The Office of Shadow

by Matthew Sturges

  Ironfoot whistled. "You're a devious son of a whore, Silverdun. I'll give you that."

  "My mother was no whore, but you're right about the other."

  "Well done, then. I suppose our mission was a success."

  Silverdun winced. "Tell that to my right hand," he said.

  Time on the river crawled. Once the city was behind them they were able to move about freely on deck. The air was fresher, but the view wasn't much better. Outside the city, Annwn was an endless sea of prairie grass, without a single tree or shrub to break up the view. Sometimes they saw animals come to drink at the water, but beyond that, nothing. They took their meals with the crew, who were a taciturn bunch.

  On the second day of the journey Silverdun began to feel queasy; his wrist itched. That evening he began to vomit and sweat, and every time the boat rolled in the water he groaned.

  On the morning of the third day, he was delirious, remembering things only in bits and pieces. There was the nausea and the dreadful itching and the pitching of the deck. He wanted desperately to scratch at his stump, but Ironfoot kept stopping him. Why did Ironfoot keep stopping him? In a lucid moment he looked at his hand, saw it covered in blood. "Stop it!" came Ironfoot's voice through the haze. He felt something being tied around his arm, something thick and heavy. When he went to scratch the wrist it wasn't there; there was only thick heavy cloth. He burned and choked and itched.

  When he awoke on the fourth morning, he felt light-headed, but the delirium had gone. He was lying out in the open, and the sun hurt his eyes. When he looked down at his right arm he saw that it had been wrapped in a piece of sail and belted to keep him from scratching it. The pain and itching were gone, but he still felt the ghostly sensation of the missing hand straining against the wrappings. It felt impossibly real.

  He was on the foredeck, his clothes soaked in sweat. A cool wind blew across the bow, and Silverdun reveled in it.

  "You're awake at last," said Ironfoot. He brought Silverdun a tin cup of water and a plate of dried fish. Silverdun ate and drank, slowly at first and then faster.

  "More water, please," he said, holding out the cup. Ironfoot refilled it once, and then again.

  "How do you feel?" asked Ironfoot. "The captain thought you were done for."

  "Not I," said Silverdun, pulling himself up slowly to a standing position. "We Lords Silverdun are made of hardier stuff than most. Extraordinarily difficult to kill."

  "I need to change your bandage," said Ironfoot. "Sorry about the wrapping, but we couldn't get you to stop scratching at the thing; you kept reopening the wound. The captain says you'll have to get it sewn up properly by a physician as soon as we get to Mag Mell or you're liable to get gangrene."

  "Lovely," said Silverdun.

  Ironfoot removed the belt holding the cloth in place and pulled the sailcloth off the bandage. Underneath was a bloody mess, but despite the confusion of blood-caked bandaging one thing was very clear.

  "Auberon's balls!" said Ironfoot. "Your hand's grown back!"

  Silverdun pulled off the bandages and held up his hand. It was there, good as new. He flexed his fingers and thumb; everything worked. There was no itching, no tenderness, no pain.

  "That's a nice trick," said Ironfoot, eyes wide. "What did you do?"

  Silverdun pinched the skin on the new hand hard and thrilled at the pain. "I have no idea."

  He lay on his stomach and reached into the water, washing the blood from his hand. When he held it up again it was as if nothing had ever happened to it.

  "Look at this," he said to Ironfoot. "Right here on the palm. That scar. I got it when I was a boy, falling off a wall."

  "I see it," said Ironfoot.

  "Let's assume for a moment that it's somehow possible to regrow a hand," said Silverdun. "How do you explain regrowing a scar?"

  "I have no compelling scholarly response to that one," said Ironfoot.

  By boat they traveled south along the river to Glaum, the gold mining center. Dressed as mine officials, they walked on board a transport ship bound through a waterborne industrial lock connecting the river with a shipping port in Mag Mell, a few days' sail from Isle Cureid. When they arrived at the embassy, Aranquet greeted them with open arms.

