“Oh.” Now Louisa felt even more foolish. She couldn’t get used to all these people about, waiting to help her. In the old days, before the Onyx Hall reached its present degenerate state, she’d been a minor member of the court, and then of course she’d had servants. But the menial work—the lacing of her stays, the cleaning of her shoes, all the little tasks—had been handled by creatures so small and mindless they ranked one bare step above furniture in her notice. Humans relied on people for these things, and Louisa kept being surprised by their presence. “Pick out something—no, never mind; I will do it myself.”
She rummaged through the wardrobe, half her mind on which of her myriad of outfits to wear—It’s morning; I should choose a morning dress; now, which ones are those? It’s been ages since I was able to mind proper fashion—the other half on the problem of Hannah the maid.
I’ll see to it she keeps quiet, Louisa decided at last, fingering the sleeve of a dress. Scare her, if I must. But no sense drawing more attention than necessary, as long as she doesn’t go wagging her tongue where she oughtn’t.
She turned around, garment in hand, and saw the maid’s eyebrows shoot up. Looking down, Louisa found she’d picked up what even she could tell was a ball gown, in eggplant-colored silk. Scowling, she shoved it back into the wardrobe and plucked out something else. But if she threatens more trouble …
If that happened, then Louisa would have to take steps to remove her. Not deadly ones; having her sacked might do. Or reported as Irish, at which point she’d likely be sacked anyway, and no one would listen to a word she said besides. If that wasn’t enough, there were fae in the Onyx Hall who would help out for a price, making sure Hannah went somewhere very far away, and didn’t return.
There were possibilities. But this much was certain: under no circumstances could the maid be allowed to threaten Louisa’s safety. There was still enough Goblin Market left in her to guarantee that.
Riverside, Onyx Hall: May 28, 1884
Coming out of the Crow’s Head, where Nadrett had sent him to question the owner Hafdean, Dead Rick caught an odd scent.
Sour. Sharp. I’ve smelled this before, I know I ’ave—
On Rewdan, the padfoot who’d been Nadrett’s courier from Faerie. Satyr’s bile, Dead Rick guessed; it was a kind of acid. But what in Mab’s name was it doing here?
He stepped warily, following the trail. It led away from people, toward a broken bit of the palace, close enough that nobody wanted to spend much time there. Which made it a perfect place to do secret work—but also to ambush anyone who came looking. Nadrett wouldn’t do that; if ’e wants you dead, all ’e ’as to do is snap ’is fingers. Chrennois might be a different story, though.
The light faded fast, but he could feel that the stone around him was mazed with cracks. This part of the Hall, like the Market, lay close to the riverside; that meant both cast-iron pipes and the forward progress of the Inner Circle were eating away at its structure. Dead Rick’s hackles rose. But there was light up ahead—a faerie light—surely that meant he could trust the fabric to hold together a little while longer.
He paused to sniff the air. Nothing. Just dust, cold stone, and the sour smell of bile. No scent of anyone, faerie or mortal. It didn’t reassure him: How had the acid gotten there, if no one had brought it?
Ears and nose could not answer that question for him. Dead Rick crept forward on silent feet and peered around the edge, into the light.
He saw just one faerie light, drifting slowly through the air. Its weak glow illuminated a round chamber, rings of stone benches surrounding a low depression in the center. Dead Rick didn’t know what the place had been originally—some kind of theater? There were no other exits, just the passage by which he’d come. He strained his senses, afraid someone had followed to trap him in this dead end. Again, nothing.
Except the smell of acid.
He glanced back into the chamber. A lighter smear marked the black stone in the center. Bait, he was sure—but damn it, it worked; he couldn’t leave without investigating.
Gritting his teeth, Dead Rick went down the steps between benches, to the floor of the chamber.
“My apologies for the absence.”
He actually leapt into the air, and only just stopped himself from shifting to dog form as he came down. A strangled noise came from his throat, a growl and several different curses all fighting to get out at once. Dead Rick sucked in a huge breath of air, held it, then spat out, “You fucking bastard.”
