“We will.”
“Go ahead.”
She meant it and that convinced them. After all, if there was a conspiracy, and she turned down the job, it would go to a thief who might be less than scrupulous about the names he or she offered the Council. Terizan would never be responsible for something like that.
And everyone knew it.
Tanya Huff lives and works in rural Ontario with her partner Fiona Patton, six and a half cats, and an unintentional chihuahua. Her twenty-third book, The Heart of Valor, is due out in hardcover from DAW Books Inc., in June 2007. When she isn’t writing, she gardens and complains about the weather.
THE INVISIBLE ORDER
(Being a most small and concise part of the
Hidden Histories of Mankind)
Paul Crilley
ON THE DAY she found out about the hidden war being fought in the streets of London, Emily Doyle woke up praying for snow.
It was four o’clock in the morning, and Emily pushed aside the ragged sheet that covered the lead-paned window. She wiped the mist of her breath away and stared out into the near-darkness. Frost winked and glittered in the moonlight, a thin layer of gleaming white that reminded her of the powdered icing on Mr. Warren’s cakes.
It always looked pretty at this time of the morning. Then it melted away to reveal the dirt and grime that was the norm in St. Giles.
Her prayers went unanswered. There was no snow.
She knew it was selfish, but if it snowed she wouldn’t have to work. She could crawl back into bed with her two younger brothers and sleep till sunup. No such luck, though. Now she had to trek to Farringdon and buy her penny’s worth of watercress to sell in the freezing weather.
She pulled her oft-patched shawl tight around her shoulders and stepped over the prone bodies of the new tenants. Emily didn’t know who they were. Just that they paid their money to Mrs. Hobbs yesterday, and she told them to sleep on the floor in their room. That was the way of it in Cheapside. Her mother said they were actually the lucky ones. Some landladies put fifteen people into a room at the same time. Emily’d heard tell that when they did this, they sometimes died in their sleep. They sealed the windows in an effort to keep warm and breathed each other’s air until there was nothing left to go around. When she’d heard about this it terrified her, and for days afterward she would wake up and listen to make sure her brothers were still breathing.
Emily pulled open the front door and felt the sharp bite of the air against her cheeks. She breathed in deeply and felt the last remnants of sleep leave with her explosive exhalation of white breath.
She stepped onto the deserted street and couldn’t help but wonder if this was what all ten-year-old girls had to go through every day of their lives.
Emily had to get to the market early that morning as Mrs. Eldridge promised to give her an extra bunch of watercress if she got there first. She turned into Church Lane; she knew a shortcut from this road that would get her there in half the time. She hurried down the street. Washing lines crisscrossed the road high above. Someone had left a sheet out overnight. It was now a solid square of material that hung heavily on the line, weighing it down so that it looked like the rope would soon snap.
A broken railing between two of the tenements gave her access to the labyrinth of courts and yards that wove around and behind the main thoroughfares of London. The maze of back streets and dingy pathways was like a vast shadow cast by the city streets. The alleys were thin and claustrophobic, the buildings leaning in on her like Uncle Thomas when he’d had too much gin. She gritted her teeth and broke into a jog.
She was halfway to the market when she heard the noise up ahead. She stopped short, skidding and almost falling in a puddle of something slimy. She held her breath and listened. There it was again. A scuffling sound from around the corner, and a strange clacking noise.
Emily looked around. A lot of people used these alleyways as shortcuts, although that didn’t mean they were safe. But the alley ahead was the only way if she wanted to get to the market in time.
She crept forward until she was leaning against the exposed red brick of a lodging house. She listened for a moment but still could not place the sounds. She laid her hand on the corner of the wall and started to edge her head around.
Something stung her. She jerked her hand back with a stifled yelp and stared down at it. There, stuck in the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger, was a splinter of wood. Where had that come from? She grabbed hold of it and pulled.
It wouldn’t budge. She frowned and pulled harder. The skin puckered and stretched but the splinter stayed firm in her skin. Not only that, but she imagined she felt it pulling back, as if it were actively resisting her efforts. Emily let go of the stick, intending to pull out her knife blade and dig the stupid thing out, but as soon as she did so, the splinter jerked and sank deeper into her flesh.
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She grabbed hold of it again. It was definitely resisting her. She set her mouth. Nothing else for it. She tightened her fingers and with one sharp tug, she yanked the splinter from her flesh.
She could not keep a small cry from escaping. The splinter tore her skin as it came free, bringing with it a dark bubble of blood.
She ignored that, however. Her attention was focused on the piece of wood.
It wasn’t a splinter. It was an arrow. A tiny arrow with a piece of flint as an arrowhead. She stared at it in bemusement for a moment, then turned and looked around the corner into the alley beyond.
A scene of carnage greeted her.
An almost silent battle was being fought, the only sound the frantic scraping and scuffling of feet on the wet cobblestones and the fierce clattering of wooden swords and daggers. Emily stared in amazement. The participants in the battle were tiny, no more than the size of her forearm. One side wore black skins and old leather, and had painted their faces so that only their eyes and teeth shone in the shadows. The others wore more natural clothing—brown leathers and earthy-colored clothes. Dark blood covered the fighters as they skirmished in the tight confines of the passage.
