Kill! The word lay heavy in Pasgen’s mind. He had been thinking that Albertus was to steal something or arrange for something to be found in Denoriel’s house that would disgrace Elizabeth. Some token to betray her connection to a common merchant, even if he were very rich and claimed to be a foreign nobleman, would create a scandal. Vidal’s and Aurilia’s purpose was to prevent Elizabeth from coming to the throne. Denoriel’s death could not advance that purpose.
“It means,” Albertus was continuing, “that I must choose the men very carefully indeed and find some way to control them lest they decide they can profit more by betraying me before they have blood on their hands.”
“I can see your difficulty,” Pasgen said slowly, trying to calm himself by thinking that Denoriel would be very hard to kill. “Since you cannot ensure discretion by such means as that.” He gestured toward the gold chain.
“This is the first time!” Albertus exclaimed bitterly. “You are one of us. I thought I could speak openly to you. With others I am more careful.”
Pasgen shrugged. “It is not possible to explain fine differences to inanimate objects,” he said blandly, but he was allowing a frown to grow on his face, and then he shook his head and sighed. “I am not at all certain I agree with Lady Aurilia about having Lord Denno killed. He has close connections with the Court and a great outcry will be made.”
“I do not care for that,” Albertus said, lips thinned. “I intend to carry out Lady Aurilia’s order. And beside, I have already planned a way to avoid exposure. I will invite the men to a celebratory drink when I pay them—a drink laced with a slow-acting poison. It will take them several days to die and they will have their full wage, so there will be no trail leading back to me.”
“You do not think you might want them again?”
“There are plenty more where these will come from. I have another more serious problem. I discovered this Lord Denno and the woman—he claims she is his cousin, Lady Alana—are seldom in the house at the same time.”
So Aurilia planned to have Aleneil killed too! Rage flickered in Pasgen. He did not love Denoriel and Aleneil; he would not hesitate to play some nasty and embarrassing, possibly even painful, tricks on them but … but they were blood of his blood, his father’s get! They were not meat for such as Aurilia to dispose of.
But why did Aurilia want them dead? He did not dare ask Albertus, who was only forthcoming with his plans because he believed Pasgen already knew everything. Pasgen realized he would have to find and talk to Rhoslyn but meanwhile he had to delay Albertus. He blinked and shook his head.
“You will not succeed in having the house invaded more than once no matter how clever and skilled your hirelings are. And if all those who did a task for you are soon dead, you may have difficulty in finding other clever men.” Pasgen chewed his lips gently to appear to be thinking hard. Finally he said, “It really would be better if the whole business were completed at once. I will go home and explain to Lady Aurilia the need to somehow get Lord Denno and Lady Alana in the house at the same time—and ask her advice about how to proceed. She will not blame you for the delay.”
Albertus’ face showed relief. “Ah, thank you, Lord Pasgen. That will make my task easier and more certain of a happy conclusion.”
Happy! Pasgen thought. He pushed away the remains of his meal and rose from the table with a word of parting. He had considered killing Albertus where he sat, but instead he went quietly into the corridor and up the stairs. Killing Albertus when the servant’s mind could be stripped of his presence in the house would accomplish nothing—except to expose him to Vidal and Aurilia as an open enemy.
That would only increase the danger to Denoriel and Aleneil. Vidal and Aurilia would merely find another tool to accomplish their purpose and doubtless take good care to hide that tool from him. Pasgen slammed the door to Otstargi’s bedchamber, but he did not go to either his Gate or Vidal’s. He sat quiet, listening. In a short while he heard Albertus’ voice and the servant’s mumbled reply. Somewhat later he heard the door of the house open and close.
All the while he had waited for Albertus to leave, the back of his mind had been wondering what to do. There was no way he could stop Albertus without bringing more danger on his half sister and brother. Yes, sister and brother by blood. He knew them only slightly, but they were all the family he and Rhoslyn had … Llanelli had lost her mother, and her father too, in the fall of Alhambra and she had never had siblings. It had been the loss of her parents that made her so desperate to have a child that she violated Sidhe law and custom, forcing human and Sidhe mages to work the Life-for-life spell that created fertility in her and in Kefni.
