Majesty."
"No, I am curious. I want to know what the son of the Black Artist has done with his life. Have you followed in your father's footsteps?" Her voice was high and nasal, clipped, precise.
"Aye, Majesty. That is why I have come."
"When your Queen asks a yes or no question, son of Pezho, only a `yes' or a `no' is required."
"My apologies, Majesty."
"The black arts are most dangerous. They consumed your father. Do they not consume you as well? Elaborate."
"The art may be controlled, Majesty, by one with sufficient will."
"Ah," said Mab. "And I suppose you possess such a will."
"I do, Majesty."
"Have you not heard the expression that love may not be ridden, only grasped by the reins? The same is true for hatred."
"That is the saying, Majesty." Hy Pezho attempted a smile.
"State your business, son of Pezho. Then begone and do not trouble me again."
"Majesty, I bear news of great import to the Unseelie." With a supreme effort, Hy Pezho reached for the locket at his breast and forced it open, spilling the desiccated body of the message sprite onto the divan before him.
"What is that?" said the Queen, nudging it with her finger.
"Right now, there is Midwinter in the Seelie land," said Hy Pezho, "and Titania has sent out her emissary."
The Queen frowned. "How do you know of such things?"
"My father had a loose tongue, especially near the time of his death." Hy Pezho smiled.
"What of it?" Mab frowned.
"I have tracked the party of the emissary," he said. "And what's more, I have placed an operative among them."
Now the Queen smiled. "Hy Pezho, perhaps you are your father's son after all."
"No," said Hy Pezho. "I am better."
A moment later, a tiny bell rang overhead. The Queen reached up her hand and silenced it.
Chapter 12
It is called the jewel of Faerie and the Dragon's Heart. It is the oldest place in the known world, the beginning of history and the source of all power in the Seelie Kingdom. It is thousands of centuries old, its cobbled stones worn from the treads of millions, its buildings moaning with the sighs of countless generations. It is the setting of legend and myth. It is the City Emerald, the eternal city, the capital of the Faerie Kingdom and the self-proclaimed center of the world.
At its heart is the Seelie Grove, Her Majesty Regina Titania's ancient pleasure garden, the perfectly landscaped, verdantly green center that gives the city its name. It is accessible only to the Queen and to her groundskeepers, handpicked eunuchs from across the Channel Sea. Each morning the Queen can be seen there, her head bowed in meditation.
The Royal Palace borders the Seelie Grove to the east and south; opposite the palace the Boulevard Laurwelana runs the length of the grove's wall, its sidewalks glowing with high silver witchlights. Rising above the Boulevard are the town homes of Fae lords and the Aldermen of the prominent guilds, their wide windows overlooking the Seelie Grove and the palace beyond. It is the most exclusive street in the most exclusive city in all the known world.
During Midwinter, it is customary for the Forthel, the Guild of the Magi, to decorate Laurwelana with streamers of illusory fire and spiraling glamoured hawks that circle overhead and sing, in harmony, praises to Her Majesty Regina Titania. The Lady Anne watched them idly from her window three stories up, waiting for the mail. It was her daily ritual; she curled in the window seat of the parlor, watching the snow fall and waiting. She longed for the gaily-decorated invitations that no longer came, the letters from her friends at court that slowed to a trickle when Mauritane was arrested and stopped completely when he was sentenced to life at Crete Sulace. It was as though she had vanished; it was as though she'd become a ghost haunting her own home, invisible to the outside world.
Though no one came to call on her, she was dressed and glamoured for visitors, her hair delicately balanced in a fashionable scooped bun, her makeup and jewelry perfect. Though there was no one but her to drink it, she had the servants prepare tea in the kitchen every afternoon at teatime. The furniture in the parlor was dusted and polished to a shine, the pillows plumped and fluffed, the flowers arranged artfully in crystal vases throughout the room. When night fell, the servants would pour the tea down the drain, drape the tote-a-tete in its silk cover, and throw the flowers in the trash. It had become almost normal, happening as it had every day for the past two years, without exception. Almost.