Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  “This boy here—” he burst out. “A real stroke of luck, sir—this boy has—”

  Cavendish swung the poker round, striking the boy sharply just below the knee. It happened so suddenly that at first Nora couldn’t understand what had happened. She saw the villain turn and Knitted-cap crumple; she heard the snap of the child’s shin bone and his sharp cry of pain and surprise.

  “Did I ask you to bring him—to bring anyone—here?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He only let out a little grunt, while gritting his teeth to keep from screaming.

  Cavendish swayed drunkenly on his feet. He poked halfheartedly at the boy’s leg with the poker’s pointy tip as if he were still stirring embers. His countenance had changed completely. All relaxation had gone from his face, his brow was tensed and drawn down over his eyes, his lips curled back, the tips of the pampered mustache jutting out at an extreme angle. He stared down at the writhing boy with a look of abject horror and revulsion.

  The other boy’s eyes bulged at sight of the poker still wavering in Cavendish’s hand. He darted forward, then back, as if at war with his impulse to explain further. Knitted-cap had curled himself into a ball on the floor, his injured leg sticking straight out, rocking back and forth. His breathing was fast and heavy. Driven by either an irresistible impulse to explain himself or a sudden desire for apparent suicide, the other boy stepped over his friend to approach the fire.

  “Beg p-p-p—beg your sardon—beg pardon sir,” he stammered. “But this boy has a wealthy patron. He wants t—to place bets—substantial bets. If only you’d—” He stopped mid-sentence as if he’d been struck.

  The dog—a shaggy mongrel with a dirty gray coat—had circled around to glare at Nora. Its face was scratched and scarred in several places and its nose half-torn away. It had the meanest eyes Nora had ever seen—on man or beast. Their reddish glow seemed as likely to be lit by demonic fire rather than reflected firelight.

  The dog growled tentatively, but even a tentative growl from such a beast was startling to Nora. Dogs knew things, especially when it came to faeries. She hadn’t been warned what to do about that.

  Chapter 17

  Cavendish scowled at Nora. “What is your patron’s address?”

  His gaze was so fierce she blurted out the number of Threadneedle’s building in Pennington Street. Was that right? No. A moment later, she remembered they’d agreed upon a fictitious address in Covington to use as a cover story. Between the snarling dog and the horrid man, she’d panicked.

  “Name?”

  Too late now. She’d have to give the real name now, though it was in reality no more real, she realized, than the one they had manufactured for this purpose.

  “Mr. Richard Templeton.”

  Cavendish’s head tilted upward as if consulting some detailed property listing printed on the gilded ceiling.

  The dog growled again, causing Cavendish to glance down at it. The damned thing kept snarling at Nora, nostrils flaring. Cavendish nudged it in the flank with a polished boot tip. The dog refused to budge.

  Nora stomped her foot. “Get ‘way! Rotten mutt! I’ll give yer a swift kick, right as rain.”

  Cavendish turned his attention back to Nora, studying her false face with renewed suspicion. Threadneedle had been impressed with her acting skills. He’d known this moment would come and had no doubts. Nora did not have the luxury to feel quite the same. She realized she had never faced a tougher, nor more dangerous, critic.

  “And who is this patron to you?”

  What could she answer? They had prepared a story about an elderly uncle held in some disrepute by the family, but she’d broken that story already. How much did Cavendish already know about the Templeton persona?

  She pouted her lower lip as if put out by the question. “The landlord, sir. Stuffy type. I run errands for him sometimes, for an extra bit o’ crust.”

  Cavendish gave a little nod and smoothed his mustache. Nora needed a deep breath and took one, though she tried her best not to show it.

  Knitted-cap could hold out no longer and let out a tortured groan. Cavendish waved his hand at the young men by the door and they took the pair of boys out. What would happen to them, she wondered, the street or the river?

  Left alone with Cavendish, Nora felt no safer. But all violence and anger had fled from him. He set the poker back in its place, then made his way back to the seat at the desk and nearly collapsed into the chair. His fingers played over the grapes.

