by Augusta Li
“Ah, Mr. Knotte,” said the man behind the desk as Querry entered the room. On cue, the pale harpist stood, bowed, and left the room. Querry watched his willowy, white body as he departed. The door shut softly behind him. “Please sit down.”
Querry took one of the chairs facing his client. The gentleman rested his elbows on the desk and stretched his long fingers into an arch, tapping the tips together. “A successful evening as always, I presume?”
“Um, of course,” Querry answered, reaching to untie the sack from his belt. The gentleman made it hard for him to think. He was stunning—waves of golden hair spilling over the shoulders of his mint, velvet blazer, sparkling emerald eyes, and an angular face that looked both soft and devastatingly masculine—handsome, even by fey standards. Querry could see the svelte line of the gentleman’s long neck stretching toward prominent collarbones and a smooth chest that finally disappeared behind a thin silk shirt and paisley waistcoat with pearl buttons. Trying not to make eye contact, Querry passed him the bag.
“Excellent!” the gentleman said, clapping twice. Why he was so excited with another gentleman’s old boots, or why he’d pay Querry twenty pounds to steal them when he could buy them for a few shillings, the thief had stopped trying to figure out. A growing pile of things the gentleman had commissioned Querry to burgle sat in the corner: a broken phonograph, a wooden box of old pencils, a cart wheel missing a few spokes, a porcelain doll with only one eye, a matching ladle and fork, a tangled wig, and a set of lace curtains. While the thief suspected himself to be a piece in some unfathomable game, twenty pounds was still twenty pounds.
“My payment,” Querry said, feeling vulnerable. He’d started not to trust himself—his reactions and responses—and needed to leave. The helpless sensation came quicker each time he visited this house.
“Indeed, indeed,” the gentleman said, opening a drawer and sliding a bag of coins across the desk.
Querry snatched them greedily, and found himself embarrassed by his desperation. “Nice doing business,” he said, standing and extending his hand.
The gentleman just stared at his proffered palm. Then, slowly, he got to his feet and came around the front of the desk. His steps, the twist of his waist, and the movement of his hair mesmerized Querry. Querry wondered at how such simple gestures could contain such perfection. How could something as simple as a fingernail be so sublime? The two stood very close now. The gentleman’s chest grazed Querry’s shoulder. He smelled like crushed grass.
“What a fascinating creature you are,” he said in a whisper. He reached up and traced the line of Querry’s brow. The thief felt powerless to resist leaning into the touch. Querry’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath faltered.
Get a hold of yourself—
“You’re far too beautiful for a common thief.” He stretched his neck, so that his floral breath washed Querry’s cheek and his lips rustled Querry’s hair, turning Querry’s muscles to quivering porridge.
“I’m an exceptional thief,” Querry said, fighting for lucidity. He should step away.
A musical giggle escaped the other man. Querry felt it reverberate up his spine. His pores contracted and his cock skipped. “Exceptional, certainly. Even more so, I’m certain, beneath this cumbersome gear and all of these silly machines. What are you like under there?” His fingers moved down Querry’s face and neck, over his heart and to the buckles of his padded vest. He tapped them one by one, as if he tickled the keys of a piano. Querry felt the faerie’s erection against the side of his thigh, next to his pistol. He felt himself turning to face the other against his will.
“You deserve fine, soft clothing. The best food and wines. Nights of revelry and dance. A life free from toil of any kind.” The gentleman’s hands went to Querry’s hips, pulling their bodies together. Querry curved against him and let his head fall backward so that the gentleman could pull his cravat aside and kiss up his neck. Fire bloomed in his cheeks, and a tingle spread across his pelvis. “You could stay here with me. Would you like that?”
