Mark Del Franco - Undone Deeds

Joe popped in. Flits don’t like crowds—especially human crowds—so he came in low and quiet in order not to attract attention. “Word’s out they found someone important,” he said.

That wasn’t a surprise. Watching rescue operations was much like watching a movie shoot—nothing happening for long periods of time, people standing around doing nothing, then a brief flurry of activity. In this case, the rescue workers were obviously waiting for news camera crews to set up closer to the action. There was no rush. The star of the show was dead. Delays wouldn’t cause any harm, but live news shots brought attention. A local on-scene reporter was more attentive to fixing her hair than the scene behind her.

“I can think of two people who might generate this much interest,” I said.

Joe settled on my shoulder, the better to avoid attention. “Shall we wager?”

I glanced around the square. There were more Consortium agents than Guild staff, and a number of them were military as opposed to standard security. When a situation involved terrorists, you called security forces. When it was a high-level diplomat, you called an honor guard. “It’s Donor. He was higher in the building when it came down. Vize is under a few more layers,” I said.

Joe grabbed my collar to secure himself. “I wouldn’t know about that, being sucked into a spear and all.”

When the spear was active, it retained its shape and heft, but became a thing of pure essence. When I fought the Elven King, Joe was caught in the cross fire. The spear somehow destabilized his essence and sucked him inside it. I thought it had killed him, but a few days later, the spear returned him. “What was it like, Joe?”

“Bright. Dreamlike. White. It was like a nap, only awake,” he said.

“Did it hurt?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away. “Only to leave.”

Police and fire vehicles had pulled up into a cleared stretch of the main intersection. The heap of the building sloped up from the street, the recognizable remains of turrets, windows, and walls loomed in the chronic cloud of dust that hung over the site, a forlorn, ghostly image of war and destruction that evoked a sense of futility.

Firefighters and paramedics appeared near the top of a stone pile. Between them, they carried a body strapped to a gurney. Behind them, the tall figure of Bastian Frye appeared, confirming not only that the dead man was not from the Guild but that he was a highly placed individual. The group turned around a pile of granite, allowing me a clear line of sight to the dead body.

To all appearances, the man on the gurney was dressed in the diplomatic robes of Aldred Core, the Elven King’s ambassador. Core was, in fact, a member of the extended royal family and an important figure in Consortium politics. The dead man was not Aldred Core.

When Eorla Elvendottir established her court in exile, Donor decided to show up in person to convince her to return to the fold. Not wanting to give the appearance of a king begging a subject—even a royal subject—Donor wore a glamour that changed his appearance to Core’s. He showed his true face only in secrecy while in Boston.

When I fought Donor at the Guildhouse, he had dropped the glamour by withdrawing his essence from the amulet around his neck. Since he had intended to destroy the Guildhouse all along, he didn’t think there’d be any witnesses. He had been almost right. Everyone who did see him was dead, except me and Joe. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the credibility of macGoren, so no one was going to listen to us.

When the fey died, their body essences faded away. Depending on the intensity, it happened in moments, like with flits, or days, like with an Elven King. Enough of Donor’s body essence lingered to activate the Aldred Core glamour. Even dead, he was able to maintain his subterfuge.

An honor guard of elven warriors marched into the square. A saddled horse was led behind them and behind it, a woman with an empty quiver and a man with an empty scabbard. The procession usually happened at elven funerals, but the destroyed Guildhouse was prompting more immediate ceremonial displays of grief.

It irritated me. The banners the warriors carried were of the Teutonic Consortium and the Core clan. Aldred Core wasn’t dead. He was in hiding while the Consortium sorted how to handle the political crisis of a dead king with no heir—a dead king who was also engaged in his own espionage. The display of mourning wasn’t right. No matter what I thought of Aldred Core, someone somewhere cared about him and thought he was dead. They were seeing him dead. The level of callousness in service to political ends was sickening. Besides, if I was going to be accused of being a terrorist, the least they could do was blame me for the right deaths.

“Joe, how’d you like to cause an international incident?” I asked.

He chuckled in my ear. “Is it Tuesday already?”

“Think you can get in there and remove that glamour stone without being seen?”

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the rescue workers. They were repositioning for maximum exposure to the television cameras. “Now?”

“Now.”

He winked out. He was fast. I barely noticed the flash of pink over Donor’s chest, and I knew to look for it. I didn’t think anyone else saw him. One moment, what appeared to be Aldred Core was getting the full military honor, in the next, the body blurred and changed to reveal the battered corpse of the Elven King. Donor was recognizable, but having a few tons of building fall on him had not left him with the most attractive appearance.

Horrified shouts and screams rose from the crowd. News cameramen scurried around the gurney for better angles as they realized whom they were seeing. Another cluster of shouting came from people near a news van. The local female reporter had transformed into a tall, slender version of Aldred Core. Confused, she spun in place, waving her microphone toward the crowd. Chaos was breaking out, absolute, glorious chaos.

Joe reappeared and dove onto my shoulder as the crowd surged toward the staging area. I backed against the hotel and let people pass. “You had me worried there, buddy. Where’d you go?”

He giggled. “I thought someone might sense the glamour gem if I came right back here, so I hid it.”

“Yeah, no one will suspect that the news reporter has it. I’d say that was a great idea,” I said.

He shook his head vigorously. “Well, I’ve always been the one with great ideas.”

Sendings fluttered through the air as fey folk relayed news of the event. Bastian remained calm amid the whirl of activity. He wasn’t watching the emergency personnel hustling Donor’s body into an ambulance. He leaned on his staff and scanned the crowd. A cool touch passed across my face, then returned. Bastian was too far for me to see his face, but I sensed his attention.

Your doing, Mr. Grey? he sent.

I shrugged, and Joe grabbed my ear to keep from falling.

Passions are high. You should have waited. No good will come of this. You were already a target when people thought Aldred was dead. You make things worse for yourself, Bastian sent. He strode down the slope and climbed into the back of the ambulance. It backed slowly through the bystanders, then followed a police escort toward the consulate. The ceremonial warriors milled about the scene with confusion on their faces as the rest of the crowd dispersed.

Bastian’s comment rankled, like I was participating with him in a shared scheme. The Elven King would have been exposed eventually. The Consortium couldn’t hide his death forever, and I doubted that Aldred Core—the real Aldred Core—would be willing to go into hiding for the rest of his immortal life.