Death. But how could he say to her that it wasn’t faerie wine he craved, it was her? They had kissed once, when she raised him to the rank of Prince, sealing the bond between them. He still dreamt of that kiss. And now she stood so close, mere inches away, so that all he would have to do was lean forward…
Galen stepped back. Unsteadily, he said, “I would die a hundred times for you. And for this court. I know you will live forever, and another man might envy it; but I will be what you need, do what you need, and count my life well spent when it ends.”
“I know,” Lune whispered, and sorrow filled her eyes. No doubt he wasn’t the first man to say that to her. The obelisk in the garden bore the names of those who had gone before. And she bore enough of a human touch to mourn them.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and made himself lighten his tone. “The wedding will be in the spring. By then, I’m sure, we’ll have disposed of this threat, and I can enjoy the gaiety you spoke of with a free heart.”
Lune accepted his diversion, crossing the carpet to study the small orrery the von das Tickens had put in this, her private closet. “I shall have to consider what gift to give you, and your bride. Not faerie gold, I promise you: something that will last.”
“I treasure it already,” Galen said. He meant the response to be light, but did not quite succeed. Bowing, he added, “I should go. Lady Feidelm and the others are with Dr. Andrews, to answer his questions about faerie matters, but I would like to aid them.”
She nodded, not turning to face him. “Let me know what comes of it.”
“I will.” Hand over his heart, Galen bowed again, and retreated from her chamber.
Once well away, he collapsed against the cool stone, breathing fast. “You’re mad,” he whispered to himself, hearing it echo into the darkness. “Desperate and mad, and you know she does not love you.”
But if he saved the Onyx Hall, then he might at least be worthy of her.
Even a fancy as strong as his could not sustain the image of himself in armor, riding a brave steed, facing down the Dragon like a knight of old. He would find a way, though. He would save the palace, and the Queen, and then, perhaps…
A hopeless dream. But he could not let it go.
Lune stopped her pacing when the usher entered and bowed. “The Lord Keeper is here as you requested, madam.”
She waved for him to be escorted in, and made herself breathe slowly, however much frustration tried to speed it. Once Aspell had made his greetings and the usher departed, she said, “Hairy How reported to me this morning that another delivery of tithed bread has been stolen.”
“That will disturb your subjects, your Grace.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” she snapped, and he promptly bowed an apology. Lune made herself moderate her voice. “I have no intention of letting this become common knowledge, Valentin. The Hall has enough troubles already. But it does mean I’ll have to reduce the allowance to your spies.”
He frowned. “Madam, they’ll be less effective—”
Another thing she didn’t need him to tell her. “I’m afraid it’s necessary, at least in the short term. The treaty I’ve arranged with the Greeks—presuming I can get their final agreement—requires some work above, and the fae who carry it out will need protection.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Lune almost dismissed him, but paused before saying the words. There were many causes that could explain the disappearance of the tithe; indeed, it was a pattern that fed on itself. Less bread coming into the Onyx Hall meant less available to her subjects, which caused them to hoard it, which caused its value to rise; some fae were in debt to a staggering degree. Which could, in turn, cause a few clever souls to think of waylaying her messengers.
That was one of the less sinister explanations. Others were not so innocent. “Valentin… give me your opinion. Could this be a Sanist plot?”
His sinuous body stiffened. “Sanists? What benefit could they gain from intercepting the tithe?”
“Aside from making me look like a poor Queen?”
Her dry answer seemed to miss him entirely, for he was frowning. “Or another possibility. Madam, I’ve had no luck in discovering any meeting of the leading cabal. It occurred to me they might be meeting above—but the great difficulty in that was explaining how they could afford to do so. I thought they kept mortals on hand to provide them with bread; my spies have been following that possibility. If they are the ones ambushing your messengers, though…”
Sun and Moon. If they were meeting above, Aspell would never find them; the city had grown too big, with a thousand mortals for every faerie below. It would be simplicity itself for conspirators to blend in among them and vanish.
He bowed anyway and said, “I will pursue this possibility, madam.”
“I may have to keep funding your spies,” she said grimly. “One to accompany every delivery as it comes in. Catching the thieves may be our only hope of finding their masters.”
“An excellent idea, your Grace,” Valentin Aspell said. “Whether Sanists are involved or not, we must keep the tithe coming. I will put my people to the task at once.”
Magrat was in the same position as always, hunched in her corner of the Crow’s Head, gin cup in hand. Her lipless mouth quirked when Irrith approached. “Let me guess. You’ve come to call in your favour.”
Irrith dropped onto the stool across from her. “Something small, like I promised. Just the recommendation of a few names. I need stealthy sorts, goblins or pucks, to help me break into a mortal place.”
“The house of that fellow the Prince has brought among us? I hear things about him, you know.”
Almost every conversation with Magrat went this way, the church grim trying to tempt her listener with vague promises of information for sale. Sometimes the information was real; sometimes it wasn’t. “Not him,” Irrith said. “But I won’t tell you where, so don’t bother asking. We’ll be stealing something for the Onyx Hall, and I need hands to help carry it. Who do you recommend?”
Disappointed by the failure of her bait, Magrat set her gin down and began to count possibilities off on her fingers. “Scadd. Greymalkin, or Beggabow. Your old friend Angrisla—”
“She’s here?” Irrith asked, surprised. “I thought she went north.”
“And you went to Berkshire. People come back, sometimes.” Magrat tilted her head sideways, thinking. “Dead Rick, if you want someone to listen or sniff for guards. Lacca. Charcoal Eddie, assuming you can put up with his sense of humor. Something for the Onyx Hall, you said—is this for the Queen?”
Irrith wasn’t a good enough liar to say no and be believed, and her hesitation was answer enough. “Careful,” Magrat warned her. “Some folk in this place are Sanists.”
The word still made Irrith twitch, despite what Aspell had said. “So?” she said, a little too loudly. “What’s going on with her and the Hall doesn’t change the fact that we’re in danger—all of us. If we don’t do something about that, there won’t be any palace or Queen to fight over anymore.”
“Watch what you say, little sprite.” The low, rumbling voice came from the next table over, where a thrumpin with a face to shame a demon sat. “You haven’t been here but a bare year—less—and you don’t know much. She may say it’s all to defend this place, but some of the things the Queen does are making it even weaker.”