Yes! In that moment, it was all Querry wanted. Nothing else mattered beyond the gentleman’s lips, his hair, and his body. Those sparkling eyes that, in spite of the acceptable clothing, the outward trappings of civility, betrayed something wild. Querry wanted to strip slowly and stretch out naked across the desk. He wanted to lie complacent while the gentleman used his body any way he chose. But he also knew that the desire would fade when he left this place. He knew it just as he knew that if he gave in to this lust, in time he’d stop dressing at all. He’d wander the halls nude. He’d stare out the window at the flowers for days on end. He’d forget his name, stop eating—
“No, I can’t.” He pulled away. Predictably, the gentleman looked at him with even greater awe. “I’m afraid I’ve got to be going.”
The fey lifted his chin and feigned indifference. “If you must, then you must. My offer stands. And if you find yourself short on money, there’s a house on the corner of Tinkerton Street that you may want to visit. Tinkerton Street and Grace Lane.”
“You have another job for me?”
“No,” the gentleman said, turning his back to the thief and resting his hand on the surface of the desk. “I have all that I require, for now.”
“Then what—”
“I said, I have what I require.”
Querry stood staring at the golden sheet of hair flowing over the gentleman’s back, fighting down the urge to touch it. He knew better than to ask why his client suggested the address. He could tell when he was being toyed with. Later, free from the dizzying effects of Neroche and the gentleman, he could try to work it out. Now, though, he needed to leave or he never would.
QUERRY took a taxi across the bridge and to the easternmost outskirts of the city. The chill in the air and the acrid stink of coal cleared Querry’s head as he made his way past the huge, dark factories. Day and night, their great pistons hammered up and down, and their smokestacks spewed soot and steam. Hordes of filthy men, women, and children trudged to and from their eighteen-hour shifts, between the foundries and mills and the row houses the companies provided. This part of town was like a city unto itself, and Querry hated it, hated it even more than Neroche. Each district within bore the name of the product it turned out: Loomston made textiles, Sparksfield munitions, Seagrave parts for ships, and so on. Querry hurried away from the resentful stares of the workers, toward home.
Between the massive manufacturing district and the river, on the very edge of Halcyon, almost to the docks, a little piece of heaven called Rushport stood in the perpetual shadow of the factories. At one time a port and some innocuous rushes occupied this space, and they’d left their names, though they’d long ago been replaced by shoddy houses, cheap motels patronized only by the poorest of sailors, unlicensed dance halls, brothels, and taverns. Querry passed several buildings hung with red paper lanterns. Perfumed smoke drifted from behind their curtained doors. A young Auriental man, his head shaved except for a long braid, wearing only loose, silk pants and slippers, motioned Querry over. He was attractive, smooth, and svelte, with a sensual droop to his eyelids. The flower resin his people introduced to the city promised an escape from hunger, fear, pain, and desperation. Some compared it to a religious experience. Many in this part of town had given up everything to seek its solace. Quite a few of the well-off had done the same. The smoking dens on the west side of the river resembled exotic palaces in some cases. Querry stopped walking long enough to admire the man. Most found coupling with foreigners distasteful and improper; though nearly all of them considered Querry’s choice of companionship unnatural. Their opinions wouldn’t stop him from having a smoke against the chest of the lovely young man. But it was an illusion of happiness, a glamour the same as that offered by the gentleman. Querry shook his head and kept walking. He waved away some men passing out handbills.
Most everyone knew Querry here. Few of the many whores propositioned him, and most of the beggars left him alone. He walked in silence,
stepping over drunks and the homeless, his hands in his pockets and his fists clutching the jewels from the attic and the twenty pound coins. Gangs of thugs wouldn’t hesitate to outnumber and mug the thief, especially if they thought he’d been at work. Along the way, he stopped in one of the better pubs and bought a kidney pie, a piece of fried fish, and a pint of ale, carefully bringing out only a few pence as payment, and making sure the others didn’t jingle.