The voice didn’t dispute it. “I’m glad you found—and followed—the hint I left for you.”
Dead Rick swiped at the mark on the stone. It burned his fingers faintly: bile, of course. He wondered where the voice had gotten it. “Where in Mab’s name ’ave you been?”
“Had you not taken to sleeping at your master’s feet, you might have heard from me sooner. But arranging a new location in which to speak required some amount of effort, and time. I take it you have news for me?”
More than a little. Dead Rick wrestled with himself. Honesty could get a dog killed—but in this case, so could deception, if Aspell decided to sell what he knew. “Secret’s out. I don’t know ’ow, but Valentin Aspell knows we’ve been dealing.”
A long pause. His muscles all tensed. Just because his ally had never presented himself as anything more than a disembodied voice didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger. There might be an ambush here, after all.
“What did you tell him?”
The question was presented far more mildly than he had any right to expect. Still, Dead Rick was careful to say, “I thought you was gone, understand? Tried to signal you for days, got no answer, but I didn’t want to just give up, and this was ’is price for what I needed to know.”
“Spare me the excuses; just tell me what you said.”
So Dead Rick did. Mostly. He left out any hint that he’d been investigating the voice, trying to find out who he was; but as he’d thought before, the information itself didn’t amount to much. “You was right to be careful,” he added at the end, still wary. “Keeping separate like this—I don’t know nothing to betray.”
“How fortunate,” the voice said dryly. “So, you sold me to Aspell in exchange for something about Nadrett. I think it only right I should have a share in that information, don’t you?”
This time Dead Rick answered with enthusiasm, spurred by relief that his ally had not abandoned him. Maybe ’e’s one of the Prince’s fellows after all. They’re the only ones as play so kind. “I saw the camera. And the cove using it, too.” Quickly, the words stumbling over one another, he related what Aspell had told him about Chrennois.
His ally seemed far more interested in the camera than the sprite behind it. “Where did you see this? And did they use it in front of you?”
“They did. Out in the sewers—west of where it breaks into the Market, and a bit south of the intercepting line. Nadrett ’ad us out there ’unting a ghost, me and a few others, and Chrennois. ’E used it to capture the ghost.” Dead Rick settled himself on the cracked stone of the lowest branch and described the device, and the way the ghost had vanished. “I don’t think ’e’d tried it before. Ain’t many ghosts around anymore, are there? But I guess this one appears every year—proper ’aunting, not just something that ain’t been cleared away yet—and so ’e decided to test the camera on it.”
The voice hummed in thought. “Appears every year … when was this?”
“May Day. It were an old ghost, too; knee breeches, the whole bit.”
Silence. Then Dead Rick heard something he’d never expected from his ally: a bark of laughter. “Knee breeches! Do you mean to say that Nadrett captured the ghost of Galen St. Clair?”
Dead Rick opened his mouth to say he had no idea who that was, then stopped. Because he did know the name; he’d seen it before he talked to Irrith.
On the memorial listing past Princes of the Stone.
“Why would ’e be ’aunting the sewers?” the skriker asked, d
isbelievingly.
“No direct reason. It must be a consequence of the palace’s disintegration. He’s buried in front of that memorial, you know—well, no; I suppose you wouldn’t. One of two Princes laid to rest in the Onyx Hall. And his ghost appears here every May Day, or used to. But the chamber where that occurred vanished several years ago, and he wasn’t seen again. The general presumption was that his connection here had been broken. It seems he went instead to the place the chamber had been, beneath London.” Another thoughtful noise. “Near the Monument, it sounds like; almost beneath it.”
Dead Rick wasn’t sure what any of it meant. “So Nadrett’s scheme needs a dead Prince?” Then he shook his head, dismissing his own words. “No, ’e was surprised; ’e recognized the cove, but didn’t expect ’im. So ’e just wanted a ghost. Why?”
“That is a very good question.”
In the following silence, Dead Rick tried to think of what a ghost might be useful for. Tithing bread? He doubted ghosts could—and in any case, the Princes all carried a touch of faerie in them, which meant St. Clair, dead or alive, could hand over bread until he was blue in the face and it wouldn’t do any good.
