The Office of Shadow (34 page)

"You're too old for that snotty attitude, Perrin," says Mother. "You
demean us both. I have considered the matter prayerfully for some time."

"Mother," says Perrin. "You can't expect me to just ... hand over my
estate. It's madness."

"You have an enormous trust that will give you income for the rest of
your life, Perrin. You don't need the money."

"It's not about the money. I don't care about that."

"The Church will manage the estate with love and care. They will treat
the people with respect, even those who do not believe."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure they will. And I'm sure they'll happily pocket the
income as well. Don't be naive, mother."

"I am many things," she says, her voice trembling, "but I am not naive."

"Mother," says Perrin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Honestly."

"I know."

"You're right, of course. I don't have any interest in being a landholder.
Or in being a member of the House of Lords, for that matter. But Bresun and
Marin will-"

"Bresun cares about nothing but money and status, and Marin is a
fatuous cretin!" says Mother, her voice rising. She's breathing heavily.

"Well, as soon as I'm of age I'll be in charge and I'll make sure that they
stay in line."

"By the time you come of age, Bresun will have found a way to take all
of this from you."

"He can't, Mother. It would be unlawful."

Mother laughs, but it is not her usual warm laugh. It's more of a cackle.
"Oh, Son. There is only one law that cannot be bent by money and influence.
That is Aba's law, and it will punish Bresun, but not in this life. Bresun
wouldn't dare go after your father, but he'll have no qualms taking you on."

Perrin pauses. He has never known his mother to be a cynic.

"Look out there," she says, pointing at the fields. "See those farmers? In
two years' time they'll be groaning under Bresun's whip. And if you don't
believe me, go visit his little estate and see how happy his tenants look.

"We called them noblemen, remember? Descendants of kings, each and
every one of them. Don't they deserve better than that?"

Perrin has no idea what to say.

"I told you then that one day you would have to decide what kind of man
you wanted to be. Now perhaps that day has come. Make the right choice. If
not for Aba, then for me."

She leaves him there on the river path. One of the farmers spies him and
waves, beaming.

The next day, Perrin sits Bresun down and explains that he's considering
donating Oarsbridge and Connaugh estates to the Arcadians. Bresun smiles
patiently, and explains in no uncertain terms what a terrible idea this is. He
is charming and convincing, and within the hour, Perrin and he are sharing
a drink and Perrin is laughing at himself for ever having considered such
foolishness.

"Your mother is a wonderful woman," says Bresun. "But she's not the
most realistic person in Faerie."

Silverdun smiles knowingly. He returns to school the next day and finishes his term with excellent marks.

Silverdun awoke to the sound of singing, the ethereal wail of Chthonic
hymns. The tune was an old one, and familiar. Silverdun knew the same tune
but with different words; the Arcadian peasants in Oarsbridge had sung it in
the fields when he was a child. His mother had told him once that it was the
singing that first drew her to Aba. Silverdun couldn't understand these
words, sung in the vowelless glottal language of native Annwni, but he
assumed it was about more or less the same thing: freedom from suffering,
the walk of the soul, release.

There had been a few Arcadians at Crete Sulace, the prison where Silverdun had been held with Mauritane and the others. They sang the same
sorts of songs. Silverdun had resented it then, and he resented it now. The
notion of freedom in captivity, of the release of earthly bondage. How long
were you supposed to keep singing before deciding that nobody was listening? Silverdun had left the monastery, so he supposed he'd reached his
limit, assuming he'd ever truly been singing to begin with. Still, it was
pretty music.

He opened his eyes and struggled into a sitting position to find Ironfoot
awake, and eating. Ironfoot glanced over and pushed a tin plate of bread and
greens toward him. Silverdun wasn't hungry, but he ate anyway, taking great
care with his right arm.

"Does it hurt?" said Ironfoot, indicating the bandaged stump.

"Not really, no," said Silverdun. "Itches like a bastard, though."

Ironfoot nodded. If he had stories about amputees he'd met during his
years of service in the army, he wisely kept them to himself. Silverdun knew
that he should be focusing on their present predicament, but his thoughts
kept coming back to his missing hand, and how thoroughly his life had been
ruined. He couldn't go on with the Shadows like this; if they weren't hanged
or imprisoned for life, his career was over. He might well be returning penniless to Oarsbridge to become one of those nobles, "reduced in circum stances," who survived by selling off his titled lands bit by bit until there was
nothing left.

"Well, I'd say that our first mission has been an unqualified success," he
said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Ironfoot took a while in answering. "Oh, yes. We'll most certainly be
lauded as heroes for this," he finally said.

"I've been a hero before," said Silverdun. "It's a wonderful way to meet
women."

A pair of guards appeared in the hallways outside the cell, one aging and
grizzled, the other young, barely out of his teens. The older of them opened
the cell door, and the other came in to rouse Silverdun and Ironfoot.

"Come on, then," the young guard said, pulling Silverdun to his feet.

"Where are we going?" asked Ironfoot.

"You're being brought before the magyster," said the older guard.

Once Silverdun was on his feet, the young guard grabbed his forearm
roughly and smashed the stump of Silverdun's wrist into the stone wall of the
cell. Silverdun shrieked.

"You killed two of my best friends," the young guard snarled in
Silverdun's ear.

"Now, now," said the older guard, stepping into the cell. "That'll be
enough of that."

Chastened, the younger guard allowed the other to lead Silverdun and
Ironfoot out of the cell and into the hallway.

"I apologize for young Bryno's conduct," said the old guard. "But you
must admit he's got a legitimate complaint."

