Ink & Sigil

by Hearne, Kevin

  Upon her entrance, she caught the eyes of Harrowbean and nodded once in greeting. The bartender nodded back and pointed to our booth, and that’s when Clíodhna turned her head and saw us. Her expression was carefully neutral as we rose to greet her, but it lingered on Coriander. Clearly she had not expected him to be there.

  She took several elegant steps in our direction and spoke English with a pleasant Irish lilt. “Mr. MacBharrais, I presume? And Coriander, Herald Extraordinary. What a surprise.”

  We both bowed and welcomed her and invited her to join us.

  “I was under the impression I would be speaking with Mr. MacBharrais in private,” she said. “I have some words for his ears alone.”

  Coriander reached back to the table for his drink and drained it, gorgeously. If it had been filmed and broadcast, it would have sold any clear liquid at premium prices. Water, vodka, turpentine—it didn’t matter. Watching him made one both thirsty and feel sated. When he finished, he set down his glass before speaking.

  “Very well. But be aware that I will check on Mr. MacBharrais afterward. Brighid wishes him to remain in good health and under no threats, however veiled. And the same goes for his hobgoblin. I gently, respectfully suggest you allow him to speak candidly to you and that you speak candidly in return and think carefully before you act. I doubt you would wish to have a similarly candid conversation with Brighid in front of the Fae Court.”

  “A conversation regarding what, exactly?”

  “Regarding contact with the American Simon Hatcher. The corruption of Gordon Graham. The unauthorized distribution of ink recipes and sigils. And attempts to grant the Fae immunity to iron.” She began to respond, but Coriander held up a hand. “Best not reply. I will ask you to tell me three times, and a refusal to speak truth at this juncture could prove disastrous.”

  Clíodhna confined herself to a tight-lipped grin. “You are considerate for speaking so frankly, Herald. I wish you a good day.”

  He bowed again and took his leave. The Queen of the Bean Sídhe watched him disappear into Tír na nÓg before sitting down with me.

  “It would appear we have much to discuss,” she said as she slid into the booth. “Starting with that ambush. I did not expect to arrive here and be accused of such things.”

  “I did not expect you to be behind this either. In case this goes on for a while, I will need to use an application on my phone to speak, because of a curse laid on my heid years ago.” In truth I didn’t need to worry about it triggering on a first meeting, but I did welcome the excuse to slow down and speak precisely.

  “Ah, yes. I heard you were cursed. Having just experienced the way you greet people, it’s little wonder.”

  I switched to my phone. [Did you have anything to do with the curse laid on my head, or do you have any idea or knowledge of who may have done it?] One had to phrase questions carefully to the Tuatha Dé Danann, since they would seize upon any loophole to avoid answering. But in this case, the reply was unequivocal.

  “No. I bear no responsibility for your curse and know nothing of who may have put it there, not even a rumor. I tell you three times. Should you wish to discuss earning additional curses in the future, we can do that.”

  Harrowbean arrived to ask Clíodhna if she’d like anything to drink, and while the faery consulted with the goddess over which flavor profiles she might enjoy, I took the time to compose my next words. When the bartender departed with an order, I pressed play.

  [Why did you cook up this scheme to render the Fae immune to iron?]

  Clíodhna snorted. “I hardly cooked up anything.” That was the sort of response I expected: A typical dodge was to seize upon a couple of words and dispute them rather than the spirit of the question. It was a marked contrast to the flat denial and oath of truth in response to my question about curses. She leaned forward the tiniest bit. “Let’s backtrack, because I’ve missed quite a few miles of road if this is where we’re at. Why do you think I’m responsible for the host of crimes of which Coriander accused me?”

  She leaned back in her seat after that and took in the room, which was largely empty apart from a couple of tables. The evening rush was still hours away. Harrowbean returned with her drink and Clíodhna smiled graciously at her, but the smile disappeared as she turned her gaze back to me and raised her glass sardonically before taking a sip.

  [It began with a hobgoblin named Gag Badhump, who said you offered him a fraudulent contract for service to be signed and sealed by me.]

