If she hadn’t hesitated, the Markets might not have moved, fluidly sliding past. The alleyway that held some small bit of them tethered to this lonely place was off to her left, tucked on the other side of a long row of joined-together, mobile tin shacks that used to dispense greasy mortal food. Echoes of past crowds shuffled around Robin, the ghosts of hungry mortals and footsore children gawping, given a simulacrum of heat and motion by the disturbance. Something was definitely afoot, and she was just about to turn and seek another exit when a familiar shadow darted in front of her, running with his head up and a second shadow pacing him.
Black hair cut aggressively short, the broad shoulders and deceptively light footsteps, a flash of green eyes. He was in the same dun coat, a heavy thing with leather elbow-patches, raspy corduroy her fingers still remembered threading needle-chantment through. It was sadly tattered now, and he looked like he’d been rolled through a flood and a few muddy creeks as well. A hurtful pang went through her—what was he doing? Of course, Unwinter would be after him, too. She had thought him far cannier than this, to be caught running at night through the Gobelin.
I am not my sister. She could never be blithe, laughing, fully mortal Daisy.
And yet.
Her skin twitched all over. An invisible string tugged sharply, some item of hers, maybe with a simple location-chantment on it, carried by the running man. Through the borderline interference came the silvery, ultrasonic thrills even mortals would be able to sense.
All the breath left her. Pepperbuckle growled, and her hand slipped free of his ruff. She could not ask the changeling-hound, whatever affection he bore her, to run toward death.
Robin filled her lungs again and lunged forward, her heels clattering as she bounded onto the cobblestones, after Jeremiah Gallow.
THE GOBELIN
27
Idiot!”
It was amazing Crenn had the breath to keep hurling his opinion of Jeremiah’s intelligence hither and yon. Gallow landed hard, breath driven from him by the impact, and whirled. The lance burst into being, blossoming between his palms, and he set its butt against the ground as the rider behind them blew the huntwhistle again, a cold thrill yanking on every nerve Gallow possessed.
“Moron!” Crenn yelled, and the swordblades blurred, solid arcs of silver, driving back the two drow who sought to pull him down. One fell clutching at the spurting stump of a severed arm, the other gutsplit and throat-cut at almost the same moment, and Crenn darted forward as the Unseelie knight on his nightmare destrier, its foam-splattering mouth champing, hit the lance. “Halfwit!”
More precisely, the destrier hit, shock grating through Jeremiah and away, his boots scraping the cobbled floor of this part of the markets. The lance groaned, its hungry blade finding a quivering clot, the point around which the elfmount coalesced. The shape of the battle changed inside Gallow’s head, so he yanked the lance aside, hard, tearing the small, hidden ball-heart free of its moorings. The destrier exploded into smoke, and it wasn’t just the furious pace of combat—the Markets themselves were writhing. Goblins howled, wooden and metal shutters slamming closed, ghilliedhu girls ran shrieking, long hair flying and white flesh flashing.
He’d asked Robin if she was ghilliedhu, once.
“You goddamn brainless pig!”
If Crenn was yelling, he obviously didn’t consider the situation overly dire. Or Jeremiah had managed to irritate the man past bearing. Either was equally likely.
The shops and stalls were closing themselves, the more fortunate barring their doors and windows against the appearance of Unseelie, the poorer stall-folk buttoning themselves up, the stalls retreating like frightened anemones, vanishing into cracks, alley-mouths snapping shut.
Thrashing almost-real tentacles cracked cobblestones before their spent force released itself in puffs of vapor, Crenn facing another clot of drow, low, slinking shapes with coin-bright eyes flooding behind the knight, who rose from the ruin of his mount with slow, terrible grace. The rain showed no sign of slackening, and as much as Gallow would have liked to shed his wet, clinging coat, he knew he needed the faint armor it provided—and if he managed by some miracle to shake pursuit, he would be glad of its cover. Half didn’t feel the weather much, but this damp could get a man down.
“Scumsucking cretin!” Crenn continued, at top volume.
