Ink & Sigil

by Kevin Hearne

  Ye’d better not die, by Lhurnog.

  Sacrifice a bit of whisky to him for me?

  Done.

  I switched to text-to-speech for Buck. [While I’m gone to meet Clíodhna, it wouldn’t surprise me if she sent another attack at you.]

  “Aye, MacBharrais. I’ll stay here.”

  [But it might not be Fae coming after you this time. She has the ability to contract with other parties.]

  “What other parties?”

  [You name it, she can probably find a way to hire them to kill you. It could be a human with a gun. It could be a demon with a five-foot-long spiked tongue.]

  “Oh, aye, that’s about as cheerful as a pair of bollocks on a biscuit. Thanks, MacBharrais.”

  [Don’t answer the door.]

  “I won’t.”

  [I mean don’t ask Who’s there? or have the telly on. No sound to let them know ye’re here.]

  “What? I cannae watch telly? What am I supposed tae do, then?”

  [Read.]

  “For fun? Oh, I’ve heard of that.” He waggled a finger at me and grinned knowingly. “That’s kinky, that is. What ye got?”

  I gave him my copy of the The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett and hoped he would enjoy it. Then I exited, waited to hear him lock the door behind me, and headed to Gin71.

  Harrowbean smiled at me when I entered and made a small jerk of her head to her right. I followed her direction and saw a human male sitting at the bar, his mouth open and just staring at her, besotted.

  “He’d rob a bank for me if I told him I needed a few pounds,” she said.

  “Too right I would,” the man said.

  “Good tae see ye, Al,” she said. “Go ahead and have a seat and I’ll come get yer order.”

  I nodded and picked a table far away from the bar. Since the man entranced with her would be paying attention to her every move, she wanted to make sure she could speak to me out of earshot, and I appreciated the quick thinking.

  She came over and I explained what I needed via text-to-speech, which I didn’t play out loud but simply held in front of her so she could read it:

  Clíodhna has requested a meeting through my office. Please tell her she is awaited here now and escort her if she wishes. Separately—perhaps first—inform Coriander and ask him to bear witness so that Clíodhna doesn’t consider violence.

  Harrowbean nodded but then looked back at the man sitting at the bar, whose gaze was firmly affixed to her buttocks. If she exited the building and took the Old Way in Virginia Court to Tír na nÓg, he’d watch every step until she disappeared, and we couldn’t have that.

  [Go,] I texted. [I’ll take care of him.]

  She exited, and I walked up to the man and held my official ID in front of his eyes, which were still following Harrowbean until I interrupted. If he wanted to obsess over faeries, I’d help him out with that. “Go home and memorize the full text of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You’ve always wanted to. Never come back here. Maybe do a three-day juice cleanse.”

  “Great idea,” he said, and he promptly fell off his stool in his haste to leave. But he left out the side door without looking at Harrowbean, so that’s all I needed. I’d settle up his bill later.

  It took ten minutes for Harrowbean to return, and when she did, she looked relieved that the man was gone.

  [Bill me for his,] I said via text, and a couple of minutes later she came back with my customary Pilgrim’s and Coriander’s favorite as well. The herald himself joined me in my booth less than a minute later.

  “Sláinte,” he said, and we drank. “What news? I imagine we have little time.”

  [The Fae that Clíodhna has trafficked here are being altered to remove their vulnerability to iron. They’re being controlled by a man in the United States named Simon Hatcher. He confirmed that Clíodhna is behind it, through he’s only dealt with bean sídhe go-betweens. But that’s two witnesses naming her in this scheme.]

  “Brighid will not be pleased to hear of Fae immune to iron. How are they doing this?”

  [We don’t know that, or where they’re doing it, though we suspect it’s somewhere here or in England, since Gordie would have needed to control them until it was done. The American lacks imagination, so he is using them to attack Russian targets. We killed the troll in Virginia, but there’s still a leprechaun, clurichaun, fir darrig, undine, and pixie altered in the same way.]

