With Fate Conspire (29 page)

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 Hall: 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.

You have never made use of my services before now, but some of your followers have. When you decide to accept my offer, notify Bonecruncher; he knows how to contact me discreetly. During my conference with Lune, I will tell her how to rescue the Prince’s ghost. As I am sure you will have me guarded during this conference, if I fail to uphold my end of the bargain, you will have no difficulty in retaliating as you see fit.

Do not delay. I am sure you, of all men, know how little time you have.

Valentin Aspell

Hodge stared. The words, crisply inked in an old-fashioned hand, didn’t go away.

A few seconds later, with no memory of having moved, he flung open the door and stormed into the outer room. Three fae shot to their feet in alarm, and Hodge held up the letter in one fist. “When did this get ’ere?”

Irrith and Segraine both looked to Tom Toggin, the hob who served as his valet. Tom peered up at the paper. “What is it?”

“It’s the bleeding letter you left for me to find. ’Ow long was it sitting there?”

His valet shook his head, wide-eyed. “I didn’t leave any letters for you.”

Hodge went very still. It was that or drop the letter—as if the paper held any threat. The threat was long gone, along with whatever faerie had sneaked past these three to leave a sealed note by his head. He knew better than to think they’d left him alone; everybody was far too afraid for his safety to let that happen.

“Who’s it from?” Irrith asked.

Of course she’d be the one to ask. Hodge made sure to pull the letter close before he answered, so she couldn’t snatch it out of his hand. “Valentin Aspell.”

Sure enough, her face immediately went pale with anger. Segraine tensed—possibly to grab Irrith, in case she did something stupid—and Tom, who never seemed to get angry at anything, looked curious. “What does he want?”

“To sell us information.” Hodge’s knees shook; the burst of energy that had carried him through the door was fading fast.
Bloody ’ell. You’d think I was an old man.
He didn’t like to do the math on how old he actually was. Or rather, how young.
I’ve already survived longer than I expected to.

It was mention of his predecessor’s ghost that made him think that way—that, and the pain that had woken him. In blunt terms, Hodge told the others what Aspell wanted, and what he demanded in return.

“You can’t let him near Lune,” Segraine said immediately. “He’s a traitor, and can’t be trusted.”

Hodge watched Irrith. Her delicate face was going through an amazing series of expressions, one piling atop the other: suspicion, worry, anger, hope, disgust. When she noticed the Prince looking at her, she grimaced. “He wouldn’t try to kill her—I think. He knows the Hall would melt right out from around us if he did, and if he wanted to die he’d find some more elegant way to do it. Segraine’s right, though; I don’t trust him. On the other hand, it’s Galen. If Aspell’s telling the truth, and that bastard Nadrett has him…” She shuddered. “We can’t leave him there.”

No, they couldn’t. Hodge had only ever known two other Princes of the Stone: his predecessor, Alexander Messina, and Galen St. Clair. The latter haunted the Onyx Hall—or had, until recently—so as to help those who remained. He’d been a scholar in life, and over the years since his death had contributed far more to the repair efforts than Hodge ever would.
They’d be better off with ’im than with me.

But Hodge was who they had, and he needed to know whether Aspell was telling the truth. His offer didn’t give any proof of that; he’d set up a good method for trading for his information, but the information itself could still be a swindle. “
Does
Nadrett ’ave ’im?”

Tom said uncomfortably, “We just assumed he was gone, after the Prince’s chambers vanished, because that’s where he’d always appeared. And if he’d returned to some other part of the Hall, wouldn’t he have come looking for us?”

“Maybe he couldn’t,” Segraine said. “The Hall has … changed a lot, since his time.”

