Carline waited with her arms crossed tight beneath her breasts, straining the damp fabric of her shift. Had Irrith been interested in such things, it might have been an effective distraction, but Carline hardly seemed to be trying. “Who sent you?” she demanded, before Irrith had even come to a halt.
“That doesn’t matter. So long as you tell me what I want to know, there won’t be any need for what’s in that box.” If Carline were thinking at all clearly, she would know that iron shot in a box was little threat; and loading the pistol in Irrith’s other pocket would give her time to get away. But she had been drinking a great deal—for days now, if her servant was to be believed—and fear was louder than common sense.
Carline swallowed hard. “If you shoot me . . . these are important men, you know.”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” Irrith said impatiently. “All you have to do is tell me: who are the Sanists? Not the folk who read
The Ash and Thorn
and get into fights in the Crow’s Head; I mean the leaders, the ones who are plotting. They wear glamours when they meet, but I’d wager my entire cabinet that at least a few of them were your supporters when you wanted to be Queen. Who are they?”
The tension faded minutely from her hunched shoulders at the reference to a cabinet. “Irrith?”
Blood and Bone.
She gritted her teeth. “Names, Carline. You’re leaving anyway; it doesn’t matter what you say now. I need to know who they are.”
Carline cast a swift glance over her shoulder at the others, who weren’t pretending not to watch. Kitty was whispering into George’s ear. “Nianna Chrysanthe supported me. Hafdean, who keeps the Crow’s Head. The fetch Nithen. Valentin Aspell.”
She tried to imagine any of those under the glamours at the Grecian. “Wait—Aspell? He was working with you, that long ago?”
The lady’s entire body stiffened. All artifice and pleasantry vanished.
“What do you mean, he supported you? What was he doing? Tell me!”
Muscles stood out in Carline’s lovely face, her jaw clenching tight. Her eyes blazed out of that rigid mask, as if trying to communicate by passion alone.
Irrith had to fight to draw breath. “You—you’re under an oath, aren’t you.” No response, but of course there wouldn’t be. Fae could not break their sworn words, and Carline had given hers to Aspell. Some loophole allowed her to let slip that he’d supported her—Irrith was sure that had been deliberate—but nothing more.
The sprite’s mind felt like it was moving three times faster than normal. “He did more than just encourage you. He
helped
you. In ways he didn’t dare let Lune find out about, so he made you swear.” The answer was obvious, now that she looked for it. “He told you about the London Stone.”
Carline couldn’t say anything to confirm or deny it, but her expression gave way to pity, and she put one hand on Irrith’s shoulder. “You’ve fallen into politics again, haven’t you? Poor fool. I wish you well in escaping whatever net has you now, as you escaped mine. There are some in the Onyx Hall who could stand to suffer the consequences of it.”
Irrith didn’t pull free. “But I—I was with them. The things I did, the things I told them—if I tell Lune—”
The fallen lady smiled bitterly. “Yes. Oaths are one way to bind people, but guilt is another. Betray them, and you betray yourself. Especially after your history with me, which will not look good at all. Be glad you have a merciful Queen. She will likely only exile you.”
I’ll lose London.
The thought hurt, but Irrith was fiercely glad to realize that it didn’t matter. And not because of the Dragon; even if there was no other danger, she would tell Lune. She was done helping Valentin Aspell.
“Enjoy France,” Irrith said. Then she walked very fast out of the bagnio, past the owner in his coffeehouse, and once she was out in the street she began to run.
Memory: December 21, 1705
“It’s been tried, Valentin.” Carline blew her breath out in a theatrical display of frustration. “You’re not the sort of faerie who forgets yesterday as soon as the next day begins. People have tried to usurp the throne of the Onyx Hall before, and failed.”
The serpentine lord had draped himself over her most comfortable chair in a posture that seemed to require joints where ordinary beings did not have them. “And people have also succeeded. Lune did it. Or have
you
forgotten your history? She wasn’t always Queen of this court, Carline. Have you never asked yourself how that change came about?”
Glaring at him, Carline sank gracefully onto her second-best chair. “Invidiana died. If you’re advocating regicide, you can leave my chambers now. I have no stomach for blood.”