“Home sweet home,” Querry muttered as he entered his building and made his way to his room on the third floor. Just like he did outside, he stepped over the prone bodies that littered the hall, and looked away from the prostitutes conducting business in the stairwells. He unlocked the intricate series of clockwork locks he’d attached to his door and lit the single candle on the table. Loud yowling greeted him, and he unwrapped the fish filet and broke it in half for Tosser and Toerag, two foreign cats he’d rescued from being stoned to death by kids. Sometimes he cursed himself for bringing them home when he could barely feed himself, but they had lovely, dark brown ears and feet, smooth, fawn-colored coats, and deep blue eyes that resembled Querry’s own. Plus, they guarded his closet-sized room as well as any bulldog, and they were just as mean.
When Querry sat on the edge of his narrow mattress, his knee touched the table with the broken leg. Various tools and gears covered the surface, as Querry continuously experimented with tinkering and worked to repair and improve his weapons, so the thief ate his meal from his lap. Then he unbuckled his gloves and wriggled them off. He’d been too hungry to bother before. Carefully he placed his weapons, gear, and plunder in a wooden chest, the only other piece of furniture he owned. He draped his shirt and trousers over the headboard. He’d need to wash them, and his body, in the copper basin. But it could wait for morning. Going into Neroche always exhausted Querry. He stretched out on his back and folded his arms beneath his dark hair.
Tomorrow, he could pay his rent. He could sell the jewelry he’d taken and probably earn enough to buy food for the next few weeks. He needed another candle, bullets for his pistols, and some steel tubing. He sighed and listened to the contented purr of the cats.
It could be worse, he told himself. He didn’t have much, but he had a roof over his head and enough to eat. He had his freedom. At least he could say that nobody owned him, not gin nor a drug, nor the factories, nor the gentleman. To be able to say that was priceless.
Chapter Two
GAINING access to the royal archives proved much simpler than one would think. Even though Royal Guards stood at the entrance in their archaic breeches, hose, and lacy ruffs, all Querry had needed was an open window. He found one, and in no time stood among the musty books, documents, and scrolls.
Head down, he slinked among the stacks. The monarchy required permits of those who wished to study here. Querry supposed there were plenty of secrets they’d prefer to leave buried among the mountains of paper. He found the stairs and descended all the way to the lowest level, home of the oldest and rarest documents. No sun reached here. Fancy gas lamps affixed to the walls provided light and their familiar scent. The place reminded Querry of a tomb, silent and still. He searched about and soon realized the floor was arranged like a wheel. Long hallways formed by tall, wooden shelves met in the center. There, beneath a chandelier hanging from a chain, a young man worked at a desk.
Smiling, Querry watched for a few minutes as the man, with thick, dirty blond hair and oval spectacles, wrote with a quill pen. His right hand reached for the ink well as his left thumb made its way to his mouth.
“Still biting your nails?”
The young man dropped his hand like it had been slapped. He scanned the darkened corridors around him. After letting him go for a bit, Querry stepped into the light and approached the desk. A little brass plaque read “Reginald Whitney, Chief Royal Archivist.”
“You can’t be here, Querry,” said the young man.
“And yet here I am.”
“How did you get past the guards?”
“Easy.”
“And what do you want?” the archivist asked, sounding both exasperated and exhausted.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Reg.”
“So, you just dropped in for a visit?” Reg asked, raising one shapely eyebrow.
Querry bit his lower lip and looked guiltily at his shoe.
“As I suspected,” Reg said.
“I just need the tiniest favor,” Querry replied. “Do you think you can help me?”
Reg sighed. “I know I owe you, Querry. All those years that you looked out for me in that hell hole they called an orphanage, and later when they shipped us off to that factory.”
Damn, that hurt. It hurt so much, and so unexpectedly, that Querry’s words fell unplanned from his lips. “You think I did that so you’d owe me later, Reg? I came here because I thought we were friends. Back then, in the workhouse and in the factory, I looked out for you because you were the only thing I had to live for. I—”
Now Reg looked away, ashamed. His skin shone pale in the gaslight, the dark under his hazel eyes accentuated.