Pasgen shivered. His father had saved Aleneil and Denoriel but left him and Rhoslyn to be raised by the Unseleighe … left them to misery and pain … No. That was unfair. That was what Llanelli said, but Llanelli had never forgiven Kefni for leaving her and using the remnant of the spell to impregnate his lifemate.
But no. No, he had learned better since. Kefni had not left him and Rhoslyn willingly. He had died with them in his arms when he was overtaken by the Unseleighe who were pursuing him. Pasgen realized, although Llanelli and Vidal never admitted it, that Kefni had been trying to bring Roslyn and him into Seleighe lands.
It was not really strange or unnatural that their father had gone for the babies of his lifemate first, Pasgen thought. Llanelli always spoke bitterly of the choice Kefni had made, and Pasgen realized he had absorbed that bitterness and painted Denoriel and Aleneil with it. Perhaps they were self-righteous prigs, but they were still his sister and brother and he did not intend to see them die for some idiot whim of Aurilia’s or Vidal’s.
Only how was he to save them? He could not stop Albertus from hiring henchmen. To frighten, drive away, or even destroy those whom Albertus chose would merely expose his attempt to save Denoriel and Aleneil. He needed to know what Albertus planned and must seem to help, not hinder him. Then he had to work from the other end. He had to protect Aleneil and Denoriel.
At that point Pasgen laughed. He could imagine how his brother and sister would react if he suddenly appeared as a protector. Even if they did not attack him and drive him off on sight, they would never believe him. They would be sure his warning was some kind of a trap. But warn them he must. Pasgen shivered again. If they should die …
He would not be able to live with that in his mind, with the guilt that would choke his senses. And if Rhoslyn learned … He remembered the intensity—the hidden longing—with which she had spoken to him of the Bright Court and her meetings with Aleneil. Rhoslyn had forgiven him his attack on the child Elizabeth because it had not succeeded and because Elizabeth had hurt him, but she would not forgive him Aleneil’s death.
First he must deliver a warning. It seemed from what Albertus said that Denoriel’s household had already faced some problems. Those could not have been of Albertus’ making; he had not yet made any attempt. An attack that failed by Vidal’s or Aurilia’s forces? Possibly. It did not matter except for influencing just how Pasgen should deliver his warning.
As himself, he decided. Denoriel would not attack him physically in his own house, even less with magic—not that he feared Denoriel’s magic. Denoriel had a man of business who lived in the house and merchants came and went doing business. It was too public a place to use magic or even for an open attack on a stranger.
Pasgen’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps—perhaps the best arrow in his quiver was the clear, unvarnished truth. He could say that he was doing a favor for Rhoslyn, who was grateful for Denoriel’s kindness to her changeling. He would simply tell Denoriel about Albertus’ hiring of mortal henchmen and leave. He frowned a moment trying to decide whether to attempt to answer any question that Denoriel asked or simply say what he had to say and go. Either way Denoriel would not believe him; Pasgen smiled bitterly. Denoriel’s doubts about Pasgen’s purpose would increase his alertness, which would probably be enough.
Having decided, Pasgen went to the
mirror and cast only the most necessary illusions—round ears, round-pupilled eyes, and simple, sober clothing. Then he went out and walked to Bucklersbury, his steps slowing as he neared. In the end, he went right by the house, feeling heat in his face as he contemplated rejection, perhaps ignominious expulsion. He had no profit or pleasure ever from Denoriel and Aleneil; why should he open himself to shame, likely to derisive laughter? Would Underhill be so much damaged by their loss?
At the corner of the street, he stopped and looked down into the dirty gutter. Not Underhill. Underhill, Oberon’s creation, would continue without noting the loss of two, or two hundred, or two thousand Sidhe. Underhill was truly eternal. But he … Pasgen did not like to contemplate being laughed at or rejected, but he would be like the gutter, full of slow-moving filth if he issued no warning.
For his own sake, Pasgen went back down the street and knocked briskly on Denoriel’s door. There was a small brass plate affixed. It said adjoran and below that mercer and factor nothing more. The door opened before Pasgen could have second thoughts, and a tall, muscular manservant stepped back to invite him in.
