“Oh.” This “oh” carried a polite amount of doubt, or perhaps merely confusion.
“Can you tell her we have something for her?”
“I’ll see if she’s in.” The clerk stepped through a door beside the key cabinet. Caramel looked at me, her eyes wide, and I grinned and nodded to tell her she was doing fine. The clerk returned. “What is this thing you have?”
“It’s, uh—” I nodded, and Caramel finished, “a ring. She really ought to look at it, ‘cause we really think it’s hers.”
The clerk went back to the other room, then returned. “Ms. Linden will see you. Room Nine Fifty-one.”
Caramel squeezed my hand hard but only let a small smile touch her lips as she straightened her back and said, “Thank you ever so much, my good woman.”
We rode a very quiet elevator to the ninth floor, then Caramel and I knocked at 951. Linden answered, opening it enough that we could see sunlight and expensive furniture behind her. The room smelled of clove cigarettes, cut roses, and some tart perfume, hiding her true scent.
She wore a sea green dress with billowing sleeves. It was cut on one side to reveal golden stockings set with tiny diamonds. Her hair fell over her right shoulder like a moonlit avalanche of virgin snow. I tried to see if she was Crystaviel, and though I told myself I was sure, I wasn’t.
“Yes?” Catching my gaze with her silver eyes, she said, “You helped pack up after the gig at Danceland. We appreciated that.” She smiled kindly.
I resisted the urge to bow and say something gracious. Caramel and I looked odd in the clean hall of the Roses of Elfland. We hadn’t changed: my jacket and jeans hadn’t been improved by the morning’s adventure, and Caramel’s gray traveling clothes were coated with grease, mud, soot, and half a dozen things less easy to identify.
I almost laughed—our clothes were the least of our oddness. Caramel seemed very shy and very young before Linden, and I was hardly the boy next door. I nudged Caramel. She said, “Uh, we have something.”
“So I understand. A ring?”
“Yes,” said Caramel, growing more sure of herself. “Belongs to a Crystaviel. Is it yours?” She showed the silver and sapphire ring. It was almost identical to the three on Linden’s right hand.
“No.” Linden blinked at us. “But it looks just like mine. Your Crystaviel and I have remarkably similar taste.” When neither of us said anything immediately, she smiled thinly and began to close the door. “Good day.”
Okay, it was a stupid plan. I had an impression ball in my pocket, recording since we stepped off the elevator. Nothing we recorded would be proof, not in court, but I’d hoped we’d get something that would convince Rico to probe into Linden’s past. That was shot now.
Then Caramel said, just before the door closed, “So you won’t care if we take it to the coppers.” Something about the way she said it reminded me that she’d watched Tejorinin Yorl die.
The door stopped swinging. Linden’s face was framed in it, a porcelain face haloed in sunlight. “Why should I?”
“No reason.” Caramel stroked the ring between her thumb and forefinger. “What do you think a wizard could learn from this? Betcha one could find its owner, at least. Betcha we’d get a good reward.”
Linden’s lips pressed together, and she shook her head slightly. Silver strands of hair drifted freely. “What do you want?”
I grinned. I doubt I could’ve put my whole face into it. Baring the teeth was probably enough.
“Money? It is a nice ring.” She reached for it, and Caramel stepped back.
I waggled a finger at her: Tut, tut, tut.
“So,” she said. “What’s the price of your silence?”
I nodded and looked at Caramel until she asked the obvious question: “Silence about what?”
Linden stood in the doorway and stared as if she was seeing something besides us. Then she swung the door hard to close it. I let it bounce against the palm of my hand.
Linden had begun to run back into her suite. As she whirled to face us, her face settled into something angry and strong, as if a glamour to disguise her was sliding away or she was an actor shifting from one role to another. None of her features changed, yet she was unmistakably Crystaviel.
I opened my pouch and held it open before her.
Crystaviel stood still. I wondered what options she was weighing, what emotions she wanted to satisfy. She satisfied curiosity. After she looked, she said, “A knife?”
“Is it any knife?” asked Caramel.