  “He wants to bet? How much?”

  “I dunno—I’m not sure exactly…”

  Cavendish smacked his lips and plucked a grape from its stem. He brought the purple globe to his mouth, caressed it with his tongue.

  “How much does he put down each week for the lottery?”

  Nora named a substantial sum.

  “I see.” He popped the grape in and crunched down on it. "Come here."

  Cavendish chewed thoughtfully and noisily, his eyes drifting closed. He sat so still for so long, Nora began to wonder if he had drifted off to sleep. She stood quietly at his side, all her attention focused on maintaining her illusion. The dog paced round the room, circling her warily. She felt so tired. It had been a long night already, with the scuffle in the coal cellar, the tramp through town and now this horrific scene with Knitted-cap, Cavendish and the dog. She was rattled. She’d never held a glamour this long. She was certain to lose everything in just another moment.

  “Tell him to meet me tomorrow at Marrowbone Garden at noon. Southwest corner.” Cavendish spoke as if he could hardly be bothered, as if he were a titled lord granting some exorbitant and annoying favor. He opened the desk drawer and withdrew a silver coin. He held the shilling on the palm of his hand.

  There must be some way to turn it down, she thought frantically, because she knew if she touched his hand the illusion would break. He’d see right through her. He’d know a woman's touch, he'd realize her hands were too soft for a street boy, or too large. He'd know!

  But true to the old adage, he who hesitates is lost. If she didn’t take the coin, she would lose her life. Cavendish would surely see through her deception, barring anything else. Because no street rat would hesitate to take that coin, even for an instant.

  Nora snatched the coin from his hand with a brisk motion to minimize skin-to-skin contact. “Thank you, sir.”

  Cavendish, his eyes still half-closed, reached for another grape.

  “Now get out with you.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice.

  Nora stepped out into the dark street. Her first instinct was to let go the illusion of youth which she struggled so mightily to keep up. But that wouldn't do. Cavendish might well have agents watching the street-door. She could not depend upon the darkness to conceal her.

  She held the glamour, stepping tentatively out into the street. Her trouble was she found herself helplessly lost. She’d never been in this district before. Both her guides were gone. How to get home from here?

  Best just to get away from this building. She walked briskly away, heading back in the direction Knitted-cap had led her up the street. She remembered her approach from the mouth of this block at least, but had no hopes of reconstructing their circuitous route from there.

  She didn’t even reach the end of the first street before she heard a rough voice call out, “What ‘ave we ‘ere?”

  Strong hands grabbed her from behind. She smelled foul breath reeking of sour rum at her cheek.

  A man stepped out of the gloom in front of her. His coat was black and torn halfway up each arm and he used a measure of greasy rope for a belt. A ragged tricorn hat slouched down over the front of his face so that she could see nothing of his features except a wide, cleft chin and sneering lips.

  “He’s a pretty one.”

  Nora thought for a moment that he might have seen her real face, but it was not so. Even in her panicked state she had still maintained the glamour of the young boy. That was a skill she had develop
ed under Threadneedle's tutelage. He was forever surprising her at odd moments with some playfully lewd or otherwise improper advance to train her to hold an illusion under shocking circumstances.

  The man behind her twisted her arms painfully. Pain was a different matter. Now she strained to keep the glamour on again. Maybe she could produce another form, something else, a big burly man, but she hadn’t the strength of will left for any of that. She could only struggle to maintain the little lamplighter’s apprentice.

  Her pockets already torn to shreds, she held the shilling in her hand.

  “Here. Take it. This’s all I’ve got.”

  The man in the tricorn hat snatched the coin from her palm. His lecherous sneer broke into a smile. But the man behind her did not let go. “He gives that up just a peg too easily, I think.”

  He moved closer. “What else’ve you got?”

  She'd made a terrible mistake. Out of character. Just as the boy must snatch the coin from Cavendish, he must hold onto to it in the street till his last breath.

  “Nothing. Honest.” She could hardly hold the shape now at all.

