By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  Within two weeks of Elizabeth’s move, Rhoslyn was explaining to Pasgen that she did not think it necessary to bother about Thomas Seymour any longer. They were again at the Inn of Kindly Laughter waiting for Llanelli. Rhoslyn had noticed that her mother seemed more relaxed in that place than any other and met her there most often. Pasgen leaned back against the wall behind him and laughed.

  “Too late,” he said. “Seymour is going to come to a bad end. And he certainly deserves what will befall him. He is dishonest and derelict in his duty—more than derelict, he has perverted his duty as Lord Admiral. He is actually in league with the pirates he is supposed to hunt to make the narrow sea safe for merchant ships. Instead he has arranged for safe harbor for the pirates in the Scilly Islands and for that takes a share of their booty.”

  “Mary was sure there was some hidden reason for Catherine sending Elizabeth away, but she cannot find any hint of misbehavior.”

  Rhoslyn ran a finger around the rim of the glass in which a golden wine sparkled; a faint music just barely tickled her ear. She did not think even Pasgen could hear.

  “Was there not talk of Seymour playing with all the women?”

  “Yes, but always when his wife was there with them and the talk never named Elizabeth in particular. The gossip from the queen’s household now, however, is all about Catherine’s continued ill health. One of Catherine’s ladies did say, with a touch of spite, that Elizabeth now and again showed some impatience with the queen’s illness and was not properly grateful for all Catherine had done for her, but Mary could make little of that except to say it was typical.”

  Pasgen looked down into the mug from which he was drinking. “Gratitude is a draught few can enjoy in any quantity,” he said dryly. “But it is just as well, for whatever reason, that Elizabeth is out of that household. Seymour has done worse than consort with pirates. He and William Sharington, the vice-treasurer of the Bristol mint, have been playing games with the coinage.”

  “Grace of God, do you mean to say that his crimes are common knowledge?”

  “The lack of his pursuit of the pirates is. There is bitter talk among the merchants, but it does not seem to have wakened any response in Bristol—who knows, perhaps collusion with the pirates is common there—and from what I could tell the tale had not spread to the Court. Of course I have no friends at Court, but I stopped and asked Denoriel’s man of business—I am considered a safe friend by him after that night we helped them be rid of those attackers. Clayborne does have contact with many of the courtiers and there is currently no gossip about Seymour.”

  “Oh well, since Elizabeth is out of his reach, it does not matter if he escapes his crimes. And I am sorry for his wife who seems to love him. Catherine is a good person.”

  Pasgen shrugged indifferently. “I think he will bring catastrophe down on himself. He is the kind. But I did put the thought of Sharington’s coin clipping and mixing base metals with the Church plate he melts down into the mind of the sheriff and of two knights of the shire. How or when or even whether they will move, I have no idea.”

  “It no longer matters,” Rhoslyn said, smiling. “But how did you know who was who in Bristol?”

  “There is an elfhame in the west, called Cymry.”

  “Oh, I know about Cymry.” Rhoslyn’s eyes brightened with remembered pleasure. “There was a Sidhe from Elfhame Cymry at Oberon’s ball. He was attending on Aleneil. From what I heard him say, they are very different from Logres or Avalon. And even more different from the Dark Court. They value their humans and try to make them happy.”

  Pasgen frowned. “They are different. They use very little magic. And yet there is a great wash of power all around the elfhame. Instead of using magic, they have masses of human servants to clean and cook and even farm. Hmmm. I wonder if the power I felt can be used or whether it is like the power in the mortal world, which Denoriel says is like swallowing lightning. I wonder—”

  “No, Pasgen,” Rhoslyn protested. “Denoriel warned you that was dangerous and he did nearly burn out his power channels by using that human power.”

  “Oh, something else strange about Cymry,” Pasgen said quickly, hoping to distract Rhoslyn from worrying about him and nagging at him. “Possibly because they use so little magic, they did not seem to sense that I was Dark Court and I saw Chenga there.”

  “Chenga?” Rhoslyn repeated. “Among a mass of humans? And doing them no harm?” Then she bit her lip. “Do you think she is taking one here and there and … and using them in secret?”

