A Star Shall Fall

“I treasure it already,” Galen said. He meant the response to be light, but did not quite succeed. Bowing, he added, “I should go. Lady Feidelm and the others are with Dr. Andrews, to answer his questions about faerie matters, but I would like to aid them.”

She nodded, not turning to face him. “Let me know what comes of it.”

“I will.” Hand over his heart, Galen bowed again, and retreated from her chamber.

Once well away, he collapsed against the cool stone, breathing fast. “You’re mad,” he whispered to himself, hearing it echo into the darkness. “Desperate and mad, and you know she does not love you.”

But if he saved the Onyx Hall, then he might at least be worthy of her.

Even a fancy as strong as his could not sustain the image of himself in armor, riding a brave steed, facing down the Dragon like a knight of old. He would find a way, though. He would save the palace, and the Queen, and then, perhaps…

A hopeless dream. But he could not let it go.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

3 August 1758

Lune stopped her pacing when the usher entered and bowed. “The Lord Keeper is here as you requested, madam.”

She waved for him to be escorted in, and made herself breathe slowly, however much frustration tried to speed it. Once Aspell had made his greetings and the usher departed, she said, “Hairy How reported to me this morning that another delivery of tithed bread has been stolen.”

“That will disturb your subjects, your Grace.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” she snapped, and he promptly bowed an apology. Lune made herself moderate her voice. “I have no intention of letting this become common knowledge, Valentin. The Hall has enough troubles already. But it does mean I’ll have to reduce the allowance to your spies.”

He frowned. “Madam, they’ll be less effective—”

Another thing she didn’t need him to tell her. “I’m afraid it’s necessary, at least in the short term. The treaty I’ve arranged with the Greeks—presuming I can get their final agreement—requires some work above, and the fae who carry it out will need protection.”

“As you wish, madam.”

Lune almost dismissed him, but paused before saying the words. There were many causes that could explain the disappearance of the tithe; indeed, it was a pattern that fed on itself. Less bread coming into the Onyx Hall meant less available to her subjects, which caused them to hoard it, which caused its value to rise; some fae were in debt to a staggering degree. Which could, in turn, cause a few clever souls to think of waylaying her messengers.

That was one of the less sinister explanations. Others were not so innocent. “Valentin… give me your opinion. Could this be a Sanist plot?”

His sinuous body stiffened. “Sanists? What benefit could they gain from intercepting the tithe?”

“Aside from making me look like a poor Queen?”

Her dry answer seemed to miss him entirely, for he was frowning. “Or another possibility. Madam, I’ve had no luck in discovering any meeting of the leading cabal. It occurred to me they might be meeting above—but the great difficulty in that was explaining how they could afford to do so. I thought they kept mortals on hand to provide them with bread; my spies have been following that possibility. If they are the ones ambushing your messengers, though…”

Sun and Moon. If they were meeting above, Aspell would never find them; the city had grown too big, with a thousand mortals for every faerie below. It would be simplicity itself for conspirators to blend in among them and vanish.

He bowed anyway and said, “I will pursue this possibility, madam.”

“I may have to keep funding your spies,” she said grimly. “One to accompany every delivery as it comes in. Catching the thieves may be our only hope of finding their masters.”

“An excellent idea, your Grace,” Valentin Aspell said. “Whether Sanists are involved or not, we must keep the tithe coming. I will put my people to the task at once.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

15 August 1758

Magrat was in the same position as always, hunched in her corner of the Crow’s Head, gin cup in hand. Her lipless mouth quirked when Irrith approached. “Let me guess. You’ve come to call in your favour.”

Irrith dropped onto the stool across from her. “Something small, like I promised. Just the recommendation of a few names. I need stealthy sorts, goblins or pucks, to help me break into a mortal place.”

“The house of that fellow the Prince has brought among us? I hear things about him, you know.”

Almost every conversation with Magrat went this way, the church grim trying to tempt her listener with vague promises of information for sale. Sometimes the information was real; sometimes it wasn’t. “Not him,” Irrith said. “But I won’t tell you where, so don’t bother asking. We’ll be stealing something for the Onyx Hall, and I need hands to help carry it. Who do you recommend?”