  If the Seelie ambassador was surprised to see them alive, he gave no indication of it. Either he wasn't the one who'd sold them out to the Annwni, or he was an exceptionally good liar. He feted them with shellfish and liquor, and brought them as his special guests to a water ballet in the atoll's lagoon. The male and female partners performed a complex and deeply stylized dance, part above the water and part below. Beneath the water, female spectators watched the bottom half of the dance. Aranquet explained in whispers that there were in fact two different ballets occurring simultaneously; the Dance Above and the Dance Below. Each had its own secret meaning, and no one except the gods knew it in its entirety.

  Silverdun tried to pay attention to the performance, but all he could think about was the hand.

  A Chthonic priest complained to me about the tax on his property. I told him that the tax rules applied to everyone in my lands. He responded that the rules clearly did not apply to everyone, as I myself was exempt from them.

  I doubled his tax.That shut him up.

  -Lord Gray, Recollections

  hen Silverdun and Ironfoot arrived in the City Emerald, it was the middle of the night. That was despite it having been midday in Mag Mell, which they'd just left. The time change was disorienting, but Silverdun was still thrilled to be back in Faerie. The air was cleaner, more pure. Silverdun felt lighter on his feet the instant he emerged from the lock.

  They stepped outside onto the street from Chancery Station, and both of them breathed deeply.

  "Here we are," said Ironfoot.

  "We are indeed," said Silverdun.

  "It appears to be just past two in the morning. I can't say I'm particularly sleepy, though."

  "No, neither am I," said Silverdun. "And I don't want to wait until the morning to talk to Paet."

  "Nor I. Let's go drop off our things at Blackstone and then go to his flat and wake him the hell up."

  "Best idea I've heard all day."

  Their plan, however, was thwarted by the fact that when they arrived at Blackstone, Paet was already there, wide awake, waiting for them in the main office. A few analysts, translators, and copyists sat at desks, their heads down, intent on their work.

  "Welcome home," Paet said once they were in his office. He looked genuinely relieved. "I can't tell you how glad I am to have you both back." It was the first time Silverdun could remember him expressing an emotion that wasn't anger.

  "I lost a hand," said Silverdun.

  Paet looked at Silverdun. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "An Annwni guardsman lopped off my hand, and five days later it grew back."

  A thin smile crept across Paet's lips. "Is that so?"

  "What did you do to us?" asked Ironfoot. "At Whitemount. Something happened to us there. Jedron did something to us. I've been puzzling over it ever since we left, and I can't think of a single thaumatic explanation for it.

  "And I'm very smart," he added.

  "I think it's time you told us what it was you did to us," said Silverdun.

  "Anything else unusual happen?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes," said Silverdun. "I burned down an entire building with a single burst of witchfire, and Ironfoot here turned a man into his willing slave."

  "I see."

  Paet took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard next to his desk and poured three glasses. He handed one each to Silverdun and Ironfoot and raised his glass. They drank.

  "I told you to expect some unusual aftereffects, did I not?" said Paet. "It appears as though these effects have begun sooner rather than later."

  "I assumed you meant nausea or headache," said Silverdun.

  "I was purposefully vague because it's different for everyone."

  "What is?" asked Ironfoot. "What i
s different for everyone?"

  "Something happened to us at Whitemount, Paet," said Silverdun. "And you know what it was. So tell us."

  "I can't," said Paet. He looked tired, strained.

  "And why not?"

  "Because the less you know about it, the better," said Paet, raising his voice. "Knowledge is everything in this business. The more you know, the more of a liability you are."

  "And here we go with this routine again," said Silverdun.

  "Listen, you," said Paet. "I slit the throat of a woman I loved to protect the very same information. Do you think I was happy about it?"

  Silverdun had no response to that, besides horror.

  "Anyway," said Paet, "what we did to you is less important than what you do with it."

  "That's not good enough," said Ironfoot.

  "Here's what I can tell you," said Paet. "You're stronger than you were. You've realized that, I believe. Both physically, and with your re. You are much more difficult to hurt, and you regenerate very quickly when injured.