“Have you been sleeping?” Querry asked.
Reg brightened a little, even forcing a smile. He slid his glasses down his nose, folded them, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat. “Mother hen, just like when we were boys.”
“Are they keeping you here late?” Querry persisted.
“No, it’s Mum and Dad. They’re on me night and day about marrying. Apparently a royal archivist is good enough to wed an ugly daughter of the aristocracy. They finally see their chance to make it into the nobility. They’ve been setting me up with a different lady, and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, Querry, every night.”
The idea of Reg marrying stirred long-dormant feelings in Querry. To his surprise, he was jealous. “Can’t you just tell them you’re not ready?”
Reg’s shoulders curled forward. He met Querry’s eyes and shook his head. “Querry, the Whitneys adopted me. They took me away from that hellish factory, sent me to University. They gave me a future. All Mum has ever wanted is to be among the nobility, to go to their parties and have tea with them. It’s the one thing she can’t buy, no matter how many cans of fish their factory cranks out. I have to do this.”
“But!”
“It’s life for most of us. Work, marry, raise a family.”
“You’re really willing to be the trophy husband of some inbred hag?”
“Why are you so upset?” Reg asked. “This is what people do. What other alternative do I have? A man lives alone too long, and people start to talk.”
“What about our plan?” Querry asked. He remembered finishing a dinner of stale bread after a day of shoveling coal into a furnace, and going with Reg to their straw-stuffed mats. Looking at Reg now, he saw the soot streaks clearly. He remembered whispering, staying up late even though they’d both been exhausted, planning. Probably because they rarely saw the sky, they’d decided to become traders. They’d get a ship and sail to the remote corners of the Empire, procuring all manner of exotic goods. Night after night they had lain in each other’s arms and fantasized about the places they’d visit. Freedom and fresh air were all they’d wanted, and to be together.
“It was a child’s dream,” Reg said sadly. “I’m sorry, Querry. Not all of us can live by our own rules.”
Watching Reg, Querry remembered the texture of his skin, the way he tasted. He remembered how they’d had to be quiet as they touched and fondled and explored, lest the other factory workers hear. During that horrible time, they’d been each other’s only comfort. Now, maybe irrationally, Querry felt betrayed.
“What is it that you wanted?” Reg asked. Querry thought he heard regret in his friend’s voice.
“Just some records. Anything you have on the house on the corner of Tinkerton and Grace Lane. A floor plan would be perfect.”
“Why that house?” Reg said, shocked.
“What? Why do you ask?”
&nb
sp; “Because! The Grande Chancellor requested records on that property this morning. I don’t care for him, so I told him they’d take a few days to locate. And then a few hours ago, the Duchess of Lisine asked for the same records. I have them right here. What’s so special about that house?”
“I have no idea,” Querry said. “I walked by it on my way here today. It’s not in a nice part of town, but it may have been a decent house at one time. It has one of those old stone chimneys in the front, and a big stained glass window. Broken now, though. The roof’s caved in, and the thatch is gone, too, and the garden’s completely overgrown with weeds. It’s falling apart.”
“What do you want with it?”
“Curiosity. One of my clients mentioned it. It was just so random of a thing for him to say.” Querry didn’t expound upon how he felt like a dog following a man with a bucket of innards. He didn’t like being manipulated, but he’d reached the point where he had to know. What did those uppity aristocrats want with it? It could be a cute little place, if somebody fixed it up, but certainly not worthy of a duchess.
“What client?” Reg asked. “Not the faeries again?”
Querry said nothing, but Reg knew his expressions too well.
“Querry, how could you? They’re dangerous! They aren’t like us. They don’t care who they hurt.”
“They care,” Querry said. “They just change their minds a lot. But don’t worry. I know how to handle them. So, a faerie gentleman, the Duchess of Lisine, and Lord Thimbleroy. This just gets more intriguing.”