The deal between Mortal Men and the Fae would be ironclad, if they allowed even metaphorical iron into their realm. As long as we pay homage on an annual basis, the Court of Queen Mab will leave us in peace.
But not all Fae come from her court and not all that do follow her rules. Even among immortal beings who use time the same way mankind uses fire, there are fractures and schisms; infighting and political manoeuvring.
There were even wars among them in the past. The lack of their influence on the mortal world evident in the modern age is a direct result of the last one.
“Holy shit.” The cup rattled noisily as I put it back on its saucer. “Holy shit.” I stood and tried to pace, but the office’s confines didn’t allow it. I stood behind my chair instead and leaned on it. I was out of breath like I had run a marathon.
Corrigan smiled at me over his own cup. “Enjoy your trip?”
I looked at him. “Holy shit,” was the best I could do.
“The Otherworld is a wonderful place, is it not?”
“I haven't been gone a month. It felt like a few hours. Was there more?”
“That should be everything your mind can comprehend,” he said as he reached forward to pluck my cup from its saucer. “May I?” he asked.
“May you what?” I said.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he downed what was left in my cup and stared at the tea leaves clustered in the bottom.
I sat again. “What are you doing?”
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “My gosh, weren’t you busy?” he asked with a smile. “Should I call you ‘Prince Victor’ now?”
“What? No! That was a tactic to get out. I’m not reclaiming the Silver Clan. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“But it seems you traded a favour owed from me for a favour owed to the Queen. That is not what I would call a bargain.”
The weight of the revelations landed on me like a tonne of bricks and I buried my head in my hands. “I fucked up.”
He lifted the tea-pot and refilled our cups. “Discretion forbids me from commenting.”
“What’s the moonshadow way?” I asked as I accepted the cup he offered me.
“That is something between my brother and I,” he said.
“But Mab knows about you. She knows about all of this!” I gestured to the owl on the bookshelf. “She specifically called out that thing.”
He took a long drink of his tea and pondered the owl. He smiled and said, “It certainly complicates things, yes.”
“You’re enjoying this?” I asked. “Is this all just a game you’re playing with her?”
“When it comes to Mab, almost everything is a game.”
“Almost? How do you tell what is and what isn’t?”
“I’ll let you know if I ever do.”
“And Colm Galligan is going to kill the Magistrate.”
“If that’s what she said?”
“Well, someone sent from his house. An assassin? His son?”
“Or she was making the whole thing up, because that false answer results in the least amount of innocent lives lost.”
“And does the Magistrate count as one of those lives?”
Anderson looked at me over his glasses again in the way he always did when he knew something you didn’t.
I stood. “I’m just going to find Sir Arthur and tell him everything. He’s been dealing with Spiritfolk for longer than anyone.”
“If that’s the best way forward you can see,” Corrigan said as he rose and began tidying away the tea-set. Then he added, “If I can offer you some free advice?”
“Sure.”
“A moment ago, you said you had no idea how to even start reclaiming the Silver Clan.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“As first steps go, declaring yourself its leader to Mab would not be a bad one at all.”
Things were busier than I expected when I got back to the Department. Reception was manned by a Containment officer I didn’t recognise and the main office floor was a hive of activity. Cormac wasn’t there, but Murtagh was at his desk using his desk phone extension while he held his ringing mobile phone out to Putter who was using the phone on my desk. But she hung that up and grabbed the mobile phone that was offered instead.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Situation in the South-East,” said Murtagh, covering the phone receiver. “Could be serious. We’re trying to get confirmation now. Yes? Hello?” He listened to someone speak at the other end, for a minute or so., then suddenly barked, “Well? Find out!”. Then he covered the phone again and said to me, “Don’t leave before you speak to me. We may need your help.”
I descended the stairs to Sir Arthur’s library. He was awake and sitting at his desk, for once not surrounded by old books and scrolls. He was typing quietly into an old laptop when I entered. High Summer was clearly beginning to take its toll on him: His aged face had more lines than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot and hazy.
“Mister Grey, hello there!” he said. “Re-adjusting to life? All caught up on what you missed?”
“Actually, yes,” I said, taking the seat opposite. “In more ways than one.”
He closed the lid of his laptop. “In what way?” he asked with concern.
I took a deep breath. “I was able to get back my memories of the trip.”
Sir Arthur opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a delicate pair of glasses in an antique case. He didn’t say anything, but he put them on and studied my face intently.
“I was able to track down the Fae from March. The one who appeared in the Vault? He restored the memories taken when I left Mab’s realm. I remember everything that happened there.”
He drummed his fingers slowly on his desk. “Impossible,” he said after what felt like an age.
“I wasn’t sure it would work either. Turned out to be a Hail Mary that paid off.”
“He was a trickster. Is it possible that he gave you false memories?”
I considered this. “No, they’re real. I can feel it. And I can’t imagine that he can repay a favour with false coin.”
He drummed his fingers again, then shoved his laptop aside so he could rest his elbows on his desk and steeple his fingers. “Tell me everything.”
The tale took some time to tell. Sir Arthur’s face darkened over the course of the story. When I was done, he had both clenched fists on the table between us.
“Of all the irresponsible…” he began, before words deserted him.
“I know,” I said, raising a hand.
“No, I don’t think you do. Sneaking a second offering into the Otherworld so you could ask the Queen of the Fae your own personal questions?” He rose to his feet as he spoke. “You jeopardised a diplomatic arrangement that has survived for more than a century! You could have started a war!”