A high-crowned helm, a mailed fist covered in exquisite dwarven metalwork clasping a heavy hilt. Broadsword instead of curved new-moon blade, and the lance hummed as sick heat poured up Gallow’s arms, beating back his exhaustion. The marks stung with sweet pain, the destrier’s hold on the physical disrupted and the resultant energy sucked into the blade’s ever-hungry heart.
“Gallow,” the knight breathed, and behind him the lamp-eyes brightened, low, slinking forms sliding out of shadow and confusion. The hounds, with their needle-teeth and their tough hides. So many of them, and—
“Robin,” he whispered, and moved.
Crunching. Squealing, a vicious burst of toothed sound, a golden blur. It distracted him, broadsword grinding against lancehaft, the armored weight telling against a lighter foe, and the ground beneath him heaved. A rolling, creaking, snapping thunder, growing steadily closer, was a goblin doge’s fury. Something had descended on the hounds, a blur of coppergold, and—
His side unseamed itself, a lick of fire, and Gallow cried out. The lance shrieked, the haft bending as it sought to recover, but he was falling. It wasn’t the ground, it was his side, a hot spear of agony in his vitals, his head bounced against cobblestone and there was another sound.
A deep, beautiful wall of pure golden music, loud enough to shake a man’s bones to jelly, hit the knight from the side. The Unseelie, knocked off his feet, vanished in the flood of light, and there was only one thing that could make such a noise and such a marvelous glow. He’d seen it before.
Or maybe it was death, and heaven opening up for whatever part of him was mortal.
It went on and on, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. Light, clicking footsteps—a woman in heels, running. So familiar, everything in him rising to meet that sound, but the blade in his side twisted again and he bit back a scream. The lance had vanished, he was weak as a kitten, spilled here on the ground with the rain pounding along the length of his body and a furnace lit in his belly.
Oh, shit. The clarity of the thought took him by surprise.
Guess she didn’t get all the poison out after all.
A FACE TO MATCH
28
A sidhe in sodden black velvet fell to her knees next to Gallow. Had the bastard managed to get himself killed by an Unseelie after all? It beggared belief. One moment the idiot had been fine while Crenn dealt with the massed drow, the next he was on the ground and a gigantic golden noise blasted by, picking up and shaking everything in front of it, flinging the knight—a highborn fullblood, but too big and ponderous to give Gallow any trouble, or so Crenn had thought—through the knot of drow, flash-frying an Unseelie hound or two in the process.
“Jeremiah? Gallow? Open your eyes, you idiot!” A woman’s voice. Husky contralto.
Crenn’s blades whirled, shedding water and brackish, red-tinted drow-blood. A sidhe dog the size of a pony—perhaps a gebriel, but without a human head—crouched before the remaining Unwinter dogs, its redgold fur standing up in a stripe along its back. It was a handsome beast, and the snap of its teeth said it meant business. The Unseelie dogs obviously thought so as well, and vanished back through the Veil, one or two making a halfhearted dart toward the new arrival before backing away, shredding into nothingness.
The eyes were always the last to go.
The big beast cocked his head and stopped growling once they were gone. He shook himself—definitely a he—and turned, looking at the woman in black.
Who had her hands at Gallow’s shoulders, ineffectually trying to heave him up. A thread of her scent washed through the rain: dust, the good healthy oil-heat-haze of a dog, and a familiar thread of spi
ce and fruit, as if she were a nymph.
Well, now.
“Oh, you . . . ugh. Oh, no.” She sounded frantic. Glanced up, and a slice of her pale face became visible. She pushed the hood back, just a little, water fringing off its edges, and spied him. There was a scarf over her mouth, but it was steam-smoking, something had punched a hole clear through it. “You! Are you here to kill him?”
How can I answer that? Crenn opened his mouth, shut it.
She pushed the scarf’s ruins down, irritably. Blue eyes. Deep summerblue, thickly fringed with dark lashes. A sweet mouth, pulled tight as if with fear or pain, high pretty cheekbones. A water-darkened curl stuck to her damp cheek, and something inside Alastair Crenn turned over, hard.
“Are you?” she persisted, and almost overbalanced, trying to haul a Half male several pounds heavier than her upright. “You fought with him. Are you granting him aid?”