  “Honest,” chuckled the man. “Did’ye hear that? Honest.” He shook his head.

  "Go ‘wan, Davey,” said the boozy voice over her shoulder. “Beat it out of ‘im.”

  The tricorn balled his meaty fist and shook it in Nora's face. “Nah. Turn ‘im upside down and see if we shake something loose. And if that don’t work, we’ll turn ‘im inside out. More fun that way.”

  The bandit broke out into a lecherous, wheezing laugh. Nora was able to yank one arm free and took a swing at the man's head, though she missed.

  “He's a spunky one, ain’t he?”

  “Just the way I likes ‘em,” said the other. In an instant her legs were kicked out from under and she went face-first into the muddy street. Too much weight pressed on top of her. She couldn't move. As the back of her drawers were pulled away she wondered when the men would realize she was a woman, if at all. If their intention was to bugger her, they might never know.

  “Hold! What goes on here?”

  The weight shifted. Still held down, Nora craned her neck to see the silhouette of a humble lamplighter outlined at the head of the street.

  “Mind yer own,” said the man with the tricorn. “Little street-rat tried to pick my pocket.”

  “Let him go.”

  “Oho! Going to have a little tiff are we?”

  “It appears that way. That boy is my apprentice. Let him go.”

  “That’s funny, ‘cause I say he’s mine.”

  Tricorn released Nora and she rolled free to the side. The bandit produced a thin knife, about eight inches long, and brandished it as if he were well-acquainted with its use. The other, taller man had already begun circling round the dark street, with the clear intention of getting behind Threadneedle.

  Nora thought that Threadneedle saw the second man coming round, but the lamplighter didn’t let on. There must be something she could do to help. She’d no intention of sitting idly by, but events overtook her too quickly.

  The man with the tricorn waved his knife in a flashy dance. At the same time, the taller man reached Threadneedle from the rear. He swung a big meaty fist, shouting a battle cry in some foreign tongue that sounded as if it might be Turkish. Threadneedle stepped into the attack, blocking the man’s swinging fist at the forearm. His own strong fingers wrapped the thug’s wrist and yanked him forcefully downward.

  This maneuver was entirely a distraction designed to lure the tricorn man to move in with his knife. But the tricorn was not so swift to charge and Threadneedle improvised a new plan. He held a solid grip on the first attacker’s wrist, twisting it painfully around, and maneuvered him just so. He deposited the taller man directly in the tricorn’s path so that the burly thug tripped over his companion. As Tricorn sprawled along the street, Threadneedle stomped the knife from his hand and kicked him in the chin.

  By the time Nora reached him, Threadneedle stood over them, laughing. “This is entirely too easy.”

  His declaration was punctuated by a sharp retort as a pistol shot tore away at the sooty coat at his shoulder. Three other men had arrived on the scene, emerging from darkened doorways along the street. Several other pistol muzzles were even now swiveling in their direction.

  “Run!”

  Threadneedle took Nora’s hand and the two darted away down the muddy street. Though she still had the appearance of a ten-year-old boy, Nora ran with the full speed of a grown woman. They rounded the corner, stumbling on the rain-slicked and uneven cobbles. Another shot rang out but did not find a target.

  They ran on toward the river, then down one of the stone stairways that led to the embankment. In the quiet darkness they paused to catch their breath.

  “Who were those men?” Nora asked. “Not common thieves…”

  “Probably a couple of Cavendish’s thugs. He gave you a shilling, did he?”

  “Yes, but they took it.”

  “Well, seems natural he wasn’t going to let you keep it. Anyway, we’re alright now.”

  Her blood was still up and she’d hardly caught her breath, but a sudden urge came over her. She grabbed Threadneedle by the front of his jacket and pulled him close. She kissed him again and again, pressing hard. Her heartbeat, already working overtime from the exertion and excitement, quickened even more. The faery returned her passion, stroke for stroke. His mouth felt so hot, so intense.

  Their lips parted, Nora practically gasping for breath.