“Whom shall I say, sir?”
So briefly he hoped the manservant, being human, would not notice, Pasgen hesitated. The one thing he had forgotten when deciding to go as himself was that he might have to give a name. Well, it would be stupid to try to hide that.
“Pasgen Silverhair,” he said. “I would like to speak to Den … ah … Lord Denno Adjoran.”
“A moment,” the servant said. “May I take your cloak?”
“It is not necessary. I do not expect to be here long.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servant bowed and took only a few steps along the corridor. He scratched at the first door on the left and went in without waiting, closing the door behind him. Pasgen could not help but grin, imagining the expression on Denoriel’s face when he heard the name and preparing to wait some time while Denoriel made up his mind whether to have him thrown out or to receive him. But the door opened almost as soon at it closed. The servant stepped out, holding the door open.
“Please, sir.” He gestured for Pasgen to enter.
That was too quick, entirely unexpected. Before he thought, as he stepped forward, Pasgen raised his shields. Then, stopping himself from shrugging, he walked inside—where, just inside the door he checked abruptly.
A man—certainly not Denoriel, totally human, Pasgen’s senses told him—had risen from behind a table littered with papers, cloth samples and a myriad of other oddments. Behind him were shelves on which thick ledgers stood and beyond them books, bound in leather and buckram. A quick glance around showed a surprisingly luxurious room. The floor was covered by a thick, intricately woven carpet. To the right, a hearth with a lively fire was flanked by two cushioned chairs; to the left were two windows facing the street with a handsome writing desk between them.
The man himself was soberly dressed, but Pasgen took in the rich, if discreet embroidery across the yolk of the doublet, the points of a heavy silk shirt peeping above the doublet’s neck, the general high quality of all the fabric. This man of business was doing very well for himself … and did not need to hide that success from his master.
“I beg your pardon, Master Silverhair,” the man who had stood to greet him said, “but Lord Denno is not here. My name is Joseph Clayborne and I am Lord Denno’s man of business.”
“I really need to speak to Lord Denno himself,” Pasgen said. “I know he is a busy man, but I am … ah … a fellow countryman of his. I think if you send my name to him that he will be willing to see me.”
“No, truly, sir,” Clayborne said, “Lord Denno is not in the house. In fact, I think he is not in London.” He smiled slightly, then sighed. “Lord Denno is seldom here, but I am fully empowered to do any business you might have.”
“It is not a matter of business,” Pasgen said. “It is a personal matter. Is … is Lady Alana here?”
“No, sir.” Clayborne looked surprised. “She does stay here from time to time, but not often and she has sent no message that we were to expect her.”
Pasgen frowned. “It really is important that I see either Lord Denno or Lady Alana—”
“Sir, neither of them is particularly exclusive or proud. I assure you that I have no instructions, not even to ask if a visitor could see them personally. And I believe that if either were here they would be willing to speak to you.” Clayborne sighed. “I do not even know when Lord Denno will return. I wish I did.”
Very gently, very carefully, Pasgen pushed into the man’s mind and discovered immediately that he was not lying. He did not know for certain where Denoriel was, but believed he was with Lady Elizabeth, who was moving from Enfield to Chelsea that day or the next. Just as carefully, just as gently, Pasgen withdrew. Clayborne had frozen for the moment that Pasgen invaded him but his expression had not changed. Clearly Denoriel made no habit of stripping the mind of his man of business. Pasgen hoped Denoriel would not notice his assault on such an obviously favored servant.
A wave of frustration flooded him, and he clenched his fist under the sleeve of his gown to prevent himself from raising his hand and blasting Clayborne simply for relief. In the next moment he almost began to laugh. Albertus was seeking bravos in London and had been working out how to get into the house. So, as long as Denoriel and Aleneil were not in the house or, at least, not in London, they were safe.
“May I write Lord Denno a note then?” he asked.
It would be safe enough to state his warning clearly. Even if the man of business were empowered to open Denoriel’s letters, which seemed to be the case from a pile of opened documents on the table, he would learn nothing since Pasgen intended to write in Elven.