  Coriander opened his mouth to reply but I shook my head, forestalling him, for Clíodhna had stepped into Virginia Court via the Old Way and was approaching the entrance to Gin71.

  I had never met her before, but I knew when she appeared in the court that she couldn’t be anyone else. Goddesses do have a tendency to look divine. Plus, in the same way that Harrowbean and Coriander wore clothes more befitting the Victorian era than the modern one, she wore a waistcoat over a long-sleeved shirt with a grey string tie underneath her high collar. The waistcoat was white with a paisley pattern sewn in silver thread that caught the light and winked and shimmered as she moved, and I saw hints that the back was entirely silver. She wore trousers white enough to strike me snow blind, and her high-heeled boots were similarly white and spotless. She looked like she belonged on a runway in Milan, from the black hair artfully arranged to the smoky edges around her glittering dark eyes, including the haughty expression and arched eyebrows. She had three silver rings piercing her right one.

  Upon her entrance, she caught the eyes of Harrowbean and nodded once in greeting. The bartender nodded back and pointed to our booth, and that’s when Clíodhna turned her head and saw us. Her expression was carefully neutral as we rose to greet her, but it lingered on Coriander. Clearly she had not expected him to be there.

  She took several elegant steps in our direction and spoke English with a pleasant Irish lilt. “Mr. MacBharrais, I presume? And Coriander, Herald Extraordinary. What a surprise.”

  We both bowed and welcomed her and invited her to join us.

  “I was under the impression I would be speaking with Mr. MacBharrais in private,” she said. “I have some words for his ears alone.”

  Coriander reached back to the table for his drink and drained it, gorgeously. If it had been filmed and broadcast, it would have sold any clear liquid at premium prices. Water, vodka, turpentine—it didn’t matter. Watching him made one both thirsty and feel sated. When he finished, he set down his glass before speaking.

  “Very well. But be aware that I will check on Mr. MacBharrais afterward. Brighid wishes him to remain in good health and under no threats, however veiled. And the same goes for his hobgoblin. I gently, respectfully suggest you allow him to speak candidly to you and that you speak candidly in return and think carefully before you act. I doubt you would wish to have a similarly candid conversation with Brighid in front of the Fae Court.”

  “A conversation regarding what, exactly?”

  “Regarding contact with the American Simon Hatcher. The corruption of Gordon Graham. The unauthorized distribution of ink recipes and sigils. And attempts to grant the Fae immunity to iron.” She began to respond, but Coriander held up a hand. “Best not reply. I will ask you to tell me three times, and a refusal to speak truth at this juncture could prove disastrous.”

  Clíodhna confined herself to a tight-lipped grin. “You are considerate for speaking so frankly, Herald. I wish you a good day.”

  He bowed again and took his leave. The Queen of the Bean Sídhe watched him disappear into Tír na nÓg before sitting down with me.

  “It would appear we have much to discuss,” she said as she slid into the booth. “Starting with that ambush. I did not expect to arrive here and be accused of such things.”

  “I did not expect you to be behind this either. In case this goes on for a while, I will need to use an application on my phone to speak, because of a curse laid on my heid years ago.�
� In truth I didn’t need to worry about it triggering on a first meeting, but I did welcome the excuse to slow down and speak precisely.

  “Ah, yes. I heard you were cursed. Having just experienced the way you greet people, it’s little wonder.”

  I switched to my phone. [Did you have anything to do with the curse laid on my head, or do you have any idea or knowledge of who may have done it?] One had to phrase questions carefully to the Tuatha Dé Danann, since they would seize upon any loophole to avoid answering. But in this case, the reply was unequivocal.

  “No. I bear no responsibility for your curse and know nothing of who may have put it there, not even a rumor. I tell you three times. Should you wish to discuss earning additional curses in the future, we can do that.”

  Harrowbean arrived to ask Clíodhna if she’d like anything to drink, and while the faery consulted with the goddess over which flavor profiles she might enjoy, I took the time to compose my next words. When the bartender departed with an order, I pressed PLAY.

