A Star Shall Fall Part 12

Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d's white teeth flashed a startling contrast against his dark skin. Smiling, he said, "A genie indeed, O Prince. Read you the Thousand and One Nights Thousand and One Nights?"

Floundering for useful memories beyond the bare word-and succeeding only in recalling more and more of the scandalous bits-Galen caught sight of Lune, out of the corner of his eye. Without ever so much as uttering a word or changing the serene pleasantry of her expression, she somehow communicated her intentions to him. You know more than I do of this stranger. Deal with him as you will. You know more than I do of this stranger. Deal with him as you will.

G.o.d help him. Galen had stood at Lune's side on various state occasions, fulfilling his duties as her mortal consort, but never before had he been the chief voice in such a matter. And now to hand him an Arabic faerie, sent to them by some French lady he'd never even met...

Well, it could not hurt to be polite. He hoped. "What brings you to England, Lord ar-Ras.h.i.+d?"

The smile flickered out of existence a heartbeat before the genie bowed again. "I beg your kindness, O Prince. I am not Ar-Ras.h.i.+d, The One Who Knows, being his servant only. I am called Abd Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d, meaning this: I serve the Most Merciful, the Most Compa.s.sionate." ar-Ras.h.i.+d, meaning this: I serve the Most Merciful, the Most Compa.s.sionate."

Apparently his attempt at politeness could could hurt. Galen had no choice but to forge ahead. "No, the apology should be mine; I did not realize." Then, belatedly, he took note of the way the faeries had whispered amongst themselves at his words. hurt. Galen had no choice but to forge ahead. "No, the apology should be mine; I did not realize." Then, belatedly, he took note of the way the faeries had whispered amongst themselves at his words. The Merciful and Compa.s.sionate-does he mean G.o.d? The Merciful and Compa.s.sionate-does he mean G.o.d?

Did this faerie just claim to be a servant of G.o.d?

That question seemed even more likely to drop him into a pit than the simple use of Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d's name had. Galen fled back to his original query. "Is it some task set by your sovereign that brings you to our sh.o.r.es, Lord Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d?" Did genies even have have sovereigns? sovereigns?

The Arab's answer didn't enlighten him. "It is not, O Prince. These years have I been journeying across Europe in the service of my own curiosity, and it brings me now to England."

At the distance that separated the genie from the dais, it was unlikely he noticed Lune stiffening; Galen, at her side, could not miss it. "Curiosity of what sort, my lord?" she asked.

"That of a scholar, O Queen." His accent made subtleties of intonation difficult to discern, and in the cool light of the chamber, Galen had equal trouble making out the expressions on the dark face. "I come here to ask of your Prince introduction to the Royal Society gentlemen."

Had he asked for an introduction to King George II, Galen could not have been more surprised. "The Royal Society? The philosophers?" Perhaps it was some error in the genie's English.

Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d soon disabused him of the notion. "Once a great flower of wisdom grew in my land, but in recent centuries it has withered under the hand of the soldiers and the officials. Araby was the mother of medicine and alchemy, astronomy and the making of clocks; now the infant she reared has grown to manhood, and traveled to Europe, where he finds a more friendly home. Taqi al-Din has been succeeded by your John Harrison and James Bradley and Isaac Newton. I have no interest in war and the operation of government; therefore I come here, following in the footsteps of knowledge."

It had the sound of a rehea.r.s.ed speech; indeed, Galen suspected the genie had delivered it in French to the Cour du Lys-with, of course, suitable replacements for the English scholars he'd named. Bemused, Galen said, "And you believe I can grant you admittance to the Royal Society."

The Arab hesitated. "Out of your kindness-if French would be possible-" Lune nodded, and Galen thought he saw relief flash across that dark face as the genie bowed again. In much more fluent French, he said, "In the Cour du Lys, I heard that the Queen of London kept a mortal man at her side, who governed all matters relating to the human world. When news came that this man had become a Fellow of the Society, I made arrangements to come here."

His French was good enough that Galen, far more rusty in the language, had trouble keeping up; but he was able to catch where rumor had gone astray. "I am not a Fellow, sir," he said, painfully aware of his own bad accent. "Only a visitor among them."

The genie's stillness came as a surprise, after all the bowing. "Was I in error, O Prince? Have I asked something not in your power to give?"

