Mike Shevdon: The Eighth Court

Marshdock was close enough to see her fingernails were scraping her palms as she spoke. The need in her was like an addiction. She badly needed this and the negotiator in him saw that the time was right. Now was the moment to strike a deal.

“Well,” said his twin, “that’s interesting information. I’d love to know how you came by it.”

“I told you, I saw it myself,” she insisted. “This is the good stuff — it’s first hand.”

“And who else knows of this?” his twin asked.

“No one except me,” said Carris, “and you, if you agree the price.”

“Good,” said his twin. It was indeed good stuff, thought Marshdock, if no one else knew of this.

His twin turned away for a moment, as if weighing up the worth of the offer. Then he twisted in the air, spinning on the spot. Something flashed in the light and Carris gave a soft, “Uh!”

Standing before her was no longer the hunched figure of himself, but a tall figure with dark hair and sharp, pale cheekbones in a long Edwardian coat. In his hand was a bright blade, the end of which was embedded in Carris’ chest. She looked down in shock at the place where it pierced her breast.

“The price of that particular nugget of information is rather higher than you imagined,” he said, his rich voice finding amusement in this sudden turn of events.

“Raffmir?” Carris whispered. “But how…?”

Raffmir pushed the blade a little harder, and she gasped in pain. She clung to the blade with her hands where it entered her chest, as if it were the only thing supporting her. Her blood welled through her fingers.

“The price is agreed,” said Raffmir, “with the small rider that you will not tell any one else. You won’t tell, will you?”

He allowed her to topple backwards so that the blade slipped from her with a sucking sound, and her slight frame collapsed onto the grass. She kicked once or twice and was still. Raffmir took a white kerchief from his sleeve and wiped the blade, then dropped the blood-soaked kerchief on top of the corpse. Carris’ magic was already claiming her, her body turning to ash as Raffmir watched.

“Good,” said Raffmir, “so that’s settled.” He sheathed his sword. “Well, one might as well enjoy the fair, since we made the journey.” He stepped between the stalls, leaving the body to decompose on the grass.

Marshdock stood then for some minutes, his heart hammering in his chest less the wraithkin return to check on his victim. For once, Carris’d had the real deal, but it had cost her everything. A secret meeting between the Seventh Court and someone from the High Court meant only one thing — treachery at the highest level. Information like that could be hard to sell, though. It would take all his art to broker such a deal. If only she’d named the traitor… still, the fact that there was a traitor was valuable enough.

He needed proof, though. He needed some token to verify his claim.

Cautiously, he moved to the edge of the shadows, towards the rapidly decomposing corpse. Carris’ magic would burn through her, and within minutes there would be little left but some skinny jeans and a few goth trinkets. Checking the gap between the stalls, he could see no sign of the wraithkin’s return. Steeling himself, he darted to the corpse, snatched the kerchief from atop the remains and ran for the gap between the caravans, away from the fair and away from the wraithkin and his sword.

The goth trinkets were worth nothing, but a wraithkin’s kerchief soaked in Carris’ blood — that was proof.

“What do you think?” asked Blackbird.

“That’s one of those questions again, isn’t it?” I said.

She swept across the floor in the dress, the heavy folds of damask rustling as she moved to stand before the tall mirror, turning one way, then the other. “It’s a simple question, Niall. Do I look the part, or am I going to be mistaken for an extra from a costume drama?”

“You look splendid.” In truth, it was a fabulous dress, cut from heavy turquoise cloth and fitted to emphasise her curves. “I expect it’s the height of fey fashion.” She caught my reflection in the mirror, her expression souring at my teasing, and turned. “This really isn’t me, is it?” she said. She held the wide skirt out sideways.

“Mullbrook thinks this is a good idea,” I said. “Trust his judgement. He knows the High Court better than anyone except perhaps the Warders, and we only wear grey.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I quite like you in plain grey. It suits you.” She held up the hem of the skirt and sidled over to me, leaning up for a kiss and sliding her free hand under my jacket. “I could take it off?” she suggested.

“If you do I’m going to be late,” I said, “and Katherine is not known for her patience and understanding, at least as far as I’m concerned.”

She sighed, returning to the mirror. “I feel like I’m going to a fancy dress ball. Maybe I’ll take it off anyway, wear something simpler, save it for formal occasions.”

“What, and offend Mullbrook? No disrespect my lady, but you know what happened last time no one paid any attention to his suggestions. I’m not a fan of tripe at the best of times.”

“There you go, you see? You start calling me, My Lady this and My Lady that. It’s not me, do you see?”

I moved behind her, turning her shoulders so that the light caught the pattern in the material. “You are the Lady of the Eighth Court,” I told her, “and Mullbrook is right. The more you look the part, the quicker they will get used to the idea. The first step to being treated as an equal is to act like one. Kimlesh and Yonna dress formally for the High Court. So does Barthia, come to that. Mellion is the only one who comes as he is, and even he wears the silver chain of the Horde-Master.”

“I suppose,” she said. “But don’t you think it’s a little over the top?”

I teased back the twist of copper from her shoulder and kissed the nape of her neck from behind, feeling her tremble as my warm breath passed over her bare skin. “I don’t know,” I said. “I rather like it. Maybe you could wear it later?”

“You are not to be encouraged, Niall Petersen,” but she was smiling as she said it. In the mirror her eyes had a sparkle of green in them. She leaned back against me, and I folded my arms around her.

“You won’t fight with Katherine, will you?” she said, suddenly serious.

“I am simply going to drop Alex off,” I said. “I’m not stopping long enough for an argument. Hello, here’s your daughter. Don’t let anyone know she’s here because she’s supposed to be dead. That’s it.”

“That’s what I mean, I’m sure she already knows that she can’t tell anyone about Alex.”

“This isn’t my idea,” I said, “but everyone keeps telling me that Alex is grown-up. Frankly I’ve given up trying to stop her doing things she wants to do.”

Blackbird did not look convinced. “It’s only natural that she will want to see her mother. Better you take her than she just turn up on the doorstep unannounced, don’t you think?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with what I think. Besides, I rather feel my place is here with you.”

“You can’t be present when the court is in session, Niall.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Fionh is.”

“Fionh is there at the invitation of the court. Someone has to attend, and they trust her.”

“And they don’t trust me, you mean.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Even Garvin isn’t normally invited, and they trust him implicitly. It’s a matter of roles, that’s all.”

“As you say, My Lady.”

She turned and met my gaze directly, determination in the way she lifted her chin. “We will have a court. We will be recognised. The Eighth Court will be home for any fey with mixed blood. They will have to accept us eventually.”