The Office of Shadow

by Matthew Sturges

  "Did he ever speak to anyone?" said Ironfoot. "Did anyone ever come to see him?"

  "Just the one fellow," said Tye Benesile. "Another scholar. Unseelie. That was before, of course. Before the war and all. My father didn't care for that scholar, though. He was the wrong sort, if you know what I mean."

  Silverdun leaned forward, now interested. "I'm not sure I do," said Silverdun. "What sort would that be?"

  "Black Artist," Tye Benesile whispered. "That's what Father said. I never met him. But if Father knew things that a Black Artist wanted to know, then you can put that in your book for certain."

  "What was this Black Artist's name?" said Silverdun. He supposed it was possible that there were still Black Artists among the Unseelie, though Tye Benesile was clearly not the most reliable witness.

  Tye thought for a moment. "Father never said it. If he had, I would have remembered, because I've got a fine memory, even now. You can't imagine how fine it was then. But he was a Black Artist, even if you don't believe me."

  "When was this?" asked Ironfoot. "How long ago?"

  "That was before, I said. Before all this," he said, waving his hand around. Silverdun assumed that by "all this," he meant the Unseelie invasion.

  "How long before?"

  "It was when I was still working at the mill," said Tye Benesile. "I remember it, of course. That was three months to the day before."

  "And did the Black Artist continue visiting your father until he died?"

  "No. They had a falling out; something Father had that he wanted. Tried to buy it off of him, but Father refused. Funny thing with lights in a box. So he beat Father up and took it."

  "I don't suppose you've kept any of your father's books?" said Silverdun.

  "Well I couldn't sell them, could I? So I threw some away, burned some. There are still a few left, though. The really expensive-looking ones. Figured maybe a book dealer in Mag Mell might take an interest if I could ever find the time to make the journey."

  Tye led them to the tiny bedroom, where a sunken mattress sat on the floor and a wooden box served as a bedside table. There was an antique wardrobe pushed up against one wall. A nail had been hammered into its crest and a clothesline strung from it to the wall. Tye nodded at the wardrobe; then his face fell.

  "Stupid! Stupid! Now you're going to take them, aren't you? I never should have said anything!"

  "Don't worry," said Ironfoot, the Leadership resonating in his voice. "We aren't going to take anything."

  That seemed to satisfy Tye. He sat down heavily on the bed and watched as Silverdun opened the wardrobe.

  It was stuffed with books. Silverdun picked one up and read from the spine. Inquiry into Matters Philosophical and Theological. Prae Benesile's own Thaunaatical History of the Chthonic Religion. Another was in High Court Fae, and Silverdun struggled to translate its title. Something like A School of Thought Regarding the Gods of the Earth, Bound, and Their Origins. The next books he examined were in languages he couldn't read. One appeared to be from the Nymaen world, a human tongue. Another was in Thule Fae, like the inscriptions on the Tuminee burial mounds north of the river in Oarsbridge, where Silverdun had been raised. Ironfoot, scholar that he was, seemed to be having an easier time with the translation, but still looked confused.

  "I don't supposed you're versed in Thule?" Silverdun asked Ironfoot.

  Ironfoot looked up from the book he'd been flipping through. "I am," he said. "But I can't imagine what a Black Artist would have wanted with someone who studied all this stuff."

  Silverdun scanned a few lines of verse from Prinzha-Las Days and Works. A story about one of the daughters of the god Senek, who fell in love with a mortal Fae. Senek turned him into a ram. You always had to be careful messing around with a powerful man's daughter. Some things never changed.

  "I suppose," said Tye from the bed, "if you wanted to purchase a few of them I'd be willing to let them go for a reasonable price. You gentlemen being representatives of the government." What had happened to the angry man who'd greeted them at the door? Had Ironfoot's Leadership changed all of his spleen to ardor with a single glance?

  "That won't be necessary," said Silverdun. He fished in his pocket for a few coins and slapped them into Tye's hand. "For your trouble."

  Tye looked to Ironfoot to make sure the transaction was acceptable. It was.