A tiny s.h.i.+ft in Lune's body told Galen she'd been about to speak, then stopped herself. He could guess why. She never turned visitors away from her court empty-handed; unlike most faerie realms, this one was composed of strangers who had come from a dozen other homes, some merely visiting, others resettling themselves within its dark shadow. Interaction with the mortal world was not the only thing that separated this court from others in England.

She didn't turn visitors away-but neither did she give gifts without hope of something in return. "An introduction is within my power," Galen said, wis.h.i.+ng to Heaven that he'd been given some warning of this, so he could think through his reply without the genie, Lune, and the a.s.sembled courtiers watching his every move. "But it is no small thing, sir, to bring you into company with the gentlemen and lords of my acquaintance there. You are a stranger to me as much as to them, and a foreign stranger at that. I don't know how these things are done in your land, but here, if a gentleman introduces another in that manner, he risks his own good name; he vouches to his friends that the new man is a trustworthy fellow, and worthy of their company. I mean no insult to you, but I cannot in good conscience give such a.s.surances for someone about whom I know virtually nothing."

He realized too late that he had lapsed back into English. Perhaps it was just as well; he would have embarra.s.sed himself, trying to say all that in French. The genie's eyes had narrowed, but whether it was a sign of hostility or merely difficulty understanding him, Galen didn't know.

He hoped the latter, and that Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d understood enough to see the opening Galen had provided. And indeed, after a silent moment, the genie bowed. "I would die a hundred times, O Prince, before I bring shame to you by my behavior. I am content to wait. Perhaps in that time I find some service for yourself or your Queen, and prove my character to you?"

Now Galen turned to Lune, gratefully handing off the burden of this negotiation. The notion of introducing, not just a faerie, but a heathen heathen faerie to the philosophers of the Royal Society was a staggering absurdity his mind could scarcely encompa.s.s, but perhaps it would be possible to disguise Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d with a glamour of an Englishman, and to improve his English. Or just to conduct the entire affair in French. In the meantime, Lune could decide what price she wanted to put on Galen's help. faerie to the philosophers of the Royal Society was a staggering absurdity his mind could scarcely encompa.s.s, but perhaps it would be possible to disguise Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d with a glamour of an Englishman, and to improve his English. Or just to conduct the entire affair in French. In the meantime, Lune could decide what price she wanted to put on Galen's help.

With a rueful quirk of her lips, Lune asked, "Do the powers of a genie, by any chance, extend to the weather?"

The Onyx Hall, London: April 28, 1758 The effort to find a weapon against the Dragon had sent Lune's amba.s.sadors farther than ever before-but never beyond Europe. For the first time in her reign, she found herself with a visitor about whom she knew precisely nothing.

A state of affairs she did not permit to last for long. A week and a half after the genie's audience, she convened a small meeting of fae: Sir Adenant, Lady Yfaen, and the puck Beggabow.

Sir Adenant had not even brushed the dust off his boots, so recently had he returned from France. "My report, madam," he said, handing over a sheaf of papers with a bow. "I judged it more important to get this information to you rapidly than to uncover every detail, but this is the essence of it."

He was far from her best spy, but he'd gone to France before, and had friends in the Cour du Lys. "What did you learn?"

"He's definitely a traveler, madam. Before France, it was Italy and Athens; his home, inasmuch as he has one, is Istanbul. But he seems to have gone there with that fellow he mentioned, Taqi al-Din, nearly two hundred years ago, and they met in Egypt."

Beggabow whistled. Lune felt like doing the same. Most fae looked oddly even on those who served as amba.s.sadors; travel was not something they did much of. But perhaps genies had a greater fondness for it. "Why all the movement?"

Adenant spread his hands. "It seems to be as he said, your Grace. A thirst for information. Madame Malline told me those later parts of his name mean 'the traveler' and 'the seeker of knowledge,' or some such."

"What about the first part? 'Servant of He Who Knows'?"

The faerie knight shuddered. "That's the strangest part. They say he's a heathen-that he follows the Mohammedan deity. And he isn't the only one, either. He claims several genies are 'of the Faithful.' "

Lady Yfaen laughed, a bright, disbelieving sound. "Surely you don't mean they pray pray."

"They do," Beggabow said. "Or at least he does. Five times a day. I've been watching him the last week, wondering what in Mab's name he thinks he's doing."