As Emily watched, one of the creatures broke away and limped in her direction. An arrow caught him in the back and he collapsed, twitching, not five feet from her. He lay there for a second, then he melted into the cobbles, his skin liquefying into a bloody puddle that gave off the stench of bad meat.
Emily realized that she was watching a battle between the fey. The stories were real. They existed, just like her little brother believed.
She stood transfixed, wondering what she should do. She wanted to take it all in, but the ferocity of the fighting frightened her.
A moment later the decision was made for her. A piercing whistle echoed through the morning air, sounding like it came from a few streets over. It was answered a moment later by others, although they were fainter and farther away.
As if they were some kind of prearranged signals, the whistles brought the fighting to a stop. The fey froze in place and cocked their heads, listening as they drew in ragged breaths. Emily could hear voices now, still far away but shouting to each other as they drew closer.
They sheathed their weapons and stepped away from each other. The black-painted faeries closed their eyes and faded into the shadows. The others slipped between gaps in the walls or into drainage holes in the gutters. Emily saw a few climbing the dirty facade of the building that faced onto the alley, pulling themselves onto the roof and vanishing from view.
In five seconds they had completely disappeared. Emily stepped into the lane. She looked at the spot where the faerie had died, but there was nothing there; even the puddle had dried up.
The voices were coming closer. She should leave now. She didn’t want to be caught here.
“You, girl,” said a voice.
Emily whirled around, heart racing.
“Over here,” said the voice, irritation clear in both words.
Emily took a hesitant step forward.
“I
f you move any slower they’ll have us both.”
She quickened her pace and found the voice’s owner leaning against an old orange crate. It was one of the faeries, the ones that didn’t paint themselves black. His long face was twisted in a grimace as he stared down at his leg. Emily could see an arrow sticking into his thigh, identical to the one she had pulled from her hand.
The creature turned his attention to Emily. She could see him trying to figure out what to say, how to work the situation to his best advantage. She’d seen that look before, when her brothers tried to make her do something she didn’t want to do. She had no patience for it.
“You’re injured,” she said.
“How observant you are. And all this time I thought humans were stupid.”
“And you need my help, so if I were you, I’d think about being a bit more polite. Are you a faerie?”
“Bones, girl, do I look like a faerie?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one before.”
The creature thought about this for a moment. “Fair point. No, I am not a faerie. Faeries are stupid creatures with wings. Faeries are a waste of space. I am a Piskie—from Cornwall.”
“Fine. Are those men I can hear coming for you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Look, can we talk about this while we move? Only, those footsteps sound like they are getting awfully close.”
“Fine,” said Emily again, and picked the piskie up. He weighed next to nothing, his bones sharp against her flesh. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Corrigan,” said the piskie.
“Mine’s Emily Doyle. Pleased to meet you,” she said. She tucked the piskie beneath her shawl and stood up. She turned to the entrance of the alley.
The was a man standing there. He was so tall and thin, his clothes so tightly fitting, that Emily’s first impression was that of a skeleton in a velvet suit. But then the man doffed his top hat and stepped forward.
“Good morning to you, Miss Doyle. My name is Mr. Creely, and I see you are in possession of something that belongs to me.”
Emily backed up a step.
“Come now, Miss Doyle. I am afraid my patience is thin so early in the morning. Just hand over the piskie.”
“Why do you want him?”
“Why? Because they are vermin, Miss Doyle, and my group eradicates vermin before they can overrun the city.”
“You kill them?”
“We have no choice. London holds some sort of symbolic meaning for them and they want it for themselves. That’s why they fight each other.”
Emily took another step back. “I don’t believe you.”
“That is beside the point.” Mr. Creely’s eyes flicked over Emily’s shoulder. She turned swiftly, and saw a fat man sneaking up on her. She didn’t hesitate. She ran toward him, dodging at the last moment and sprinting for the alley’s entrance. She heard Mr. Creely cursing behind her, but she didn’t look back. She burst out of the lane and took the first turning she came to. She knew these backstreets well. They’d never catch her.
Some time later, she stopped in the recessed back doorway of a shop and uncovered the piskie. He didn’t look good. His limbs hung limp over her forearm and for a horrible second she thought she had suffocated him. But then he groaned and swung his long face around.
“What is it?”
“The arrow. It must have been poisoned. You must take me—”
Emily’s heart leaped in her chest. “But I was hit as well! One of the arrows got me!”
“All the more reason to take me to Merrian. I’ll give you directions.” He winced, and gently repositioned his leg. “He’s a bit on the gruff side, but if you remember to give him his due respect, everything will be fine.”
“I’ll not give him respect if he doesn’t earn it,” said Emily firmly.
“You will.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said the piskie, “he used to be a god.”
He may have once been a god, thought Emily, looking around the cramped shop, but he certainly didn’t know how to keep things tidy. Dust covered every available surface. The front window was so dirty you could barely see in or out. Emily wasn’t even sure what type of shop it was meant to be. There was no clear indication of what he sold.