  "There are other ... advantages as well, but I'm not at liberty to tell you what they are unless it becomes necessary for me to do so."

  "And what circumstances would be required to make that a necessity?" asked Silverdun.

  Paet drained his whiskey. "You don't want to know."

  He poured another glass. "Now if you'll excuse me, there are more pressing matters that I must attend to."

  "What would those be?" asked Silverdun.

  "I take it you haven't looked at a newspaper since your return." Paet handed a folded copy of the Register across the desk. It was folded to a story whose headline read, "The Inquiry into Guildsman Heron's Death Widens."

  "Heron?" said Ironfoot. "Is this the husband of the secretary of states?"

  "The very same," said Paet. "It's the scandal of the day at court, and there's already pressure on the secretary to resign."

  Silverdun glanced down the article. "A murder. Are we to investigate it?"

  Paet grimaced. "Oh, no. We already know who the murderer is."

  "Who?" asked Ironfoot.

  "Our own Sela," said Paet. "Everess put her up to it."

  There was a silence in the office.

  "Why?" Ironfoot finally said. "Is it within our purview to do such a thing?"

  Pact shrugged. "One of the benefits of being a Shadow is that we have no official purview. Though I imagine if this were traced back to the foreign minister, he'd soon find himself looking for another job, if not another head."

  "What's his explanation?" asked Silverdun.

  "That's what I intend to find out."

  The next morning, Silverdun was awoken by the sound of someone ringing the bell at the front door. It was just barely sunrise outside, and he'd had no more than four hours' sleep.

  A moment later, his valet Olou strode into his room without knocking, as was his wont.

  "Knocking," Silverdun said, "is a civilized practice. In every corner of the realm, Olou."

  Olou shrugged. "I may be your valet, sir, but I'm also an officer in the Foreign Ministry. And as far as the ministry is concerned, this is my house, and you're the invalid uncle that I attend to."

  "I knew there had to be a catch," said Silverdun. He rose and began dressing, inspecting the clothing that Olou had laid out for him. "Nice outfit," he said.

  "I do my best," said Olou.

  "Who's knocking at my door-forgive me, your door-so hellishly early in the morning?"

  "Abbot Estiane from the Temple Aba-Nylae."

  "What does he want?"

  "It wasn't my place to ask, sir."

  Silverdun finished dressing and left the room with a sneer at Olou. By the time he found himself in the sitting room of his apartments, he was in a better mood, and he greeted Estiane with a smile that Estiane did not return.

  "What's wrong, Estiane? Did they finally discover your cache of liquor?"

  "I am going to speak this morning with Lord Everess," said Estiane. "Depending on the outcome of this conversation, I may ask you to reconsider your choice of employment."

  "Says the man who practically pushed me into it."

  "A situation has arisen," said Estiane, "that has made me question that decision."

  "Trust me; I've questioned it plenty for both of us."

  "For what reasons?" asked Estiane. The abbot's eyes were red; he appeared as though he'd been crying.

  "I'm not sure if I can say," said Silverdun.

  "Ahh," said Estiane, folding his hands in his lap. "Secrecy. You have indeed entered a world of shadows, Perrin."

  "This is the way of things," said Silverdun. "I knew that before I joined up with Everess, and I've had it confirmed more than once since."

  "We will speak more of this later. 1 just wanted to let you know."

  "Abbot," said Silverdun, "what is the extent of Aba's forgiveness? Just out of curiosity."

  Estiane sighed. "The Scripture says it is infinite, child. Let us hope for both of our sakes that the Scriptures do not exaggerate."

  Lord Everess's office was spacious and homey, dressed with antiques and old religious artifacts: an Arcadian censer from the Ram cycle; a Chthonic candelabra with twelve candles of different hues, each representing both a god and a Gift; a bronze statue of a Nymaen god, who was a grossly fat man with his hand held up in benediction. Everess himself held no particular religious beliefs, having been raised in the high nobility where such things were typically frowned upon. An Arcadian opponent in the House of Lords had once snidely remarked from the floor that power was Everess's only religion. That had gotten a good laugh from the gallery.