  Pasgen frowned. “She was alone, not part of any group, but I did not see any sign of active dislike. If she is abducting some of their humans, they will discover it soon. The humans live in family groups, just as they do in the mortal world. None can disappear for long without questions being raised.” The frown grew blacker. “No. I do not like that at all.”

  “What do you think they will do to Chenga if they learn she is harming their humans?”

  “For all I care they can tear her apart or use her as a target for the fighting groups they enjoy watching so much. I don’t care about Chenga, but I don’t want Cymry made wary of Dark Court taint. I thought … I thought we might … you might consider living in Cymry. It is a pleasant place.”

  Several emotions showed briefly on Rhoslyn’s face—a touch of interest flickering to hope which was then damped down into resignation. “No, I would not dare. With so little magic to call on, Vidal could wreak havoc in Cymry if he traced me there. Better he not know of such a rich and defenseless source of humans.”

  Pasgen’s lips thinned but before he could speak, Llanelli came up to their table. She was looking better than she had for several past meetings. Not that she had slipped back completely to her thin, worn form; she had retained the fullness of figure and rich coloring, but there had been signs of strain in her face and a kind of wariness in her manner. This time her eyes were bright and she wore a little half smile.

  “Why are you hiding back here against the wall?” she asked.

  “Too much noise in the middle,” Rhoslyn said quickly. “I wanted to tell Pasgen about some mortal matters.”

  Actually she had chosen the half-hidden table because in the recent past, at least since the empty house had been gutted, Llanelli had kept glancing around nervously when they were more in the open. She hoped Pasgen, who was sometimes impatient with their mother, would not remind her of her past fears.

  “You are looking very well, Mother,” Pasgen said blandly. “Have you had many interesting clients?”

  “Not so many,” Llanelli replied with a little laugh. “But one who is really interesting. He is Bright Court, but from Elfhame Melusine.”

  “He came here for a healer?” Rhoslyn asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

  “No, of course not,” Llanelli said, laughing again. “He came here to try to obtain some weapon or other from some outworld source. It is made neither of our silver alloy nor of mortal iron or steel. He says it is very light and very strong and has no ill effects on Sidhe. He wants to discover whether he can ken it.”

  “Why not seek it in Halle de Lutin or Marché de Esprit Follet?” Pasgen asked; his voice was too bland, indifferent.

  Rhoslyn’s hand clenched on her knee under the table, but Llanelli did not notice Pasgen’s subtle warning.

  “He says it is only at the Bazaar of the Bizarre that there are so many outworld merchants. And, of course, that was what brought him to need a healer. The outworlders have no idea how dangerous iron is to us and, of course, they are protected by the warning that the buyer must beware on his own account. Fortunately Pilar was reasonably wary.”

  “He came to you to treat an injury?”

  “Yes, from the stall just across the aisle from my booth. Most fairgoers know that merchants’ mortal toys are gilded or silvered and that some of them are of iron. Pilar had just put the tips of his fingers around a displayed weapon. Fortunately the merchant shouted at him not to pick it up and only the tip of
one finger touched it. The merchant sent him right across to me and there was only the smallest burn and no sign of poisoning. Perhaps the fact that whoever made the thing or maybe the merchant had gilded it reduced the effect.”

  “Did the merchant know this Pilar?” Rhoslyn asked.

  Llanelli frowned at her. “I certainly did not question him about it. After all, Pilar is typically Sidhe. The merchant would know that iron was dangerous to him and not something he would buy. He lost nothing by the warning. Why are you suspicious of Pilar?”

  Rhoslyn shook her head. She knew that Llanelli resented her children not seeming to trust her judgment. “I am not really suspicious, just that Melusine is so very formal and High Court. It seems odd a Sidhe from Melusine should come to the Bazaar of the Bizarre.”

  “One solid sign of his being from Melusine …” Pasgen suggested. “What did he bring to pay for his mortal or outworld toy?”

