The Spy Who Haunted Me sh-3

by Simon R. Green

  I strode forward off the docks, heading straight for the nearest rank of elves. They stood firm before me, an implacable wall. I still didn’t armour up, but I did lift my chin just a little, so they could clearly see the torc around my neck. At the very last moment, the elves stepped gracefully to one side, leaving a narrow gauntlet for me to walk through. I kept my face carefully calm and composed, as though I’d expected nothing else. I could hear the others hurrying behind me and hoped they were putting on a good show. There were limits to how much I could hope to protect them in this world.

  I could feel the steady pressure of the elves’ regard as I walked through their massed ranks. It’s not easy, walking through a crowd of people, any of whom might kill you in a moment, for any reason, or none. The skin on my back crawled in anticipation of an attack that never came. I could sense as much as feel my companions all but treading on my heels, crowding in close behind me.

  And then the ranks of elves fell away abruptly, revealing a great and wondrous city. Miles and miles of buildings like works of art, like dreams cast in stone and marble and other things. Dreams, and nightmares. I led the way through the massive central gate carved from the skull of a dragon. A single skull bigger than a house. All the teeth had been yanked out of its long jaws, and the empty eye sockets were crammed with strange alien flowers. They writhed and hissed at me as I passed by them, my attention fixed on the city.

  The streets were wide and wandering. Distorted buildings towered to every side, all of them different, individual, diseased, like the cunning dreams of a mad mind. Their shapes were basically organic but sick and harsh and even distressing to merely human eyes. Like they might have been grown as much as put together. Most of the shapes made no sense to my human eyes and aesthetics. And they moved, all of them, subtly changing, only ever still when looked at directly. Only fully real when actively perceived. I thought about quantum states and observer’s intent, and then tried hard not to think about it at all.

  In a small open square we passed by an elf who had been made into a statue and forced to function as a fountain. Water gushed from his open eyes and mouth, but I could still make out enough of his face to know he was still alive, and aware, and suffering. Later, we passed by a heap of severed hands, piled up as tall as a man, with all the fingers still twitching. The impact of the overbright sun beat down on my head, and my bare skin stung and smarted from the light, as though exposed to strange alien radiations.

  A dragon flew by overhead. Not the ugly wyrms the elves ride when they come to earth, but the real thing: vast and glorious, bigger than a jumbo jet, with wings so huge and wide they hardly moved as the dragon flew past. Very beautiful, and very deadly. Half a dozen dragons could take out any human city. Fortunately, there aren’t half a dozen of them left anymore.

  We stopped abruptly to let a huge beast go by: a great unnatural creature with skin stretched so tight you could see the organs pulsing within. It strode on long stiltlike legs, and elves rode on its back. They beat at its pulpy head with long barbed sticks and laughed musically as it moaned. Small scuttling things stuck to the shadows of side streets, trying not to be noticed. And now and again the walls I passed would have pulsing veins or eyes that opened, or they would slowly melt away. I kept looking straight ahead. It helps if you have an aim, a destination to concentrate on. The human mind isn’t equipped to deal with a world where there are no certainties or constraints and not a damned thing on which you can depend.

  Honey moved forward to walk beside me. Behind me, I could hear Walker murmuring comfortingly to Peter. Of course the elf world wouldn’t bother Walker; he was used to the Nightside.

  “You’ve been here before, Eddie,” said Honey. Her voice was steady but strained. “What are the protocols for meeting the Queen?”

  “Damned if I know,” I said. “It’s always different here and in the Fae Court. The city didn’t look anything like this the last time I was here. The sea and the sky weren’t those colours. The Elven Lands are always changing. They like it that way. I suppose when you’re immortal, you can get tired of things pretty quickly.”

  “I thought you said they weren’t immortal,” said Honey.

  “They’re not, but they might as well be. Either way, don’t tell them they’re not immortal. They tend to take it rather badly.”

  “What brought you here before? I thought you were just a London field agent.”

