The Thames.
This was where Galen directed his thoughts, striving outward, seeking the Hall’s other half. He devoted some attention to the waters downriver, and more to the ground of the streets above, in case Lune should be there; but the greater part of his being he sent upriver, past the Fleet, past the Strand, past Westminster, stretching himself farther and farther as he went, desperately grasping for any tremour that might indicate the presence of the Queen.
He held the image of her before him like a beacon, shining silver and pure. The moon queen, as Dr. Andrews had said. A goddess beyond his reach, but perhaps this once he could serve her as she deserved, saving her from those who would cut that glory out of her flesh and feed it to the fire.
Before she could be saved, she must be found.
Farther. And farther. And farther, his spirit strained to the breaking point.
There.
The barge approached Westminster just after midnight, floating silently on the black waters of the Thames. Even the watermen who managed the craft worked without sound, going about their tasks like automata, their minds fogged by their faerie passengers. They took only as much notice of those passengers as was needed to avoid tripping over them, and no notice at all of the canvas-roofed cabin in the centre of the deck, where a cool light unlike any lamp’s flame shone.
The fae were silent, too, until the thrumpin Orlegg elbowed his neighbour and pointed at a shadow on the water up ahead. “Glamour. Big one, on Westminster Bridge.”
All the faerie company, save those inside the cabin, squinted through the darkness to pierce the effect. The first one to succeed snorted. “Swopped the arches half a step, all the way across. Seems they don’t mind risking their Queen drowning.”
Orlegg growled. “They know we’re coming.”
The Sanists moved quickly. One charmed the watermen, persuading them to steer the barge straight for what appeared to be a solid stone pier. Another cracked the door to the cabin and whispered to those inside. Orlegg mustered the rest in preparation for battle.
The loyalists would not give up their wounded Queen without a fight—and so the Sanists would give them one.
All along the Strand, the wide road leading from Westminster to the City, folk waited in shadows. The Lord Treasurer had all but emptied his domain, armoring fae for the long night of readiness. A company had concealed itself in the alcoves of Westminster Bridge, hoping to catch the barge in its deceptive glamour, so they could swarm down on it from above; so far all they had caught were two little scullers, ferrying gentlemen home from their late-night pleasures.
But if fae rode upon the barge, that trap would do little good. And so the rest of the Onyx Hall’s fighting force, all those loyal to the Queen, strung themselves along the Strand, waiting to converge upon their target.
As soon as they found it.
Segraine’s blade hissed from its scabbard and swung before Irrith could even leap back. The point came to rest just against the side of her neck. “Blood and Bone—Irrith! What in Mab’s name are you doing here?”
The sprite pushed the sword away with two careful fingers. “Rescuing the Queen.”
“Over my dead body—or your own, more like. You can barely stand.”
“But I can stand,” Irrith pointed out, and began loading her pistol. Elfshot only; the iron in her pocket, she was saving for the Dragon. “Unless you want to waste time dragging me back to the Hall, I’m here to stay.”
The lady knight ground her teeth. “Irrith, we can do this without you—”
“It’s my fault, all right? I’m the one who told Aspell what Andrews was doing, and if it weren’t for me—”
She never got a chance to say how things might have been different. Bonecruncher clapped one taloned hand over her mouth. “If it weren’t for you, we might have a chance of avoiding the constables,” the barguest hissed in her ear. “Leave or be quiet, but if you go on shouting like that, I’ll drown you in the Thames myself.”
Mute, Irrith met Segraine’s eyes. The knight clenched her teeth, but nodded. Bonecruncher dropped his hand, Irrith loaded her second pistol, and they waited for the barge to come.
In the black waters of the Thames, more shadows moved.
The fae of the river, nymphs and asrai and draca, found less and less joy in the city these past years. Their land-dwelling kindred could retreat from the filth of London into the Onyx Hall, but living in Queenhithe’s subterranean mirror was like living in a pond. Out here in the river, they had to contend with all the refuse of the mortals, and waters that grew fouler every year.
Tonight, however, they swam without complaint. They flooded out the Queenhithe entrance and formed a line across the river, sweeping upstream in search of the barge. There were other craft upon the Thames, of course. The larger ships, however, were confined downriver by the ancient stones of the London Bridge, and at this hour of the night, only a few small wherries plied the surface. Their search was—should have been—easy.
But they were not the only shadows in the water.
There was no warning. Just a claw, snaking out of nowhere to snatch an asrai and drag her down. Underwater, she could not scream; she vanished without a sound.
A draca was the next target, and he dodged not quite rapidly enough. Blood bloomed in the murk, and then he saw his enemy.
Blacktooth Meg cared little for the politics of the Onyx Hall. All she knew was rage. The poisoned Fleet, long choked with garbage and offal, corpses and shit, had turned the foul river hag even fouler, until all she wanted to do was rend and destroy. Valentin Aspell offered her a chance to do so. She merely had to venture out of her waters into the Thames, and prevent the fae there from swimming upstream.
Battle churned in the darkness below, invisible to those above. Even the water-dwelling fae could scarcely see their enemy before she closed with them. But one nymph broke free, driving herself upstream with frantic speed, desperate to carry out her sworn task.
She didn’t have to go far. Under cover of darkness and charms, the barge had come nearly to the mouth of the Fleet, and the boundary of the Onyx Hall.
Hands made clumsy with panic tore at the box tied to her waist. Then the lid was open, and the will-o’-the-wisp sprang out, erupting from the water into the air above, marking the target for those who waited to attack.
The sky was too dangerous for large forces on any night other than All Hallows’ Eve. But birds attracted no notice, especially against the dark background of the clouds. Their sharp eyes picked out the flare of light on the river below, and they screamed a warning through the air.
A lone horseman came galloping through the sky, downriver from Westminster Bridge. The tatterfoal stretched his legs to their fullest, angling downward to seek out the barge, and his rider Sir Cerenel dropped the reins to ready the weapon he held.
Not all of the jotun ice had gone into the spear for the Dragon. Leaning sideways out of the saddle, the elf-knight hurled a shard into the river below.
It struck the water and sank halfway in. No farther: by then the river had frozen around it, ice crystalling outward in all directions, even down to the soft mud of the bed, trapping the barge just short of the mouth of the Fleet.
And forming a bridge from one bank to the other, a road for the rescuers to ride.
Galen had positioned himself in the timber yard off Dorset Street, scant yards from the open bank of the Fleet. Sir Peregrin let him do it because the Captain believed they would catch the barge much farther upriver. But Galen thought, when he saw the ice race across the surface of the Thames, that some dismal part of himself had always believed it would come to this, the last, desperate chance to save Lune.