  "I don't think we're going to learn anything else of value," Ironfoot whispered. Silverdun nodded.

  They thanked Tye for his time, and the man bowed to Ironfoot a bit more deeply than was required by custom. Now it was just getting annoying.

  "If there's anything I can do for you, sir, day or night, I'm your man," he said, his voice slightly wheedling. "Just call on me."

  Ironfoot looked a bit puzzled, but thanked the man.

  Outside in the stairwell, Silverdun said, "That's quite a Gift you've got there. With that much Leadership in you, I'm surprised you weren't commanding a battalion back in your army days."

  Ironfoot stopped on the landing and faced him. He looked troubled. "I've always had it," he said. "A bit, anyway. But on my best day, I could possibly convince a good friend to go along with a suggestion he was already inclined to favor, if I pushed with all my might. I've never done anything like that before."

  "Why do you suppose that is?" said Silverdun.

  "Whitemount," said Ironfoot. "Don't you feel it?"

  "Every day," Silverdun said. "I haven't slept much. I've felt strange. A bit unbalanced sometimes."

  "So have I," said Ironfoot. "I just assumed it was the stress of the new job, you know? All of Jedron's tricks, then straight into Paet's service."

  "You think it's more than that?"

  "I don't know. When we were in Tye Benesile's apartment just now, I was getting nervous. I was worried we were about to fail our first assignment. It kept growing inside me like a panic. Did you notice it?"

  "No."

  "I did my best to hide it," said Ironfoot. And then something ... happened in my head. It was as though I had far more capacity for re than I've ever had before, and it all just surged into me. But when it happened I pushed with the Leadership, and it was like a dam had burst. I think Tye Benesile practically worships me now."

  "He's in love with you, if you ask me."

  Silverdun wanted to ask Ironfoot about that night at Whitemount. The fire, the pit, the blackness. But something inside him wouldn't allow it. He decided to force the issue.

  "Ironfoot," he began.

  There was a crash below, and the sound of boots on the stairs.

  "Tye's wife," said Silverdun, scowling. "She must have given us up."

  "We can go down or up," said Ironfoot. "Any preference?"

  Silverdun listened. There were at least four sets of boots. "We're to avoid notice at all costs," he said. "We go up."

  They hurried up the stairs as quickly as possible, past Tye Benesile's floor and higher. The stairs continued above the fourth floor, but instead of terminating on the roof, they opened onto a low, narrow attic that stretched the entire length of the building. It was hot and close, smelling of dust and mouse droppings, and was cluttered with odd bits of lumber, broken furniture, and the like.

  There were voices down below, but Silverdun couldn't make them out. Assuming that the men were after them, they'd be at Tye Benesile's door by now. Tye would do his best to protect Ironfoot, but he was drunk and not particularly bright. It wouldn't take long for them to realize where Silverdun and Ironfoot had gone.

  "Now what?" said Ironfoot. It was one thing to have the Gift of Leadership, Silverdun noted, but quite a different thing to lead. Not that Silverdun was much of a leader on his best day. Why had they been picked for this assignment, exactly?

  "We want to get out of this building without being seen," said Silverdun, quietly shutting the door to the attic behind him.

  There was a small window at the far end of the attic. Weak light dribbled through it and pooled on the floor. "Let's have a look."

>   Downstairs there was a crash and another shout, this time of someone in pain. Tye Benesile?

  Silverdun and Ironfoot moved carefully, picking their way through the tiny attic. Batlike creatures slept in the exposed rafters. They wriggled when Silverdun brushed up against them. The going was painfully slow as they wove their way through the narrow space, trying to be as silent as possible.

  Now there was more noise on the stairs, and pounding from beneath them. The men were knocking on doors. Silverdun and Ironfoot were nearly to the window now.

  The door to the attic crashed open. A pair of Annwni guardsmen peered into the attic. They were armed with short swords, and wore dark blue uniforms with black leather helmets and boots. Silverdun and Ironfoot crouched down, but there was nowhere to hide.

  "There!" shouted one. He ran toward them, shoving a broken chair aside.