  Religious types didn't worry Everess, nor did political opponents given to cliche. There were only two in all of Faerie that sincerely worried him: Regina Titania, and Chief Paet. The queen's power was perhaps not what it once was, but that was like saying a dragon's flame was perhaps a bit cooler than it had been; one could still easily be incinerated by it.

  Paet bothered Everess because Everess needed him, and Everess did not enjoy needing anyone. But only Paet could do what Paet did. Someday perhaps Silverdun could replace him, but not any day soon.

  It was difficult to control someone who cared about nothing save the one thing you dared not take from him. Meetings with Pact were always the low point of any day, and after the Heron affair, Paet was going to be livid. Well, let him come. Paet needed him as badly as he needed Paet.

  As if on cue, his amanuensis announced Paet at his office door, and Everess grunted his assent.

  "Good morning, Chief," said Everess. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  Paet flopped heavily into the chair opposite Everess's desk; it was a reader's chair from a Resurrectionist tabernacle, and it had cost a fortune. "You know why I'm here," he said. "This Heron business."

  "What about it?"

  "When you said you wanted to `borrow' Sela for a `small errand,' I did not imagine that you'd be sending her into a halcyon brothel to murder a ranking member of the Smiths' Guild. A guildsman who also happens to be the husband of one of your chief enemies in government."

  "Your lack of imagination is the stuff of legend, Paet," said Everess. "But there is nothing in our agreement that says I require your permission to do ... well, anything."

  "It was stupid, and if you'd asked me I'd have advised strongly against it."

  "Which is precisely why I didn't tell you."

  "What could you possibly hope to gain with such an act? There's going to be an inquiry. And if that inquiry leads the high prosecutor back to the Shadows, we're finished."

  "Well, I should think it would be obvious what I hoped to gain," Everess said. "The scandal will drive Heron out of the House of Guilds, and none of her political allies will try to protect her overmuch, not wanting to be painted with the same brush."

  Everess smiled. "Even if there were an inquiry, it would never connect Sela to the act. She was heavily made up and heavily glamoured before she went out."

  Paet
shifted in his chair. Everess knew that despite the chair's attractive appearance, it was hellishly uncomfortable. Which was precisely why he'd picked it.

  "What do you mean," asked Paet, "`even if there were an inquiry?"'

  Everess smiled, leaning back in his own chair, which was, on the other hand, extraordinarily comfortable. "Despite the outcry among those in Corpus who might gain from a lengthy scandal, an inquiry would be ... deeply awkward for those who would be in charge of investigating the act. If we'd gone after the secretary of states herself, they'd have no choice. But with her husband, there are limiting factors."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning that the high prosecutor and half of his staff visit that brothel on a regular basis. Why do you think it happened there?"

  "Well. You've clearly thought of everything," said Paet. "But why kill the man? That seems excessive, even for you. I was under the impression that we didn't assassinate our own."

  "Because the very ones who oppose us most strenuously, those who will suspect that we were responsible for the act, will see Heron's death as a warning. They'll think twice before being as openly critical as Guildmistress Heron has been."

  "I give up," said Paet. "You're going to do what you want despite my objections."

  "Good. I'm glad you're finally figuring that out."

  There was a commotion in the outer office. Everess's amanuensis knocked at the door. "Milord," she said, "I apologize for the interruption, but there's an abbot out here who insists on speaking with you immediately, and-"

  "Aba is everywhere, young lady," said Estiane, brushing past her into the office. "And as I am his representative in Faerie, I go where he goes."

  "It's fine," said Everess. "Come in, Abbot."

  Paet stood. "I'll leave you to your next happy visitor," he said.

  Estiane bowed at Paet, but said nothing, his face red with anger. Paet smiled and left, shutting the door behind him.

  "I am outraged," said Estiane, before Everess had a chance to speak. "I am stunned! I can barely form the words to express the horror I am feeling right now."