The voice, it seemed, had been thinking about something else. “You didn’t try to demand any price of me, before telling me what you knew.”
Dead Rick shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench. He muttered, “After that bit with Aspell, I figured I’d used up my luck.”
A dry chuckle, much more restrained than the laughter of a moment before. “Wise of you. I think I shall set you a new task—a dangerous one. Consider it penance, if you like.”
“What task?”
“I doubt we’ll be able to determine what Nadrett is doing by force of reason alone. Therefore, we must pursue his photographer.”
The skriker leapt to his feet, shaking his head as if the voice could somehow see him doing it. “No chance. Nadrett would kill me.”
“Only if he discovers you at it. I have faith in your ability to be subtle.”
He might, but Dead Rick didn’t. “I won’t do it.”
The answer carried a note of malevolence he hadn’t heard before. “Yes, you will. What other choice do you have? Who else will help you regain your past? You are running out of time, Dead Rick; your home is crumbling around you. How long before a falling piece of stone crushes your memories to dust?”
Fear rose like nausea in his gut. It might have happened already, in the earthquake of a few weeks before. Dead Rick trusted that it hadn’t only because the alternative was unthinkable.
More quietly, the voice said, “We have a deal. Keep your word, and I will keep mine.”
What’s the worst Nadrett can do to you, anyway? Smash your memories? This bloody sod is right; that’ll ’appen anyway. Kill you? I almost wish ’e would.
Through clenched teeth, Dead Rick said, “All right. I’ll find your fucking photographer.”
The Prince’s Court, Onyx Hall: May 29, 1884
Twisting pain in his gut brought Hodge awake. He sucked in air through his teeth, pressing one hand below his ribs as if that would do any good. This back-and-forth was a familiar pattern: he hurt too much to sleep, until exhaustion beat the pain down and he collapsed in the middle of whatever he’d been doing. When he had energy enough to wake, the pain roused him again, and so the cycle went.
He wiped drool from his cheek and looked ruefully at the wet newspaper that had been his cushion. Some Prince I make. He probably had ink on his face.
These days, he was lucky to get any sleep. Hodge had thought his life difficult before; the laying of the new track had showed him how much worse it could get. And yet, no cloud without a silver lining, and all that rot: the Academy was making progress as rapidly as it could on Ch’ien Mu’s loom. Wrain already had plans to use it as a shield against the next extension of the track, in the hopes that the unsupported material would take the brunt of the effect, cushioning those in the real Hall. Hodge didn’t know if it would work, but he was willing to let them try.
Of course, it meant he had to know when the extension would come. Hence all the newspapers, and railway magazines, and everything else that might contain a shred of information on the progress of the Inner Circle. They made for dreary reading: more tunnel dug, more bricks mortared, more signals set into place. Scowling, Hodge shoved them all aside.
Something fluttered off the edge of the table that did him for a desk. He frowned after it. A piece of paper, folded and sealed. He was almost sure it hadn’t been there when he fell asleep.
Sighing, he reached for it. His valet—and wasn’t that a funny idea, a cove like him having his own valet—knew better than to wake him, on those rare occasions that he got rest; this wasn’t the first time he’d woken to find a letter waiting nearby. Perhaps Amadea had brought more bread from the mortals in that Society the Goodemeades had set up. Or it might be another report from the Academy, telling him of improvements to the loom, that still fell short of it saving them all.
But it wasn’t either of those. The paper was unexpectedly fine, and the seal a sinuous pattern, like a knot. Hodge broke it and began to read.
We are not friends. You are aware of my past deeds, and revile me accordingly; I understand this very well. But I trade in information, and I have some of sufficient value that I believe you would bargain even with me to gain it.
Nadrett of the Goblin Market has taken prisoner the ghost of Galen St. Clair. Should you wish to rescue him, I can supply details that would assist you in your task. My price is this: that you grant me access to Lune.
