The Office of Shadow (33 page)

"Who's she?" said one. She was thin and pale, with dark hair, and delicate hands. There were circles under her eyes.

"Bryla sent her," said Obin. "Don't know why."

"She can't just come in here on a night like this," said the dark-haired
woman. "That's silver out of my purse."

"Now now, Perrine," warned Obin. "Let's be ladies, shall we?"

Sela sat primly on a vacant love seat and waited, ignoring the glares from
the other women. After a minute or so, their attention drifted and they began
a desultory conversation that Sela ignored.

A knock came at the door and Obin went to answer. A young guildsman,
nervous and polite, entered the parlor and looked at the women. Sela waited
for him to find her with his gaze. The instant his thread appeared, she pushed
back against it. Not me. His gaze slipped past her, the thread evaporating. The
guildsman settled on the dark-haired woman, Perrine, and she led him
through an arch in the back of the room.

Two more men came, and each time Sela pushed them away. For a little
while, she was the only girl in the parlor. Obin tried to strike up a conversation
with her, but she pushed back against him as well, and he lost interest in her.

Perrine reappeared after half an hour, followed by the young guildsman.
His eyes were glazed, and he had a dopey smile on his face. Perrine looked
haggard and stumbled a bit. She flopped down on the couch and took a cigarette from a box on the center table.

"Young ones," she said after he'd gone. "Hate the nervous young ones."

They sat in stony silence for several long minutes. Then another knock,
and in came the man Sela had been waiting for. He was just as in his portrait,
with cape and cane and a wide mustache. He bowed low when he saw the
dark-haired woman. "Lady Perrine," he said in a booming voice. "So good to
see you this lovely evening."

Perrine smiled and waved, suddenly alert and attentive. She stood and
curtseyed, and Sela followed her lead.

The man looked Sela's way. When his thread sprang up she leapt at it,
dragged at it. He looked at her, bewildered for a moment, then smiled.

"Ah, whom have we here?" he said. Sela felt Perrine's thread go purpleblack. It stung, but she ignored it, smiling.

"Sir," she said.

"Perrine," said the man, "you are first in my heart, of course, but I would
very much like to get to know this new friend of yours."

"Of course, Guildsman Heron." Perrine seethed.

Heron took a silver khoum from his pocket and pressed it into Perrine's
hand. "You're a treasure, my dear."

Sela smiled and took Heron's hand. To Obin, she said, "Where shall I
take him?"

"Upstairs, second on the left," said Obin. "Everything you need is in the
room already."

Sela nodded. "Thank you."

They went upstairs without a word. Sela found the room Obin had indicated, and they went inside. There was a bed and a small table upon which
were laid out a bowl, a candle, a packet of herbs, and a stoppered glass bottle.

"I trust your preparation is of adequate strength," said Heron, removing
his cape. "I prefer an intense level of connection."

"You won't be disappointed, love," said Sela. She unstoppered the bottle
and poured its contents into the bowl, then mixed in the herbs. The potion shimmered momentarily. It was an Insight preparation, similar to icthula,
but with a decidedly different purpose.

Heron undressed while Sela prepared the draught. He climbed into the
bed, and the bedsprings rattled beneath him.

"I'm ready, ready, ready," he said. His thread, bloodred flecked with
brown, throbbed.

"Almost there, dear," said Sela.

She knelt on the bed and brought the bowl to his lips. He drank and lay
back, impatient. She lifted the bowl and pretended to drink.

"Now come here and give us a kiss," he said.

Sela placed the bowl on the bed and leaned down toward him. She put
her hands in his hair, ran her fingernails down his cheeks. He sighed happily,
the effects of the potion beginning to affect him.

Heron's eyes closed. Sela took a small knife from her bodice and drew it
across his neck. His eyes opened wide. He tried to speak, but only managed a
thick gurgling sound. He pawed at her, grabbed at her hair and yanked at it.

"You're not real," said Sela.

Once she was certain he was dead, she stood and walked out of the room.

Indirect problems require indirect solutions.

-Fae proverb

ilverdun maintained consciousness as his captors dragged him roughly
town the stairs and outside. He felt the sun on his face, but his vision was
blurred; he saw only blue sky and moving shadows. He was lifted into the
back of a closed wagon, and presently the wagon began to move.

With each bounce over the rough cobblestones, Silverdun's wrist shot
pain up his arm. One of the guardsmen had bandaged it, and the bandage was
already wet with blood. That deep, deep red blood. The light in Annwn, its
red sun? Silverdun shuddered; his body wanted to die, but Silverdun refused
to allow it. He'd never experienced anything similar.

The wagon turned, and its wheels rolled onto smooth stones. Silverdun
smelled hay and horse dung. He tried to sit up and made it to his elbows. Ironfoot
was slumped next to him. His eyes were open, and he looked back at Silverdun.