  [Why did you cook up this scheme to render the Fae immune to iron?]

  Clíodhna snorted. “I hardly cooked up anything.” That was the sort of response I expected: A typical dodge was to seize upon a couple of words and dispute them rather than the spirit of the question. It was a marked contrast to the flat denial and oath of truth in response to my question about curses. She leaned forward the tiniest bit. “Let’s backtrack, because I’ve missed quite a few miles of road if this is where we’re at. Why do you think I’m responsible for the host of crimes of which Coriander accused me?”

  She leaned back in her seat after that and took in the room, which was largely empty apart from a couple of tables. The evening rush was still hours away. Harrowbean returned with her drink and Clíodhna smiled graciously at her, but the smile disappeared as she turned her gaze back to me and raised her glass sardonically before taking a sip.

  [It began with a hobgoblin named Gag Badhump, who said you offered him a fraudulent contract for service to be signed and sealed by me.]

  “Pssh. Nobody trusts hobgoblins, for good reason.”

  [The reason is they’re incorrigible thieves. They are not very skilled at lying or knowing when they’re being lied to. But that’s not all I have. Simon Hatcher named you under a Sigil of Reckoning Truth, witnessed by both myself and another sigil agent. Why would an American ever pull the name of Clíodhna out of his arse unless it was a fact? He was raised in an education system that doesn’t cover the Fae at all except for Shakespeare’s Oberon and Titania.]

  The goddess shrugged. “Ye can’t trust Americans either. Look at this planet we’re on. Look at it! Cocked up beyond all recognition. Americans did that. I hear it’s because they’re all on drugs, ye know, and about a third of them are afraid of melanin.”

  I sighed in exasperation. Another non-answer. [Hatcher received a written ink recipe from a banshee, which he gave to my apprentice, and that—indeed, this entire scheme of trafficking Fae—would not have happened without your instruction.]

  “I don’t know this entire scheme you speak of. And I’m not responsible for everything the bean sídhe do.”

  Ah, yes, the standard god dodge: I’m not responsible for my minions. [We can find out from the bean sídhe exactly what you were responsible for.]

  That elicited a wry grin. “I’m certain you’ll not find a single bean sídhe who will corroborate your wild theories, Mr. MacBharrais. And neither will Brighid. Since you have absolutely no proof that I have done anything wrong and won’t be able to find any, I strongly yet respectfully suggest you cease making accusations.”

  I’d been waiting for her to say something along those lines. There was, in the end, absolutely nothing meaningful I could do against a goddess. If she felt threatened enough, she could easily kill me and make sure my body was never found. It would be inconvenient for her but not a serious challenge. My path to victory lay in pointing out a convenient alternative.

  [I could do that, sure. Except that hobgoblin is now in my service and someone keeps trying to kill him. First with barghests and then with an ogre named Durf. If there is no proof of wrongdoing to be found, as you say, then my hobgoblin should be able to live without fear, don’t you think?]

  “Ha!” Cupping her goblet of gin in one hand, she idly twirled the ice around in it as she cocked her head at me, thinking something through. I waited patiently until she made a decision, drained the glass, and then set it down, clapping her hands together once and rubbing them together. “So!” she said. “Let me see if I understand. I’m speaking entirely in hypotheticals, now.”

  I nodded and encouraged her to continue.

  “If the person who did all these things you’ve been talking about—trafficking Fae, sharing secret ink recipes, and so on—were to simply stop doing them and cease trying to kill a thieving hobgoblin, then you would, what? Stop looking into the matter? Withdraw your accusations?”

  [In broad terms, yes. This hypothetical person has Brighid’s attention, you see. The First among the Fae is aware of the investigation and is quite curious to know whether she will need to get involved. She would most likely react poorly to the Fae becoming immune to iron.]

  “Ye really think so?” Clíodhna said with her brows knitted together, but then she exploded with laughter. “Of course she would. It threatens a primary lever of control.” She wound down then and traced her finger around the rim of her now-empty glass. “Hypothetically, then, a strategic withdrawal would be best.”