Hodge snorted at her delicacy. But it wouldn’t do morale any good to suggest the phrase she wanted was,
The Hall is falling down about our ears.
Irrith said, “Aspell … wouldn’t lie. Not like this. He’s a manipulative bastard—I’m sure whatever he wants Lune for, we won’t like it—but if he says Nadrett has Galen, then he does.” Her mouth pinched, as if that idea caused her pain. Then she drew in a deep breath and went on. “I’d say offer him something else, but I doubt he would take it. So it’s your choice, Hodge: Are you going to let him see her?”

He felt the anticipation in all three of them.
Nobody
got in to see the Queen; that was common knowledge. Nobody except the Prince.

Hodge stood, crumpling Aspell’s letter in one hand. “It ain’t my choice,” he said, hearing the roughness in his own voice. “It’s Lune’s. I’ll talk to ’er.”

No one said anything, and he couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. For privacy’s sake, he turned and went back into the inner room, which held only his table, his bed, and a few faerie lights for company.

With the door shut behind him, he laid one hand on the black stone of the wall.

Reaching out hurt. It meant sinking his mind into the torn fabric of the Onyx Hall, feeling every spike of iron, every gap where the wall had been. It always made him think of the old tortures, thumbscrews and pincers and the rack: no wonder men said whatever their questioners wanted, after being put through such pain. But here he was, putting himself through it, and the only reason he could was because he reminded himself that Lune felt the same thing. Constantly. For years on end.

If she could survive that, he could share it for a little while.

Lune?

Her mind stirred, like a sleeper caught deep in a nightmare. Hodge reached out for her, tried to lend her what strength he had.
Lune. I … ’ave to ask you something.

He phrased it as briefly as he could: Aspell’s offer, the price, their guesses as to his honesty. By the end of it, she was alert; he could feel her consideration.
Do you have any hint as to why he wants to see me?

Hodge never knew if his body actually moved during these conversations, or if the shaking of his head was entirely a mental thing.
None. I can try to find out.

If you succeed, I’ll be much surprised; Aspell was always good at keeping secrets, and I doubt he has lost the skill.
Lune paused, and Hodge gritted his teeth—or at least thought the action of gritting them—as a train rumbled along the buried track, from Blackfriars to Mansion House. When they could both spare thought for something else again, she said,
I will not see him, of course. But I will speak to him, through you; he must be content with that.

He wondered if he should tell her the rest of what they knew about Nadrett, the possibility that he might be creating a passage to Faerie. Would she go, if she could? If it meant bowing to Nadrett, not a chance … but what if it didn’t?

She loved this city. Had loved it for more ages than Hodge could really conceive. Lune had poured so much of herself into preserving the palace, and the court that inhabited it; he wasn’t sure she could abandon it, even if palace and court were gone.

No point in mentioning it, not until they knew if it was more than a dream born from some opium pipe. She would see it as hope, for her subjects if not for herself, and he didn’t want to take that away from her if it proved false. Hodge merely said,
I’ll tell ’im. Thank you, Lune.

Surfacing was like pulling a knife from his own flesh: both pain, and the relief from it. Hodge sucked in a great gasp of air as he opened his eyes, and then laid his forehead against the cool stone.

Aspell would not see the Queen. Nobody did.

Not even the Prince.

There was no point. Lune sat in a trance, dedicating every shred of her concentration and strength to maintaining the Onyx Hall. The only way he could talk to her was through the palace. All going to visit her would do was tell other people where her defenseless body rested.

She’d made him Prince—and then left him to it. He hadn’t laid eyes on her in fourteen years.

Valentin Aspell would have to be content with talking. If he didn’t like it, then he and his deal could go to hell. They would handle the problem of Nadrett themselves.

Newgate, City of London: May 31, 1884

“Come out, ye bastards! I know ye’re here!”

Eliza’s shout echoed from the brick and stone facades of the buildings around her. For once it was audible, not drowned out by a hundred others; she didn’t know what time it was, but midnight had come and gone long since, and the streets around Newgate Prison were deserted. She cackled, remembering the clerks she’d scraped after for pennies during her months here, and shouted again. “Buns! Hot buns, only a farthing apiece!”