  “Wine.” Llanelli laughed. “That was what he offered me. It was spiced and scented, too. Rather special. He did not have it with him and had to go and come back—which he did. Does that not prove him honest?”

  “And you tasted the wine?” Rhoslyn’s voice was sharp again. She started to add, “After Vidal showed his hatred of us all,” but she bit back the words; Llanelli faded every time she was reminded of Vidal.

  “Not alone,” Llanelli said coyly. “Pilar drank two goblets to my one and I assure you neither one of us suffered any inconvenience. And—since I was sure you would want to know …” she pulled a bottle out of the large purse she was carrying and set it on the table. “I have brought the remainder for us to finish here with our dinner. Pilar will bring more when he comes to see me again.”

  “He is coming from Melusine so you can look at his finger? No healer in his own domain is as effective.”

  Llanelli giggled softly. “Maybe that was an excuse. He said my touch was very special.”

  Then she turned and signaled the servitor and asked for cups for the wine. Three cups were easy for the many-fingered hand. But once they were set on the table, the server’s four blue eyes blinked deliberately and a thin, high voice complained, “The inn does not rent cups. The inn sells wine. If you bring your own wine, there soon will be no inn.”

  “No, no,” Pasgen soothed. “This is a one-time thing, I assure you. A special wine given as a gift. And we are about to order dinner.”

  That pacified the creature—even Rhoslyn hesitated to give it a name. It was upright and covered with a soft mauve plush, with four arms at regular intervals around the body and four eyes around the upper third of the head. A flap that moved slightly with each breath was set low on what might be called a chin between each pair of eyes, and a thin, lipless, but very toothy mouth curved down around each flap. Rhoslyn found herself thinking it was a sensible arrangement, permitting the servitor to smell anything before sticking it in its mouth.

  When it turned away, Rhoslyn realized she had no idea what Pasgen had ordered to eat, but that was not important; he knew her tastes. More interesting he had uncapped the bottle and poured. Rhoslyn sniffed. So did Llanelli. Pasgen lifted the cup and waved it before his face.

  “Very attractive,” he said, but frowned slightly.

  Rhoslyn only hmmmed and then sipped from the cup. Llanelli watched them with a smile, sipping from her own cup, her expression pleased and assured, as someone who knew and liked what she would get.

  “It is very good,” Rhoslyn admitted and smiled. “Why didn’t you invite Pilar to join us instead of just bringing the wine?”

  “Oh, I did, but he said he could not this week—I had told him we meet every week for dinner on mortal Tuesday—so he had made an appointment for this Tuesday, thinking I would not go to dinner with him as I have been doing. He said he would come next week”—she made a funny face at Pasgen—“so you needn’t look as if he is afraid to meet you.”

  “No, it isn’t that.” Although to a certain extent Pasgen had wondered why Pilar was reluctant to meet Llanelli’s family. “It’s just that there is a familiar flavor to the wine. Something that reminds me … No, I don’t know of what it reminds me.”

  “Spices are spices,” Llanelli said. “It is the exact mixture that can be unique, but even in such a mixture one recognizes this or that ingredient.”

  “I suppose so,” Pasgen said, deliberately smoothing the frown from his forehead. “And here is our dinner.”

  From the other side of the inn Piteka, now dark-haired and dark-eyed, watched Llanelli and her children share his wine. He bent his head over his near-raw slices of flesh cut from a living kid, hiding his sharp-toothed grin, and thought of how clever he had been to have given her that bottle of undrugged wine. Rhoslyn and Pasgen were now convinced the wine was harmless and likely that “Pilar” was harmless too.

  Thought of his cleverness brought a momentary frown. He had remembered all the attributes of a Bright Court Sidhe—the golden hair and green eyes, the pale smooth skin, the high-arched brows … and he had almost forgotten to create the illusion of rounded rather than pointed teeth. But in the end he had remembered. Nor did it matter if any of them saw and recognized him. That would frighten Llanelli and make her even more eager to find the assurance that oleander provided.