  “Hey, get away with that, you!” yelled someone down the quay.

  They took to running again. This was no thug; it was a constable. Nora realized he thought he’d just seen a lamplighter kissing a young boy.

  PART 2- FAERY’S KISS

  Chapter 18

  Cemetery. Blechh! Cemeteries always nauseated Meadowlark. He could think of no more horrid place than this. A place of dry stones and dusty bones, of death and death and more death. How can you plant dead things underground and expect them to grow? Perhaps that was a conundrum the Winter Court could answer. But really. How can they stand it?

  He lived for the green. For life and song and lusty appetites. What sort of faeries could live ‘neath this carpet of ashes and withered leaves? Lamentations and wails of mortal sorrow still drifting on every breeze. It was bad enough to be forced to live underground at the point of a sword, but who would choose a place like this? The Dark Queen. The thought of her gave him a shiver.

  Perhaps he should just turn tail and leave this place. After all, no one had seen him come except for the lone raven who sat beside him atop the crumbling church house steeple. No one need ever know.

  Indeed he could go slinking back to the Summer Court, licking boots all the way, face in the dirt, tongue extended, their little pet Meadowlark, licking and crawling and begging forgiveness from dear old Moonshadow. And she would forgive him, as that was her way. And the other summer faeries would laugh and sing and dance round as if nothing had ever happened. All well and good. And he could go on wanting the one thing he could never have. Theodora.

  Or…

  Or he could take a ride, take a gamble, try something that’ll really set the world to spinning. Damn the consequences and let fly! See new people, make new friends, turn things around, and one day—one day—see Moonshadow’s precious little hairless head on a spike. Now that was a prospect to turn one’s head and get the old juices oozing, wasn’t it? Head on a spike. Let’s see you forgive that, bitch! Theodora might not like it very much either, but so what? The hell with Theodora.

  All he had to do was find his way in.

  Meadowlark knocked a pair of slate scales loose from the peaked roof as he swung over the side and scrambled down the rickety balustrade. This little backwoods church had been abandoned for half a century, in favor of the big new cathedral at Newcastle proper. Most of the woodwork lay in ruin at his feet. Only the cut granite bones of the place remained standing, a home for bats and roden
ts rather than some all-seeing deity.

  The cemetery had fallen into similar disrepair. Not even the wealthiest rural magnates could afford stone memorials and the rows of carved wooden markers poorly stood the test of time. The few that still remained upright were tilted at crazy angles. Meadowlark stumbled about. It was hard to find his way in the dark of the new moon, even with faery eyes. The section reserved for unbaptized children, that’s what he needed. He wandered among the tombstones for a few moments, nicking his shins on the thorny vines that snaked between the markers, before he realized that the space for the unbaptized would be laid outside of hallowed ground. In the shadow of the church, Black Annis had said.

  He found it soon thereafter, behind the church, a small patch of mostly-unmarked graves with a few pint-sized markers scattered about. The trees surrounding the area were dark and thin, with noisy rattling branches; the bark on the slender boles was deeply etched with filigree. No ordinary trees. This place was a graveyard for faeries too. He could sense them, merged with these old trees, as faeries often did when passing out of this life. The whole place oozed a bad feeling that chilled him like a wet slap on the back of the neck. Press on, good lad, press on. What had she said? The un-named baby of Alderberry or some such.

  He groped about for a few minutes, pricking his fingers pushing away scores of nettles that grew among the damp clay. Field mice played hide-and-seek among the tombstones. In the distance a wild dog barking. And that made him think of the Wild Hunt. Not good.

  Suddenly he came across the correct marker, whose faded carving named the dead infant as Adderberry.

  Adderberry, Alderberry. Whatever. This had to be the place. He put his ear to the ground and listened carefully. Deep down, deep, deep down, below the scurrying of field mice and the oozing of the worms, he listened. There was something. He had to strain to hear it, had to hold his breath. But it was there. A faery song, slow and somber and heartbreaking, deep down.