I had never seen him so angry. “I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I needed to know who’s planning to kill you, and I got the answer.”
“Oh, did you?” He said, sitting down again. “You got an answer, and even she who gave it to you told you that she might be lying.”
“Colm Galligan-”
He interrupted with a barking laugh then said, “The Galligans? Please. The White Clan is in service to one of my closest allies; A man I have known for fifty centuries.”
“The Archbishop is an ally. He’s not a friend. Relations between you could sour.”
“If relations sour between us so that he wants me dead, I assure you that he will not send a catspaw to do it. Has it occurred to you that this whole thing is a plan by Mab and her court? And you’ve now played directly into her hands! She owns you now with her damn favours!”
He stood again and strode to a bookshelf where he pulled out a heavy book that he slammed on the desk and opened to a random page. I could see it was an old-fashioned accountants’ ledger filled page-after-page with the Magistrate’s neat handwriting.
“A list,” he said, “of every mortal who found themselves indebted to the Fae.” He then laid one finger at the top of the right-most column in the ledger. “And their ultimate fates.”
That column had a few blank spaces, and a few entries were simply ‘?’ but every other box was filled with words like ‘death’ or ‘missing’ or ‘penury’, written in red ink.
“And have you considered how your uncle will react when he learns that you’ve resurrected the Silver Clan?”
“I didn’t resurrect the clan,” I said weakly.
“Well, let’s hope your uncle and the other clan leaders agree.” He sat again. “And let us also hope that Queen Mab’s favour does not rely on it.” He closed the ledger and indicated the lettering on its spine. “Volume three,” he said.
“So I go back to work and I won’t tell my uncle about any of this. We’ll keep it quiet until we know what Mab may ask in return.”
“Mister Grey, this incident has cast serious doubt on your judgement.” He stood again and returned the ledger to its place on the shelf.
My mouth went dry and my heart skipped a beat. “Sir?”
“I am not sure I can let you go back to work,” he said. “What you did was so… so… boneheaded.”
“I’m being fired?”
“It may be for the best,” Sir Arthur said quietly. “Mister Francis has been acting as lead investigator this month and he’s been doing rather impressively.”
I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach and of my world. The Office of Special Investigations was my home; far more than the basement flat I spent my evenings in that, oh yeah, was owned by the same Department. I was homeless now, too.
Sir Arthur’s library lacked a door. Privacy was maintained by a thick curtain. But there was a knock on the doorframe at that moment. We turned to see Murtagh holding it back slightly, waiting for permission to enter.
“Mister Murtagh? Please come in,” said Sir Arthur.
“Sorry to bother you, sirs,” said Murtagh, entering and standing to attention.
“I presume this is important?” the Magistrate asked.
“Sir, yes sir,” Murtagh said, sounding more like a military man than ever. “We’ve been alerted to a disturbance in Waterford. Possible incursion.”
“What type?” Sir Arthur asked.
“A sinkhole.”
Silence fell on the Library.
“You are sure?” asked Sir Arthur, which was a strange question. Murtagh wasn’t the type to run in with half-formed guesses or opinions.
“Local sources are pretty adamant,” Murtagh said. “And one of them is Caroline Grady. She was at Kingscourt in ‘74.”
“Very well,” said Sir Arthur. “Take Mister Francis, and whomever you think you’ll need. But please don’t strip the city of all of its defences. We’ll open a Door tonight.”
Murtagh cleared his throat pointedly.
“Yes?” asked Sir Arthur.
“If Vic has been returned to active duty, I’d like him along,“ Murtagh said. He hesitated, then added, “He helped shut down the last sinkhole, back when he was one of my guys. His second month on the job, if I recall.”
Sir Arthur looked from him to me and then back again. A pin dropping would have sounded like a one-man-band tumbling down an upwards-moving escalator. After what felt like forty-five minutes he said, “Very well. Mister Grey, you’re to go with Mister Murtagh. You are not back on investigative duties yet.”
I could have hugged Murtagh at that moment, if we weren’t both manly men who didn’t do such things. I’d have to buy him a pint or barbeque him a steak or something instead. I stood hurriedly and said, “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Sir Arthur replied with what could only be described as a low growl and waved us away.
Outside in the corridor, we walked side-by-side, and Murtagh simply said, “You’re welcome, kid.”
“You heard our conversation?” I asked.
“Just the end bit where he fired you,” he replied. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. High Summer’s just affecting him.”
“I’ve just got to prove my worth before he reconsiders again.”
“Shutting down a sinkhole will do it,” said Murtagh.
“How big is it?” I asked. The last one I’d helped with was almost fifteen feet wide, I recalled. I was the only one who had been able to reach the centre.
“Hard to say,” said Murtagh. It’s not visible to the naked eye yet, and it’s right by the ocean so proper measurements are difficult.”
We reached the foot of the narrow spiral staircase and Murtagh went first. As we climbed, I could see the side of his face, and something about it told me he’d been holding back.
“Well, best guess?”
“Sixty feet. Maybe eighty,” he said.
I stopped. “Fuck”.
“Fuck, indeed,” he said. “I didn’t want to say it to his Honour until we could verify it ourselves. But you help close this thing, you can prove your worth, alright.”
“And if we fail, me being unemployed will be the least of our worries.”
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