Which made them no plans at all, as far as Irrith was concerned. “Wayland made a sword once, ages and ages ago, that— Hey!” She gestured at the two stocky faeries. “You two are dwarves!”
Niklas spun to face her, a tiny hammer clutched in one meaty hand. “You are going to ask about Gram.”
“I’m from the Vale of the White Horse,” she reminded him. “Our King, Wayland Smith, was the one who made that sword. But he said Gram was broken and reforged before it was used to kill the dragon Fafnir—and that a dwarf did the reforging. Can’t you do something similar?”
“Reginn vas
Nordmann,
” Niklas said, face reddening to almost the shade of his beard. “
Nicht Deutscher.
You understand? Not from our land. Ve are not all the same, happy little
Schmiede
hammering away in—”
Wilhas clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth to stop the flood of words, fewer and fewer of which sounded like English, and Irrith threw her hands up. “I’m sorry I asked! I just thought— Never mind.”
Niklas had by then clawed free of his brother and gone back to his work, snarling more German under his breath. “Honestly,” Irrith said, “I’d rather it stay on the comet, or get trapped here, and we avoid battle entirely.”
Shaking out his hand—Irrith rather thought Niklas had bitten it—Wilhas said, “There is nothing wrong vith fighting.”
“There is when you don’t have a weapon! Segraine tells me they’re still wrestling with that jotun ice, but they haven’t gotten very far. Bonecruncher wants to hack chips off for shot.”
Wilhas chewed on an available bit of mustache, before shaking his head. “Even if you could make it round enough, I do not think the bullets vould survive the explosion. Too much fire, and ice is too brittle.” The chewing turned into a meditative sucking, and he rolled his eyes up to contemplate the ceiling. “Unless you could do it vithout fire . . .”
“Afraid of a little battle?” That came from Niklas, though he didn’t bother to turn around.
He sounded like he was trying to needle her. Irrith, however, felt no shame about her cowardice. “Have you
looked
at me? I’m not one of those fae who look like twigs and feel like stone giants; the Dragon broke my arm at Pie Corner, with just a swat of its tail. If battle comes . . .”
He turned his head far enough to sneer at her. “Vat? You vill run avay?”
Run away . . .
“Or hide,” she said, eyes widening.
Wilhas came out of his contemplation and shook his head. “You vould be safer to run. Hiding—”
“Not me,” Irrith said. “London.”
Now both dwarves were staring at her.
“Hide the city!” she said. Inspiration goaded her off her perch on the table; she had to pace. “The Onyx Hall is a place of power, right? The Dragon ate a little of it back then, and wanted more. Everybody’s pretty sure it will come looking for us again. But what if it can’t find us?”
“Then it vill go elsevere,” Wilhas said.
Then it will be someone else’s problem.
Irrith didn’t say it, though. What if the Dragon went for the Vale, instead? “Hide all of England, then.”
She didn’t know if it was possible for someone’s eyes to literally bulge out of his head, but the dwarves’ were certainly trying. Irrith grinned. “I know, I know. A whole island—might as well toss in Scotland while we’re at it—I’m insane. You might have noticed, though, that we’re standing in a rather insane place. Ash and Thorn—who looks at the biggest city in England and says, I think we need a faerie palace underneath it? Who steals eleven days from millions of people and traps them in a
room?
If anyone can hide us from the Dragon, it’ll be someone in this court, if only because they’re too mad to realize it’ll never work.”
Niklas crossed his arms belligerently. “Say it vorks. Say ve hide England. Say the
Drache
stays on its comet instead of going somevere else—it’s a lot to suppose. But even then, it only delays the problem. The beast still comes back.”
He was just saying it to be contrary; the set of his glare had shifted. Irrith answered him anyway. “And in the meantime, you’ve had seventy-five more years to figure how to chip jotun ice into usable bullets.”
She got to enjoy a brief moment of pride; then Wilhas deflated her with a single word. “How?”
“Don’t ask
me,
” Irrith said, putting her hands up in protest. “I said
someone
would be mad enough to figure it out. I haven’t been here in fifty years; my lunacy’s out of practice.” Wilhas was still looking at her. “What? You need a puck for this, not a sprite! They’re the ones with all the tricks!”
