“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, disbelievingly.
“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 Halclass="underline" 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.