  “I was,” I said. “But you go where family needs you to go. A few years back, an elf called Peaseblossom came to London and misbehaved himself on a rather grander scale than usual. My family got word he’d been abducting small children and carrying them away; easy enough to do with his glamour. I was sent after him to get the children back, but by the time I tracked down his squalid little lair, he’d already eaten three of them.” I stopped for a moment, remembering the cold rage, the bitter helplessness . . . “I was ready to kill him on sight, but there are ancient pacts between the Droods and the Fae. The best I could do was find him, kick the crap out of him, and then send him back to the Fae Court for punishment.

  “But then things got complicated . . . It turned out Peaseblossom hadn’t come to London for children. They were just appetisers. He was on his way to the Old Soul Market in Crouch End Towen. The fool.

  “Elves don’t have souls. Not as such. Or at least nothing we’d recognise as a soul. Peaseblossom wanted to buy one for himself. Not as difficult as you’d think, and not actually a problem in itself, but . . . the Old Soul Market is almost as ancient as the elves, and the proprietors didn’t take kindly to discovering that Peaseblossom thought he could just waltz in and demand their very best merchandise and expect to pay on credit. So they mugged and rolled him, locked him in a cage, and made arrangements to sell his stuffed and mounted corpse to the Collector. (Apparently Peaseblossom was considered a collector’s item because he’d been name-checked in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.) Which was fine by me, but I was ordered to get the elf out and take him home before he started a war. So I went down into the London Warrens and the Subterranean Ways and retrieved Peaseblossom via my usual blend of calm reason, calculated diplomacy, and applied mayhem. And was he grateful? What do you think? So I beat the crap out of him on general principles and took him home to the Fae Court.”

  “You do get around, don’t you?” said Honey. “So the elves are beholden to you? They owe you, for your help?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “It’s more complicated than that. It always is, with elves.”

  “It always is with you,” said Walker, appearing suddenly on my other side. “Why did you kill all those elves, Eddie?”

  “Because they were trying to kill me,” I said. “It was an honest enough fight; no one cheated more than usual. But still, there are many here who would just love to watch me die slowly and horribly. Except they can’t kill me, because then they’d never be able to pay me back the favour they owe.”

  “But if they tried to kill you before . . .” said Honey.

  “I was rogue then,” I said. “Disowned by my family. Fair game. Now that I’m a Drood again and back in good standing with my family, they can’t touch me. Unless they can find a way to justify it to themselves. Elf honour is . . . complicated. Remember, everyone: once we get to the Fae Court, don’t eat or drink anything they offer you, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to directly, and don’t start anything. Leave that to me. And above all don’t try to have sex with them or you’ll be carrying your genitals home in a bag.”

  “Was that last bit really necessary?” said Walker.

  “You’d be surprised,” I said. “Okay, people; look sharp and cool and very confident. We’re here.”

  We had come at last to Caer Dhu, the last great castle of Faerie, brought here in its entirety from our world, long and long ago. Caer Dhu, home to the Unseeli Court and the rulers of Faerie. Once, and for many, many years, that had been King Oberon and Queen Titania, but if Queen Mab really was back . . . then just maybe the returned
Queen had had new thoughts about the old pacts that bound the Droods and the Fae.

  From the outside, Caer Dhu looked like a huge golden crown: a massive raised dome surrounded by hundreds of golden spikes reaching up into the sky. And on those spikes, transfixed and impaled, hundreds of elves. Still alive, still suffering, their golden blood steaming endlessly down the long spikes, collecting in the guttering and gushing from the mouths of screaming gargoyle faces. Elves are very hard to kill, but that’s not always a good thing. Above the entrance, a dozen lesser spikes held up severed elf heads. The faces were still alive and aware, and their mouths moved when they saw us approach, as through trying to warn or curse us.

  That’s civil war for you. There are always fallen heroes, leaders of the losing side who must be publicly punished as an example to others. And the elves know all there is to know about punishment.