  Silverdun ran toward the window and tried it. It was locked, but the lock gave with a hard shove. He opened the window and looked out. It opened directly onto the cul-de-sac below, a forty-foot drop with nothing to break the fall. On the street, five more guardsmen stood at the entrance to the building.

  "I think doing this silently is going to be quite a lot more difficult now," he said, turning back around.

  Ironfoot already had a knife out. He hurled it at the guardsman in front, and the point found its mark in the Annwni's throat. The man dropped without taking another step. Silverdun bent, took a knife from his boot, and heaved it at the remaining guard. The man raised his hand reflexively, and the knife lodged in his palm. He screamed, but it was more a scream of rage than pain, and he kept coming.

  Ironfoot was already moving, running toward the guardsman. He reached the other one first, the one he'd killed with his thrown knife. Rather than jump over the man, however, he bent down and removed his knife from the guard's neck with a fluid motion, then raised it just as the second watchman leapt at him, Silverdun's knife still lodged in his palm. Ironfoot made a brutal upward jerking motion and the second watchman went over his shoulder and crashed into the wall.

  All of this happened in the moment it took Silverdun to catch up to him. By the time he reached Ironfoot, both watchmen were dead. Ironfoot wiped his knife on the leg of one of the dead men and handed Silverdun's back to him, still slick with blood.

  "I imagine someone heard that," said Silverdun. He looked down at the fallen watchmen. "To hell with Jedron and his advice on swords," he said, taking the closest one's blade. It was light and unbalanced, but it was sharp. That was fine; there wasn't going to be a lot of finesse required in the next few minutes.

  "Suit yourself," said Ironfoot. He held onto his knife.

  Now there was more noise on the stairs. Silverdun led the way out of the attic, his heart thudding in his chest. It had been a long time since he'd last killed anyone. The Battle of Sylvan, in fact. Over a year ago. His heart was pounding and his palms were beginning to sweat, but it was also familiar and, frankly, a bit of a relief to be in action.

  There were four men on the landing, and they ran straight at Silverdun and Ironfoot without preamble. As soon as Silverdun engaged the first of them, he realized his mistake. It was difficult to swing a sword in such a narrow space, and he was forced to resort to jabbing with it like a tiny spear. His opponent had the same problem, of course, but his opponent also had three friends.

  Ironfoot, however, did not have this problem. He flitted past Silverdun and took the second man on the stairs, dodging his blade. Once Ironfoot was inside the man's guard, he was able to use his knife freely. His opponent was down in an instant, and Ironfoot shoved him roughly backward, tripping up the man behind him.

  Meanwhile Silverdun managed to take out his own opponent with a lucky thrust. He pushed his man aside and followed Ironfoot. Against the two of them, the last of the guardsmen didn't last long.

  The noise of the fight, however, had drawn the attention of others, and now three more appeared below.

  "Why so many?" asked Silverdun. "Two upstairs, the four we just did, five on the street, and now these fellows?"

  "Worry about it later!" called Ironfoot. He lunged at the man closest to him, who appeared to be in charge. But this one had apparently earned his promotion, because he sidestepped Ironfoot's lunge and smashed him hard on the back of the neck with the hilt of his sword as he went past. The men behind him grabbed Ironfoot but didn't kill him. Interesting.

  Silverdun turned to run back upstairs, but there was a man above him as well. Well, one was better than three, even if fighting from below. He jumped up and immediately tripped on one of the men he'd just killed. As he fell forward, his opponent chopped down, flailing.

  And lopped Silverdun's sword hand off at the wrist.

  Silverdun watched it happen, trying to reel backward, moving as if through water. There was no pain at first, just shock. Blood, deep deep red, flowed thickly from his wrist. Silverdun couldn't remember ever having seen blood so thick.

  Without thinking, Silverdun reached with his left hand and lashed out with witchfire, the simplest bit of Elements he could muster. He hoped, at best, to blind his attacker momentarily with a flash of flame.

  Instead, the narrow stairwell exploded with heat and light. The man in front of him was incinerated. He fell, twisting and smoking, in front of Silverdun.