“No,” said Crystaviel, smiling tightly. “It is not any knife.”
Caramel smiled, too. She crooked her finger, beckoning Crystaviel to continue.
Crystaviel said, “You have her? She is safe?”
I cocked my head to one side.
Crystaviel said, “I can take her across in the morning.”
Caramel said, “Money?”
“I paid Specs!”
I shook my head quickly.
“—half,” Crystaviel said, as if finishing the sentence.
“Specs is dead,” said Caramel. “So’s that deal.”
Crystaviel closed her eyes and nodded. “What do you want for her?”
“For Florida?”
“Yes,” said Crystaviel. “I’ve only got the funds I planned to pay Specs—”
“Or for being quiet about you hiring Specs to kill Tejorinin Yorl?”
“When I’m back in Faerie with the child, I can triple—”
Caramel and I drew the conversation out as long as we could, and then we left after setting a meeting place for the next morning.
In the elevator, Caramel gave a quick jab in the air with her fist and said, “Yes!” The operator glanced at both of us. I gave my best rabid wolf laugh, and the operator pretended we weren’t there for the rest of the ride down.
•
Rico liked the impression ball. Lieutenant Linn preferred the ring—he coaxed all the magic out of it and found not just Crystaviel-as-owner but a little trick that made it seem that where the ring was, Crystaviel was, too. Just in case somebody being led into an alley should need a little magical reassurance that this was a safe place to go.
We put together two stories. This is the official one, the one that Rico filed:
In the Elflands, Crystaviel and Tejorinin Yorl had been joined in whatever passes for marriage there. It was not a good union. Crystaviel ran away to Bordertown, changed her name, and became a musician.
Then Yorl inherited wealth, whatever that might be in Faerie. It came with a condition: For Yorl or Crystaviel to keep the inheritance, they had to be living together, or if one had died or left their union, the other must be living with their child.
Since they had no child, Yorl came to Bordertown to fulfill the first condition. Crystaviel decided to arrange for the second by killing Yorl and stealing an orphaned elfling to present as their child. When Yorl walked into Danceland, the hired Wharf Rats were already waiting for him.
The same Rats kidnapped the elf child and her human guardians. But before Crystaviel could arrange to take the child into Faerie, the humans’ friends rescued them. In the rescue, the elf child fell into the Mad River and went under, never to be seen again.
To reinforce this story, Orient’s going to edit together pieces of his diary and mine, add the necessary lies, and publish it in Surplus Art. It’ll stop people from wondering about what happened in Specs’s home so they can wonder about something new.
If the story falls apart in Faerie because someone notices that Yorl and Crystaviel were never the subjects of an eccentric will, Crystaviel will say Yorl told her a desperate lie in the hope of getting her to return with him. And that lie led to his death. It’s the sort of moral tale that elves like.
As for Crystaviel’s friends who know she was hunting for Faerie’s heir, she will tell them she could not find the child in Bordertown, which is nothing but the literal truth, and that the Yorl affair prevents her from returning, which is also quite literally
true. Strider assures me it is not easy to pass unnoticed between Bordertown and Faerie.
And why should Crystaviel support this story? Here’s the true version:
When Yorl learned Strider was in Bordertown, he swore that he’d kill Strider for the sake of his honor—I have no idea what had happened in Faerie, but judging from their conversation at Orient’s apartment, Yorl thought Strider was more than a political opponent. Crystaviel tried to dissuade him while she searched for the Elflands’ missing heir.
And at last she found Florida. When Florida had had her fifteen stitches at the Free Clinic, the docs took her into a magic-free room for a physical—standard practice in a place where magic is undependable. None of Florida’s protectors had considered that in our concern for her. Someone saw the moles on the kid’s shoulder.
Crystaviel’s first move was to set up the confrontation at Danceland, where Strider would not suspect her and, if he recognized Yorl, would not think their meeting had anything to do with Florida. Yorl, confident of his ability with his dueling blade, expected to kill Strider. He never saw that Crystaviel won no matter who died. Whether Strider was killed or arrested for Yorl’s death, he would be out of Crystaviel’s way. So, when Goldy and Sai broke up the fight in Danceland and Strider didn’t demand an immediate duel, Crystaviel sent Specs and his Rats after Yorl.
