by Ari Marmell
And if any of ’em did have connections to a member of the Seelie Court—if it was a formal connection, an actual alliance or patronage as opposed to somethin’ more personal—I just might find a record of it here.
That sound thin to you? It should. If they were formal, and if they were of the sorts of agreements that’d be put down in official documentation, and if they were even connected via the Seelie at all… Even assuming I found one or two of ’em, no way I’d be able to connect the whole bunch this way.
That was just jake with me, though. I wasn’t tryin’ to pin the whole web together, not yet. For now, I just figured, if I could find those one or two links, I’d know if this was all a trip for biscuits or not. If so, I could take the run-out without ever having to ask anyone anything.
If not, if there really was some meat to this wacky theory, it could mean a lotta unpleasant sit-downs, and I wasn’t about to start in on that until I knew I was on the right track.
Hall of Records it was, then. I’d just pop in, spend a few hours eyeballing the paperwork, and move along to my next step.
And if you believe for one heartbeat it was that easy, you oughta get your noggin checked for termites. They’ve eaten the important bits.
The front door was newer’n the rest of the place, made up of expensive glass in a hardwood frame. The brounie doorman offered to take my coat. I told him where he could take it, and which orifice he could store it in for the trip. We agreed to politely part ways with my coat still on my shoulders.
I’ll tell ya, it don’t matter which world you’re in, or whether the carpet’s made of shag or woven rose petals, or the walls covered’n paint or colored residue scraped from the trailing edges of dreams. Don’t matter if the folks sittin’ around on their keisters waitin’ are mortal or sidhe, and it don’t matter if the lousy background music is piped in through a chintzy speaker or played by a small orchestra of low-rent pixies on lower-rent miniature instruments. A lobby is a lobby is a lobby.
Was only four or five John Hancocks on the sign-in ledger ahead of mine. And it was still a couple hours—when I was long past wantin’ to rip up the rose petals and break a few tiny musicians—that I finally heard my name called.
When I heard the greasy contempt wrapped around every syllable, I just knew me’n the crumb weren’t gonna hit it off real well.
The guy behind the counter was what you guys call a nisse or haltija up north, or lares if you’re, y’know, an ancient Roman. Guardians and protectors of farms and households, most of ’em are decent enough, long as you don’t try to harm anyone or anything they’re attached to. (Or otherwise rile ’em up; short tempers, those guys.) Every now’n again, though, you’d get one decide he was too lazy for any kinda real post, and end up workin’ a counter or a door, something you could call “guarding” if you got drunk enough and squinted right, but really just made ’em another bureaucrat.
This one looked to’ve taken to bureaucracy like a buzzard to carrion. He was smug, smarmy, and… I dunno. Somethin’ else unflattering that starts with “sm.”
An old wrinkly face peeped up at me from behind a beard that was probably bulletproof. Three foot’n change is about average for these guys, but he was standin’ on something. An apple box, probably.
And he knew me. I couldn’ta said how, but I heard it in his voice.
“Well, Mr. Oberon. You’ve not been home in quite a while, have you?”
“Uh, no. Guess not.”
“What might I do for you, now that we’re again graced with your illustrious presence?”
Oh, boy. “Yeah, I’m tryin’ to find some information on—”
“I’m sorry, we don’t seem to have any records on that. Will there be anything else?”
Well, then. “Look, bo, you could at least let me finish before pretending—”
“Of course. By all means, please finish.”
I ain’t dumb enough to have expected it to go anywhere, but I gave it one last shot.
“Tryin’ to find some information on—”
“Oh! My mistake. We do have those records, but I fear they’re unavailable at the moment. Perhaps you might try back in a week or two?”
Throttling him woulda been a lot tougher’n it sounds—small but real damn strong, haltija—and it wouldn’t have done me any good, either. I sure as hell didn’t need to be gettin’ in hot water with the Seelie Court right now; at best I’d spend a few days cooling my heels in a magic cage, while a whole swarm of people who hated my guts argued over who got to throw away the key.
It was still real damn tempting, though.
“You wanna at least tell me what you got against me, you bastard?”
