Deeds of Men (5 page)

“Worse,” Deven said, feelingly. “We humans are nothing on the fae for such attachment.” Strangers had arrived in the years following Lune’s accession, curious about her new ways; thirty years on, many of them still spoke as if they were only visiting. Once converted, though, they were steadfast.

“So they care what happens to England because they’re connected to it?”

Also because it gives them a game to play—one that endlessly changes.
“They helped thwart the Armada, back in Elizabeth’s day,” Deven said, studying his cards. “And the Duke of Buckingham is not the only one providing James and his ministers with reports on the situation in Spain, these endless negotiations over Prince Charles’ wife.”

Henry made a sound of disgust. “Buckingham. He will
sink
those negotiations, right when they should have been concluded.”

It was the popular opinion, but also uninformed. “Spain has no intention of concluding anything—not until the Second Coming or Charles’ conversion to papistry, and I know which one they hope to see first. Buckingham is the Prince’s steadfast shield against the seductive arguments of the priests. And Spain, in the meantime, is doing its best to ignore the question of the war in the Palatinate, and James’ pleas for aid to help the Elector regain his throne there.”

Henry’s eyes widened, and for a second time the cards were entirely forgotten. “But without Spain’s aid, what do we gain from taking a Catholic viper to our bosom?”

“Very little,” Deven admitted. He laid down his cards and reached for the wine. “If this marriage collapses, we may be the better for it—save that Charles is twenty-two and yet unmarried, with his father ailing, and the succession not secured beyond that single heir.” Dangerous words; in the world above, to speak of the King’s death—even as a possibility—could be accounted treason. But Deven had not steered the conversation in this direction out of mere idleness.

Valentin Aspell had a mortal client in the Onyx Hall, the bastard son of a baron. Lady Carline had her own candidate. And they were not the only ones putting men in Lune’s path. But in two and a half years of searching, Deven had not found anyone he favoured more to succeed him than Henry Ware.

The young man wasn’t perfect. Henry was politically naïve; he took most of his opinions from the likes of Robert Penshaw, who was more than happy to influence an impressionable mind. Lune depended upon Deven—upon the Prince of the Stone—to keep her informed of the mortal court and its doings, and that required a mind that would not be swayed by every eloquent gentleman who opened his mouth.

But Henry had his own merits. He had a good place at court, and—thanks to his father’s wealth and connections—every chance to rise higher. He also made friends easily, both here and in Westminster, which laid solid foundations for alliance.

And Lune enjoyed his company.

That last consideration, perhaps more than any other, persuaded Deven.
If I must contemplate surrendering my place to another, I would rather it not be the cut-throat protégés the others put forward.
He could trust Henry to have a care, not just for England, but for Lune’s happiness.

The politics could be learned.
That
could not.

Now Deven was the one neglecting his cards and the ongoing game. “If her Grace would help England,” Henry said, apparently oblivious to his distraction, “then she should contrive Buckingham’s downfall. He is corrupt beyond the telling of it. And who can say what he has been whispering in Charles’ ear while they gambol about Europe?”

“Lune can,” Deven answered him, grinning. “Her knight Sir Adenant is among their train.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “A faerie knight—riding with the heir to England’s crown?”

“Not that any among them know. ’Tis a risk,” Deven acknowledged. “Lune sent him with a goodly supply of bread, but Charles and Buckingham have been in Spain long months now—far more than anticipated. Adenant has been forced to negotiate with the Spanish fae for protection, at no little cost to this court. But Charles is, as you say, the heir. If he insists on being mad enough to put himself into Spain’s hands, she must do what she can to protect him.”

Fingers playing across the petals of a faerie tulip, Henry mused this over. “They say he
is
mad, for love of the Infanta.”

As mad as any twenty-two-year-old man might be, unwed and constrained by both position and personal inclination from the kind of dalliances that might blunt the edge of his desire. “Mad enough to leap a garden wall, at least, for a glimpse of his promised wife. But the journey itself? ’Twas a matter of diplomacy, more than passion. Charles went—and James allowed him to go—because they hoped it might tip the balance, pushing Spain into agreement.”

Henry snorted, and that was comment enough.

“And now Spain keeps him,” Deven said. “The latest word is that he will depart at the end of August. Lune hears a great many disturbing things about the promises the Spanish offer, to keep Charles there without Buckingham at his side, but neither man has much trust for such promises any longer. As for your original point…” He had to smile, ruefully. “I have no great love for Buckingham, but his corruption is of the same sort found in every great lord and minister; his venality differs only in degree, not kind. And, no doubt, ’tis hated in greater proportion because he began so low. But he is beloved of both James and Charles, which promises a modicum of stability that will serve England well, when that day of transition must come.”

“That’s what worries me,” Henry muttered. “He is
too
beloved, of James in particular. No man who is not King should have such a voice in the governance of a realm.”

Except, perhaps, a Prince. Would this work, when the time came? Would Lune be able to rule alongside a man she did not love? For as much as Lune found Henry pleasing, Deven knew it went no further than friendship.

It had to work. Lune might not be a mortal Queen, forced to wed for the sake of alliance, but in the end it might come to the same thing. She needed a Prince, someone to speak for the world above. It was not so different from Charles’ marriage, after all.

Henry fingered his cards, hesitating, before finally laying them down. Deven displayed his own hand, and his friend sighed in defeat.

No, not perfect. But Henry could learn. He had already begun. And Deven was more than willing to teach him, for the sake of both Lune and the Onyx Court.