“Certainly, sir.” Clayborne came out from behind the table to lead Pasgen to the writing desk between the windows. “Paper,” he pointed to a drawer. “Pen and ink.” He bowed and withdrew, returning to his table where he bent his head over a pile of papers compressed by an odd-looking stone.
Pasgen glanced at the stone as he opened the drawer of the writing desk and then bent his perception on it more fully. When he concentrated, the aura of the stone came clear. It was from Underhill!—a sovereign remedy against poison and bespelling. A favored servant indeed.
Withdrawing a sheet of heavy paper from the drawer, Pasgen seated himself, dipped quill in ink, and began without salutation:
Because Rhoslyn is grateful to you for the kindness you showed to her changeling, she asked me to pass to you a warning. For some reason unknown to me or to Rhoslyn, both Prince Vidal and his lady desire not only you dead but Aleneil also. Vidal is gone from Caer Mordwyn, I know not where, but Aurilia has ordered a mortal servant to arrange for your death. I came upon him by accident and he, thinking me in Aurilia’s confidence, told me that he is hiring men whom he believes will be capable of invading your house despite your precautions and murdering you and Aleneil. Believe me or not as you choose. Pasgen Peblig Rodrig Silverhair.
Chapter 11
In mercy, the sun was shining, the sky was a clear, pale blue, and the wind, though chill, held a hint of spring. Denoriel could only be humbly grateful to the Powers That Be because Elizabeth would have insisted on leaving for Chelsea even if it had been pouring rain. She was as excited and light-spirited now as she had been downhearted before she learned she was to live with Queen Catherine. Yet she was going into much greater danger than she had been in years.
Elizabeth would need to be cautious, to be circumspect. She should have shown herself modest and obedient and ridden in the traveling wagon Queen Catherine had sent. Possibly she would have been willing to ride in the wagon if it had poured rain. Possibly.
Denoriel doubted it. He had not even suggested the idea, although he knew he needed to alert her to guard herself. He hated to dim the glow of her golden eyes; he wanted her to be happy. But the reliance she put on the queen to protect her was probably unfounded and dangerous. And Aleneil would not even be w
ith her.
Denoriel’s jaw set hard, but he relaxed it. He had not thought to tell Aleneil to stay with Elizabeth and it seemed she had business of her own. As Lady Alana she had asked for and been granted a leave of absence and Denoriel had no idea where she had gone. She was not in her own house in Avalon. He had left a message with her servants, but even if she got it, she could not immediately go back to Elizabeth. The silly maids of honor would be surprised and gossip.
What he had done was to suggest that Elizabeth include Blanche among the young noblewomen. He knew that giving Blanche a place in that vehicle would draw some angry looks from the maids of honor and possibly a protest from Kat. But when Elizabeth glanced at him with widened eyes, he only whispered that she order Blanche to carry her jewels, which would provide a reason for Blanche not to go with the other servants. Elizabeth, bless her, had not asked why, only gave her orders and ended the noble maidens’ incipient protests with a peremptory gesture.
Now he glanced sidelong at Elizabeth who sat her mare as firmly as if she had been nailed to the saddle. The animal was full of energy, curveting from side to side and tossing her lovely head. Elizabeth had been too downhearted over the past weeks to want to ride, and the mare needed exercise.
Ahead of them rode Gerrit and Shaylor. Just behind were the other two guards, Nyle and Dickson, and behind them Dunstan, followed by Ladbroke and Reeve Tolliver leading Elizabeth’s extra horses. Denoriel glanced back along the road. First came the traveling cart, then three wains loaded with clothing and such furniture, paintings, dishes, and decorations as Kat and Elizabeth had decided they could not do without. And lastly a fourth wain fitted with benches and some pillows for the servants.
Elizabeth also looked back. He saw her nod; they were now out of sight of Enfield and it was safe for her to lean confidentially closer to him. “Denno, why did you want Blanche to travel with my maids of honor? Surely they are not important enough to draw—” her voice stopped, her lips quivered; she could not form what she had intended to say. “No one would care to hurt my maids,” she finished. Her eyes sparked gold with—Denoriel almost groaned—what he greatly feared was anticipation. “Will we be attacked?”
By Slanderous Tongues Page 17