"Well, this is quite a conversation we're having," said Silverdun.
"What if we're captured alive?" asked Ironfoot. "What do we do then?"
"If one of you is taken, the others must do everything in their power to retrieve him. If, however, that is impossible, the one who's been captured must end his own life. All you need do in that situation is concentrate very carefully on dying. You will not only die, but your body will explode in a most dramatic fashion."
"Urn," said Ironfoot, "I'm not aware of any spell that allows that to happen."
"It's not a spell," said Paet.
"With no offense to Silverdun," said Ironfoot, "I have far less trouble lopping off his head than I do Sela's. I just can't imagine doing it."
Paet stared at him. "I thought you understood, I was only referring to the two of you. If Sela dies, leave her."
With that, Paet ushered them out of his office and shut the door behind them.
How great is Mab?
You might ask how deep the sea, how fiery the sun! Perfection itself bows before her.
How gracious is Mab?
Mab's grace and mercy know no limits.To her people she is a mother.To her allies a protector.To her enemies a correcting hand. Even those whom she has slain cry out their gratitude from the afterlife, thankful now their wickedness is at an end.
How wise is Mab?
Mab's wisdom knows no limits. The only thing of which she is ignorant is ignorance itself. Is there anything she has not seen? Is there any secret whose depths she has not plumbed? Look into the heart of any mystery and you shall find the Unseelie flag already planted there.
How powerful is Mab?
All power is Mab's power.All strength is her strength. No enemy can stand against her unless she suffers them to stand. In war she is unconquered and unconquerable. In persuasion, she is truth itself.
How loving is Mab?
To speak of love is to speak of Mab, for they are one and the same.
Imperial Catechism
ver the years Mab had overcome an array of foes, but the Great Enemy, the one who could never be slain, was boredom.
Mab had attempted every diversion, delved into every fantasy and fetish and addiction. She had gotten lost in music, in dance, in poetry, in cockfights, in mestina. Every pleasure to be had, she had tried: wine, men, women, children, orgies. Sweets, fox hunts, fencing, croquet. Sewing, pottery, Elemental sculpture. Each provided its small measure of diversion; each was a coal that burned bright for its season and then went cold, leaving the taste of its ash in her mouth.
For a hundred years she had tried being a man. She had lived as a hermit, as a peasant girl, as a fox in her own fox hunt. She had been and done everything there was to be and do, but it was never enough.
In order to allay her tedium, she had by virtue of necessity been forced to think big. She had wrested control of the Unseelie Lands millennia earlier, conquered all of Faerie north of the Contested Lands. She had spread her influence over worlds, even destroyed one.
The only one who had ever stood in her way was Regina Titania, and Mab both loved and hated her for that. A small part of Mab prayed that the Seelie queen would never be brought down, because then Mab would have everything; the game would end. And what then?
But Titania tested her and taunted her. The ancient rivalry was not enough. What good was a rivalry if not to win it?
Now matters had come to a head. Her new city was built. The Einswrath weapons were being cast in her Secret City. A very special girl awaited her in Estacana, though the girl didn't know it yet. All the stars were in agreement. The time was now. The final battle in the ageless war was about to be joined.
Hy Pezho, that Black Artist, had given her the means of her sure delivery from this endless fencing match. He had been a genius, a man of towering intellect, who divined the secrets that lay beyond common understanding, who opened a window into places Mab herself had never seen. And ultimately, this is likely why she had killed him. He had upset the balance. Now she had no reason not to answer her own challenge. Now she was forced to move against her ancient foe. Now the battle was, if not a foregone conclu sion, then a near certainty. Hy Pezho had, without realizing it, forced her hand.
He had tried to fool her, of course, as all ambitious men ultimately did. He believed that his genius extended to his charms and political maneuverings, which for their part were as transparent and mundane as the next man's. For that reason she had been required to condemn him to a place of infinite suffering within the belly of the wraith fel-ala. Hy Pezho's own creation. Now that was poetic.
The obvious betrayal was the reason she had been forced to get rid of him, but it was his inadvertent destruction of her status quo that had allowed her to enjoy it so much.
So the war would come, and either she or Titania would emerge victorious. There was a small chance Titania would prevail, of course. The Stone Queen, the Seelie Witch, was at least as crafty as Mab and at least as old. She would be difficult to surprise. Down through the centuries, Titania had learned as well as Mab to read the signs in the stars, the rise of nations, the glint in a man's eye.
All that was now drew inward toward a conclusion. And it was all Hy Pezho's fault. Oh, how she loved and hated him for it.
If nothing else, though, at least it wouldn't be boring.
Three Bel Zheret flowed boldly into Mab's private apartments, without knocking or having their presence announced. That was one of the privileges that she allowed them, as they were able to sense from a distance whether she was receptive to their presence at any given moment. They were tied to her with the Black Art's reflection of Empathy, and she could control them with the slightest twist of emotion; she didn't even need to be conscious of it.
