One Salt Sea od-5

by Seanan McGuire

  Sylvester Torquill is classic Daoine Sidhe, with the pointed ears and striking coloration common among their purebloods. His hair is russet red, and his eyes are a shade of gold that’s shared by every Torquill-by-birth I’ve ever met. He’d been looking tired recently, new lines appearing on his eternally youthful face. I wasn’t all that surprised. It had been one hell of a summer, and it wasn’t over yet.

  The silence lasted until half the bread and all the cheese was gone. Then he said, “I wanted to discuss something not related to our lessons, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You’re my liege.”

  “Only because you still swear to me—you’re a Countess now, and could ask to be released at any time.” He smiled a little. “I am here on your sufferance.”

  “My sufferance has nothing to do with it,” I said, grimacing. “You’re here to remind the Queen that you have a standing invitation to visit my lands and she doesn’t, even if she has a clear line of fealty on me. And it was your idea.”

  “Even so, I’m asking you as your friend, not your liege, and I’d like you to consider my request the same way. It’s a request, not an order.”

  I sat a little straighter. “Sylvester, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing bad. Don’t be so paranoid.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” I said, eyeing him. In the past two years, I’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, betrayed, and nearly clawed to death, frequently while in Sylvester’s service. This endless excitement has left me with too many scars for polite company, nightmares I try not to think about, and a resident Fetch who teases me about my tendency to spend Sundays in my bathrobe watching TV and spending quality time with the cats. I’ve earned my paranoia.

  “I’m sorry! ” He held up his hands in surrender, not quite swallowing his laughter. “I promise not to question your right to be irrationally worried by everything I say. Now will you listen?”

  “As long as you don’t say the words ‘simple,’ ‘little,’ or ‘favor,’ we’re fine.”

  “I need to ask you for a favor.”

  I closed my eyes, counting to ten. It seems like every time I do Sylvester a favor, somebody winds up dead. It’s not his fault, but it’s still enough to make me superstitious. “What is it this time?”

  “You were never a squire, but you were knighted.”

  That was surprising enough to make me open my eyes. I squinted at him. “Are you yanking my title?”

  “Oh, no; far from it. I’m simply requesting you do your duty as a knight and take a squire.” His expression was open and guileless. Never a good sign. “Your methods are unorthodox, but in today’s world, being able to drive a car and survive among the mortals are probably more useful arts for a young knight than riding horses and looking noble. Any holes in your educational methods can be worked around.”

  “Even assuming I agree, that’s going to be a hard sell,” I said slowly. Take a squire? Me? I have trouble keeping myself alive. “Where are you going to find somebody who’s willing to have their kid squired to a changeling from an unknown bloodline? Especially one with my track record?”

  Sylvester smiled. “I’m responsible for the training of those fostered in my care. That includes selecting their knights when necessary.”

  “You . . .” I stared. “Please tell me you’re not about to say what I think you’re about to say.”

  “I’d like you to stand as Quentin’s knight.”

  I groaned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Sylvester, I can’t. I’m not a good influence on him. I keep getting him shot. I swear too much, I don’t brush my teeth every time I go to bed, and I never remember to eat a balanced breakfast. You want someone with culture. Poise. A lack of gunfire.”

  “You’re his friend. You’ve already been responsible for much of his training. You’re the one who convinced Etienne to start giving him fighting lessons—no one else had seen the need to start them until he was older. And—”

  I saw my chance, and I seized upon it. “Yes! Etienne! Etienne would be a much better knight for him. Etienne even lives at Shadowed Hills—he’s convenient, he’s a great guy, he’d be perfect for Quentin. He knows how to do proper knightly things, like using a sword and not getting shot.”

  “And being hidebound, formal, and unwilling to deal with the modern world when he doesn’t have to,” Sylvester said. “Are these qualities you’d like to inspire in Quentin?”

  “I . . .” I stopped, closing my mouth, and glared at him. “That’s low.”