What can I . . . “Oh, fuck.” He didn’t have to work very hard to sound disgusted. The blades sheathed themselves, habitual movements, and Crenn shook his head, his hair sodden and curtaining his ugliness most effectively. The moss was coming back, too. Reminding him, as if he needed it. “Of all the . . . fine. Fine.”
Between the two of them, they got Gallow upright. The man hung like wet laundry, and hissed in short, sharp breaths.
“We need an exit,” she said, peering past him into the rain. The hound, its fur slicking down, loped toward her, its every line expressing self-satisfaction. “Oh, good boy. Good boy, Pepperbuckle. Best boy.”
Pepperbuckle? Not a bad name. “I am Alastair.”
“Fair greetings, sir.” She began trying to haul Gallow after the dog, who looked over his shoulder expectantly. “I’m Rob.”
I know who you are. By all rights, he should dump the Armormaster here and take her. It was the perfect opportunity. He could return her to Summer, go back to his swamp, and . . .
I will make you beautiful again.
As beautiful as this Half girl? It didn’t seem possible.
Her fingers slipped in Gallow’s belt; Crenn took a firmer hold. Got the man’s arm over his shoulders, and things became much easier. “Do you know him, then?”
“No,” she replied, shortly. “Not well, anyway. But he saved my life.” She tugged him forward, her slight strength not helping very much.
Gallow groaned, and some sense came back into his half-closed, glittering eyes. The pounding of the rain eased a little. “Augh. Damn it.”
“He speaks.” Crenn snorted, heaved him over a puddle. Behind them, the thunder of the Markets expelling intruders intensified. The doges would remember a dent put in their profits from this night’s madness. “Are you blooded, Gallowglass?”
“No.” Jeremiah coughed and started weakly trying to help. Which made things much easier, and the girl slipped away from under his arm and walked after the hound, skipping back nervously every few steps as if she wished to hurry them along. “What . . . are you . . . doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” Sharply, and her footsteps clicked. Did she have hooves? No rumor had ever spoken of her as a beastmaster. Where had she found the sidhe dog? “You’re a fool, Gallow.”
“That’s what . . . he says.” Another cough, and Gallow spat a gobbet of something that steamed as it hit. “Ugh. Not fun. Not fun at all.”
“Oh, good boy!” she cried, and Crenn’s boots slipped. “There’s a door here. The Markets are angry, it’s getting closer, but I hear no more of them.”
“Best to be safe.” Crenn’s voice sounded unnatural, even to himself. Guttural, harsh after hers. “You are the luckiest bastard, Glass-gallow.”
The Armormaster steadied, and the exit—an alley much darker than its surroundings, with pinpricks of red and white light smearing as the mortal realm outside it struggled to hold on to the slippery sideways more-than-real—swallowed them. The tiptapping of her footsteps suddenly made sense.
Heels. She’s wearing heels. Black ones, shining sidhe-glossed, turning her walk into a graceful sway.
They dropped into the mortal realm with a thud, the rain cutting off cleanly, and Jeremiah shook himself free of Crenn’s grasp. The girl turned, her hood slipping and falling free, her damp hair a glory of tangled golden curls with a red tint, even in this dim cold light. A wet shushing sound came from the lights at the end of the alley—cars, he told himself. Cars.
She studied him warily, the dog at her hip now regarding him with the same bright interest, its coat a rougher copy of her coloring. One pale hand knotted in the beast’s fur, as if to steady herself, and her summerdusk eyes narrowed. “I know of you.” The contralto made the words a song, and a pleasant shiver went down Crenn’s back, along with rainwater. “The Hunter of Marrowdowne himself.”
“Yes,” he heard himself say. “And you’re the Ragged. A beautiful song, and a face to match.”
Now what was he going to do?
FREELY GIVEN
29
Pepperbuckle, warm and vital, leaned against her. She didn’t even know what slice of mortal earth they’d stumbled onto, but it didn’t smell familiar. Gallow slumped wearily, his hand pressed to his side, and the bolt of wine-red fear that went through her almost knocked her a-stagger into the hound. “Does it hurt much?” A timid, soft tone, just like Mama tending an invalid.