  Tomorrow he would bring wine not only spiced and scented but laced lightly with oleander. He would warn Albertus not to add so much as to bring mindless joy and obedience. This time just a touch so that Llanelli would feel comfortable in his company. The next day there would be more in the wine, enough to make her happy, and the day after there would be enough so that when the drug wore off she would begin to slide down into despair.

  After that he was not sure. He could easily drug her insensible, but there was no way he could carry her out of her booth or her lodging. Those monsters that Rhoslyn had created to watch her and protect her would tear him apart if he touched her. They might tear him apart if she became unconscious sharing a drink while he was there.

  He turned his head to look at the inn entrance. Yes, there they were, waiting not far from the door, their eyes fixed on their charge; no chance they could be distracted, the hulking brute like those that occasionally used to accompany Pasgen and that thing that looked like a skinny little girl. He would have to give Llanelli only enough of the drug to come with him, laughing and talking. If he judged the amount just right, perhaps he could convince her to dismiss the maids and guards.

  Piteka sighed. He did not think he would be able to judge her capacity for the drug so closely. She would fall victim to it more quickly because she had been an addict in the past, but that might also give her an elevated resistance to the effects of the drug. If he had more time he could have experimented using more or less, but he had only the one week. She must be carried off and held by Aurilia before he was supposed to join them all for dinner.

  Wait, there was one way. Since he would be pretending also to be addicted and love her all the more for sharing his vice, as soon as she was firmly in the grip of the drug again, he could just give her a generous supply of oleander. That would convince her that he was not trying to enslave her but just share a pleasure. She would know the right amount to take to make her happy and pliable.

  With Llanelli in that state it would not be difficult to convince her to dismiss the guards and walk out with him. He would only need to say that he could not make love with a clutch of constructs watching. She need only come to Melusine with him where he had a beautiful domain. She need have no fears; whoever threatened her would have no power in Melusine.

  Piteka pushed away the empty plate and emptied the goblet standing beside it, staring out into nothing with a beatific smile on his face. A passing kitsune shuddered.

  And then, Piteka thought, he would Gate her to Aurilia in Caer Mordwyn. Or maybe he should keep her in his own hands until Prince Vidal returned. He remembered that Vidal had also ordered that she not be much damaged. Well, he would not damage her much … maybe break her fingers so she could not heal a
nd certainly dole out the oleander in fits and starts so she would weep and scream for it. Piteka sighed with happy anticipation.

  But he had misjudged his victim and grown careless as the drug seized her with unexpected rapidity. She was a little too happy on mortal Wednesday; “Pilar” left an extra bottle of wine so she would stay happy. She did not drink it all and had what was left to tide her over on Thursday. On mortal Friday, however, “Pilar” forgot the extra bottle. He laughed and promised to come early on mortal Saturday. But when the dose he had given her wore off and she descended with a rush from joy in having a lover from the Bright Court to utter despair, Llanelli recognized what he had done to her.

  On Saturday, when he did come … late … he thought he could taste the sweet fruit of success, because she led him into a treatment room and shut the door on the maids who usually hung about her. He could tell that she was already fighting the cramping muscles and nausea of withdrawal and was glad he had come prepared when she accused him.

  “No, no,” he protested, smiling and taking from his purse the packet of oleander. “I only wished you to share my joy, my pleasure. I do not mean to bind you in any way. Here is enough to keep you happy for weeks and by then I am sure you will have found a source of your own or I will bring you more. In Melusine it is readily available.”

  For several moments, Llanelli stared down at the packet he was offering to her, then she looked up into his smiling face. The hair was still golden, the eyes bright green, the brows high arched … but the teeth in that smiling mouth were filed to sharp points.

  “Who are you?” Llanelli whispered.

  “Now, now, you know who I am, Pilar from Melusine. You are not that far gone that you are forgetting things. Here”—he held out the bottle of of wine he had brought—“take a sip of the wine and you will feel much better.”

  In the excitement of his success—he already had her alone, he thought, he would easily be able to convince her to come to “Melusine” without her guards—he also forgot to keep the lilting tones he had used to disguise his voice. He saw the terror in her eyes and set down the wine to take both of her hands in his.