“Just . . . ring that bell.”
Emily looked and saw a bell on the counter. She was surprised she hadn’t seen it before, as it was the one thing in the shop that looked as though it was routinely polished. The handle of the bell was carved from a pale wood and featured a delicate scrollwork carved carefully into the grain. The bell itself was white, and it shimmered with blue highlights as she looked at it. Emily gently placed Corrigan on the counter and picked it up. The slight movement this caused drew from the bell a clear, high ring. Emily quickly replaced it.
“Now what?” she whispered.
“Just . . . wait.”
No sooner had Corrigan uttered those words than the curtains at the back of the shop were torn aside and a giant lumbered through, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the doorframe. The man was bald with a long braided mustache that trailed down to his chest. He stopped short when he saw Emily and glared at her.
“Who in the name of all the Gods are you?” he shouted in a deep voice.
Emily stared in awe. Then she cleared her throat to make sure there wouldn’t be a squeak to it. “Emily,” she said. “Emily Doyle.”
“Well, Emily Emily Doyle. What are you doing in my shop?”
“I told her to come here, Merrian,” said Corrigan.
Merrian looked down at the counter. His brows knitted in surprise. “Corrigan? What are you doing here?” He stepped forward. “You’re hurt! Was it her?” He glared at Emily. “I’ll kill her—”
“Relax, Merrian. It wasn’t her. She saved me. It was the Unseelie.”
“What? Gods, have they broken their word already? Who were they?”
“A tribe of Tylwyth Teg out of Wales. We followed them in from Bath.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“What?”
“There’s a truce on. The Dagda Himself has asked to meet the Queen tonight at Hyde Park. Said he wants to end all the fighting.”
Corrigan looked surprised. “Just like that? And what of London?”
Merrian shrugged, and cast a sidelong look at Emily. “Greater minds than ours will decide her fate. Here, let me look at your wound.” He bent over and examined the piskie. “Nasty,” he said. He sniffed. “Unicorn shit and . . .” he sniffed again. “Unicorn shit mixed with the dead flesh of a Slaugh.”
“Can you heal him?”
“Aye, I think so.”
“Can you heal me as well?” asked Emily. She held out her hand. “One of the arrows got me.”
Merrian took hold of her hand. It looked like a doll’s limb resting in his huge palm. He bent over again and sniffed. “Not too bad. You got it out quick enough. I’ll give you a poultice, though.”
Merrian opened a drawer and took out a tiny glass vial. He handed it to Corrigan. “Drink this while I look for the ingredients. It will take away the pain.” He moved off to the shelves and started taking down dusty jars, muttering to himself as he examined them.
Emily watched him for a moment. “Who are the Unseelie?” she asked, turning her attention back to Corrigan.
“They’re the Black Sidhe,” he said. “Our enemies. We’ve been fighting them for thousands of years.”
“And who are you?”
“We are the Seelie.”
“But why are you fighting?”
Merrian laughed. “Why does it rain? They fight because they always have. All through the centuries there have been hidden wars between the fey.”
“Rubbish,” scoffed Emily. “Why don’t we know about it, then?”
“Some do,” said Corrigan. He looked over his shoulder. “This is good stuff, Merrian. Does the job.” He turned back to Emily. “There are groups of humans—secr
et societies—who know about us, who try to stop us. That Mr. Creely you met? He’s in one. The Invisible Order they call themselves. Founded by Christopher Wren. You know who he is?”
Emily shook her head.
“He started the Royal Society a couple of hundred years ago, a society for men who worship on the altar of science and logic. But the Society itself was just a cover to hide his real purpose. The eradication of the fey, the destruction of Faerie itself.”
“Why would he want to do such a thing?”
Merrian lined up five jars on the counter. He opened them and took out bits of bark and leaves. “Your kind have always hovered on the outskirts of our wars, like hungry dogs eager for scraps of meat, but Mr. Wren—the reason he got involved was more personal.”
Corrigan sat up. “You mean that was true?”
Merrian grinned and stuffed the contents of the jars into his mouth. He chewed on them and nodded.
“Bones, I thought that was just gossip.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Emily. “I’m not magic, you know.”
“Mr. Wren had a thing for our lady the Queen, but she in her infinite wisdom saw fit to spurn his advances.”
“I see. So you’re telling me that faeries and goblins and spriggans and all kinds of strange creatures live in London?”
“All over,” said Corrigan. “We’re just good at hiding.”
“Not that good. I found you.”
Merrian spat the brown mess he had chewed into his hand and laid it on the worktop. He scooped some out with his finger and held it out to Emily. “Here. Put this on the wound. It’ll draw out the remaining poison.”
Emily grimaced and took the warm sludge from the giant. She pasted it over her wound.
“What were you doing in the alley anyway?” asked Corrigan.
“Taking a shortcut.” Emily suddenly remembered where she was supposed to be. “The cresses!” She looked to the window, where she could just see the building across the street through the grime. “I’ll never get any good bunches now.” She unconsciously patted her threadbare dress, where a pocket sewn on the inside held her penny.
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