  “That’s as may be. Did it work?”

  “I still say Etienne would be better for him.”

  “Quentin is my foster, not yours, which makes this my decision. I’ve spoken to his parents. They know all about you, and they think you’re the best possible knight for him. He’ll eventually inherit his father’s lands, and they’d like him to be more flexible than most of his generation. He listens to you, considers you a friend, and looks to you as a mentor. Can you really say I’m going to find someone better?”

  I wanted to say, “Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I wanted to say, “Absolutely, and I’ll be happy to help.” When I opened my mouth, what came out was, “What would I have to do?”

  Sylvester had the grace not to look smug. “You’ll be responsible for his training in blood magic and dealing with the mortal world. We don’t expect you to teach him the courtly arts—we’re handling that at Shadowed Hills—but the practical side of things needs equal attention. Are you still in the apartment?”

  “Yeah. Why do you—”

  “It would be good if he could live with you at least part-time, but it’s not essential. If it’s a matter of finances, we own a great deal of property all around the Bay Area. We could help you find something.”

  “Uh, right.” Sylvester and Luna have been in Shadowed Hills since the eighteen hundreds, and they’ve had a lot of time to shop for land. Fae, especially purebloods, tend to take a long-term view of investments, and land always goes up in value. There are worse ways to build a fortune, if you have the time.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  I hesitated. Taking a squire isn’t something to be done lightly. Quentin was a good kid, and he deserved to be taught whatever he needed to know in order to stay alive. Was I really the best choice to educate a pureblood? Especially one who’d already been shot thanks to me, and who’d helped to orchestrate the jailbreak to get me out of the Queen’s clutches?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  Sylvester grinned. “I knew you would. Now come on. It’s been fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, Maeve’s teeth.” I groaned, dropping a half-eaten apple slice and pushing myself back to my feet. “I was too busy thinking to rest. That’s not fair.”

  “Neither is combat. Stop whining. You have a squire now, and that means you have to be the mature one.”

  “I should have read the fine print.”

  Sylvester just laughed.

  We buckled on our swords and walked back to the ballroom. I groaned again as we crossed the threshold: we had company. May and Quentin were sitting on a bench against one wall, and they looked like they were planning to stay a while.

  Sylvester smiled brightly when he saw them. “Good day, you two!”

  “Good day, Your Grace,” Quentin said.

  “Hey, Syl,” May said, waving back. Quentin flinched. He’s loosened up a lot, but he still can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that nobles have personal names, much less diminutives.

  “What are you doing in here?” I asked. Sylvester turned and bowed to me. I responded automatically. It’s no good arguing once Sylvester decides practice has started. Refusing to get my sword out would just result in some painful new bruises.

  “We came to watch you work,” said May. My former Fetch was dressed like an acid flashback to the mid-80s, combining virulently pink jeans with a silver foil concert T-shirt for a ban
d I didn’t recognize. Rainbow barrettes were clipped in her short magenta-and-green-streaked hair.

  May and I used to be functionally identical, before the elf-shot “killed” me. She was supposed to fade out of the world completely that day. That’s what Fetches do. Amandine somehow stopped that from happening, and that broke the connection between us. May gets to live. And since we weren’t connected when Amandine changed the balance of my blood, May still looks like the changeling I used to be, while I barely recognize myself in the mirror some days. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

  “It was May’s idea,” Quentin added.

  “I’m sure it was,” I said. Sylvester started circling. I dropped into a defensive position. “I’m not really comfortable with this, May.”

  “Cope,” she said.

  “Maybe an audience will make you shape up,” Sylvester said, and lunged.

  I parried. “Maybe an audience will distract me and get me gutted.”

  “Let’s see some carnage!” hollered May, pumping her fist in the air.

  “This isn’t professional wrestling!” I snapped, trying to hit Sylvester’s ankle. He blocked, turning my thrust aside and nearly disarming me. “And I swear if you shout ‘take it off,’ I am coming over there.”