  I held my head up high and strode into the Unseeli Court as though I had every right to be there and an engraved invitation that promised free drinks. Honey and Walker and even Peter took their cues from me and strode along beside me with their noses in the air. Inside Caer Dhu, it was dark. The only dark place in the Elven Lands. The Fae Court was huge and empty, barely visible through the gloom. A single shaft of sparkling light slammed down like a spotlight, illuminating two Ivory Thrones standing on a raised dais at the back of the court. A huge dark form sat on the left-hand throne, but the other was empty.

  I strode across the great empty space, heading for the thrones, and the others hurried along with me. Despite the open space, our footsteps didn’t echo at all. The farther into the court I went, the bigger it seemed to get. Crossing the open space seemed to last forever, but finally I came to a halt at the base of the dais and looked defiantly up at the ghastly dark figure on its throne. Before I could say anything, I heard a faint sound behind me and looked back. The great open space of the court was now crammed from wall to wall with rank upon rank of silently watching elves. Thousands of them. I swallowed hard and looked back at the throne. No Oberon, no Titania, not even a sign of the Puck, the only elf who was not perfect. Instead Queen Mab sat on the Ivory Throne, wreathed in shadows, so much larger than life and a thousand times more dreadful.

  Four elves emerged unhurriedly out from behind the second, empty throne. They draped themselves insolently across it and smiled at me. Mab’s current favourites. I knew their names from my previous visit. Peaseblossom, arrogant as ever. His child and lover, Mustardseed. And Cobweb and Moth, enforcers sent occasionally into the human world to do necessary dirty work. I wouldn’t have chosen any of them as my favourites, but no doubt they had their uses.

  Peaseblossom remembered me. He scowled fiercely, but I ignored him, ostentatiously giving all my attention to the Elven Queen while I tried to figure out what was the matter with the Fae Court. It felt wrong. Too big, too large, stretched thin like old skin, like something forced to serve a purpose long after it should have been retired and replaced.

  After all this time, were the elves really getting old?

  “I am Eddie Drood,” I said loudly. My voice seemed such a small thing in such a large place. “I am here to speak with the Queen of the Fae.”

  “We know who you are,” said Cobweb in a voice like dust.

  “We hate you,” said Peaseblossom in a voice like splintering ice.

  “You’re expected,” said Moth in a voice like the end of the day.

  “Hate you forever and ever,” said Mustardseed in a voice like dying friends.

  “Queen Mab will have words with you,” said Cobweb.

  “Won’t that be nice?” said Moth.

  In the end, their voices all sounded the same: like evil or insane children pretending to be polite, knowing that something really nasty has been planned and is being held in reserve.

  “How could they be expecting us?” said Honey. “We didn’t know we were coming here just a few hours ago.”

  “They know because they’re elves,” I said.

  “Is this bad?” said Peter.

  “It’s not good,” I said. “But then, I never thought it would be.”

  Queen Mab leaned forward on her throne, and we all stopped talking. The darkness fell away from her like a discarded cloak, and the sheer impact of her appearance was like a slap in the face. Mab was huge, greater in size and scale than any other elf. Ten feet tall, supernaturally slender and glamorous, naked save for blue-daubed signs and sigils glowing fiercely against her iridescent pearly skin. She was beautiful beyond bearing, personifying power and authority. I couldn’t have looked away if I’d wanted to. Her eyes were pure gold, with no pupil. Her mouth was a deep crimson, the red of heart’s blood, red as sin itself. Queen Mab was a first-generation elf, and it showed. There are records at Drood Hall, in the Extremely Restricted section of the old library, that suggest she might be older than the Nightside, older than humanity itself. Perhaps even older than our world . . . But then, you can’t trust anything you read, when it comes to elves.

  No one knows how or why Mab was removed from power and replaced by Oberon and Titania. It’s dangerous even to ask.

  Queen Mab looked down on me and my companions like an artist considering early sketches and wondering whether they should be erased. Meeting her gaze was like staring into a searchlight. One wrong word and she’d kill me with just a gesture. But I’m a Drood, and we don’t take shit from anyone.