“Then ve vill get you pucks,” he said, with a decisive nod. “How many do you need?”
“None. I came up with the idea; my work is done.”
Wilhas smiled. “Ve shall see vat the Queen says.”
Irrith realized, far too late, that she should have kept her mouth shut.
The Onyx Hall, London: April 3, 1758
Remembering Irrith’s first visit to his chambers, Galen had told Edward to let the sprite through if she came calling again. When Irrith tried to barge past him without even the barest courtesy, though, the valet stopped her with one efficient arm. “Dame Irrith, I have
told
you—”
Her undoubtedly obscene response got swallowed when she saw Galen standing a few feet away, dressed save for his shoes and hat. Galen said, “My apologies, but I’m afraid I have an engagement. Can your matter wait?”
She answered with her usual impudence. “As long as you don’t mind losing another day.”
Edward dropped his blocking arm with a scowl. Like all good valets, he could read his master’s mind: if this had to do with the comet, then it couldn’t be postponed. The days ticked steadily away; already it was spring, and once winter came, astronomers would begin searching the skies.
His engagement was to escort his mother, Cynthia, Miss Northwood, and Mrs. Northwood through the British Museum’s collections in Montagu House, and Galen was looking forward to it, but he had a little time before he must depart. “Have you come up with an idea?”
“Yes,” she said, passing Edward with an expression just this side of sticking her tongue out at him. “And I told the dwarves, and that should have been the end of it. But now Lune wants me to make it
happen
.”
Her tone and posture clearly proclaimed that there was a problem somewhere in this. Galen could not see it. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“Convince her to have someone else do it!”
“Dame Irrith . . .” Edward was hovering with his hat and shoes, but Galen gestured him back for the moment. “I was under the impression you were interested in helping us.”
She shifted, not meeting his eyes. “I am.”
“Then where’s the problem?”
He heard the catch in her breath, before she turned and became very interested in the porcelain figure of a hound on a nearby table. “I can’t possibly do it. Because I haven’t the slightest idea
how
.”
That hound might have dragged the admission from her, it came out so strained. Galen bit his tongue. He was so accustomed to Lune, who rarely betrayed anything of her inner state, even when it was in turmoil; or her closest courtiers, who followed the model of their Queen. He wasn’t used to someone like Irrith, whose attempts at guile fell as flat as his own.
It gave him a sense of kinship with her, though.
Neither one of us is half so polished as this place would like us to be.
“What is the idea?” Galen asked, and listened as Irrith summed it up. No one, to his knowledge, had suggested hiding from the Dragon; he had to admit the notion held some appeal. As for how to make it happen, though, he was forced to admit he had no more notion than she did.
Floundering for a starting point, he said, “Don’t fae have some means of hiding from mortals? Charms and the like?”
“Yes, but we aren’t trying to hide from a mortal, are we?” Irrith gesticulated with the porcelain hound, and Galen spared a moment to hope she wouldn’t throw it into a wall for punctuation. The piece was a gift from the French ambassador, the faerie one—though in truth, Galen wouldn’t miss it all that much.
What protected mortals against faerie-kind? Iron. Christian faith, whether expressed through prayer or church bells or other signs. But London was already armored with those—and besides, they didn’t
conceal
anything.
Edward coughed discreetly. Galen looked up, ready to insist on just a few more minutes’ delay, and found his servant had put aside the hat and shoes. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe there’s a way for mortals to hide from faeries. Dame Irrith—if a man turns his coat inside out, doesn’t that give him a measure of invisibility?”
Her shifting green eyes went wide. Irrith stood, gaping, and then a grin split her face. “You’re a genius,” she announced. “What’s your name, anyway? Geniuses should have names.”
The servant gave her a shallow bow. “Edward Thorne, ma’am.”
“Edward Th—” Curiosity flared to life. “Are you Peregrin’s son?”
A second, deeper bow. “I have that honor, yes.”
“Hah! You’re cleverer than your father, Mr. Thorne. Ask me sometime about when he first came to Berkshire, the adventure he had with a milkmaid. Just don’t ask when he’s around.” Irrith bounced on the balls of her feet. “Inside-out clothes! I should have thought of that.” Her face fell as she turned to Galen. “But London isn’t wearing any clothes.”