I thought his beard was gonna just fall open like a stage curtain, he smirked so wide.
(Smirking! There’s the other sm.)
“I’m so sorry,” he gloated. “I don’t believe that information’s available in our records.”
Yeah. I decided I’d better blow the joint before I lost my temper’n added “smacked” and “smothered” to the list.
I was openin’ the door, feelin’ the first cold and salty fingertips of the dancing snow, when he called after me.
“Oh, Mr. Oberon?”
Here it comes. I stopped but didn’t turn.
“His Honor Ylleuwyn offers his warmest regards.”
I wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction of seein’ my curse, so I waited until I was out in the cold white and a good half a block away before letting loose a string of profanity that woulda had a longshoreman slapping his momma.
The name explained everything to me, but for those of you with shorter memories…
Judge Ylleuwyn—or Earl Ylleuwyn, dependin’ on which of Chicago’s rank’n royalty system you were usin’—was a politico I’d butted heads with last time I was in the Otherworld. Yeah, back on the Ottati job. He’d been standin’ between me’n the straight dope I needed to get on with the case. I’d eventually gotten the better of him, but it wasn’t easy, and he really, really hadn’t been happy.
Course, that was also how I’d gotten in deep with the Unfit, dropping me in the jam I was in now, so I gotta say it hasn’t really made me happy, either.
Anyway, there was no way he knew I was back in Elphame, or what in particular I was gunning for. But tellin’ each and every friend, ally, and worker he had to keep a peeper open for me, and to gum up anything they possibly could for me if I showed? Yeah, that was not only entirely possible, but completely in character for the Seelie high’n mighty.
Buncha goddamn babies, the whole friggin’ lot of us.
It was a nuisance more’n anything else, but it was a nuisance at a real bad time. Weren’t a whole lotta official trails I could follow to what I was lookin’ for, but what few there were? I’d basically just lost all of them. No, Ylly didn’t have his fingers everywhere, but he had more’n enough pull to make any kinda official inquiry take about a zillion years. And while he may not’ve known I was in town to begin with, I’m sure my good pal at the Hall of Records would be spilling the beans before long.
Hell, even if he didn’t, mosta the city’s other officials’d be happy to give me the runaround, too. Most of ’em didn’t have a grudge as personal as Ylleuwyn’s, but none of ’em ever drank outta my bottle, if you get me.
All of which meant I had no option but to go to one of the few people here who did like me, and as a reward for helpin’ me out, they’d probably get in all kinda dutch with Ylleuwyn and Ogma only knows who—
“Hey! Oberon!”
—else. Goddamn it.
The empty street around me wasn’t so empty anymore. I twisted back the way I’d come, but I didn’t need to. The bear-choking-on-sand tenor told me what I’d see.
I admit, though, that I hadn’t expected to see three of ’em.
Big dark blots against the white of the snow, they were all jet-black fur’n scissor-length claws and jagged chompers in mouths so big you’d expect to see miners pickin’ away for gold
on the inside. They smelled like wet dog, and their breath… Well, it also smelled like wet dog. The inside of one.
Bugganes. Distant relatives of trolls, phouka, and black dogs, they were basically all malice and hunger. Might surprise you to hear, but most of ’em ain’t Unseelie. Not Seelie either, mind. Mostly they got no time for the Courts, or much of anything civilized. They’re happy to work for anyone, though, if the price—or the meal—is right.
These? Almost definitely workin’ for the Unfit.
“What’re you doing here, Oberon?” It was the middle one talkin’, not that it much mattered. “You’ve got a job you should be doing. People don’t like it when you don’t do your job.”
Yep. Definitely the Unfit. I’d only been here a few hours; Eudeagh must be keepin’ real tight tabs on the place. Normally she’da sent redcaps, or maybe dullahan or a troll, to deliver this sorta message, instead of hired goons. Guess either her people were all busy, or she knew what’d happen if a buncha Unseelie traipsed over to this side of town.
Seemed as if these guys hadn’t thought about it, though. Bugganes ain’t stupid—lotta people make that mistake, and most of ’em are rewarded with a one-way fare through a mystical digestive tract—but they’re creatures of instinct and emotion first. They can think; they just usually don’t want to.