Mab's personal secretary Ta-Hila started when they entered; he, of course, had no way of knowing they were coming. Mab knew that the Bel Zheret made Ta-Hila deeply uncomfortable. That was part of their job.
Dog, Cat, and Asp stood before her, without bowing. Bowing was a show of submission, and was not necessary with Bel Zheret, who were submissive to her by their very nature. Bowing would have been redundant.
"Speak," she said.
"One of the magicians in your Secret City, a Journeyer Timha, has disappeared," said Dog. "He left the city for his mother's funeral and has not returned."
"Who authorized the leave?" asked Mab.
"Master Valmin sent a pleading note to the lieutenant of the guard whose task it is to provide security for the city."
"I see."
"You wish the lieutenant to die."
"Yes. But do not kill him. There is no gain in it."
She turned to Ta-Hila. "Have the gracious lieutenant reassigned to less sensitive duties, where his generosity will reflect well upon me."
Ta-Hila nodded, making a note.
"Do you have any knowledge of journeyer Timha's whereabouts?"
"No," said Dog, smiling. "It is a mystery to us at the moment. A most meaty mystery."
Mab wished she could enjoy such uncertainty as much as her creations did. They were designed to love their jobs and never to despair. Fear and stress were great motivators to the average Fae, but they also caused mistakes, and the Bel Zheret had been crafted carefully to make as few mistakes as possible.
"This incident may perhaps explain another," said Mab. "I received word today from my contact in the Seelie government that three Shadows have been dispatched onto my soil."
"Really?" said Cat. "I would enjoy killing one of them very much. Is one of them named Paet?"
"I do not know," said Mab. "And my contact was unaware of their mission. But I believe your information provides the nature of the mission, does it not?"
The three Bel Zheret nodded in unison.
"Here is what we must do," said Mab. She gave them their instructions, and they left without being dismissed. They knew when she was finished with them.
Once certain plans had been set in motion, Dog, Cat, and Asp had treated
themselves to a righteous slaughter in the Secret City. It had been a lovely afternoon. Running, screaming. A merry chase through the bone-white streets of the Secret City. Hot blood spilling on cold white stone. Simply beautiful.
Now, Dog stood with his companions in Master Valmin's office. The few magicians who'd managed to survive their ministrations hung by their fingertips from the ceiling. Master Valmin wasn't one of them, sadly. He'd killed himself as soon as they'd arrived. That showed foresight, Dog supposed, though it certainly robbed the Bel Zheret of some fun.
All the begging and pleading was over, which was nice. Desperation wasn't pretty, wasn't aesthetically pleasing in any way. But beyond the desperation was an exquisite, ragged resignation, and that was worth the effort.
Cat was toying with one of the magicians, nibbling on his finger.
"This one is a holy man," said Cat. "I can taste it on him. Devout Chthonic, I suppose. If he were an Arcadian he'd never have made it in here."
"I like holy men," said Dog. "They have a delicate flavor to them, a certain something that's hard to define."
"Tastes like children," said Cat, between mouthfuls.
Disaster is not a tragedy. Failing to plan for disaster is the tragedy.
-Unseelie Proverb
his is madness," said Silverdun.
He, Ironfoot, and Sela stood in the center of the station known as the Locks of Mab's Glorious Union, in the heart of the Unseelie.
"I have to admit," said Ironfoot. "Silverdun has a point."
"Stop it, both of you," said Sela. "We must behave as if we're Unseelie."
"What are we supposed to do?" asked Silverdun, his eyebrow arched. "Love Mab more?"
"You know what I mean," said Sela. "We belong here. This is the center of our world, not the den of a lion."
Silverdun had been in precarious situations before-in fact it often felt as though his life were merely a lengthy series of them-but this was beyond the pale.
It was hard to believe that it was just this morning that the three of them had met in a cafe outside the Chancery Locks in the City Emerald. They'd traveled via lock to Mag Mell, from there to Annwn, and from Annwn to this place. Over the course of the day they'd gone by carriage, by boat, by horse, and probably some other means of transportation that Silverdun had forgotten. Twenty-four hours and three worlds later, they'd finally arrived.
"I don't know about either of you," said Ironfoot, "but I'm in the mood to have a nap, not to spirit away a valuable foreign thaumaturge."
"It was easy enough getting here," said Sela. "As long as everything goes to plan, we'll be back home in the morning."
"It was easy to get here because getting here was the easy part," said Silverdun. "If this Timha's been discovered missing already, then security's going to be tight everywhere we go. They'll be suspecting our presence."
"All the more reason to be as inconspicuous as possible," said Sela.
Silverdun looked at her. "Remember, Sela, it's up to you to detect any dangerous suspicions. If you feel we're in imminent danger, make a comment about the camellia blossoms."
"So easy to work into idle conversation," she said.
"Do you have a better idea?" asked Silverdun.
"No, it's fine." She smiled at him. Her smile, as always, both frightened and compelled him. "But let's change it to laurels; camellias don't bloom until the fall."