The guards led them past a row of cells, nearly all occupied. Many of the
prisoners were paupers, perhaps caught stealing food or pickpocketing.
Some were drunks; some were religious types who'd probably picked the
wrong day to inject politics into their worship. They all watched Silverdun
and Ironfoot pass with open interest. As far as any of them knew, Silverdun
and Ironfoot were Unseelie bureaucrats: something they doubtless seldom
saw here.

They were walked through another row of cells, then into a dark corridor
and up a dim flight of stone stairs. Guards were placed here and there along the halls. Even if Silverdun had the strength to attempt overpowering his
current escorts, there was nowhere to run.

After a few more turns and stairs they were deposited in a featureless,
windowless room, where a man in a maroon robe sat on a dais in a highbacked wooden chair. A large book was open on a stand in front of him. A
pair of guards stood on either side of the man, who leaned forward when Silverdun and Ironfoot entered. He was in his early middle years, with a bit of
a paunch. There was an eagerness in his eyes that made Silverdun uncomfortable. This was a man who wanted something.

The old guard bowed to the man, who nodded back. The younger guard
forced Ironfoot and Silverdun to their knees on the floor before the dais.

The older guard spoke. "Be it known that the two unnamed accused Fae
have been brought before Magyster Eyn Wenathn."

There was a clerk sitting at a tiny desk in a corner of the room who was
writing swiftly on a lined piece of parchment. "So noted," he said.

Magyster Wenathn leaned back in his chair and licked his lips. "Tell me
your names," he said.

Silverdun attempted to stand, but the gloved hand of the young guard
held him firmly down by the shoulder. "My name is Hy Wezel, and this is
my associate En Urut. We are citizens of the Unseelie Empire, and we
demand to be released this instant."

"Yes, I've examined your papers," said Wenathn. "They're excellent forgeries. Eel merchants; that was a nice touch."

"There's been a terrible mistake," said Ironfoot. "We've just arrived from
Mag Mell in order to-"

"Be quiet," said Wenathn. "If you wish to keep to your story, that's fine.
You may do so. As a magyster of this kollws, I have the right to examine you
before turning you over to our gracious Unseelie protectors."

A bit of resentment in the mention of the Unseelie? Silverdun believed
there was.

Ironfoot licked his lips and began to speak, but Wenathn cut him off again.

"If I do so," he said, "you will most certainly be tried and convicted as
spies of the Seelie Kingdom. I can only assume that this is not your desired
outcome."

"We are what we say we are," said Ironfoot. "We were attacked by those
watchmen without explanation. My partner and I-"

Now it was Silverdun's turn to interrupt. "If we were Seelie spies," he said
carefully, "that would be extremely awkward for all parties. There could be a
serious incident." He looked Wenathn in the eyes as he spoke.

Wenathn gestured at the man in the corner. "Strike out that last statement," he said. Then he spoke to the guards. "Leave us. I'd like to question
these prisoners privately."

The clerk at the desk stood, taking his papers with him. He trotted to
the door of the room, waving for the guards to follow him. The younger
guard, standing behind Silverdun and Ironfoot, began to speak, but the clerk
stopped him. "You've heard the magyster," he said. "Come."

The door closed, and the room was empty save for Wenathn, Silverdun,
and Ironfoot.

"Let us speak as men of understanding, shall we?"

Ironfoot stood. "Listen to me," he said, just as he'd been instructed by
Paet. "We are precisely who we say we are." That last had a bit of Leadership
in it. Wenathn, however, wasn't easily led.

"Don't worry," said Silverdun. "It's all right. He knows who we really are."

Ironfoot glared at him. "Hy Wezel!"

"No, it's true. We are, in fact, Seelie spies, and we've been sent on a mission by Titania to undermine Mab's rule here in Annwn. Killing good
Annwni men was never part of our plan."

"I don't doubt your intentions are beyond reproach," said Wenathn,
smirking. He stood, and gestured for Silverdun and Ironfoot to stand as well.
"Still, you have killed them, and that puts you in a very difficult position."

"You could turn us over to the Unseelie," said Silverdun. "Why not do so?"

"Why not, indeed? I'd surely be lauded for doing it. And I most likely
will, unless ..." Wenathn drew his pause out for effect, then seemed to
change course.

"The situation here in Annwn is a complicated one," he resumed. "The
Unseelie rule here as our benefactors, not as our conquerors. And in order to
maintain what some very cynical boors might call the illusion of autonomy,
we Annwni are permitted to conduct our affairs to a large degree without their direct involvement. So when they do become involved, one takes an
interest.

"Two days ago, the Unseelie proconsul sent out a message for the guard
to be watchful for a pair of Unseelie eel merchants matching your description. You were to be watched closely and detained only when you attempted
to leave Blood of Arawn."

They'd been betrayed. By whom? Aranquet, the ambassador to Mag
Mell? He seemed the most likely candidate.

"Unfortunately for you, yesterday a woman reported two Unseelie men
acting suspiciously in her home to the guardsmen in my district. Eager to
share in the reward that I myself offered for these men, a dozen of my
guardsmen descended on that home, causing an unfortunate incident that led
to the death of a number of them, and the loss of the entire building to fire.
In short, it was an utter debacle, and one that has taken a great deal of effort
to keep quiet."

Silverdun was starting to understand. Wenathn was in a complicated
position. If he turned them over to the proconsul, he'd be rewarded for capturing a pair of Seelie spies. He would also, however, be upbraided by his
peers for having created the situation that got so many of his own people
killed. He was looking for a way out. But surely the reward outweighed
whatever calumny he might receive. What was he after?

Then it hit him. Elections. The elections for magyster were being held
later in the year. The landowners of the kollws would be voting soon, and
Wenathn wanted to ensure that he was reelected.

"If the circumstances of our capture were made public," said Silverdun,
"a potential opponent might seize upon such a situation in order to cast you
in an unfavorable light."