So I was gonna have to push ’em into it, and then hope I could steer ’em in the right direction before somebody decided to use my hair as a toothbrush.
“Lemme save you some time,” I said, locking my gaze with the buggane in the middle—less as a challenge or signal that I wasn’t cowed, though I hoped he’d take it that way, than as a way of avoiding starin’ at the teeth or claws. “This is the part where you make it real clear Queen Mob sent you, without ever usin’ her name, and then you tell me I’d better get myself back to the mortal world and tryin’ to suss out the spear, or else.”
The beastie on the left grumbled something unintelligible; the one I was yappin’ at just scowled, which made me think of a disappointed bandsaw.
“Something along those lines,” he admitted sullenly.
“All right. So, first off, I’m here followin’ a lead. Second—”
“Bullshit. We all know the spear’s not here, Oberon. Don’t treat us like we’re dumb.” The other two snarled agreement, claws screeching as they rubbed together.
“I didn’t say the spear was here. I said the lead was here. Or did you think that every line of investigation about a friggin’ Fae artifact was gonna keep itself neatly on the human side of reality?”
“Uh…”
“That’s what I thought.”
Funny thing, it wasn’t even a lie. I was still hunting for Gáe Assail, and I was following a lead. I mighta just forgotten to mention that the lead wasn’t exactly part of the hunt.
“All right, fine.” The rage in his voice was pretty clear: he was tryin’ to keep control of the conversation and his temper both. “What’s this lead?”
“Complicated. You wanna stand around climbin’ your thumb while I explain it? Not really an efficient way of gettin’ me back to work.”
More growling and grinding of stalactites disguised as teeth.
“You said ‘first off,’” he demanded. “What’s second?”
“Or else what?”
“Huh?”
“Your threat. ‘Get out of Elphame or else.’ My second point is, or else what?”
“You don’t really—”
“Eudeagh probably sent you creeps because of your reputation. Nobody messes with a buggane if they wanna keep all their skin and organs. And we all know I can’t take three of you.” Though I bet I coulda held ’em off long enough to set some new Fae sprinting records. “Guess she figured I wouldn’t question it.
“But really, what’re you gonna do to me? You tune me up a little? Ain’t gonna change anything. You put some real hurt on me? I’m outta the game for days, weeks, maybe even longer. Can’t really get back to diggin’ up her majesty’s trinket if I’m laid up, can I?”
In case you’ve forgotten, since Elphame’s my “natural” world, I don’t heal mystically here the way I do among you mugs. My own magics may be more powerful, but I’m a lot easier to hurt—and I stay hurt a lot longer. Never thought that’d actually come in handy, but at the moment…
“Same with killing me,” I pressed on. “You’re just takin’ me outta the hunt completely that way. No way Eudeagh wants that, and I figure she told you as much in no uncertain terms. So really, other’n looking big’n mean’n intimidating, trying to make me yellow the surrounding snow a little, what’ve you actually got to threaten me with? Because right now, by my count, you’re right at zero. Maybe, if you’re real creative, twice that.
“You’ve delivered your spiel. I’ve heard it. Now scram.”
I worried I mighta poked a touch too hard when Grumbly on the right started to howl and lunge, but buggane-in-the-middle shoved him back with a paw. Not that he was a whole lot calmer: I could see his paw shakin’.
“And what if you get us mad enough,” he bellowed, “that we forget ourselves? It happens. A lot!”
“Then you get to explain to Eudeagh why you gummed up her assignment—and just maybe, why you queered her chances at getting the Spear of Lugh.”
Even the snow was holding its breath, or that’s how it felt; air got less cold and less salty for a few seconds. Then, grinding their not-so-pearly whites so hard they actually drooled shards’n powder, the trio of bugganes turned away and trudged back outta sight.
I couldn’ta really held my breath all the way to my destination, but recollectin’ now, it sure as hell felt that way.