He shrugged, the tatters of his coat flapping a little. “It’s easing. See?” More gently than she’d ever heard him speak. He peeled his hand away with a slight grimace. “That was a timely arrival.”
“No less than your own, not so long ago.” Are we at quits? Tell me we are. Tell me to go away.
“I thought you taken.” He peered at the dog. “Where’s that from?”
“He is from elsewhere.” The quarter-lie slipped easily from her tongue, and he did not press her.
Instead, he straightened and cast a wary eye at the other man. “Well. You’ve found the lady you sought, Crenn.”
“So I have.” Easily enough. “And so have you.”
He was leaner than Gallow, and his hair was moss-grown, sodden as her own stolen coat. He kept it shaken over his face—rumor had him as either beautiful or supernally ugly, but few braved his parts of the fens to find out. There had been a time when good hard coin could have tempted him out of the swamps to track a sidhe or beast, no matter how fleet or canny; there were other, darker whispers about what he charged to end a single life. The sidhe did not use the word assassin lightly, but he was named thus every once in a while.
She did not loosen her grip on Pepperbuckle, but she did back away a few cautious steps, and the hound moved with her, perhaps thinking it a game.
A Half who hunted beasts in the fens at the edges of Summer’s lands could easily kill a new-made hound, cu sith, gytrash, or . . . otherwise.
Gallow moved forward, half staggering, as if he intended to put himself between Crenn and Robin’s own self. Which would make it difficult for her to use the song, if she had to. Damn the man. It wasn’t the first time—she could have drawn Unwinter neatly away, had he not openly challenged the lord of the Unseelie.
So Crenn of Marrowdowne had been hunting her. There was only one explanation. “What does she want of me?”
“Who?” Crenn cocked his shaggy head. It was too dark to see much, and that might have been a blessing.
The velvet, stiff with dust and full of spring rain, chilled against her skin. “Do not play the fool,” Robin returned, hard and fast. “What other reason would you have to come seeking me, Crenn-creek?”
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of traffic, tires shushing on cold pavement, and a distant murmur of a mortal crowd. The hunter’s shoulders dropped slightly, but he did not move hand to bladehilt. Instead, he hooked his thumbs in his broad leather belt and regarded her, his eyes mere glimmers through ropes of matted, mossy hair.
“Ah. That answers that.” Jeremiah straightened. “Why did Summer send
you after my lady Robin, Alastair?”
My lady Robin. It was the second time he’d said it, and Robin told herself it was respectful, nothing more. They had fought together, and an Armormaster would place a value on that sort of thing. It meant nothing else. The warmth in her chest was Pepperbuckle’s nearness, and that was all.
“The lady Robin Ragged is under my protection.” Crenn didn’t move. “It seems likely she may need it, since the Queen granted her life to the Gallow-glass as a boon, during the Gate revel. He must have brought her a rich gift to claim such a prize.”
Oh, he did indeed. Glass ampoules. I wonder if she has had cause to open one, yet? It did not surprise her. Perhaps Crenn thought such news would make her distrust Gallow more than she already did and view the hunter of Marrowdowne more kindly?
If you distrust Gallow so much, Robin, why did you run to save him? If she did not, why had she left him in his trailer?
Why bother asking, when she knew the answer? Daisy. And the other ghost standing between them, a dead mortal child broken into slivers on a marble floor.
“I brought her what I did in order to buy the Ragged’s life.” Gallow turned away from the man, as if he feared no attack from that quarter. “Not that it concerns you, Half. Robin? Are you well?”
She meant to push him out of the way, if the hunter made a sudden movement. But Crenn stayed stock-still, and Jeremiah Gallow stepped close to her. His hands met her shoulders, and Pepperbuckle’s inquiring growl shook her. Or was it something else, some internal earthquake communicating itself from him? Her hand did not relax, knotted in rough, rising fur.
“Are you all right?” Gallow peered at her face in the dimness, his light irises catching a stray reflection of headlamp shine, or simply glowing as a sidhe’s could when fired by high emotion—or good sport. “I thought you taken, by Seelie or worse.”