The puck was one of Aspell's spies, diverted from the Sanists to follow Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d. "Where is he living?" Lune asked.

"In Wapping," the puck said. "Bold as you please. Makes himself look like a Turk, and rents a room from some Lascar near the Frying Pan Stairs, right by the river."

Now it was Adenant's turn to whistle. "Does the Lascar give him bread?"

Beggabow shook his head. "Not as I can tell. He don't seem to need need it. Iron don't bother him, and neither do holy things, him praying and all. Wish it. Iron don't bother him, and neither do holy things, him praying and all. Wish I I could learn that trick." could learn that trick."

It explained why he hadn't asked for shelter in the Onyx Hall. Lune had been uneasy about that, not certain whether she wanted to offer it to him or not. Strangers were common enough, but not strangers whose capabilities and motives were entirely opaque to her. And while it seemed, at least so far, that this genie's motives were honest enough, his capabilities were still a dangerous unknown.

Adenant's report might contain something of that. So, too, might Yfaen's contribution. The sylph had a tall stack on the table at her side, books and loose papers alike. "This is all I could find, madam," she said, with an apologetic duck of her head, as if she hadn't a.s.sembled a month's worth of reading. "The Thousand and One Nights Thousand and One Nights he mentioned-a French translation, and two English ones. Also a few other books, and a ma.n.u.script from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I don't know if it says anything about genies, but her husband was the English amba.s.sador to Istanbul about fifty years ago, and she went with him; this is what she wrote about her experiences. It may help." he mentioned-a French translation, and two English ones. Also a few other books, and a ma.n.u.script from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I don't know if it says anything about genies, but her husband was the English amba.s.sador to Istanbul about fifty years ago, and she went with him; this is what she wrote about her experiences. It may help."

Anything that chipped away at Lune's ignorance would help. She sighed, foreseeing a great deal of work ahead. "My thanks to all three of you. If you learn more-" that chipped away at Lune's ignorance would help. She sighed, foreseeing a great deal of work ahead. "My thanks to all three of you. If you learn more-"

Beggabow snapped his fingers, then blushed and tugged his forelock in apology for interrupting her. "Sorry, your Grace. I just remembered. There's a Jew around the corner from where he lives, a lens-maker named Schuyler; your Arab has him and a silversmith working on some kind of mirrored bowl. Not sure what that's for, but it's big." The puck held out his arms, indicating something at least a yard across.

A chill ran down Lune's spine. "I'll have the Lord Treasurer disburse more bread to you. Watch him, and watch this Jew. We need to know what that bowl is for."

Mayfair, Westminster: May 16, 1758 "Mr. St. Clair," Elizabeth Vesey said in a disapproving voice, "I am beginning to think you left the better part of yourself at home."

One of the ladies let out an unregenerate cackle. She was an older woman, and not one Galen knew, but their brief introduction had made it clear she had a filthy mind, and no shame about it, either. Though she hadn't voiced her interpretation of Mrs. Vesey's words, Galen still blushed, and got another cackle for his pains.

"My apologies," he told his hostess, shaking himself to alertness. "My mind was indeed elsewhere-though I a.s.sure you, in a place more pleasant than home."

He realized too late how that would sound to the scandalous old woman. Her third cackle was even louder than the first two. Ah well, Ah well, he told himself, resigned. he told himself, resigned. Learn to do that on purpose, and you might pa.s.s muster as a wit. Learn to do that on purpose, and you might pa.s.s muster as a wit.

But social reasons were the least part of his purpose here tonight. At one end of the room, Dr. Andrews was preparing his materials for a presentation. This was not the Bluestocking Circle per se, but a gathering of learned ladies and some gentlemen, and Galen was attending to continue his evaluation of the man. The days were pa.s.sing, and he was painfully aware of them; but he was also aware that the consequences of trusting the wrong man could be severe.

In the meanwhile, other plans were proceeding apace, and that was reason he had come. Across the room, a redoubtable woman in her early fifties conversed with Mrs. Montagu. Galen waited for a suitable moment, then approached and bowed to her. "Mrs. Carter, good evening. My apologies for interrupting, but I was wondering if I might beg a favor of you."

He didn't have to feign respect. Elizabeth Carter's learning and skill with words shamed that of most men; her translations of Stoic philosophy were renowned, and they said Greek was only one of the nine languages she spoke.

