She just had to wait a little longer. You’re not Eliza O’Malley, she told herself, straightening her apron and heading for the servants’ stair. You’re not even Elizabeth White. You’re Hannah, a sorry replacement for the only good maid Mrs. Kittering ever had. Eliza O’Malley would run, and that sergeant would notice. You’ll stay, and be patient, and God willing, get what you want.
The Goblin Market, Onyx Halclass="underline" April 12, 1884
Given enough time, Dead Rick could track just about anyone through the Goblin Market. But that was if he knew who he was hunting. His current question was one his nose couldn’t answer for him: who he was working for.
The obvious suspects were the other powers in the Goblin Market, the fae who challenged Nadrett for control. There were three of any importance: Lacca, Valentin Aspell, and a Welsh gwyllion whose name nobody could pronounce, so they just called him Hardface. Any of the three would leap at the chance to steal Nadrett’s idea out from under him.
None of them, however, sounded like the voice that spoke from the air. That didn’t necessarily mean much; he could tell the stranger was making an some effort to disguise his speech. Lacca could lower her voice, Hardface could hide his Welsh accent, Aspell could discard the oily contempt that dripped from his every word. There were other reasons to set them aside, though. Aspell wouldn’t need Dead Rick’s help for something like this; he had plenty of his own spies. Lacca didn’t have the subtlety for it; she would just shoot Nadrett and be done with it. Hardface did have the subtlety, but he’d rather cut off his right arm than ask Dead Rick for help, ever since the skriker had chased him into the sewers six years ago.
It didn’t have to be someone at the top. If there was some way to make a passage to Faerie, control of it would be enough to make anybody a king.
Which might be enough to tempt Charcoal Eddie. The shape-changing puck worked for Nadrett, but believed he could rule the Goblin Market better than anyone if he only got the chance. Creeping about once more in dog form, Dead Rick found Eddie near a busy crossroads of the Market, drinking and boasting to his mates about his exploits this All Hallows’ Eve past. “Scared three men straight to death,” the bird-man said, lowering his voice to what he clearly thought was an impressive growl. “And that’s how it should be, you know? All the time, not just one night a year! Time was, men were afraid to stick their noses out of doors after dark, for fear we’d snap them off; now they’ve got lanterns and gaslight and all, and they’re more afraid of bashers with truncheons than they are of us. Did you hear about the electrical lights they tried on the Embankment?” Charcoal Eddie spat in disgust. “Ought to smash them, I say. Smash it all.”
He got noises of agreement from his listeners, huddled around the old door that served them as a table. But they were only a small knot of goblins and pucks, thoroughly drunk, and none of them with bread enough to do anything about Eddie’s ideas. And it seemed awfully complicated, Eddie trying to get Nadrett’s secret so he’d be rich enough to cause better trouble in London. The puck wasn’t smart enough for that.
Hafdean, on the other hand, was. The hob had managed the Crow’s Head since before fae who weren’t Dead Rick could remember, and he dealt in information, too—sometimes, but not always, on Aspell’s behalf. Spitting out the rank-tasting bone he’d been chewing on for cover, Dead Rick licked an itchy part of his foot instead, considering.
He didn’t get far in his thoughts. Through the constant din of the Market, Dead Rick’s sharp ears caught a swelling uproar, one passage over.
The skriker leapt to his paws and ran to see, weaving through legs that paused as their owners realized there was trouble nearby. Through a broken doorway, around a corner, down a short hall—and then he stopped, because he’d gotten more than close enough.
The half-dozen fae edging their way toward the fork in the passage were not part of the Market; a glance made that obvious. Three were elf-knights, two men and a woman, in ordinary clothing, but with a fineness that stood out in this ragged place. The others were a mixed trio, a puck, a sprite, and a goblin Dead Rick recognized as the barguest Bonecruncher. Every last one was armed to the teeth—in Bonecruncher’s case, quite literally. He snarled at everyone in front of him, eyes flaming red, and pointed his pistols at anything that moved.
The six of them formed a protective ring, weapons facing outward, and in the center of it was a cluster of mortal children. That, in combination with the elf-knights, told Dead Rick everything he needed to know: the Prince had decided to assert his authority over the Onyx Hall, and sent his underlings to carry out a raid.
It happened every once in a while, on no particular schedule. Maybe the Prince heard about some atrocity too big to ignore; maybe he just woke up one day with the burning need to prove he wasn’t completely impotent. Dead Rick always avoided these raids when they happened. Sighing, he turned to go.
And found a gleefully drunk Charcoal Eddie charging straight for the intruders, brandishing his pint glass like a weapon.
The tense stalemate broke instantly. A sound went off like a gun firing underwater, and an enormous web spread itself over Eddie and his friends. One strand at the edge caught Dead Rick’s tail; when he pulled away, all the stuck fur ripped free, leaving him with a bald patch. He howled in pain. Then a second time, when a fleeing hob stepped on his paw.
The rushing crowd parted enough for him to see most of the raiding party fleeing down the right-hand passage. Covering their retreat was the sprite, a slender, almost boyish thing, far too skinny for the absurd-looking gun she held. She whirled to shoot someone else, and Dead Rick saw another web cough out of the barrel, expanding as it went.
Then she ran. But her delay had separated her from the group, and when she reached the fork in the passage, she went left.
Dead Rick wasn’t even sure why he ran after her. To steal that gun, in the hopes of selling it for bread? To point her back toward her friends, in some misbegotten echo of his former self? Or just for the pleasure of the hunt?
None of those three, he realized when he finally caught up to her, and his brain caught up to him. He’d followed because of the brief flicker in her brow when she saw him, before she turned to shoot the others. A flicker that returned when she whirled to shoot him, and saw he was alone. They’d lost the rest of the pursuit.
“Dead Rick?”
He skidded to a halt on the stone, paws splaying wide. Is this who ’e sent?
Sounds behind him. They hadn’t lost everybody, not yet. Dead Rick twisted upward into man shape, grabbed her by the arm. I’m a bleeding idiot. The voice was right; this was dangerous. But he didn’t care.
She swallowed her protest as he dragged her toward a broken slab of stone, leaning against a pillar. Gun shoved into the band of her trousers, the sprite scampered up it with more agility than he could manage in following, but they both made it to safety before the hunt came streaming through.
Perched in the crook where the stone vaulted outward to arch across the small chamber, they waited until the place was as close to silent as it would get. This was too near a bad patch of the palace for anyone to live in the room, though there were fae nearby.
The sprite let out the breath she’d been holding, turning it into a quiet laugh. “Blood and Bone—am I glad to see you. I went the wrong way, didn’t I?” Dead Rick nodded mutely, trying not to stare at her. “I never did learn my way around this warren. Doesn’t help when bits of it keep falling off, either.”