  “Pssh. Nobody trusts hobgoblins, for good reason.”

  [The reason is they’re incorrigible thieves. They are not very skilled at lying or knowing when they’re being lied to. But that’s not all I have. Simon Hatcher named you under a Sigil of Reckoning Truth, witnessed by both myself and another sigil agent. Why would an American ever pull the name of Clíodhna out of his arse unless it was a fact? He was raised in an education system that doesn’t cover the Fae at all except for Shakespeare’s Oberon and Titania.]

  The goddess shrugged. “Ye can’t trust Americans either. Look at this planet we’re on. Look at it! Cocked up beyond all recognition. Americans did that. I hear it’s because they’re all on drugs, ye know, and about a third of them are afraid of melanin.”

  I sighed in exasperation. Another non-answer. [Hatcher received a written ink recipe from a banshee, which he gave to my apprentice, and that—indeed, this entire scheme of trafficking Fae— would not have happened without your instruction.]

  “I don’t know this entire scheme you speak of. And I’m not responsible for everything the bean sídhe do.”

  Ah, yes, the standard god dodge: I’m not responsible for my minions. [We can find out from the bean sídhe exactly what you were responsible for.]

  That elicited a wry grin. “I’m certain you’ll not find a single bean sídhe who will corroborate your wild theories, Mr. MacBharrais. And neither will Brighid. Since you have absolutely no proof that I have done anything wrong and won’t be able to find any, I strongly yet respectfully suggest you cease making accusations.”

  I’d been waiting for her to say something along those lines. There was, in the end, absolutely nothing meaningful I could do against a goddess. If she felt threatened enough, she could easily kill me and make sure my body was never found. It would be inconvenient for her but not a serious challenge. My path to victory lay in pointing out a convenient alternative.

  [I could do that, sure. Except that hobgoblin is now in my service and someone keeps trying to kill him. First with barghests and then with an ogre named Durf. If there is no proof of wrongdoing to be found, as you say, then my hobgoblin should be able to live without fear, don’t you think?]

  “Ha!” Cupping her goblet of gin in one hand, she idly twirled the ice around in it as she cocked her head at me, thinking something through. I waited patiently until she made a decision, drained the glass, and then set it down, clapping her hands together once and rubbing them together. “So!” she said. “Let me see if I understand. I’m speaking entirely in hypotheticals, now.”

  I nodded and encouraged her to continue.

  “If the person who did all these things you’ve been talking about—trafficking Fae, sharing secret ink recipes, and so on—were to simply stop doing them and cease trying to kill a thieving hobgoblin, then you would, what? Stop looking into the matter? Withdraw your accusations?”

  [In broad terms, yes. This hypothetical person has Brighid’s attention, you see. The First among the Fae is aware of the investigation and is quite curious to know whether she will need to get involved. She would most likely react poorly to the Fae becoming immune to iron.]

  “Ye really think so?” Clíodhna said with her brows knitted together, but then she exploded with laughter. “Of course she would. It threatens a primary lever of control.” She wound down then and traced her finger around the rim of her now-empty glass. “Hypothetically, then, a strategic withdrawal would be best.”

  [Agreed. No one loses face. The hy
pothetical mastermind becomes aware they have placed a toe over the line and prudently steps back behind it before anything truly unpleasant occurs. And my hobgoblin, instructed by me to remain silent on the matter, will be able to serve me on earth and in all the Fae planes without looking over his shoulder.]

  The Queen of the Bean Sídhe nodded. “Ye know what, Mr. MacBharrais? I feel very strongly that everything will happen just as ye said. This hypothetical person will step back from this Faetrafficking business and your hobgoblin will be safe.”

  [Hypothetically safe?]

  “Really, truly safe. So long as this hypothetical person is also not threatened. As I said, I feel it will happen and that is a truth. I tell ye three times. That is the best I can do.”

  [Then I feel it shall happen also.] That right there was victory. At least a partial one, and I felt proud because I’d managed to talk a goddess out of doing harm to my hobgoblin. But I couldn’t seem smug about it or she’d slay me for being insolent.