Both stories end with Crystaviel arrested for arranging the death of Tejorinin Yorl. Why would she prefer the first? Because in it, she is not ultimately responsible for the destruction of the Elflands’ heir.
Why would we let her tell the first? Because Strider and Leander said it would give their side more time to plan what to do next in Faerie, now that Florida wasn’t a factor in their struggle.
•
A week after Caramel and I visited the Roses of Elfland, we all went to the Wall to watch two elven Silver Suits escort Crystaviel through the gate to Faerie. No matter what happened to her there, she wouldn’t come through the gate again—not as Crystaviel, not as Linden. Rico told us she was officially Not Welcome in Bordertown.
We dressed in our best, of course. Orient was up and around, maybe a little too pleased with the effect his arm made in a black sling. Caramel stayed close to him; Tick-Tick thinks Orient doesn’t need any more nursing, but Caramel is very protective of him still.
Crystaviel saw us. We meant her to. I saw her give a quick look to Orient, but he didn’t move an eyebrow.
As Crystaviel went through, Strider called out something in Elvish.
“What was that?” Sai asked him.
“Jealous, love? Never you mind.”
But I had learned enough Elvish to recognize the proverb. At least, I’d always thought it was a proverb. Now I’m not sure. Loosely, it’s, Love wealth and glory more than life itself, and starve in splendor. It might be a curse. It might be part of Faerie’s penal code.
Strider and Sai went to visit Leander in the hospital. They brought him a black walnut cane. They said Wiseguy was there with a brass-and-mahogany one.
I went to the banks of the Mad River and watched it roll from Faerie into the World. After a while, I threw a Bowie knife far out into the water. The splash it made was like a hand waving in the sunlight. I signed, No, you have big fun.
We all met back at Danceland. Goldy made coffee, and Orient found Dancer’s lost receipt book. And I began to write this, the story of Florida and Crystaviel.
It’s over now. Go home.
Chapter 12—Fast Forward #2
I find there’s something else to tell you. That and the fact that about a year passed uneventfully in Bordertown—uneventfully by B-town standards, anyway—are all you really need to know from this chapter. If you want, skip to the next.
If you’d like to know a little about that uneventful year, you’re in the right place. Read on.
Leander and Wiseguy went to Faerie. Leander told Strider that maybe he could do more for their side at home. Wiseguy said she’d tell us all about the other side, “Elves be damned,” then added, “If I can,” as Tick-Tick said, “Intentions and deeds are often strangers. Good luck.”
I don’t know if Wiseguy’s departure means halfies can get into Faerie, or only those who marry rich and powerful elves. At the gate, Leander saluted us with his cane (the gnarly one that Strider and Sai had given him), Wiseguy blew us a kiss, and their dark-skinned elven baby clapped his hands. I gave them a Shel Silverstein book so they could bring the kid up right.
Milo announced that he’d never do magic again. His home became a used car lot once more, or rather, it became a used bike lot, since he only managed to sell two of his cars.
Sparks began working at the Free Clinic while taking medical classes at the University Without Floors.
Mickey decided to sell Elsewhere and teach poetry and philosophy at the U. Goldy quit working at Danceland and began at the U. also, teaching reading and sign to little kids.
Gorty and Q. Paul died in a fight with some Trues. They say one died going back to help the other, but no one agrees who fell and who returned. Taz said she would tell if anyone could give her a good reason why it mattered.
Taz and Caramel moved in together. Taz left the Pack and took Goldy’s job at Danceland, and Caramel began waiting tables there. They seemed happy.
Strider and Sai kept their Danceland jobs, and Tick-Tick kept fixing things, and Orient kept finding things. Life rarely changes significantly for everyone.
I did two things worth mentioning.