They were pulled from the wagon and carried inside a cool place that
reeked of urine. There were calls and shouts. Silverdun was placed on a straw
mat on a dirty stone floor, and he heard Ironfoot grunt next to him. There
was the sound of metal on metal. Silverdun raised his head again. He and
Ironfoot were in a small jail cell. He closed his eyes and slept, despite the pain
from his wrist. A little while later he came awake and felt something cool and
soothing on his right hand. He looked over to see someone, an old woman,
applying a salve to the stump of his wrist.

"Surprised he's not dead," said the witch.

Silverdun almost wished he were.

Perrin is studying for his fifth-year exams when a message sprite alights on
his windowsill.

"Hey, Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun!"

Perrin looks up from his studies, scrutinizing the sprite. "I'm not Lord
Silverdun, foolish sprite," he says. "That's my father."

"Well good news!" shouts the sprite. "You are now! Your father's dead!"

Perrin grabs the thing around its waist. "What? What are you talking
about?"

The sprite blanches. "Aw, shucks. I was hoping you were one of those
guys who didn't like his dad and was going to be happy to find out he was
thrown from his horse and killed instantly. Then you'd probably want to offer
me candy!"

Perrin throws the sprite at the wall, but it veers off and lands on top of
a bookcase. "Hey, it wasn't my fault. Sheesh."

"Get out of here!" shouts Perrin.

The sprite pauses at the window. "So ... where are we on the candy
issue?"

The next day a carriage arrives to take Perrin back to Oarsbridge Manor,
where his father is to be buried in the family plot. Mother is waiting for him
at the front door. She embraces him, and he lets her. Father's body is laid out
in the parlor, on the carved wooden bier that has been in the family for hundreds of years.

Perrin feels almost nothing when he sees his father. He examines his
emotions carefully, and can come up with nothing other than a bland annoyance at having been summoned away from school during exams.

Mother is standing in the doorway, watching him. "Whatever you're
feeling is all right," she says.

"I don't feel anything," says Perrin.

"That's all right, too."

"Everyone always tells me that he was a great man, a great lawmaker," he
says. "I never really paid that much attention to his career."

"He never paid that much attention to you, either."

"He was extremely cordial."

Mother laughs, and raises her hand to stifle it. "I suppose he was, at that."

The funeral is well attended-seemingly by every member of Corpus,
both lord and guildsman alike-and goes on for hours. It is dusk by the time
the last statesman completes his encomium and sits. Perrin watches his father
go into the ground, and suddenly he is filled with regret. He squeezes his
mother's hand, and she squeezes back. She sees his tears and seems to understand them, even though he himself does not.

Afterward, Perrin's uncles Bresun and Marin take him aside. Bresun is
father's twin brother, the younger by ten minutes, and Marin is much
younger, the child of Grandfather's second wife.

"My deepest condolences ... Lord Silverdun," says Bresun, emphasizing
the "Lord."

"Thank you," says Perrin. He's known that the title would someday be
his, of course, but he'd assumed that it would be many years in the future.
"It's all a bit much. I confess I am somewhat overwhelmed."

"And who could blame you?" says Bresun. "Title is a great obligation,
and not one to be taken up lightly."

Perrin nods. He has never liked Bresun.

"Since you're not yet of age, you'll need to appoint an overseer for the
estate," Bresun continues. "I will, of course, be more than happy to assume
that role."

Marin smiles weakly. "It's a fine idea, I think."

"Thank you," says Perrin. "I will consider your offer."

This is not the response Bresun wants. "I can assure you, son, that there
is no one better acquainted with your father's affairs than I."

"Fine," says Perrin, suddenly not caring. "I accept."

Over the next few days, Perrin spends most of his time with a quill in
his hand: penning thank-you notes to the many attendees of the funeral and
signing a never-ending flood of documents for the solicitors. He falls asleep
at his father's desk and is woken in the early morning by his mother's touch
on his shoulder.

"Come, Perrin," she says. "There is something I want to discuss with you."

They walk out the south entrance, onto the lawns where Perrin played as
a boy, and down the grass to the row of peach trees. The trees are in bloom,
and they smell sweet and full.

They pass through the small gate set in the wall and continue down the
path to the knoll that overlooks the river and the fields. The stone bridge after
which the manor is named is still there after all these years, still in daily use.

"These are your lands now," says Mother.

"Yes," says Perrin, though he finds it hard to accept.

"Your father managed them well," she says. "He was always fair to his
tenants, and they respected him."

"Everyone respected him, apparently."

"And rightly so. But I do not think you have any interest in managing
our estates, do you, Perrin?"

Perrin stops walking and looks at her. "Of course I do. It's my responsibility."

"Your responsibility, yes. But not your desire."

"What are you getting at, Mother?"

"I want you to donate these lands to Aba."

"To the Arcadians, you mean."

"To Aba, I mean."

"Doesn't Aba already own everything anyway?" Perrin smirks.