  “Good. Then I will take my leave and remember your kindness for the drink. I will remember everything else too, of course. That is not a threat, ye understand: It is simply a fact. I have captured Brighid’s attention for many years to come because of your efforts. And so you have captured mine.”

  She rose from the table and I hurriedly typed out another question.

  [What about Hatcher and the Fae he’s corrupted?]

  “I thought we established that I had nothing to do with that?” She chuckled at what must have been evident dismay on my face. “Come, Mr. MacBharrais, there are only so many problems ye can solve over a single drink. I mean, well done, lad, ye pulled on a thread and unraveled a good lot, and ye’re wise enough to have a chat with me before doing something unforgivable. That alone sets ye apart from most humans. Ye have my respect, and I imagine ye play a mean game of chess. But the rest of this ye will have to confront outside the confines of a gin bar. And someday, Tír na nÓg will have to confront the fact that the Fae don’t have to live in fear of iron if they don’t want to.” She raised a hand and waggled it goodbye at me. “Slán agat.”

  Something clicked into place for me—not a puzzle piece so much as a raw dose of empathy, a recognition that, in at least one sense, Clíodhna and I might be exactly the same.

  “Is all this because—” I said aloud, then realized that I’d forgotten to use my app. And perhaps forgotten my good sense. It wasn’t necessary to pursue this.

  Except I wanted to know.

  “Because what?” Clíodhna said.

  I looked around at the bar and rose from the booth. There was Harrowbean, of course, and some cooks in the kitchen, and a couple of other patrons. But what I had to say was for Clíodhna’s ears alone. She would never answer me where others could hear.

  I gestured to the empty cobblestones of Virginia Court. “May I ask ye one more question, in private?”

  She cocked her head, considering, then nodded once and preceded me out the door. She moved to the side as I came out beside her and waited for the door to close.

  “What is it?” She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead at the wall of a building across the court. I adopted the same pose. It was not going to be a conversation for eye contact. It would be safer that way, and somehow we both knew it.

  “My wife passed some years ago in a motor accident,” I said. “And not a single day since that time has been so fine as the worst day when she was alive and with me. I have thought on more than one occasion that if there was some way I could bring her back, no matter how insane the trial tae make it happen, no matter how long it would take to get it done, I would do it. I would walk into Hades like Orpheus did to bring back Eurydice. I have that will inside ma breast. Because I swear tae ye the light of her smile warmed me more than the sun ever did. Even the memory of it is proof against the cold. And so I wonder, Clíodhna.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hypothetically: Do ye think someone wants the Fae tae be proof against iron because they yearn for the old days? I mean the days of the Bronze Age, when iron held no sway and the Tuatha Dé Danann roamed the earth with the Fae as freely as humans do? And they’re thinking, If I can make the Fae immune to iron, then it will be like turning back the clock. It will be like reversing the worst thing that’s ever happened in the world. Because I would understand that. I want tae reverse the worst thing in the world too.”

  Clíodhna did not answer right away. In fact, she sighed to communicate that she’d be thinking over her answer a bit. I was patient. A couple walked through the court, and another, passing through on their way to somewhere else.

  “I suppose ye might have a keen insight into the heart of the matter, if not the mind,” she finally said. “Hypothetically.”

  “How so?”

  “The old days are often mourned. We were freer then. The air was fresher, the grass greener, all of that. Ye have the right of it in that there’s not a faery around who wouldn’t wish to return things to that time. But we all know that we can’t go back. Fand proved that when she had her rebellion against Brighid. The only direction we can move is forward.”

  “So they thought that trafficking was moving forward?”

  “Immunity to iron is moving forward.”

  “But those Fae have hurt people. Killed people. They’re in unforgivable territory as regards the treaty.”

  “Ah, here’s where your empathy fails ye, sir. I was alive when there were just a few million people on the whole planet. How many are there now, five billion?”

  “Approaching eight.”