  “Take what off?” asked Sylvester.

  “Nothing, Your Grace,” Quentin and I said in unison.

  “Wimps,” May said.

  “Shut up.” I parried again. Sylvester pressed his advantage, and I fell back, trying to keep him from hitting me. The distractions faded away as I focused on the rhythm of his attacks. There was a slight pause after each swing. It wasn’t long, but it was there. I knocked his sword aside and lunged for his stomach, slamming the blade of my own sword into his middle just above the navel.

  Sylvester stopped immediately. “I believe that was a killing blow,” he said, sounding both slightly winded and ridiculously pleased for someone who’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

  I lowered my sword and stepped back. “Does that mean we’re done?”

  “My dear, you just killed me for the first time. This calls for celebration.” He bowed, signaling the end of our bout. I bowed back. “How did you catch me?”

  “There was a pause between your attacks while you brought your sword back.”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to notice. It won’t be there next time.” He winked as he sheathed his sword and handed it to me. “We’re ready to make things hard.”

  “Oh, lucky me,” I muttered, walking over and hanging our swords on the wall before heading toward May and Quentin. “Happy now?”

  “Don’t touch me.” May wrinkled her nose. “You’re all icky, and I have a date.”

  “Jazz meeting you here?” She nodded. “Will you be home tonight?” May and Jazz—her Raven-maid girlfriend—had been getting serious, despite the little issue of May being essentially nocturnal, like most fae, and Jazz being diurnal, like most birds. We’d already had the discussion about whether or not Jazz was allowed to move in.

  I said yes, of course. At least when Jazz is around, May occasionally lets me have the remote control.

  “We should be,” May said.

  Sylvester walked up, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He didn’t look half as beat as I felt. Sometimes the world isn’t fair. “Ah, Quentin. A word with you?” I glanced to him, and he nodded. “It seems appropriate to do it now.”

  I swallowed the urge to protest. “You’re the boss.” We’d have to tell Quentin eventually.

  Quentin looked between us, frowning. “What’s going on, Your Grace?”

  “Quentin, do you remember that I said I was looking for a knight for you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said.

  “If you assigned him to Etienne, I get to hit you,” May added.

  I eyed her. “Why?”

  “Because ‘boring’ is not a virtue.”

  Sylvester smiled. “No, I’m not assigning him to Etienne.” Quentin’s shoulders relaxed: interesting. I hadn’t realized he felt so strongly about the subject. “I can guarantee that the knight I found for him isn’t boring.”

  May gave me a speculative look. “Is that so?”

  “May—”

  “Your Grace, may I speak?”

  Sylvester and I both stopped, blinking at Quentin. Sylvester recovered slightly faster than I did, and asked, “Yes, Quentin?”

  “I’d like to request I be assigned to Sir Daye.”

  All right, I hadn’t been expecting that. “Oak and ash, why?” I demanded, before I could stop myself.

  “Because he has taste,” said May.

  “Because I think I have a lot to learn from you,” Quentin said, before elbowing May sharply in the side. She yelped. “I like you, and you teach me things no one else does.”

  “Like what it feels like to be shot?” I asked.

  “Like how to do what needs to be done. Please, Your Grace, I’d like you to consider my request. If she’ll have me.”

  I looked to Sylvester. He wasn’t making any effort to hide his smirk. I sighed. “I’ll have you,” I said.

  “I already talked her into agreeing,” Sylvester added.

  Quentin looked between us, eyes going wide. “Really?”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Wow. I owe you five bucks,” May said, looking to Sylvester.

  “I told you she’d agree.” He clapped me on the shoulder with one hand. “Come on, you three. Marcia promised a celebratory lunch if I could convince Toby to take a squire.”

  I gave him a sidelong look. “You were betting on this?”