I fixed up my homesweet. I moved the stacked office furniture downstairs, and I cleaned the windows, and I rigged a rope ladder so I could haul up large things lashed onto my back. Remembering Milo’s arrangement in the car display, I turned what had probably been an office lounge into a kitchen, and I turned what must’ve been the president’s office into a library. I kept thinking I would invite someone over, but I never did.
And I spent more time in—passed more time in? gave more time to?—the Nevernever. I began to wonder if anyone had written about it yet, and I started to keep notebooks of what I saw. Sometimes I’d find plants that I’d never seen before, or animals that the history books said were extinct.
Once I thought I saw a dragon. After comparing my sketch with paintings in dinosaur books at Elsewhere, I found I’d seen a primitive pterosaur—flying reptile—called Rhamphorhynchus. I watched for Rhamphy on every trip after that, but I never saw her again.
I spent enough time in the Borderlands that I quit trying to figure out exactly how much time passed in B-town. It didn’t matter. Things changed. So did I.
That sounds like philosophy, but it wasn’t. It was a way not to think. For at least a year, however you count time, it worked.
Chapter 13—Dancing at the Dead Warlock’s Ball
The third act began one sunny spring afternoon while I was standing in line at the Magic Lantern. The marquee promised The Seven Samurai and The Court Jester, and I could use a few hours of forgetting my woes. A couple of Dragon’s Tooth elves in shiny red leather were talking too loudly behind me. They would drop their parents’ Faerie silver in front of the ticket taker and get in without a second’s hassle. I’d probably be laughed at for my last, rather wilted, four-leaf clover.
Just before I got to the ticket window, something crashed and rattled in the street like a sink chucked from a fourth-floor window. There aren’t any fourth floors near the Lantern, so I turned.
Someone wearing leather coveralls and a helmet decked with purple mop braids was somersaulting down the middle of Ho Street. A big plum black Triumph Bonneville was spinning on its side, with its front forks badly twisted. The bike didn’t have any wheels. I looked to see if the wheels were rolling away, then realized what that meant.
Someone snickered. Someone else said, “’Nother Dead Warlock lives down to ‘is name.”
That was one of the Dragon’s Tooth elves. He was taller than me, of course, but I stared. Some poor bastard may’ve died in the street, and this kid’s making jokes so he
won’t have to care. He looked nervous, then said to his friend with forced cool, “C’mon, let’s catch the show.”
If the Dragon’s Tooth kid hadn’t said anything, I might’ve gone into the theater, too. I left the line and went into the street. The Dead Warlock was standing by her bike, shaking her head in disgust. What I’d taken for a helmet was purple-and-white hair that hung in matted strands about her face. The leather coveralls might’ve been any color once. Now they were a study in dust, mud, and grease, cinched at her waist with a studded black belt.
A couple of thoughts zoomed by: She shouldn’t be standing up or moving around until a doc or a healer has looked her over. I shouldn’t be out here. All I knew for situations like this was to keep her still and keep her warm. She clearly wasn’t interested in either.
She seemed to be fine. Either she’d been thrown into a patch of magic where a protective spell saved her, or she had the kind of stupid luck that saves suicidal people and kills innocent bystanders.
She glanced at me and lifted her left eyebrow, which was perfectly white, then her right, which was the same purple as the right half of her hair. She was short for an elf, though she didn’t look like a halfie. Cocking her fists on her hips, she said, “Well, furball, you gawkin’ or helpin’?”
I shrugged and grabbed the Triumph’s front fork. She’d need someone with tools or magic to get it perfect, but I straightened it to a reasonable degree.
She wasn’t impressed. She said, “Help me drag this.” It wasn’t an order or a request. She treated me like an old friend who would help as a matter of course.
The line at the Lantern watched us without commenting. I was probably the reason they were silent. (Most B-towners think Dead Warlocks are silly or frightening, so they get a lot of harassment and not much sympathy. I thought the Dead Warlocks were silly and frightening. How do you explain people who ride helmetless through B-town on bikes without wheels? They’re either magicians or able to afford one. But if you’re peeling wheelless and hit a patch where magic fails, you’re not frightening. You’re hamburger.)
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