  “Are ye, now! Well. If I truly wanted to return to the old days, I’d be slaying billions of humans, wouldn’t I? Ye don’t see anybody doing that. But I also don’t give a slick selkie shite if a few humans exit early. The whole lot of you are poisonous—with the notable exception, perhaps, of your departed wife.”

  “That’s kind of ye tae say,” I said, though I wasn’t actually sure it was.

  “Well. I don’t know about kindness. But I know I haven’t spoken so much to a mortal in many a year. Can’t say it was pleasant, but it was, at least, interesting. Farewell.”

  I nodded at her in farewell, and she retraced her steps to Tír na nÓg via the Old Way.

  “Bollocks,” I muttered. The secret lab was still secret. Where was it hiding, and who in all the hells had figured out how to grant the Fae immunity to iron?

  “May I get ye anything else, Al?” Harrowbean said as I returned to my table inside.

  [One more, thanks, plus a bar napkin and the bill. Remember to include that arsehole’s tab on mine.]

  “Coming right up, sir. And I appreciate ye getting rid of him.”

  I drew out my pen for doodling and fidgeted until Harrowbean returned. I settled the tab with her, took a swallow of my drink, and then wrote a list to help me think.

  Corrupted Fae

  1. Troll

  2. Clurichaun

  3. Leprechaun

  4. Fir Darrig

  5. Undine

  6. Pixie

  The troll, thank the gods, was no longer an issue. But since Eli hadn’t chimed in with any intelligence, he obviously hadn’t found any leads yet. I’d have to generate my own. This problem of the corrupted Fae was mine to solve.

  The undine was the strangest one on the list, to my way of thinking: What had they offered her that was more enticing than the waters she typically inhabited? Or had they threatened her instead?

  I stared at the list until my eyes glazed over. I tried to shake my thoughts loose from the meaningless circle in which they were trapped by bringing the gin to my nose and inhaling the botanicals. Some people loathe gin and proclaim that they only smell medicine and rubbing alcohol, and while I never say anything because one’s preferences are of course their own, I privately think they shouldn’t have tried drinking shite gin. The Scots have discovered that gins, like whiskies, have some glorious tales to tell to the nose and tongue, if one is only open to exploring them. For me, I find thei
r various scents invigorating, and it resets my mind somehow: I become open to possibility. I could also achieve the same state through meditation, but a nose full of a master distiller’s craft had proven to be a shortcut for me.

  I took a couple of deep breaths with my eyes closed, no tasting at all, and I realized that I’d forgotten a crucial fact. My eyes flew open, I set down the glass, and I circled number six on the list.

  I checked the time: almost four in the afternoon. I Signaled Nadia.

  Are ye free to kick some arse tonight? I need the battle seer.

  How late? I was gonnay watch a movie with Dhanya.

  Can ye reschedule? I need the van. Whisky and cheese for Lhurnog. The whole shebang.

  You’re gonnay pray to Lhurnog with me?

  Aye. I’m thinking this will be a pretty good rammy.

  Hell yes! I’ll cancel the movie now, then.

  I’ll be at the office in about an hour.

  She acknowledged that and I switched to Signaling Buck.

  All clear, wee man. Safe to go outside. Get your arse back to Maryhill, where we first met. I need you to steal something for me.

  That is the most beautiful message I have ever received, he replied. With that in motion, I downed the rest of my drink and motioned to Harrowbean once I stood.

  [I need a good dug to wait in my office for a new contract,] I said. [I should be there in an hour or less.]

  “I’ll arrange it, Al.”

  I tipped my hat to her and hoped I’d get to see her again. If I actually found this lab it would be one thing. Taking it down would be another.

  CHAPTER 26

  Get in the Van,

  Pour the Whisky,

  Melt the Cheese

  It was simple for Buck to pop into Gordie’s apartment and remove the pixie cage I’d left behind. I was careful not to enter the building or get near it, really, since I didn’t have my derby hat on and had no wish to be caught on camera entering the premises. We took the train from there back to my office, where a Fae pack-master waited with a barghest for hire. He was sitting across the whisky table from Nadia, who was playing hostess in my absence.