  “So, Mab, how’s it going?” I said pleasantly. “Getting much?”

  There was an audible stirring among the massed ranks of elves behind me and angry hissings from the four favourites grouped at Mab’s feet. They actually started to rise up, flexing their clawed hands, only to stop abruptly at some unheard command from their Queen. They sank reluctantly back, curling around her pale feet like sulky pets. The Queen did not move, did not look away, didn’t even seem to be breathing. But another elf stepped out from behind her throne, coming forward to the edge of the dais to look down on me. He was tall, long-limbed, clad in diaphanous silks, his skin so pale as to be almost translucent. Long-stemmed roses plunged in and out of his skin, the heavy-thorned stems skewering his flesh. They wrapped around his limbs and plunged through his torso, and from deep inside the points of the thorns rose and fell, rose and fell, breaking his skin again and again. Golden blood dripped endlessly. And one great white rose blossomed from his left eye socket, completely replacing the eye. As I watched, the tips of thorns pressed up against the underside of his face, threatening and then retreating, biding their time.

  I couldn’t even imagine the kind of agony he must be in, but his step was sure and certain as he descended from the dais to face me, and when he spoke, his voice never wavered once.

  “I am the Herald,” he said, fixing me with his one golden eye. “Mab’s Herald. I speak for her to lesser things. And yes, I am being punished, for sins beyond your comprehension. Or appreciation. Still, it is good to have you here, Drood. It’s been so long since we had anything human to torment.”

  I armoured up and took him out with one punch to the head. His skull broke audibly under the impact of my golden fist, and he sat suddenly down, as though someone had pulled the floor out from under him. Start as you mean to go on, I always say. The massed ranks of elves stirred again, and the four favourites hissed with rage, but Queen Mab raised one perfect hand and immediately all was still and silent again. The Herald rose slowly to his feet, the bones of his head creaking and cracking as they moved slowly back into place. Golden blood ran steadily down the side of his face and dripped off the lobe of his pointed ear. The blow would have killed anyone else, but elves are hard to kill. You couldn’t slow an elf down with a wrecking ball. Not in their own world.

  “I am Edwin Drood,” I said flatly to Queen Mab, ignoring the Herald. “The Droods are bound to the Fae, and the Fae to the Droods, by ancient pact and treaty. Or have the elves forsaken honour?”

  “The elves are honour,” said Queen Mab in a slow heavy voice like poisoned honey, as though she w
as half dreaming. “More than can ever be said for humankind. But be you welcome to our lands, Edwin Drood, and your companions. Do keep them under control. If they make a mess we’ll have them disciplined.”

  “They’re with me,” I said. “And therefore protected by the Drood protocols.”

  “Speak,” said Queen Mab, neither agreeing nor disagreeing for the moment.

  “You did not inform us of your return, Your Majesty,” I said carefully. “We would have sent envoys to welcome you home.”

  “We have returned,” said Queen Mab. “Let all the worlds tremble and all that live beware.”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “Quite. So, what’s happened to Oberon and Titania?”

  “Is that what you came here to ask, Drood?”

  “No; just making conversation.”

  “They are gone. Mention them not in our presence.”

  “All right,” I said. “Where have you been, Your Majesty? You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Oberon sent us away.” Her dark red mouth widened slowly in a terrible smile. She had the look of the Devil contemplating a new sin. “He really should have had us killed, but he always was too sentimental for his own good. It took us a long time to claw our way back and take our long-anticipated revenges on all those who betrayed us . . .”

  “Where did he send you?” I said, honestly interested. “Where could he send someone of your undoubted power?”

  “Where all the bad things go, little Drood. He sent us to Hell. Damned us to the Pit, to endure the eternal Inferno.” She was still smiling her awful smile, her golden eyes fixed on me. And even inside my impenetrable armour, I could feel beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. “While we were in Hell, little Drood, during our long sojourn in the Houses of Pain, we met your precious witch, Molly Metcalf. Such a sweet little thing. Shall we inform you of the deals she made, of all the awful things she agreed to, in return for power?”