Part 11 (2/2)

Irrith would have liked more; she owed more than seven pieces to various fae already. Segraine might be willing to let the debt go for a century, but others would not. Unfortunately, this was obviously as much as she would get today. She watched, bemused, as the clerk counted out the seven pieces with excessive care, then counted them a second time before making his tally and wrapping them in a handkerchief. When Irrith tried to pick it up, he swatted her hand. ”All disburs.e.m.e.nts from the royal treasury must be recorded,” he said, getting out a pot of ink and a moth-eaten griffin feather for a quill. ”It's the law.”

”Law!” The clerk, by his glare, didn't appreciate her scornful laughter. ”That's a mortal thing.”

”And a faerie one, too, Dame Irrith. By order of the Queen and Lord Alan.”

One of the old Princes. Irrith waited, not attempting to hide her impatience, as the clerk made a note in his ledger, then wrote out a receipt, which he handed to her.

The slip read, Seven (7) pieces from the Treasury, as follows: three (3) rye, two (2) barley, two (2) brown wheat, one (1) white wheat. Disbursed to Dame Irrith by Rodge, Clerk of the Treasury, on 4 October 1757. Seven (7) pieces from the Treasury, as follows: three (3) rye, two (2) barley, two (2) brown wheat, one (1) white wheat. Disbursed to Dame Irrith by Rodge, Clerk of the Treasury, on 4 October 1757.

Irrith threw it away in disgust. ”You might as well be a mortal clerk, with your dates and numbers.” A small clock sat on the desk in front of him: probably the work of the von das Tickens, and the reason why the clerk could date the receipt. The Onyx Hall wasn't detached from human time as the deeper realms of Faerie were; it would render interactions with the mortal world too difficult. But in the unchanging darkness of those stone halls, most fae lost count of the date. And few of them cared.

Rodge apparently saved his lack of care for the fae he dealt with. He didn't even look up as Irrith took the bread and departed.

She stowed six pieces with Ktistes; the centaur was always near his pavilion, and few would risk stealing from him. But the safest place in the world was her stomach, where it could do its inexplicable work, s.h.i.+elding her from threats. Irrith ate the white bread, grimacing at its chalky taste, and went into the streets above.

Darkness greeted her, but this time it wasn't the strange murk of last fall; just ordinary nighttime. The sky was overcast enough that she couldn't guess the hour, though. Irrith had chosen the Billingsgate door, which put her in a less-than-savory part of the City; after a moment's consideration, she cloaked herself in a charm that would encourage strangers to look past her. Cutpurses and other criminals were as fascinating as any other part of mortal society, but not one she wanted to experience right now.

Voices from the direction of the fish market told her it must not be long until dawn. Soon boats would crowd the little harbor, unloading the day's catch; then the fishwives would go to work, with their powerful arms and vivid profanity, hawking their wares to the cooks and cooks' servants, laboring housewives, and finally the poor on the edge of starvation, who would buy what no one else wanted, after it had begun to smell.

She drifted, silent and invisible as a ghost, in the direction of the wharves, for they showed more life than the predawn streets. The river was little more than a black slos.h.i.+ng sound, wavelets receding from the mudflats of its banks, their tops gilded by the occasional bit of torchlight. Here, in the darkness, it was easy to forget about all the changes that entranced her; Irrith could half-convince herself she'd stepped out into the London she first saw a hundred years ago. Many things stayed the same.

Indeed, that was what made the changes so entrancing.

The sun gradually emerged as a flat gray disk on the eastern horizon, barely penetrating the clouds. It allowed Irrith to see the buildings around her, the eighteenth century replacing that fleeting illusion of the seventeenth. Brick and stone, not the timber and plaster of the past, which had burnt in the Fire. But some places were familiar, beneath their new clothes; rich men still gossiped in the Exchange, the Bow Bells still rang out over Cheapside, and a cathedral still crowned the City's western half.

How was she supposed to turn all this inside out?

The streets slowly filled with people. At this hour, London belonged to its lower cla.s.ses: the servants and laborers, porters and beggars. Men thick with muscle, and men wasted down to skeletons from illness and starvation. Women in the drab clothes of maids, hurrying to buy for the day's meals. Yawning apprentices, surly cart drivers, a half-grown girl with a flock of chickens. Watching them go by, Irrith thought of her words to Ktistes. The buildings didn't matter so much, but the people... they were the ones Lune, and Galen, and all their allies were trying to protect.

Ktistes thought like an architect. He saw the land, whether he was on top of it or inside it, and the structures that could be shaped to it. People mattered because they would use what he built, but that was the only point at which they entered into his plans. When it came to hiding England, he didn't think of them. He thought only of the land.

It won't be enough, Irrith realized. London wasn't its fabric; it was its people. Lune had taught her that. And surely it was true for other places, be they Berks.h.i.+re or Yorks.h.i.+re or Scotland. Irrith realized. London wasn't its fabric; it was its people. Lune had taught her that. And surely it was true for other places, be they Berks.h.i.+re or Yorks.h.i.+re or Scotland.

She had to hide all all of it: the ground, the trees, the houses and shops and churches, and most especially the people. of it: the ground, the trees, the houses and shops and churches, and most especially the people.

If the buildings weren't the clothing, then what was?

Something smacked her shoulder hard, and knocked Irrith sprawling into the chilly mud.

”Blood and Bone!” she swore, and got baffled stares from the porters carrying kegs into a nearby tavern. Irrith swore again, then threw a hasty glamour over her faerie face, so that they blinked in confusion and went back to their work. A charm of concealment could make people look away from her, but it did nothing to protect her from collision, and the attention that brought.

Time to get below, or to find a quiet place where she could improve her glamour and continue her wanderings.

