“This conclave will continue,” he said, in a soft voice. “Should we vote to release the cure, Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist will be the first to awaken. Should we decide the needs of Faerie are better served by keeping the cure under lock and key, she will sleep for a hundred years, in the knowe where she was felled, that we might remember what our failure has meant for an innocent woman and her family. The hospitality of this kingdom will be extended to her husband and youngest son for that entire time, by order of the High Crown—should Queen Windermere step down before century’s end, her successor will be bound to grant the Lordens all the gifts and graces of an honored guest. You have done this, Duke. You have spent the coin of another kingdom as if you had the right, and for that, you must be punished.”
Duke Michel’s eyes widened. There were no rules against the use of elf-shot, which had been invented, after all, as a means of cutting each other down without killing. There were, however, a lot of rules about things like “abusing the hospitality of another kingdom.” With one simple sentence, Aethlin had changed the game.
“Your Highness, I never—” the Duke began. Aethlin silenced him with a glare.
“Whatever your intent, this is what you have done,” he said. “I apologize to Duke Torquill that he will be unable to duel you for a time, but you are needed elsewhere. You will be elf-shot. You will be held here until you wake, whenever that may be. And then, the Duchess Lorden will be asked what penalty the Undersea would lay against one who raised a hand against one of their diplomats. If she wakes soon, that penalty may be slight. If she sleeps a hundred years . . . you had best hope she understands the meaning of ‘mercy.’”
“She doesn’t,” said Patrick.
Duke Michel’s head dropped until his chin was almost level with his chest. It was done; he was beaten. All he could do now was stand silently as the High King’s guards came and led him away.
High King Aethlin remained on his feet. He looked out on the arcade, and asked, “Well? Is there any further business to be conducted before we resume discussion of the matter that has brought us here?”
“Yes, Highness,” I said. He shot me a startled glance. I shrugged, trying to look casual, like I interrupted this sort of thing every day. Which . . . wasn’t too far off, in general, even if the specifics were somewhat unique. “I’ve been granted permission to investigate the matter of Duke Antonio’s murder, remember? I need to be working right now, not sitting here and listening to a conversation that I can’t join or influence. Anything I need to know, someone can bring me up to speed on later.”
“I see,” said Aethlin. “Was there anything else you needed?”
“I was also given permission to remove people from this conclave as I saw fit. I’d like to speak to whomever accompanied King Antonio out of Angels.”
“Very well.” High King Aethlin turned to the audience. “Will the delegation from Angels please rise and follow Sir Daye to wherever she leads? I promise you, there will be no final votes taken in your absence.”
Two Candela and a Glastig rose from where they’d been sitting on the shadowy side of the room. The Candela were unfamiliar. The Glastig . . .
“Hello, Bucer,” I said.
Bucer O’Malley, late of Home, currently of Angels, winced. “Toby,” he said.
I offered a quick bow toward the gathered thrones before hopping down from the stage and heading toward the back door. As I’d hoped, the emissaries from Angels followed me, the two Candela walking almost as silently as one of the Cait Sidhe, Bucer tapping along on sharply pointed hooves that couldn’t be muffled by anything short of being wrapped in pillows. I knew that from experience. He and I had done our share of breaking and entering back when we’d been street rats in Devin’s service, stealing what we were told to steal, shanking who we were told to shank. Since Home had been a changeling domain, there’d been no one to stop us from hurting each other—it didn’t break the Law, and so no one had particularly cared. The last I’d heard of Bucer, he’d been running for Angels, getting the hell out of town before he could be arrested for his part in the kidnapping of the Lorden boys. Looked like he’d managed to fall on his feet.
That was the thing about men like him. They almost always did.
I led my motley little gang down the hall and past the kitchens, stopping at a cold pantry that the household staff had shown me once, proud of how much ground they’d been able to recover from the cobwebs and decay. Opening the door freed a burst of cool air, and the distant, earthy smell of potatoes. “Inside,” I said.
The two Candela, who were used to dust and shadowy spaces, went willingly. Only Bucer hung back, giving me an uncertain look. “Do I have to?” he asked.
“I’m coming in with you,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to shut the door and lock you in there to die. Even if I did, you’d have two Candela with you.”
“We’re not carrying him through the web,” said one of the Candela, sounding affronted. Her hair was pale gray, the color of volcanic ash, and cut in a shoulder-length bob. The other Candela, male, with darker hair, nodded his agreement.
“You wouldn’t have to,” I said. “You could just pop out of the room and open the door. Now come on, unless you want me asking for your King’s dirty secrets while we’re all standing around in the hall.”
Bucer slowly walked past me into the room, glancing over his shoulder several times. I followed, closing the door behind me before yanking off my gloves and dropping them on the nearest shelf. The glow from the two Candela was more than bright enough to allow me to see their faces. They looked calm. Bucer didn’t. Unfortunately, because of our history, I had no way of knowing whether that was because he’d done something wrong, or because he was waiting for me to kick the crap out of him again.
“Your King is dead,” I said, without preamble. “The person who killed him attacked me earlier today, presumably because they were afraid I was going to learn something they didn’t want me to know. Who would have wanted to kill King Antonio, and why?”
“Half the purebloods in Angels wanted him dead, for refusing to support their claims to this and that,” said one of the Candela. “All the changelings wanted him dead, for refusing to order the purebloods to leave them alone. Angels is where dreams come true, after all.”
A surprising number of film and television stars were changelings. Fae blood made them beautiful and sturdy enough to survive doing their own stunts; human blood made them resistant to the iron in camera rigs and muscle cars. And the nature of the industry was such that if you were careful, you could keep a career going for decades, writing off your apparent inability to age as clean living, drinking lots of water, and keeping a plastic surgeon on speed-dial. “Swell,” I said. “Who didn’t want him dead?”
“We didn’t,” said the male Candela. “He didn’t make a lot of rules. He didn’t interfere with people doing what they wanted to do. That’s harder to find than you’d think.”
“He brought me because I knew the Mists, and because I knew you,” said Bucer. “He wanted to be able to predict what was gonna happen at this stupid thing. Said I’d be forgiven for a few little things if I came.”
“Little things?” I asked.
“He stole the crown jewels,” said the female Candela.
I had to swallow a smile. “Some things never change, I guess,” I said. “Whoever killed him snuck up on him, yes, but they also disoriented him. I thought at first that it was a teleporter. Now, I’m not so sure.”
The male Candela frowned. “Why are you speaking so openly to us?”
“Because you didn’t do it,” I said, very calmly. “When King Antonio was killed, his Merry Dancers shattered. Fragments, all over the floor.”