He uncoiled his arm from the back of his seat and leaned forward with an intense air. “It doesn’t require blood. All it requires is to make the realm recognize you as its sovereign.”
She threw her head back in a laugh. The ceiling of her chamber was an intricate lacework of black stone; she addressed it whimsically. “Oh great Onyx Hall—will you make me your Queen?”
“You’re speaking to the wrong part,” Aspell said. “Surely you’ve heard the rumors. To control the Onyx Hall, you need the London Stone.”
Her laughter faded away. Carline lowered her head, and found the Lord Keeper smiling. Nervousness made her play with one of the bows that crossed her stomacher; then she made herself stop. “More easily said than done. Its location is the most closely guarded secret in this place.” She bit her lip. “Do you . . . ?”
“Know where it is? No. As you said, it’s closely guarded. The Queen and Lord Joseph know, of course. I believe the Goodemeades do as well, for all the use
that
is. Sir Cunobel and Sir Cerenel were there when Lune claimed the Hall for herself; they might know.”
The lady scowled. “Cunobel’s long since vanished into Scotland, and Cerenel—hah. You’d have better luck forcing blood from a stone.”
“And one other,” Aspell said. “More easily squeezed than a stone. Dame Irrith.”
The rustic little sprite from Berkshire. That showed real promise, Carline thought, running one fingernail over her painted lip. Unlikely that she could be persuaded or bought—but the poor, simple creature was not beyond manipulation, however much she liked to think so. Friendship would be the easiest way. Irrith distrusted courtiers, but responded well to friends.
But not if their generosity seemed too out of place. Carline fixed a suspicious eye on Valentin Aspell. “Why offer me this help?”
He shrugged and leaned back once more, this time settling into a watchful posture. “I have my reasons.”
“Come, Valentin—you needn’t be coy. We’ve sworn each other to secrecy, and I of all people am not likely to throw stones at a little naked ambition.” She rose and drew near him, trailing one hand over the shoulder of his coat. “You’re already Lord Keeper, so it must be something greater you want, that Lune will never give you . . . King, perhaps? Do you wish to rule at my side?”
He laid his fingers over her own, cool and dry. “I believe you’ll need a mortal in that position. Lune is overfond of them, but her insistence on replacing Princes as soon as possible makes me suspect there’s more to it than mere attachment.”
“That isn’t a denial.”
The light from the fireplace cast his eyes into shadow. “I have my reasons, Carline. Leave it at that.”
Doubt curled in Carline’s heart. Even with so easy a target as Irrith, there was risk. And were she to be caught, the oaths she and the Lord Keeper had sworn to each other would make it hard for her to accuse him. Once she found the London Stone for him, she might discover her use had run out.
Or something else. Aspell’s motivations had never been clear to her. He enjoyed power, but was content to bide his time until those above him precipitated their own fall. If he did anything to hasten that, she’d never caught him at it.
Until now. The change bothered her, because she didn’t know its cause.
She would have to be wary of him. Whatever game Aspell was playing, she did not intend to let it take her by surprise.
The Onyx Hall, London: March 15, 1759
“He said he intended nothing against your will.” The memory stung bitterly in her mind. “And I
believed
him.”
The elfin woman Irrith had spoken to in Dr. Andrews’s deserted laboratory was gone; the creature she faced now was every inch the Queen of the Onyx Hall. Lune sat with rigid posture, hands unnaturally still on the arms of her chair, flanked by Sir Peregrin Thorne and Dame Segraine. The Queen had listened without comment to the tale of Irrith’s involvement with the Sanists; now she sat silent a moment longer, eyes as flat and inexpressive as two silver coins.
Sir Peregrin asked coldly, “And what was your part to be in all of this?”
Irrith was already kneeling; now she ducked her chin and dug her fingers into the midnight carpet. “He—he said the idea would need to be in her Grace’s mind already, so that she’d make the decision quickly when the time came.”
A soft, sharp exhalation: the first sound Lune had made since Irrith began. “Perhaps he spoke the truth, then,” she said, with a razor edge of irony. “My will; my decision to die. Once he’d arranged for it to be so.”
