If only Hy Pezho were here to explain it.
"What can I do?" said Timha, dreading the answer.
Valmin looked up wearily. He waved at a stack of books on the table opposite him. "The answer is in there somewhere," he sighed. "Find it."
Outside, the portal lock shimmered and choked out two tall, gaunt figures in blue robes. The guards at the lock started at their sudden entrance, reached for their swords, then dropped them when they recognized the robes.
The arch of the lock stood on a lonely rocky promontory connected to the Secret City by a long, narrow bridge of chalky stone. All around was the roiling, slithering sky. Guards for this posting were handpicked for their ability to avoid looking upward.
One of the men had skin as pale as moonlight. The other was so dark that his eyes seemed to glow from an empty void. The guards looked away. It was not permitted to speak to Bel Zheret unless spoken to. And neither of them had even the slightest desire to be spoken to.
The pale-skinned Bel Zheret was named Dog. His partner was Asp. Dog and Asp strode toward the bridge arm in arm. They were in a fine temper. They loved each other.
At the entrance to the city, the sentries likewise lowered their eyes and their weapons to allow Dog and Asp to pass. The Bel Zheret flowed through the entrance, robes sweeping across the stones in a most aesthetically pleasing manner.
As soon as they'd turned the corner past the sentry booth, the sergeant took a message sprite from its jar, gave it careful instructions, and then released it. It flew with an urgency typically unknown among sprites.
Above, at the entrance to the research facility, the head guardsman received the sprite and took its message. His eyes widened. He gave a hand signal to the second-in-command, and she ran.
Bel Zheret were coming.
Dog and Asp went slowly up the steps to the converted palace where the researchers worked on their project. They stepped deliberately, artfully. All of life was art, viewed properly. Bel Zheret understood this instinctively. Aesthetics is the highest order of understanding.
The city was cold and dry. Its narrow, winding streets were deserted, had been for centuries. It was spotless. Dog commented to Asp on it, and Asp agreed that it was a pleasing sight. Satisfying.
At the top of the steps, the palace stood out against the sky. Dog and Asp did not find the sky particularly pleasing, but then, no one did. Perhaps Mab did? She must have, or she wouldn't have left it that way. The guardsmen on the palace walk were standing at stiff attention, staring straight ahead. They'd been warned that Bel Zheret were coming. This also pleased Dog and Asp. Fear was appropriate.
Inside the palace, Dog and Asp both stopped briefly. The smell here, of cooking, Fae sweat, traces of garbage and offal. Unpleasant.
Dog turned to one of the guards. "This palace has an unwholesome odor. See to it." The guard turned and ran as fast as his legs would go.
They flowed into the common room, where flabby, sweaty, hairy research thaumaturges and their assistants and servants acted as though they hadn't spent the last five minutes in a frenzy of preparation, cleaning, hiding, or destroying those things that Dog and Asp might object to. Again, appropriate. They were happy to go along with the farce. Another instinctive habit. It is a privilege to be feared. Do not abuse that privilege.
Dog turned to the most cowardly smelling of all the cowards in the room. "Where might I find Master Valmin?" he said, his voice smooth and precise.
The coward shook, but his voice was admirably strong. "Through there," he said, pointing. "Last door on the right."
Dog and Asp found Valmin and his journeyer Timha pretending to be hard at work on their assignment.
"Welcome," said Valmin, offering no other pleasantries. He had dealt with Bel Zheret in the past.
"Tell us," said Asp. It was economical; Valmin already knew why they were there. Economy was important. Do the most with the least.
"Yes," said Valmin. He cleared his throat, holding out a prepared document in a leather binding. "Here is the complete report, of course." Asp took the thing without looking at it, and it disappeared inside his robes.
"Summarize for us, won't you?" asked Dog.
"We have made significant progress with the casing system, and the containment fields. And we are very close to reaching a hypothesis about the underlying mechanism."
"Very close?" said Dog, his voice still smooth as silk. "To a hypothesis?"
Asp chimed in. "In other words, you have built a pretty box. You still do not understand what goes in the box, but nearly have an idea about one of many ways in which it might possibly work."
Valmin said nothing.
Dog strode calmly toward Valmin and grabbed him by the wrist. To Valmin this motion had happened nearly instantaneously; Bel Zheret experienced time rather differently than the typical Fae. Dog turned the wrist slowly, pushing Valmin to the ground. From this position he could snap Valmin's elbow backward, break his wrist, reach into the small of his back with extended claws, or any of a hundred other things. But physically harming Valmin was currently forbidden. Injured thaumaturges were not productive thaumaturges.
"We will return in six months," said Dog. "If by then you have not produced a functioning Einswrath, the two of you will be killed."
"But ... one cannot rush the process of inquiry! It takes as long as it takes!"
"We understand," said Asp. "And if this particular inquiry takes longer than six months, then you will die and we shall promote others into your positions. I am simply alerting you to your time frame."
Dog released Valmin, and the old master fell to the floor, clutching his arm in pain. The elderly were disgusting. Dog resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his robes.
"Good-bye," said Asp. Without any further ado, Dog and Asp turned and left the room.
They swept back through the common room and out of the palace. At the palace entrance, Dog sniffed the air. He picked out the guard to whom he'd spoken earlier about the odor.
"It still smells bad," he said. "Can't you smell it?"
Dog watched the guard's face carefully. He knew what the man was thinking. Do I admit that I can't smell what the Bel Zheret smells, or do I agree with him to please him?
Dog didn't wait for an answer. He held up two fingers. "Your nose must require cleaning," he said. He grabbed the guard's neck and plunged the two fingers into his nostrils, digging into the soft membranes there with his fingernails.
"Perhaps there is some foreign matter encrusted within?" he said, clawing up and down. Blood began to pour from the guard's nose. The guard began to shriek. Musical!
"Maybe your sense of smell will improve now," said Dog, letting go. "You write and let me know if that's the case, won't you?"
Dog smiled at the thought of the guard sitting down to compose the letter. He couldn't wait to read it.
The guard fell to the ground, clutching his face. Blood dripped down his fingers.
"All right, then," said Dog. "Have a lovely day."
As they walked toward the lock across the narrow stone bridge, they locked arms again. "That was fun," said Asp.
Dog could only agree.
... after loud complaints from the House of Guilds, I was asked to pen an official statement on the matter. It read, in part,"The so-called Shadow Office does not exist, and never has. The notion of a secret group of spies, strangers to propriety, and invested with powers granted by the Black Art, is repugnant to Her Majesty. It is a fantasy promulgated by seditious elements within the very body who proposes that said office be expunged."
The statement was, of course, a lie. The Shadows existed then, and exist to this day. One small portion of the statement, however, is factual.The very notion of the Shadows is indeed repugnant to the queen. This, however, has never stopped her from employing them.