"Might I point out," said Ironfoot, his fatigue showing, "that it would have been wise to have worked this out before coming on the mission?"
Silverdun sighed. "Ah, but where would the fun be in that?"
Sela chuckled. "We're all going to die," she said. Silverdun thought she'd meant it as a joke, but if she had, it fell very, very flat.
Their Unseelie passports allowed them to book passage on a transport ship to Preyia without raising any apparent suspicion. The name of the transport was Mates Contempt.
"So," Silverdun noted, "it's not only ship owners on the Inland Sea who refuse to give their vessels comforting names."
"Hush," said Sela.
When they stepped out of the station onto the main platform, Sela couldn't believe her eyes. The rising sun glinted off a bank of clouds in the distance. Blue-gray mountains rose in the distance, and beyond the platform rocky hills stretched away as far as the eye could see.
But that was nothing compared to the ships. They ranged from tiny skiffs to enormous three-masted leviathans, their billowed sails shining in the morning light. There seemed to be hundreds of them, some at dock on the outer platform, some coming and going. The largest were almost cities themselves, their mainmasts stretching hundreds of feet into the sky, their ruddermasts depending from their hulls to dip into the clouds. In motion they looked like so many giant fish as they plied the skies.
Sela tried to hide her astonishment, noting that none of the travelers hurrying past seemed remotely awed by the spectacle. Silverdun, who had seen such things before, was less affected by them, and led the way, pulling Sela by the shoulder. A glance back at Ironfoot showed that he was also doing his best not to show his amazement.
As they walked, boys approached them offering to carry their bags, arrange them cheap passage on private vessels, sell them sweetmeats and hot buns. Voices of shipmasters and cargomen cut through the buzz of talk that surrounded them.
Silverdun led them through the crowd, waving away the boys as though none of this was in any way new to him. As they approached the outer platform across a wide bridge, a warm breeze blew up from below, lifting up Sela's skirts, and she realized why she'd been instructed by Paet to wear the form-fitting underskirt.
From behind her, she felt Ironfoot's momentary titillation at seeing her calf and smiled. The thread that connected her to Ironfoot was a pleasant thing. He found her pretty and liked her, but that was all. His roving eye found most every other young woman at Blackstone House, but he respected her role as a colleague. At least that's how she interpreted the sensations she took from him. She tried her hardest not to invade his privacy with her talents.
Silverdun, of course, she could not read at all.
Mali's Contempt lay moored directly ahead. It was a long, narrow craft, with a single mast. Sela knew little about ships, but it appeared to have been built for speed: all clean lines, streamlined. It looked fast, anyway.
They showed their tickets to a man standing in front of the ship. He glanced at the tickets and waved them up the ramp that led to the ship's main deck without even looking at their faces.
"Enjoy your journey," he muttered as they passed.
On board they wound their way through a tangle of deckhands and dock workers busy stowing the ship's cargo. A few soldiers, in uniform but on leave, lingered abovedecks, smoking at the ship's prow. A family with a quartet of young children were making their way belowdecks. Silverdun waved Sela down the narrow stairs behind them, taking her handbag from her.
"After you, my darling," he said. Their cover story was that she and Silverdun were newlyweds; he was a bookkeeper and she was the daughter of an innkeeper. Ironfoot was Silverdun's brother. They were returning from a holiday in Mag Mell. Sela had found the whole thing terribly romantic when Silverdun had first come up with the idea, but the reality of it left her feeling a bit pathetic, her awkward fantasy coming to life as a mere illusion.
At the bottom of the steps, Silverdun put his arm around her. It felt good, but Sela couldn't decide whether she was enjoying herself or not.
The main cabin consisted of a few dozen rows of plush leather seats. Wide windows were set into the hull, admitting bright shafts of morning sunlight. Silverdun led them to the rear of the cabin, where they sat facing the young family.
"Good day to you all," said the husband, a friendly fellow with smiling eyes. His wife nodded to them and went back to tending the children.
Sela eased into her seat and suddenly felt the weight of their travels come down on her. Before Mab''r Contempt even slipped its moorings, she was asleep.
Sela kn
ows from books that a Fae girl's sixteenth birthday is special. It is the day she becomes a woman. The crones have promised her a fantastic gift for her birthday, and Sela can't wait to see what it is. The only other gift she's ever received was the mechanical bird that Lord Tanen brought her, the one he crushed beneath his boot. She has asked the crones if this gift will be like that, but they scoffed at her and told her to stop being foolish. Girls like her don't have birthdays.
The day comes and Sela awakes early, with the sun. She dresses in one of the special gowns, the ones that the crones have shown her how to wear. For dances in the city. She has been taught how to match shoes and earrings, how to put her hair up in glamoured combs, and how to apply the paint to her lips and eyelids. She knows quadrille and farandole and tarantella, and how to hold a fan. All of these things will someday be useful, but she doesn't know why.
Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow Page 27