The Onyx Hall, London: 8 June, 1625

Steam veiled the bathing chamber, wafting up from the salamander-heated water, such that Lady Carline did not see the pale figure until it was nearly upon her.

She yelped in surprise, splashing water out of her bath, but gave an impatient sigh when she saw the figure properly. “Of course you would linger,” she said to the ghost, in the tone of one not expecting a reply. “I wonder if his lordship troubled to mention it, that you might end up as some wretched shade. Well, along with you; whatever message you bear, I have no interest in it.” She settled her head against the pool’s rim, muttering under breath, “I would we had that Eurydice creature still, to dispose of these remnants.”

Had the lady been attending, she would have seen a nonplussed expression cross the spectre’s face. Deven, watching from concealment, suppressed a smile. After a moment’s hesitation, the ghost of Henry Ware drifted away, soundless on the stone floor.

Deven pulled him aside just before a servant came through to wait upon Carline, and together they slipped out while the two were distracted. Still wearing his brother’s deathly seeming, Antony Ware said, “I would never have believed a person could dismiss a ghost so easily.”

“She isn’t a person; she’s a faerie.” Deven wiped steam from his face and said, “She did not look guilty to me.”

“Nor to me. The ladies here intrigue with such venom, that you would suspect her?”

“They see little reason why human notions of womanly behaviour should affect them, unless they wish it. After all, what holy book commands
them
to propriety?”

For all that this masquerade had been his own idea, it disturbed Deven to look at the illusory face of Henry. And he could not decide which was worse: when Antony behaved as himself, incongruous with his appearance, or when he adopted the mannerisms of his brother. He did the latter unnervingly well.

Antony shifted uncomfortably, as if trying to settle a doublet that kept binding across the shoulders. “How many do you intend to test?”

As many as I must.
But he couldn’t parade Antony in front of every courtier and subject in the realm; sooner or later someone would notice the illusion. “One more,” Deven said, “that I think a likely suspect. If that yields us nothing, we must consider our next move. Come, before someone sees you.”

The passage they entered was a secret one, and little more than a cramped tunnel, which they traversed on their hands and knees. Lune had arranged for it to be cleaned, at least, so they would not emerge filthy on the other end. Though it ran straight enough, the path it followed obeyed no mortal geometry; despite the stair they had climbed to reach the opening, Deven knew they were passing below several chambers. And when they reached the far end—

Antony gasped when he saw what lay before them. “I hope you do not fear the height,” Deven said.

The young man shook his head, though his eyes were wider than usual. “But how are we to get down? I have no wings.”

Deven’s throat tightened with unexpected tears. The chamber before them was called the Vault of Birds, a soaring space punctuated by columns, arches, bridges, and platforms, an aerial maze built for play. The first time he saw it, and the flying fae who gambolled there, Henry had asked if he, too, could be given wings.

The Vault was empty now, by Lune’s design. “There are handholds,” Deven said, once his voice was steady. “And a bit of a path, that will take us much of the way without climbing.”

It was still a heart-stopping experience, and by the time they were done he suspected Antony’s true face was pale. But the young man breathed not a word of complaint, and followed Deven silently out the triple archway on one side of the chamber, before ducking into a cramped room whose door was invisible in the black wall.

The hidden closet was too small for furniture. One chair, with a man sitting in it, would have left scarcely enough space for the other to stand. But it stood near the chambers of Valentin Aspell, Lune’s Lord Keeper and the other likely murderer, and so Antony slid down the wall to the floor, folding his legs to leave room for Deven to sit as well. “These suspects,” he said abruptly. “The ones who may have ordered my brother’s death. Why them? Or rather, why
him?
”

As awkward as it would be to share the floor with the young man, looming over him would be worse. Deven crouched in the remaining space, ruing that even faerie-bestowed youth could not make his knees happy. “Patronage. I favoured Henry for a position, and those I suspect had their rival clients. This court was once a murderous place indeed, and not all, I fear, have fallen out of such habits.”

The young man brooded upon this for a moment, then said, “Your position. Am I right?”

“How did you guess?”

“A tiredness in your manner,” Antony said. “As if you had a burden you thought to lay down, but now must carry a while longer.”

And that was true enough. It was not so much that Deven minded his responsibilities as Prince of the Stone; they were part of what he shared with Lune. But the need to find a successor weighed heavily upon him, and more so now that Henry was lost.

“What
are
you?” Antony asked. “She called you the Prince. That…Queen did.”

“Her mortal consort,” Deven answered him. “I am her love, and she is mine, but no man can inherit that bond. What I mean to pass on is my role in her court. Lune assists mankind where and as she can—particularly as it concerns politics—but she needs one of us to advise her how best to do that. And I will not be with her forever. I was educating Henry to follow me.”

“Henry!” It was a startled exclamation, all the more jarring because it seemed to come from the young man himself, ghost-pale in the dim light. “Since when did he care for such matters?”

Deven’s reply was soft with sorrow. “Since he came among us.”

Antony, it seemed, had no answer to that, for they waited in silence until a scratch came at the door.

Opening it, Deven found a figure outside, twig-like and scarcely larger than his hand, with bat-wings of mere gossamer. “He approaches?” Deven asked, and the creature nodded, before taking off into the air.

Antony rose with the ease of the young. Already they heard footsteps. Deven gestured for the young man to conceal himself to one side of the entrance into the Vault of Birds, then stepped back into his own hidden chamber, leaving the door cracked the merest sliver, and the light inside extinguished.

The footsteps passed him and then paused. And then came a voice that nearly stopped Deven’s heart.