* * *
As I’ve said, I didn’t have a lotta friends here in Otherworld Chicago. Of the few I did, I’d already called on one for help within the last year. As a result, she’d had one of her best rooms shot up, an official investigation in her place, and almost certainly landed on the bad side of Ylleuwyn and his not-insubstantial political network. I’d definitely caused her enough grief for a while. So whatever else happened, no matter what other dead ends I ran up against, I was absolutely determined to steer clear of the Lambton Worm.
About three hours later, I arrived at the Lambton Worm.
Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it.
You remember the Lambton Worm, right? I ain’t wastin’ my breath spinnin’ you all these yarns, am I?
Fine, real quick, then. The Lambton’s one of the best hotels in our Chicago. Caters to any and every kinda Fae. You got yer modern-style hotel rooms, your castle bedchambers, your hollows in the trees, your tunnels in the mounds, each in its own section of the joint. You’ve also got the massive stone serpent wriggling and winding its way around the entire building, which the owner says was a real dragon until a basilisk caught its eye, and everybody else says is just a damn statue.
Same swanky glass revolving door. Same carpeted pathway winding between forests of decorative columns and actual trees, both. Same menagerie of every kinda Seelie you could imagine—staff’n guests—same counters and tables, same array of hotel bars servin’ the same array of a million kinds of rotgut.
And, as it happened, the same pain-in-the-ass spriggan sittin’ and drinkin’ in one of ’em. With the same beige overcoat, pixie-puke-orange fedora, and bushy red beard that didn’t need a trim so much as a good brushfire. He was six foot tall at the moment, which ain’t his tallest or his shortest, but the height he tends to favor when dealin’ with us normal-size folks. I knew he could break nine when he got good’n steamed, if not even taller, and the sight of me was always enough to stoke the boiler.
He’da given you a whole heap of reasons he didn’t care for me. Me, I figure he was just threatened. I worked as the Lambton’s house dick for a while before him, and I’ve got a solid hunch he’s afraid I was better’n he is.
Wouldn’t surprise me if I was, either.
“Goddamn it, Mr. Oberon, didn’t y’make enough trouble fer us last time y
’were—”
“Slachaun, I got no time to play today. Can we just skip right to the part where you stomp off all sullen and resentful to tell Ielveith I need to see her? I promise, we can compare pecker sizes twice next time, to make up for it.”
“First off,” he shouted, puttin’ on about five inches, “that’s Mrs. Ielveith to ya, boyo!”
“It really isn’t.”
“And second, why’n the name’a any god y’care to invoke would I—?”
“Come over here’n search me.”
“—even want to—What the hell’d y’just say?”
“Search me. You know what you’ll find?”
With his jaw workin’ that way, even Slachaun’s beard looked bewildered.
“Uh…”
“You’ll find that I got nothin’ on me but my wand, identification, and a list of names.”
The clatter of glasses and chatter of conversation at the bar had completely stopped. The spriggan was just sorta scratchin’ under his blinding hat. He’d faded back to about six feet again, too.
“Fine’n dandy, but—”
“What you will not find,” I bulled on, “is anythin’ of value. No wad of cash. No shiny jewelry. No pretty magic gewgaw. In short, you’ll find exactly squat that I could offer Ielveith as a gift. So c’mon.” I patted down the sides of my coat. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Nah, I’ll… I’ll take yer word fer it. But I never asked if y’had—”
Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t gettin’ a certain kick out of interrupting every last thing he said? ’Cause I sure as hell wouldn’t.
“Now,” I said, “you’re supposed to be a detective, yeah?”
“I am a—!”
“So let’s try some inductive reasoning. You know how much I hate comin’ home, so why am I here? In Elphame, and specifically here at the Lambton? I don’t have enough scratch on me to bunk here for the night.”
“Y’need Ms. Ielveith’s help. Same as always, leanin’ on the hard work o’ others ta—”
“Right. And we both know my last visit wasn’t a lotta fun for her, so it ain’t too probable she’s gonna help me just outta the goodness of her heart. Not on anything heavy, anyway, and we also both know I wouldn’t be here for anythin’ small. Since we just established I don’t come bearing gifts that might buy me some consideration, what’s that leave, Slachaun?”