But before she could climb to her feet, something caught her eye-and then she began to laugh.

Flat on her back in the mud, with the porters staring again and carts rumbling past her unprotected toes, Irrith laughed and laughed, because the answer was right there, wrapping England in a gray and frequently rainy cloak.

Clouds.

The Onyx Hall, London: April 18, 1758 Lune laid her head against the back of her chair in a rare gesture of frustration. ”I don't suppose any clever mortal has designed a scheme for influencing the weather?”

”Designed one?” Galen said. ”Almost certainly. Executed it successfully? That, I fear, is another matter.”

She sighed in acknowledgment. ”Then it must be faerie magic.” One pale hand rose to rub at her eyes. ”We have some ability to call rain when we need it, but nothing of sufficient force, nor duration-not to hide this entire island, certainly not for months on end.”

Silence ruled the chamber for a few minutes. They were not alone; Lune had called a small convocation of her closest companions: Amadea, the Irish lady Feidelm, and Rosamund Goodemeade, whose sister was occupied elsewhere. With an air that suggested she knew her words would be unwelcome, the little brownie offered, ”We do do know folk who might manage it.” know folk who might manage it.”

Lune winced. Rosamund, upon Galen's quizzical look, said, ”Those who live in the sea.”

”Mermaids?”

”And stranger things,” Lune replied, lifting her head. ”You're right, Rosamund, and if we must, we will ask them. But I would very much like to find another way. For aid of this kind, we'd be heavily in debt to them, and the folk of the sea are strange enough that I cannot begin to predict what they would demand in return.”

A faerie was calling someone else strange? Galen bit down on the urge to ask whether that meant they were of surpa.s.sing normality. The unease Lune showed at the thought of dealing with them told him now wasn't the time for such a jest.

The chamber door opened, and Lewan Erle slipped through. The foppish lord bowed in meticulous apology before approaching the Queen, a sealed letter in his hands.

She broke the seal and perused it, first with a disinterested eye, then with a very interested one indeed. Upon finis.h.i.+ng her second reading, she turned to the waiting lord. ”He's in the Onyx Hall?”

”Yes, madam. But he waited at the Crutched Friars entrance until Greymalkin found him-I believe he was there at least an hour.”

”Very courteous.” Lune folded the paper again and turned to Galen. ”This is a letter of introduction from Madame Malline le Sainfoin de Veilee, formerly the amba.s.sadress of the Cour du Lys. It recommends to our attention a certain foreigner now waiting-”

”Still at Crutched Friars, madam,” Lewan Erle supplied, when Lune paused.

She pa.s.sed the folded letter to Amadea and rose. ”We shall receive him in the lesser-no, the greater presence chamber. And Lord Galen and myself will take the time to dress more formally. If he is the first faerie of his land to set foot in England, then we can at least make his initial impression a grand one.”

Bewildered, Galen likewise rose from his chair. ”What land is that, madam?”

He heard an echo of his bewilderment in Lune's answer. ”Araby.”

Galen couldn't help but wonder whether Lune, like him, drew some strength from elegance of dress, and for that reason had ordered a delay while they both changed into more suitable clothing. Whether she did or not, he was grateful for the deep-cuffed coat and powdered wig Edward put him into; they helped him stand proud as the ma.s.sive bronze doors of the greater presence chamber swung open to admit the traveler.

The chamber itself was such a wondrous s.p.a.ce that Galen might have thought any additional wonder would seem at home. Soaring black pillars served as a frame for panels of silver filigree and faceted crystal, bestowing a degree of lightness on what otherwise would have been a grim and ominous s.p.a.ce. The figure who entered, though, brought with him a different kind of wonder entirely.

It wasn't that his countenance was especially grotesque. His bearded face was darker skinned than Galen expected of an Arab, more like a Negro, with a powerfully hooked nose, but beyond that he looked almost human. His dress was moderately odd, being a long, straight robe confined at the hips with a broad sash, and of course his head was wrapped in a neatly folded turban; that was not the cause, either. In the years Galen had been among the English fae, their alien natures had become almost familiar-but this fellow awoke that frisson frisson again, the awareness that there was always more strangeness beyond his ken. again, the awareness that there was always more strangeness beyond his ken.

The lords and ladies a.s.sembled for this audience rustled and murmured amongst themselves, watching him approach. When the visitor reached a courteous distance from the dais upon which Lune and Galen sat, he sank gracefully to both knees, bowing his head just shy of touching the floor. ”As-salamu alayk.u.m, O fair Queen, O wise Prince. Peace be unto you. I am called Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d, Al-Musafir, At-Talib ul-'ilm, of the land known to you as Araby.” O fair Queen, O wise Prince. Peace be unto you. I am called Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d, Al-Musafir, At-Talib ul-'ilm, of the land known to you as Araby.”

”Welcome to the Onyx Court, Lord Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d,” Lune said, smoothly enough that Galen suspected she had practiced the foreign name while dressing. ”Never before has our realm been visited by one of your land. Do you come to us as an amba.s.sador?”

”I do not, O Queen.” The stranger had risen from the lowest part of his bow, but remained on his knees. The stone of the presence chamber carried his voice to them, clear despite the distinct and oddly French-tinged accent. ”I an individual only, traveling the faerie Europe courts these many years.”

Galen, content to let Lune manage the niceties of welcome, had been studying that hook-nosed face, chasing a wisp of memory. It was the French letter of introduction that did it; his tutor had given him several books for practicing the language, years ago, and one of them had mentioned something like this creature. Galen's mother had confiscated the volume in horror once she saw the t.i.tle-too late to protect him from the scandalous bits-but he'd read enough to remember the word. ”If you will pardon me for asking, sir-are you a genie?”

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