The masters of the Temple had long since taken the stance that the clever folk of the court could prepare all the tricks and traps they liked; they would stand ready for battle, and would train anyone else who wished to do the same. If all else failed, the Onyx Court would have this last line of defence, the bodies and sword arms of its bravest subjects.
Or musket hands, as the case might be. Elfshot, their usual ammunition, would do no good against the Dragon; they used it for practice, but when the time came it would be iron balls they sent into their enemy’s flesh. No one held out much hope that it would do more than annoy the creature that had once destroyed its iron prison. Still, that annoyance might be used to create openings for the spear-knights and their icy blade.
The black powder reek clogged his throat, but he waited until Irrith had finished her current shot. The sprite bit the end off a cartridge, poured some powder into the pan of her musket, dropped the rest of the cartridge down the barrel, rammed it home, then cocked and lifted her weapon. Galen timed her surreptitiously through this operation: nearly thirty seconds. Not nearly up to the standards of a soldier. And, judging by her deepening scowl as she lowered the gun, she knew it.
He laid one hand on her shoulder; with all the musket fire from herself and those around her, she would be half-deaf. Irrith jumped far enough to make him glad he’d waited until her gun was empty, then saw him and followed his beckoning hand, out of the practice ground.
“Didn’t you once say to me that you had no intention of fighting?” he asked, once they were in the quieter space of the armory.
A curious mixture of determination and guilt answered him. “I’m no good with your alchemy,” Irrith said, and laid aside her musket for cleaning. “This at least gives me something to do.”
Galen smiled. “In that case, I have something that might be more suited to your talents.”
The hope that blazed up in her eyes dimmed when he continued, “It has nothing to do with the comet. But if I don’t follow through on this now, I fear I’ll lose my courage; and I will need help to do it the way I would like to.”
Irrith eyed him suspiciously. “To do what?”
“To tell Miss Philadelphia Northwood,” Galen said, “about the Onyx Court.”
Not even the first nibblings of winter’s wind could keep the fashionable away from Hyde Park, one of their preferred stages for displaying themselves to the admiration of their rivals and lessers. From her perch in a tree, Irrith could hear the distant clatter of carriages, most of them circling the Ring in the centre of the park. Try though she might, she could not see the appeal of that pastime; they went ’round and ’round like spinning tops, for no other purpose than to show off their conveyances and horses and footmen. In weather such as this, there would be no fashion of dress to see, and little conversation. Why waste the time?
I suppose that is the point—to waste time, because one has it to spare. Irrith sneered at that extravagance even as she envied it. The creeping tension of the Onyx Hall had infected her so thoroughly she chafed at anything that seemed a diversion from their task. Like playing games with the Prince’s future wife.
Which was the thought that made her agree to help. If playing games with a mortal seemed like a waste of time, then Irrith had fallen far indeed.
So she sat in a tree just north of the Serpentine’s cold waters on this bleak December day, waiting for the approach of a particular carriage.
Blast Galen anyway. The plan he’d described to her was a farce, one she was embarrased to take part in. Irrith dangled her legs off the branch, careless of the icy air, and decided she would do this her own way. And if that frightened off Delphia Northwood… well, then the woman wouldn’t last long in the Onyx Hall anyway.
The Hyde Park setting gave her a good idea, too.
The rattle of wheels stopped the swing of her legs. Peeking through the leaves, Irrith saw a carriage approaching along the rough path that followed the north bank of the Serpentine. Already it was quite close; she had to hurry, throwing on a suitable glamour before dropping light as a leaf onto the ground below. Then she ran out in front of the carriage and flung one hand up in imperious command.
The horses shied very satisfyingly. The man holding their reins swore, then flinched at his own ill manners, which would not be appreciated by the ladies inside. Irrith grinned at him. By all appearances the driver was a servant of Mrs. Vesey’s, but that was as much a lie as her own seeming; beneath the illusion, it was Edward Thorne. Galen thought it better to keep this entire affair in the hands of those who knew what it was about. The only one here today who did not know was Miss Northwood.
Who might or might not be the future Mrs. St. Clair. Right now, that was in Irrith’s hands.
“You, out of the road,” Edward called in a loud voice, and shook the reins. He did a remarkably good job of making it sound like he was trying to goad the horses onward, but it was a great deal of noise for very little effect, and the animals weren’t going anywhere until Irrith told them to. He gave her an uncertain frown, though. Galen had given very specific instructions, and one of those had been that the stranger who stopped them in Hyde Park would be a woman.
Irrith flicked her long coat as she dropped into a grand bow, hat over her heart. Then she stuck her tongue out at Edward, in case he hadn’t yet guessed that she hid under the masculine glamour. But she had to straighten her expression hastily when Miss Northwood’s wide-hooded head poked out one carriage window, looking to see what the problem was.
Her eyes went very wide when she saw Irrith.
The sprite paced with deliberate strides past Edward, who by then had assumed a posture of blank, unseeing trance, as per the Prince’s instructions. Miss Northwood drew back in fear, and murmured something half-audible to her companion in the carriage. A moment later Irrith drew level, and opened the door to find Mrs. Vesey prepared to play her part.
“Ladies,” Irrith said, with a courteous bow, “I apologise for troubling you. But at noon today I am bound to appear in a meadow of this park and face my mortal enemy in a duel, and if I am to have any hope of defeating him, I must bear the good luck of a maiden’s kiss.”
She wished she had a mirror in which to see her own glamour. For this, she had added every detail she could think of: a man’s suit all of green; hair as silver as Lune’s; a fresh hawthorn blossom growing out of her buttonhole, ignoring the December chill.
And a face that, while not her own, was as faerie a face as any in the Onyx Hall.
Miss Northwood appeared to be staring at the exaggerated point of her ear. Mrs. Vesey said, in a tone of artful regret, “Oh, good sir, I would—but I was wed many years ago. Delphia, my dear—”
The young woman startled like a cat, and stared wildly at Mrs. Vesey. “What?”
“A kiss for the gentleman,” her friend reminded her. “So he may win his duel.”
She was supposed to be a woman, begging a pin to keep her tiny faerie cows from straying. This was Hyde Park, though, where men held their illegal duels, and that was far more interesting of a story. Fortunately, Mrs. Vesey adapted quickly. Miss Northwood, on the other hand…
The brief flash of her tongue over her lips betrayed the young woman’s uncertainty. Still, Irrith had to grant the strength of her nerves when she said, “Sir, I fear you are not human.”
“No, I’m not,” Irrith agreed cheerfully.