A Star Shall Fall

That question seemed even more likely to drop him into a pit than the simple use of Abd ar-Rashid’s name had. Galen fled back to his original query. “Is it some task set by your sovereign that brings you to our shores, Lord Abd ar-Rashid?” Did genies even have sovereigns?

The Arab’s answer didn’t enlighten him. “It is not, O Prince. These years have I been journeying across Europe in the service of my own curiosity, and it brings me now to England.”

At the distance that separated the genie from the dais, it was unlikely he noticed Lune stiffening; Galen, at her side, could not miss it. “Curiosity of what sort, my lord?” she asked.

“That of a scholar, O Queen.” His accent made subtleties of intonation difficult to discern, and in the cool light of the chamber, Galen had equal trouble making out the expressions on the dark face. “I come here to ask of your Prince introduction to the Royal Society gentlemen.”

Had he asked for an introduction to King George II, Galen could not have been more surprised. “The Royal Society? The philosophers?” Perhaps it was some error in the genie’s English.

Abd ar-Rashid soon disabused him of the notion. “Once a great flower of wisdom grew in my land, but in recent centuries it has withered under the hand of the soldiers and the officials. Araby was the mother of medicine and alchemy, astronomy and the making of clocks; now the infant she reared has grown to manhood, and travelled to Europe, where he finds a more friendly home. Taqi al-Din has been succeeded by your John Harrison and James Bradley and Isaac Newton. I have no interest in war and the operation of government; therefore I come here, following in the footsteps of knowledge.”

It had the sound of a rehearsed speech; indeed, Galen suspected the genie had delivered it in French to the Cour du Lys—with, of course, suitable replacements for the English scholars he’d named. Bemused, Galen said, “And you believe I can grant you admittance to the Royal Society.”

The Arab hesitated. “Out of your kindness—if French would be possible—” Lune nodded, and Galen thought he saw relief flash across that dark face as the genie bowed again. In much more fluent French, he said, “In the Cour du Lys, I heard that the Queen of London kept a mortal man at her side, who governed all matters relating to the human world. When news came that this man had become a Fellow of the Society, I made arrangements to come here.”

His French was good enough that Galen, far more rusty in the language, had trouble keeping up; but he was able to catch where rumour had gone astray. “I am not a Fellow, sir,” he said, painfully aware of his own bad accent. “Only a visitor among them.”

The genie’s stillness came as a surprise, after all the bowing. “Was I in error, O Prince? Have I asked something not in your power to give?”

A tiny shift in Lune’s body told Galen she’d been about to speak, then stopped herself. He could guess why. She never turned visitors away from her court empty-handed; unlike most faerie realms, this one was composed of strangers who had come from a dozen other homes, some merely visiting, others resettling themselves within its dark shadow. Interaction with the mortal world was not the only thing that separated this court from others in England.

She didn’t turn visitors away—but neither did she give gifts without hope of something in return. “An introduction is within my power,” Galen said, wishing to Heaven that he’d been given some warning of this, so he could think through his reply without the genie, Lune, and the assembled courtiers watching his every move. “But it is no small thing, sir, to bring you into company with the gentlemen and lords of my acquaintance there. You are a stranger to me as much as to them, and a foreign stranger at that. I don’t know how these things are done in your land, but here, if a gentleman introduces another in that manner, he risks his own good name; he vouches to his friends that the new man is a trustworthy fellow, and worthy of their company. I mean no insult to you, but I cannot in good conscience give such assurances for someone about whom I know virtually nothing.”

He realised too late that he had lapsed back into English. Perhaps it was just as well; he would have embarrassed himself, trying to say all that in French. The genie’s eyes had narrowed, but whether it was a sign of hostility or merely difficulty understanding him, Galen didn’t know.

He hoped the latter, and that Abd ar-Rashid understood enough to see the opening Galen had provided. And indeed, after a silent moment, the genie bowed. “I would die a hundred times, O Prince, before I bring shame to you by my behavior. I am content to wait. Perhaps in that time I find some service for yourself or your Queen, and prove my character to you?”