“You give him too much credit, madam,” Segraine muttered. Irrith had asked her to be here for this audience. Lune might be merciful as Queens went, but Irrith wanted a friend present regardless. “He’ll have weighed Irrith to an ounce before he said anything to her. He knows she would never agree to outright regicide. But just because he said all those fine words doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hurl you into the Dragon’s maw if you decided the wrong way.”
Irrith’s gut twisted.
Still like a babe in the wood.
Still a puppet to be danced about by courtiers. Carline used friendship to snare her; Aspell had used her ideals. Pretending all the time that he wanted what she did, when in truth his treason began long before the Onyx Hall began to crumble.
She bowed her head even farther. “Your Majesty . . . what are you going to do?”
Leather creaked as Lune flexed her good hand. “Sanist sentiment is widespread in some parts of the Onyx Court. Eliminating their leading cabal won’t change that—though it would at least prevent what you’ve described. Unfortunately, Lord Valentin led my efforts to uncover that cabal. Thanks to him, we have nothing better than suspicion, and your word that he is their leader. We have no firm accusation to level against him, that would carry weight in a trial.”
What do you need a trial for? Just kill him!
But Irrith had reason to be grateful for the Queen’s sense of justice, and her mimicry of mortal customs in reaching it. “Your Grace, I meant—what are you going to do with me?”
Sir Peregrin made a brusque sound that might have been either a growl or an angry laugh. Irrith did not dare look up at Segraine. She could feel the pressure of Lune’s gaze upon her.
This is what he wanted me to be afraid of. And I am. Bad enough I went with him, but much worse that I stayed silent. That I let months go by without telling her.
“Why did you meet with the Sanists?”
Irrith could read nothing out of that question; Lune was too good at keeping her thoughts from her voice. Not that she would have had any other answer to give, regardless of the Queen’s state of mind. All she had was the truth. “Because the monarch
is
the realm. I don’t think it’s fading because you’re wounded, madam, but—I don’t know if it can be repaired so long as it has a mistress who isn’t whole.”
That was definitely a growl from Sir Peregrin. Lune, however, gave a quiet and weary reply. “Neither do I. I’m not ready to give up yet, though.”
“You shouldn’t!” It burst out without any polite address at all, and jerked Irrith upright as if someone had pulled on a string. Sitting back on her heels, hands clenching, she said, “He wants you to think you should. All of them do, all the Sanists, and they’re too eager to accept the easy answer, rather than looking for something else. But Aspell’s the heart of it. Don’t wait for a trial; give me permission, and I’ll go stab him this very moment.”
The Queen laughed, as much from startlement as anything else. “A very kind offer. Unfortunately, it’s one I can’t accept. That would make him a martyr, and encourage the others. Not only do you not have my permission, Irrith, you have our royal command that you are
not
to murder Valentin Aspell.”
Irrith hung her head. “Yes, madam.”
“As for your punishment,” Lune said, and paused.
Even though the sprite knew she should keep silent, she said it anyway. “I don’t have any right to ask for this, but—if you’re going to exile me, then please, let me stay long enough to face the Dragon.”
Sir Peregrin made a disbelieving sound. Lune said, “My subjects slip away in the night, and you ask to stay.” Despite everything, a bright edge lightened her voice. “Very well, Dame Irrith. For now, your punishment is that you are forbidden to depart until we have disposed of the Dragon. After that, we shall decide further.”
The Onyx Hall, London: March 16, 1759
The Queen forbade her to kill Aspell, but not to plot other things.
Irrith perched atop a flying buttress, watching the door to Valentin Aspell’s chambers. She’d been up there for a while, considering her options. Part of her was tempted to stab him anyway; it might be worth guaranteeing her exile, just to get rid of him.
That shouldn’t be her first move, though. At present she was contemplating breaking in and seeing what she could find, but she suspected someone had already done that on Lune’s behalf. Besides, Irrith wouldn’t know what to look for. The Lord Keeper would hardly leave a notebook lying around with
PLANS FOR TREASON
written in large letters across the top.
Sitting here made her feel better, though. More fixed upon her purpose, which was to find proof that could be used to put an end to Valentin Aspell.
Could she lie to him? Make some pretense of— no, she dismissed the thought before she even completed it. Irrith was no good at masquerade, and she knew it.