Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

Lune stopped the knights with a sharp flick of her hand. “You speak it well,” she said, “and we might even believe you—had we not proof. You are the author of this deceit, Leslic. We have evidence in abundance. And, not content with the fears you have spread among our subjects, now you strike at our very heart.”

A snap of her fingers, and the goblins were there. The mara had the belt from around Leslic’s waist before he even knew it, his still-sheathed sword clutched in her bony fingers, and the fetch grinned maliciously into his eyes. It was only a death omen for mortals, but even a fae might shudder to see such a smile.

They had their orders from her the day before. Lune brought the goblins because her guard could not be trusted; she could not risk them hesitating in their arrest. Even now the knights hovered in confusion, on the balls of their feet, wanting to move but not knowing to what end. Leslic drew himself up nobly. “Majesty,” he swore, “I had no intention of giving you untithed bread.”

Which was true, as his earlier protest had not been. Leslic might seed the court with ordinary bread, never offered as a gift to the fae, but he was not foolish enough to give it to the Queen. Some of his followers, on the other hand, needed little to encourage them in their folly. Lune refused to contrive a false incident for Leslic’s downfall, however richly he deserved it; but she could and would tangle him in the fringes of his own schemes. And she needed this, an open offense, something appalling enough that her people would repudiate Leslic of their own accord, robbing him and all his faction of the influence they enjoyed.

“If you wish it,” she said, exquisite in her courtesy, “you may defend yourself in wager of battle. If you are guiltless of changing tithed bread for untithed so as to spread fear and dissension, then by all means, sir—prove it with your blade.”

A flush crept upward from his collar. That was an accusation he could not defeat; just as Cerenel’s negligence had ensured his loss in the duel of honor, so Leslic’s guilt would damn him if he fought for his innocence. They were not mortals, to rise or fall by their skill with a blade.

She broke her gaze from his at last to survey the antechamber. Her knights, courtiers, and ladies were all suitably shocked—even those who had spoken fair to Leslic in the past. “He stands silent,” she said, as if it needed pointing out. “And we have abundant evidence of his guilt. His…and others’.”

Rooting out the Ascendants in their entirety would cripple her court, but she didn’t need to. The four chief malignants would suffice; without them, the rest would crumble back into line. Even now, the other three should be in the custody of her loyalists.

Gesturing at the goblins who still held Leslic, she said, “Take him to the Tower. We shall question him there about the masters he serves—once we have fulfilled our duties tonight.” At another snap of her fingers, a spriggan came out of the shadows, bearing safe bread. “Come. All Hallows’ Eve awaits us.”

THE ROYAL EXCHANGE, LONDON: November 7, 1648

“You’re sending me away ?”

The courtyard of the Royal Exchange was a poor place for a private conversation, but Benjamin Hipley had sought Antony out there, and did not look minded to hold his peace. Glancing around, Antony pulled him into the corner of the arcade, where a stretch of the bench that ringed it sat empty. “You speak as though you are the first to be asked to serve the Onyx Court elsewhere.”

Ben’s native discretion did not fail him; he kept his voice low, though intense. “It’s not a matter of leaving London. I cannot leave you. Not at such a time.”

The damp chill of the air stifled business, leaving the courtyard only half-full of its usual gentry. The flowerlike array of colors that once prevailed had given way to the sad hues favored by the godly; though the fabrics were still rich, a dull green was the brightest thing in sight. For all the fae reflected the tastes of the world above, sometimes they did so by inversion. Court nowadays was enough to make a man’s eyes bleed.

Antony gestured at his own staid murrey doublet. “I am a respectable baronet, an alderman, and a member of Parliament. By the skin of my teeth, but it suffices. I will be safe.”

Ben shook his head. “You need me here. The machinations in Parliament, over this treaty with the King—”

“I need you more there. I can watch Parliament on my own, but I cannot keep one eye on Westminster and one on Hertfordshire. Henry Ireton has called a ‘General Council of the Army’ at St. Albans, and it has the potential to destroy everything. He hates the treaty like poison. His idea of peace is to see the King punished like any other man.”

The blood drained from Hipley’s face. “He goes that far?”

It was the logical extension of all that had gone before, yet it still had power to appall. Pym had undermined the foundations of sovereignty itself, until men like Ireton could look at the King and see a common criminal.

But not everyone felt that way, God be thanked. “You’re not the only one to flinch,” Antony said grimly. “General Cromwell is delaying in the North; I think he hesitates to oppose a fellow officer openly, but he would see us follow a different course. Fairfax argues against it as well. Those two are greatly loved in the Army, and without them, Ireton may achieve nothing—but I cannot afford to let him go unwatched.”

The truth was that they needed agents within the Army, men or disguised fae placed close enough to the generals and lower officers that they could supply both intelligence and action as needed. But the Army was beyond their reach: forged out of the disastrous chaos of Parliament’s early armies, it had become a finely honed weapon that crushed the Royalists at every turn. And between their common soldiers, who liked the Leveller arguments that they should rule England, and their fiercely Puritan officers, there had never been any good chance to position such agents. Antony had sat in Westminster through all those years of war, exerting what force he could in Parliament, but the sieges and battles, the capture of prisoners and the smuggling of information, had gone on in a hundred locations across the kingdom, miles away from the men who thought the power was still in their hands.

Until they reached this point. A General Council of the Army at St. Albans, and Henry Ireton their self-appointed champion, preparing to tear England’s wounds yet wider.

Scowling, Ben rose and moved a few steps away, pausing with his back to Antony. At last the intelligencer asked, “Will the treaty conclude in time?”

The question every man in Parliament would give his fortune to answer. They had already extended the deadline for the negotiations once. England wanted peace ; it wanted an end to the chaos and upheaval caused by the disruption of government and the forced quartering of soldiers and the lack of uniformity in religion.

Some of England did. But not all.

“We stand at a precipice,” Antony said, just loudly enough for Ben to hear. “The King is poised to retake all he had, making no concessions he cannot squirm out of once power is his again. Those who sue for peace tie hope over their eyes like a blindfold, telling themselves he can be trusted. But our alternative is the Army, and the Levellers, and Independency in religion. We know it; our treaty commissioners know it. Charles knows it, and so he sits in his prison on the Isle of Wight and waits.”

Ben turned back, his hands curled at his sides, not quite fists. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Antony offered him a baring of teeth that might stand in for a smile. “Whether or not it concludes in time depends on what Ireton and the Army do. Get to St. Albans—tell me what you find there—and I will answer your question then.”