He didn’t have an answer to that, but Edward had at least given him a notion of what advice to offer. “Her Majesty may have instructed you to make this happen, Dame Irrith, but I doubt she meant you must do it on your own. May I suggest recruiting help? Others may have useful suggestions, which you can coordinate into a proper plan.”
Irrith wrinkled her nose at him. “Do I look coordinated to you?”
“You are a model of grace.”
“That isn’t what I meant, as you well know,” Irrith said, but she colored a little. Galen had spoken the words in jest, but they were also true; she moved like a young fox, with natural rather than studied elegance.
Edward had picked up the shoes and hat again. Galen sighed and beckoned him forward. “I have every confidence you can make this happen, Dame Irrith, and it may do us crucial good. If time in the Calendar Room would aid your thoughts, I’m sure her Grace will approve it. In the meantime, I must beg your forgiveness, but—”
She was nodding before he finished. “Right. Sorry I kept you. But this helped a lot.”
“I’m glad,” he said, settling the hat upon his head. “Let me know if I can be of further use.”
The Onyx Hall, London: April 6, 1758
Ktistes might have been a statue of a centaur, his hooves planted foursquare on the grass, looking off into the distance where several courtiers were chasing each other around a fountain. Their giggles and false shrieks of surprise made Irrith want to bellow at them to be quiet, but she had no illusions as to the weight her knighthood carried. Even if she told them she was trying to save their frivolous little lives.
“Difficult enough,” the centaur finally said, “to hide London. The City itself, within the walls, that could be done; it is only a square mile or so. Since that is the part reflected in the Onyx Hall, and the power of this palace is what the Dragon craves, it might be enough.”
Irrith shook her head. “Do you really want to wager that it
will
be? It’s already burnt enough, Ktistes. I’m not going to let it do the same thing again.”
He sighed, hooves shifting restlessly, breaking the illusion of the statue. “Then will you hide the entire world? There are cities elsewhere, and faerie realms, too. You cannot be certain it will not strike the Cour du Lys, or my brethren in Greece, or folk in lands you’ve never heard of. Folk who are not prepared.”
“It might,” she admitted. That was the worry that, as the mortals said, kept her awake at night—or would, if she slept. The nervous intensity of Galen and all the rest had infected her, making sleep a luxury for later. “I don’t think it will, though.”
The centaur rarely wasted words; he merely studied her patiently, awaiting an explanation.
Biting her lip, Irrith said, “You never saw it, Ktistes. I did. I was there when it tried to eat the Onyx Hall. After it’s eaten London, it will turn somewhere else—all those other places you named. Because it can never eat enough. But it won’t move on until it has
this
place.” It had the scent—or rather the taste—like a bloodhound. And it needed no huntsman to chivvy it on.
“Then as I said before: you need not cover the entire island.”
She grinned. It was better than showing her uncertainty. “Well, I don’t want to bet it wouldn’t gobble up Oxford on its way to London. Better not to let it get a foothold, right?” The grin faded, though she tried to hold on to it. “Never mind the scale. Help me figure out
how
to do this, and then we can argue over whether it can be done so widely. What counts as clothes?”
Ktistes lifted one hand, letting the quaking leaves of an aspen trail over his fingers. “What clothes the land,” he murmured to himself.
Then his horse part swung around sharply, so that he faced his pavilion. A dazzling smile split his face. “There is your answer, Dame Irrith.”
She stared. “Your . . . pavilion?”
“Buildings! Towns. Houses, and churches, and all the things mortal kind has built upon the face of the land. Do they not clothe its nakedness?”
Irrith blinked once, then a second time. Her voice seemed to have gone missing. When she found it again, it came bearing words. “You want . . . to turn London . . .
inside out.
”
Ktistes paused, hands in midair, where he had swept them in a grand gesture. “How would that be done?” he mused. The note in his voice was pure curiosity, a clever mind given something to play with. “The Onyx Hall—but no, this place is not the inside of London, and to put it ‘outside’ would only deepen our problems. Perhaps an earthquake, though, to open the buildings themselves? We caused two some years ago, quite by accident, but if we arranged one deliberately—”