You have never made use of my services before now, but some of your followers have. When you decide to accept my offer, notify Bonecruncher; he knows how to contact me discreetly. During my conference with Lune, I will tell her how to rescue the Prince’s ghost. As I am sure you will have me guarded during this conference, if I fail to uphold my end of the bargain, you will have no difficulty in retaliating as you see fit.
Do not delay. I am sure you, of all men, know how little time you have.
Valentin Aspell
Hodge stared. The words, crisply inked in an old-fashioned hand, didn’t go away.
A few seconds later, with no memory of having moved, he flung open the door and stormed into the outer room. Three fae shot to their feet in alarm, and Hodge held up the letter in one fist. “When did this get ’ere?”
Irrith and Segraine both looked to Tom Toggin, the hob who served as his valet. Tom peered up at the paper. “What is it?”
“It’s the bleeding letter you left for me to find. ’Ow long was it sitting there?”
His valet shook his head, wide-eyed. “I didn’t leave any letters for you.”
Hodge went very still. It was that or drop the letter—as if the paper held any threat. The threat was long gone, along with whatever faerie had sneaked past these three to leave a sealed note by his head. He knew better than to think they’d left him alone; everybody was far too afraid for his safety to let that happen.
“Who’s it from?” Irrith asked.
Of course she’d be the one to ask. Hodge made sure to pull the letter close before he answered, so she couldn’t snatch it out of his hand. “Valentin Aspell.”
Sure enough, her face immediately went pale with anger. Segraine tensed—possibly to grab Irrith, in case she did something stupid—and Tom, who never seemed to get angry at anything, looked curious. “What does he want?”
“To sell us information.” Hodge’s knees shook; the burst of energy that had carried him through the door was fading fast. Bloody ’ell. You’d think I was an old man. He didn’t like to do the math on how old he actually was. Or rather, how young. I’ve already survived longer than I expected to.
It was mention of his predecessor’s ghost that made him think that way—that, and the pain that had woken him. In blunt terms, Hodge told the others what Aspell wanted, and what he demanded in return.
“You can’t let him near Lune,” Segraine said immediately
. “He’s a traitor, and can’t be trusted.”
Hodge watched Irrith. Her delicate face was going through an amazing series of expressions, one piling atop the other: suspicion, worry, anger, hope, disgust. When she noticed the Prince looking at her, she grimaced. “He wouldn’t try to kill her—I think. He knows the Hall would melt right out from around us if he did, and if he wanted to die he’d find some more elegant way to do it. Segraine’s right, though; I don’t trust him. On the other hand, it’s Galen. If Aspell’s telling the truth, and that bastard Nadrett has him…” She shuddered. “We can’t leave him there.”
No, they couldn’t. Hodge had only ever known two other Princes of the Stone: his predecessor, Alexander Messina, and Galen St. Clair. The latter haunted the Onyx Hall—or had, until recently—so as to help those who remained. He’d been a scholar in life, and over the years since his death had contributed far more to the repair efforts than Hodge ever would. They’d be better off with ’im than with me.
But Hodge was who they had, and he needed to know whether Aspell was telling the truth. His offer didn’t give any proof of that; he’d set up a good method for trading for his information, but the information itself could still be a swindle. “Does Nadrett ’ave ’im?”
Tom said uncomfortably, “We just assumed he was gone, after the Prince’s chambers vanished, because that’s where he’d always appeared. And if he’d returned to some other part of the Hall, wouldn’t he have come looking for us?”
“Maybe he couldn’t,” Segraine said. “The Hall has … changed a lot, since his time.”
Hodge snorted at her delicacy. But it wouldn’t do morale any good to suggest the phrase she wanted was, The Hall is falling down about our ears. Irrith said, “Aspell … wouldn’t lie. Not like this. He’s a manipulative bastard—I’m sure whatever he wants Lune for, we won’t like it—but if he says Nadrett has Galen, then he does.” Her mouth pinched, as if that idea caused her pain. Then she drew in a deep breath and went on. “I’d say offer him something else, but I doubt he would take it. So it’s your choice, Hodge: Are you going to let him see her?”