  Silverdun turned and looked down. The watchmen's leader hesitated on the landing below him, his sword at the ready. Silverdun let the re well up in him again, but there was none. He'd used it all in that one burst. Impossible. Using every bit of essence in his body in an instant ought to have killed him.

  The pain from his wrist finally figured out how to reach his mind and he gasped in agony. He stumbled, fell, tried to stand. A fist connected with his skull and he dropped, unable to move. He was still awake, but his arms and legs wouldn't respond. There was quite a lot of swearing; Annwni had interesting swears, thought Silverdun.

  In mounted combat, it is preferable to shoot the rider out of the saddle. Sometimes, however, it is easier to put your arrow in the horse, and just as effective.

  -CmdrTae Filarete, Observations on Battle

  .la had her maid Ecara dress her in a simple gown; today she fancied herself a free-spirited girl, waiting-maid to a Duchess, perhaps, or a guildsman's daughter. Regardless of how she felt about Lord Tanen, he had certainly taught her many things, and one of them was how to fit in just about anywhere. It didn't matter if she didn't know a thing about the kind of woman she was pretending to be. It all came to her as she went along. She watched the dance of the colored threads that spread among those around her and simply danced among them.

  Life in Lord Everess's household was both more and less pleasant than she might have imagined. Everess was rarely at home, and that was fine with Sela; she found the man's company ever less pleasant the more she knew him. But she was lonely. For so long she'd been used to her fellow residents at Copperine House. They were strange and damaged, but they were known. Her only regular company was Ecara, and Ecara wanted only to please her, and so had begun to grate on Sela's nerves.

  After that first night at Blackstone House, she'd assumed that her new life was starting, finally. The air smelled of possibility as she rode in the open carriage back to Lord Everess's apartments. But that had been days ago. And in the interim, she'd heard nothing except for Everess's assurances that she ought to enjoy the peace and quiet because it wouldn't last.

  To occupy herself, she thought about the ways in which she could kill Lord Everess using only the objects readily to hand in the apartments. He was so fat and soft that there were a plenitude of options. The quickest way: silver filigree letter-opener plunged deep into the eye socket. Instantaneous. The most painful: tie him down in the parlor, start a nice fire, heat the poker just the perfect shade of red. Eyeballs, then tongue, then anus. She had learned that one when she was thirteen. And then there was the way that she'd killed Milla. And the doctor.

  Oh, Milla. But she wasn't real. No, Milla wasn't real
. The doctor wasn't real. It was all pretend. All pretend.

  Take a deep breath. Don't think. Good girls don't think: They respond.

  Anyway. She much preferred Paet to Everess, and wished that she could live with him instead; he was simple and straightforward. He had known pain, deep pain, and that connected them by a thin black thread, even if Paet didn't realize it. She'd asked Everess whether she could move in with Paet, and Everess had laughed as though she'd told a funny joke.

  It was all so confusing sometimes.

  And Silverdun. Oh, my.

  At Copperine House there had been a very wealthy actress named Starlight, who'd been the recipient of a bad Ageless treatment. She never aged, true, but her mind was lost in time, and she never seemed to know what day it was. In one of her more lucid moments, she'd talked to Sela about love. Love was what made everything else worthwhile, she said. Passion, romance. To hold and to be held by a strong, handsome man, to be enveloped in him: That was the best thing in life.

  Sela hadn't had the faintest idea what Starlight had been talking about. She knew about love, of course. She saw the threads of love spun between others; those threads were bright, bright colors: red and orange and gold, sometimes fiery, sometimes only glowing. But Sela had never experienced that sort of love herself. The only person she'd ever loved had been Milla. And that had been something different altogether.

  When she came downstairs, Paet was waiting for her in the parlor. Lord Everess was nowhere to be seen.

  "I have a task for you," he said.

  "Oh, thank you," said Sela.

  Lord Tanen has a gift for Sela. She is ten years old and cannot remember ever having received one. It is small, wrapped in cotton paper, tied with a real silk ribbon. He sits her down in her bedroom and puts the box on her dressing table.