A flat piece of glass, rippling with indistinct shapes.
Black horror rose like bile in his throat. No. He tried to swallow his instinctive whimper—it would buy him no pity—but the sound escaped him nonetheless, thin and weak. Nadrett heard and smiled.
“Been a while, ’asn’t it? Ain’t brought out one of these in ages. This seemed like a good time; after all, I don’t want you forgetting about them, do I?”
Dead Rick licked his lips. There was no dignity, no pride; any self-respect he might have gained by talking to Irrith was gone as if it had never been. He cowered on the floor, showing throat to his master, and said the words he knew Nadrett wanted to hear. “Please. Don’t.”
“You stole from me. You ’as to pay for that.”
“I won’t do it again, I swear.”
“But you’ve already done it, dog. That’s all fine and well for the future, but what about what I already lost?”
He was whimpering again, desperately keening, knowing it would do no good. “Please…”
Nadrett laughed, a soft, cruel sound. “You’re pathetic.”
A pause. Just long enough for him to start hoping—
The glass shattered.
Razor shards rebounded off the stone, scoring Dead Rick’s skin. Physical pain was lost in the anguish that wrenched his heart. Light shone across his eyes for just an instant, like a will-o’-the-wisp; his hand shot out to try and grab it, but the glow slipped through his fingers and was gone, leaving only blood where the glass had cut him.
Another piece of his past, destroyed. Another piece of himself.
Gone forever.
He couldn’t even take strength in rage, for fear Nadrett had more in the cabinet, just waiting to be broken. He just curled around himself, around the pain in his gut, until his master spat, “Get out.”
Dead Rick went. He crawled, belly low, sick and on the verge of tears. Out the door, then into enough of a crouch to flee the bastards in the outer room, hearing their laughter and mockery fading behind him. Into the warren of the Goblin Market, not caring where he went, so long as it was away; surely there must be some place here that would hide him from everyone’s eyes.
Rushing headlong as he was, Dead Rick didn’t notice the woman until he slammed into her. He staggered sideways into the wall, regained his balance, lurched onward—and was pulled up short by her words. “Dead Rick!”
The skriker spun, lips peeling back in a snarl. What in Mab’s name—It was some mortal woman. Obscenely out of place in the Goblin Market, with her silk gown and jewel-pinned hat and unstained gloves; he was surprised she’d made it this far, though if the bruises on her face were any sign, it hadn’t been without trouble. How did she know him? He’d never seen her before.
No, that wasn’t true. His memory was raw, an open wound, left bleeding by the shattered glass; he remembered her face. Laughing, slack in the grip of opium. She’d been there with Cyma.
Then he took a better look, and his jaw fell open.
Her gloved hand came up in a rush, before he could say a word. “Don’t! Think, Dead Rick. You know there are things I can’t say, and it will become very awkward if I have to ignore you saying them for me. But yes—you know me.”
Cyma. Wearing the face and name of her mortal toy. A changeling.
With a furious growl, he whirled and began to run again. But she ran after him, calling his name. “Please! I promised I would come back—Dead Rick, wait—what happened? Let me help you!”
Help him. So bloody generous of her, after running off like that. I’m going away, she’d said. He remembered her coy smile, her refusal to say where she was going. Iron rot your soul, Cyma. But she wasn’t Cyma any longer, was she?
He wasn’t looking where he was going; Dead Rick found himself facing a rockfall, the corridor ahead completely blocked. And that woman was behind him, gasping for breath, one hand pressed to her tightly laced side. That’s what you get for living as a human. Dead Rick spat a curse at her. “Out of my way, bitch.”
“My name,” the changeling said, in between gasps, “is Louisa. Now. And I promised I would try to help you, Dead Rick.”
“You can’t fucking ’elp me.”
He flung the words at her like knives, and she flinched. “I can find a man—”
“Why—so I can be a changeling? Like that would do me any bloody good!”
“Bread, then.”
Another curse. “You’ve got no idea what I need.”
“Then tell me!” The changeling—Louisa—finally managed to straighten up. “I can’t be much use to you if you don’t tell me anything, Dead Rick.”
The pain still pulsed inside him, the gaping awareness of void where his self used to be. Before Nadrett stole it and started breaking it, piece by piece. He didn’t care if she was any use to him or not; he didn’t care about anything at all. Nadrett’s blood. Give me that, and I’ll rest easy. But she couldn’t, and so he just wanted her gone.
Dead Rick spat that last part out, half-incoherent, but she understood. She held out her hands, though, stopping him when he moved to leave. “Please, one thing. It’s small, I promise. Have you seen a mortal who looks like the boy in this photo?”
He’d been stuck in the dogfighting pit on more than one occasion, not just that fight with Rewdan. Simple boxing matches. One time a yarthkin had caught him a solid blow, right where a drunken goblin had knifed him a few days before.
This felt much the same.
The face stared out at him from the tattered paper, stiffly solemn, but alert, self-aware, complete in a way the half-daft boy in the library had lost. That was the face Dead Rick remembered, from those moments before the poor bastard vanished into Nadrett’s control.
“You do know,” the changeling said, staring into his eyes. “Can you tell me where he is? There’s a maid in my household—well, not anymore; she’s been arrested and sent to prison—she’s searching for him. An Irish girl, Hannah someone.”
So that was her name. Two syllables, empty sounds: they meant nothing to him. It might have been anyone’s name.
She had once been his friend.
Both of them had. If the voice told the truth.
“The Academy,” Dead Rick said. It wasn’t Nadrett’s blood on his jaws, but it was a tiny piece of revenge, putting right what his master had sent wrong. “Feidelm’s got ’im. But ’e’s broken.”
“Broken how?”
The skriker shivered. “Like ’e lost half of ’imself. They think somebody tried to do ’im as a changeling, but it went wrong. ’E don’t speak no more, and ’e’s gone soft in the ’ead.”
Cyma—Louisa—frowned. “I’ve never heard of that happening to anyone before. Normally they just lose their names, their identities. Could it be someone tried to force him into it unwilling? I don’t know how they could, but—”
He cut her off with a swipe of his hand. “I told you all I know. We’re done.”
Her animated expression faltered, fell into sad acceptance. “I see. Thank you, Dead Rick. If there’s anything I can do for you—”
“Don’t bother making promises,” Dead Rick snarled, shoving past her. “They ain’t worth the air they’re spoken on.”
The Prince’s Court, Onyx Halclass="underline" June 9, 1884
“Now you just drink that down,” Rosamund Goodemeade said, “and you’ll feel good as new.”