  [Agreed. No one loses face. The hypothetical mastermind becomes aware they have placed a toe over the line and prudently steps back behind it before anything truly unpleasant occurs. And my hobgoblin, instructed by me to remain silent on the matter, will be able to serve me on earth and in all the Fae planes without looking over his shoulder.]

  The Queen of the Bean Sídhe nodded. “Ye know what, Mr. MacBharrais? I feel very strongly that everything will happen just as ye said. This hypothetical person will step back from this Fae-trafficking business and your hobgoblin will be safe.”

  [Hypothetically safe?]

  “Really, truly safe. So long as this hypothetical person is also not threatened. As I said, I feel it will happen and that is a truth. I tell ye three times. That is the best I can do.”

  [Then I feel it shall happen also.] That right there was victory. At least a partial one, and I felt proud because I’d managed to talk a goddess out of doing harm to my hobgoblin. But I couldn’t seem smug about it or she’d slay me for being insolent.

  “Good. Then I will take my leave and remember your kindness for the drink. I will remember everything else too, of course. That is not a threat, ye understand: It is simply a fact. I have captured Brighid’s attention for many years to come because of your efforts. And so you have captured mine.”

  She rose from the table and I hurriedly typed out another question.

  [What about Hatcher and the Fae he’s corrupted?]

  “I thought we established that I had nothing to do with that?” She chuckled at what must have been evident dismay on my face. “Come, Mr. MacBharrais, there are only so many problems ye can solve over a single drink. I mean, well done, lad, ye pulled on a thread and unraveled a good lot, and ye’re wise enough to have a chat with me before doing something unforgivable. That alone sets ye apart from most humans. Ye have my respect, and I imagine ye play a mean game of chess. But the rest of this ye will have to confront outside the confines of a gin bar. And someday, Tír na nÓg will have to confront the fact that the Fae don’t have to live in fear of iron if they don’t want to.” She raised a hand and waggled it goodbye at me. “Slán agat.”

  Something clicked into place for me—not a puzzle piece so much as a raw dose of empathy, a recognition that, in at least one sense, Clíodhna and I might be exactly the same.

  “Is all this because—” I said aloud, then realized that I�
��d forgotten to use my app. And perhaps forgotten my good sense. It wasn’t necessary to pursue this.

  Except I wanted to know.

  “Because what?” Clíodhna said.

  I looked around at the bar and rose from the booth. There was Harrowbean, of course, and some cooks in the kitchen, and a couple of other patrons. But what I had to say was for Clíodhna’s ears alone. She would never answer me where others could hear.

  I gestured to the empty cobblestones of Virginia Court. “May I ask ye one more question, in private?”

  She cocked her head, considering, then nodded once and preceded me out the door. She moved to the side as I came out beside her and waited for the door to close.

  “What is it?” She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead at the wall of a building across the court. I adopted the same pose. It was not going to be a conversation for eye contact. It would be safer that way, and somehow we both knew it.

  “My wife passed some years ago in a motor accident,” I said. “And not a single day since that time has been so fine as the worst day when she was alive and with me. I have thought on more than one occasion that if there was some way I could bring her back, no matter how insane the trial tae make it happen, no matter how long it would take to get it done, I would do it. I would walk into Hades like Orpheus did to bring back Eurydice. I have that will inside ma breast. Because I swear tae ye the light of her smile warmed me more than the sun ever did. Even the memory of it is proof against the cold. And so I wonder, Clíodhna.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hypothetically: Do ye think someone wants the Fae tae be proof against iron because they yearn for the old days? I mean the days of the Bronze Age, when iron held no sway and the Tuatha Dé Danann roamed the earth with the Fae as freely as humans do? And they’re thinking, If I can make the Fae immune to iron, then it will be like turning back the clock. It will be like reversing the worst thing that’s ever happened in the world. Because I would understand that. I want tae reverse the worst thing in the world too.”