  “Yes, we were,” he said, nodding. “Now come on. We need to work out when his squiring ceremony will be held—and whether you’d like it here or at Shadowed Hills.” Still smiling, he turned and started to walk away. May flashed me a thumbs-up and followed.

  Quentin hung back, asking, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mind? That I’d been talked into taking a squire who obviously wanted to work with me? The vision of Quentin lying shot and dead on some field was receding, replaced by the slow realization that having a squire might not be such a bad deal after all. He already had my back whenever I needed him—hell, he’d helped Tybalt save my life when the Queen threw me in jail for Blind Michael’s murder, and that took guts, since it was technically treason. Maybe he was just a kid, but he knew what he was doing. He’d better: I’d taught him.

  I grinned, putting my hand on his shoulder in much the same way Sylvester had put his hand on mine. We were almost the same height. Oak and ash, he was growing up fast. “Actually, Quentin,” I said, “I think this is going to work out just fine.”

  TWO

  MAY AND SYLVESTER WERE IN THE HALL playing one of May’s favorite games, “spot the bogey.” This involved staring fixedly at the rafters, waiting for the ceiling to move. I will never understand the things my former Fetch finds fun.

  Bogeys are shapeshifting mischief-makers that infest abandoned places, like attics, old castles, and Goldengreen, which sat empty for almost two years before I claimed it. The bogeys were there when I opened the doors. Trying to make them leave was more trouble than it was worth, and so we’d come to a weird sort of peace instead, one where they didn’t scare the crap out of the residents, and I didn’t let the residents beat them to death with bricks.

  Sylvester looked down as Quentin and I approached. “May was reminding me of some of the more . . . interesting . . . changes you’ve made.” He smiled. “I do believe them to be improvements.”

  I smiled back. “That’s good. So do I.”

  Goldengreen was in disrepair when I inherited it, but Sylvester never saw it that way. He probably remembered it the way Evening liked presenting it to people—perfect and static—and not as the crumbling shell it became.

  It wasn’t a crumbling shell anymore. It was just a little chaotic sometimes. Case in point: a flock of pixies burst from the kitchen, flying in tight formation as they
held up the edges of a red-and-white-checked dish towel. The wind of their passage ruffled my hair. The four of us scattered, and I ducked just before one of the stragglers could kick me in the forehead.

  Marcia came barreling after the pixies, waving a broom over her head and shouting, “Come back, you filthy little pests! Thieves!” Her eyes widened when she saw us, and she came skidding to a halt, a guilty look on her face. She tried to hide the broom behind her back, enhancing the ridiculousness of the moment. “Uh, hi, Toby. May. Quentin. Um. Your Grace.”

  “Hey, Marcia,” I said, amused. “What did they steal this time?” Pixies will steal anything that’s not nailed down, and the ones in Goldengreen seem to see Marcia as a form of entertainment. They know she’ll never catch them with her broom. As for Marcia, I think she’s playing with the pixies as much as they’re playing with her. She’ll just never admit it.

  “Two loaves of bread and my good dish towel.”

  “You’d better hurry before they shred the towel for loincloths.”

  “I know. Sorry about this. Lunch is served.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy and took off running, following the trail of glittering pixie-sweat hanging in the air.

  I turned to the others. “Well?” I asked. “Anybody hungry?”

  “Starving,” said Quentin. He led the way into the kitchen, where a meal of cold chicken, tossed salad, and apple cake was waiting for us on the worktable. One definite advantage to having my own knowe: I was eating better, since Marcia seemed to have an almost preternatural ability to know when she’d be able to shove a fork into my hand, and her fae blood is just strong enough to grant her some basic hearth magic—like preparing meals at triple speed. Coffee is still a primary part of my diet, but it no longer has to play the role of multiple food groups.

  May’s phone rang while we were eating, and she waved a distracted good-bye before running out of the knowe to meet her girlfriend in the museum parking lot outside the mortal entrance. Sylvester, Quentin, and I finished our lunch in comfortable silence.