Seanan McGuire - One Salt Sea

“Shut up !” snarled Dugan. He vaulted himself onto the dais, grabbing the Queen by the hair before she had a chance to react. The crowd gasped. He pulled a knife from inside his tunic, yanking her head back and pressing the blade against her throat. The metal gleamed dully. Even as far back as I was, I could feel the waves of sickness coming off of it.

“Okay, I didn’t consider the possibility of iron knives,” I muttered. “Get down. I need my hands.”

The boy in my arms opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. The voice was Quentin’s, even if the face was Dean Lorden’s. The illusion held as he let me set him on his feet. When Garm disguises something, it damn well stays disguised.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dugan,” I said, stepping forward. “Regicide is not a party game.”

“You did this,” he snarled. “Everything would have been perfect without your intervention.”

“Yeah, I know, me and my meddling kids. I’m sorry I don’t have a dog. Now think about what you’re doing, Dugan. You didn’t kill anyone. You’re going to be in trouble, but until you drew an iron knife on the Queen—”

“I will not be made a fool of!” Dugan yanked the Queen’s head back farther. “You little mongrel bitch, prancing about like you belong with the nobility, just because your mother is a legend. You’ve never had to work for anything! I worked for everything, and I still had to make nice with abominations like you . I still had to watch as you wormed your way into the company of your betters.”

“But you didn’t kill anyone,” I repeated. “Maybe you hurt my feelings a little just now, but Oberon’s Law doesn’t concern itself with that sort of thing. No, you let Rayseline do all the killing, didn’t you? A crazy woman who might as well have been a child. Faerie failed her, and then you used her. You’re a real asshole, aren’t you, Dugan?”

“Shut up,” he snarled.

I took another step forward. “Still, you’re not guilty of murder—not unless you mixed the elf-shot Rayseline was using. You had to know it was a murder weapon disguised as a normal tool, right? If you didn’t make it, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. All the other deaths since this conflict was declared have been in self-defense.”

The look of fury on Dugan’s face confirmed my suspicions. “You’re next, you half-blooded whore. You’re next, and I’m going to—”

We never found out what he was going to do. Etienne appeared beside him on the dais, yanking the arm holding the iron knife away from the Queen’s throat. The Queen ducked away, whirling to face her attacker, who was having issues of his own: Etienne had finally been given a target for his anger, and since Dugan was holding an iron knife, Etienne was no longer bound by the concept of the fair fight.

I winced. “See, Quentin, that’s why you should wear a cup before trying to assassinate someone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Quentin said.

Dugan was a conniving asshole and a bigot. What he wasn’t was a very good hand-to-hand fighter. It took Etienne only seconds to get the knife from his hand and pin him to the dais. The Queen knelt, hissing something in Dugan’s ear, and he went limp, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. I didn’t know what she’d said. I didn’t want to.

Sylvester and the others walked forward to form a group around me. Garm waved a hand, dispelling the illusion that had cloaked Quentin in the form of Dean Lorden, and Dianda in the form of Rayseline Torquill. I looked toward her.

“Are you content that justice will be done?” I asked.

She nodded. “I am.”

“Good.” I turned back to the dais. Several of the Queen’s guards were there—too little, too late—and were carrying a catatonic Dugan away. Raising my voice, I asked, “Is this a good time to talk about canceling the war?”

The Queen’s attention snapped to our motley lineup, eyes widening as she took in the changes among our group. Patrick moved to stand beside his wife, no longer disguised as one of Sylvester’s knights. “I suppose it should be, shouldn’t it?” she asked, tone somewhere between amusement and bitterness.

“Saltmist is willing to stand down,” said Dianda. “Our sons have been returned. The land has shown good faith, and we believe that you were not involved in their abduction.”

“How kind of you,” said the Queen. “What if the Mists will not stand down?”

“Then I guess we go to war,” I said. “Do you really want to be the one that makes that happen, Your Majesty? Over a problem that one of your own courtiers started?”

The Queen hesitated.

I took advantage of the pause, jumping in to say, “I have a proposal. A way for both land and sea to show their willingness to maintain the peace.”

“And what is that, Countess Daye?” asked the Queen wearily. She sat on her throne, eyeing me with deep suspicion. “Would you take my throne for them?”

“No. Mine.”

The Queen clearly hadn’t been expecting that. She sat upright, demanding, “ What ?”

This was it: the big plan. I took a deep breath. “I never asked to join the nobility. It’s not something I’m prepared for. But the sons of Saltmist . . . they have been prepared. They’ve been trained. Patrick Lorden was a noble of the land before he left for the Undersea. I propose Goldengreen be granted to Dean Lorden, to bring unity to the land and sea. How can we be divided, when our children can move between the realms?”

The Queen hesitated, glancing around the Court. Every eye was on her. The purebloods and nobility, who’d always hated having a changeling Countess in their Kingdom. The guards, who would be the first to die if she pressed for the war to go forward. I was willing to wager that what she found in those gathered eyes was a lot of support for my plan, and none at all for her damned war.

“Is this acceptable to Saltmist?” she asked.

“It is,” said Dianda.

I smiled. We’d already discussed my requirements for giving Dean the county. Marcia had to stay on as his Seneschal, and none of Lily’s people could be turned away. The bargain with the pixies and bogeys had to stand, since it was really their knowe, not mine. He’d agreed to every one of them before we left for the Queen’s Court, leaving Dean and Peter to return to Saltmist with Anceline and the others.

“Then I suppose there are no objections,” said the Queen. “You win. Again.”

“It’s not about winning. It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Call it what you like. Goldengreen will pass from you, and you can return to the servitude you so clearly desire.” She turned her attention to Sylvester. “I apologize for returning her to your care.”

“I can manage her,” said Sylvester mildly. “I’ve had a measure of practice.”

“I’m tired.” The Queen stood. “Court is done. You may all go.” Then she was gone, leaving a haze of rowan-scented smoke floating around the dais.

I let out a breath. “Well. That wasn’t so bad. I mean, beyond the attempted regicide and the part where I just pissed the Queen off again. Let’s get out of here. I need coffee in the worst way.” I needed coffee, and to cry until my chest stopped aching. Somehow, coffee seemed like the more achievable of those two goals.

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Sylvester. He clapped an arm around my shoulders, and we walked, all of us, out of the Queen’s Court and into the sweet embrace of the mortal night.

THE NIGHTS TRICKLED BY, turning slowly but inevitably into weeks. After the first mad flurry of activity—explaining the situation to Marcia and the pixies, introducing them to Dean, whose awkward pleas for guidance did more to smooth over the situation than anything I could have said; waiting by the phone for Cliff to call and tell me Gillian was safely home, and the police were looking for her abductors—everything sort of went numb, fogging into an endless stream of people offering their condolences. They were so sorry. Everyone was so very, very sorry.