Of the other eight, one-according to rumor and Mrs. Montagu-was Arabic.

She gestured with her fan for him to continue. "I've recently come into possession of a strange item," Galen said, "which the former owner claims comes from somewhere in the Ottoman lands. It's a mirrored bowl, quite large, and bears an inscription in a language I believe to be Arabic. Might I prevail upon you to examine it, and translate the words if possible?"

If Abd ar-Ras.h.i.+d was telling the truth, the bowl would aid them in their attempts to veil the sky. No one wanted to use it, however, until they had some confirmation of that. Mrs. Carter said, "It might be a 'magic bowl,' as some call them; they have been used for centuries in that part of the world, and not just by the Arabs. Though usually they are quite small. I would be delighted to study it for you, Mr. St. Clair."

Should the bowl prove to be what the genie claimed, it would be a great boon to Irrith's plan. Galen thanked Mrs. Carter profusely, and made arrangements to have the bowl delivered to her house. These were scarcely completed when Galen felt a delicate hand upon his arm. "Mr. St. Clair, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Delphia Northwood?"

Galen was at the nadir of his bow before he realized he knew that name... sort of.

"My lady of the mixed metaphors," he said, straightening in time to see Miss Northwood stifle a laugh. "Indeed, Mrs. Vesey, we met at Vauxhall, and have had the pleasure of each other's company several times since then."

Delphia. Had Cynthia used that nickname? It suited the young woman far better than the ponderous weight of "Philadelphia," as did her gown tonight. The pale rose gave warmth to her complexion, and while nothing could transform her plainness to beauty, the simplicity of her dress at least suited her scholarly air. Miss Northwood smiled and said, "Indeed we have. Mama has been most... eager to see me in the company of new friends."

"Is she here?" Galen asked, glancing about. A foolish question; his one previous encounter with Mrs. Northwood had established her as a woman not easily overlooked. She lost no opportunities to scrutinize any young man that came near her daughter.

"No, indeed. Our dear Sylph is a good friend of the family, and therefore, in Mama's opinion, a sufficient chaperone for my good behavior." Miss Northwood smiled at Mrs. Vesey.

The girl's mother would probably not think that if she knew their dear Sylph kept company with an actual sylph, Lady Yfaen. Their hostess, smiling as if she had precisely that thought, excused herself to make certain Dr. Andrews had everything he needed. Watching her go, Miss Northwood added, "Of course, Mama thinks tonight is a harmless card party, with no topic more mentally strenuous than, say, the current fas.h.i.+on in hats."

"You lied to her?"

She smiled at his shocked reply. "And do you tell your family the truth of everything you do, Mr. St. Clair? No, I thought not."

He wanted to say he kept secrets for greater cause, but that would open him to far too many questions. Making comparisons between his father and her mother struck him as invidious, so instead he asked, "She would not approve of tonight's presentation?"

"She fears-quite rightly-where it might lead me. As she has reminded me on many occasions, neither grasping for patronage nor battling with publishers is a suitable pastime for a young woman desiring respectability, and if I hope to make a worthwhile match, I should lay aside such dreams-at least until after my marriage, whereupon it will be my husband's decision as to whether I may write or not." Miss Northwood shrugged, with no particular rancor. "She is correct, of course. But I still flout her as I can."

Galen could only gape. "You-you write, Miss Northwood?"

Her rueful smile came with a bit of a blush. "I put pen to paper, Mr. St. Clair. I do not publish. Not yet, at least."

He could understand her mother's concern. Learning in a woman was not a shameful thing-at least he did not think so-but the public activity that went with it could be, particularly when it involved wrangling over business like some common Grub Street hack. Elizabeth Carter had done it, but Galen suspected her quiet and retiring life at least partly a stratagem for maintaining her respectability. And was it coincidence that she had never married?

Grasping for some fragment of wit to lift the shadow from Miss Northwood's face, he said, "If you would like, I can pretend I do not see you here, so as to preserve at least one of your marriage prospects."

In the pause that followed, he realized what he had just said. It should not have mattered; Miss Northwood knew he was looking for a wife, as he knew she-or at least her mother, on her behalf-was hunting a husband; to say it out loud should change nothing. Yet it did, introducing a sudden and palpable awkwardness broken only by Mrs. Vesey's voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated; we are ready to begin."

Normally their hostess preferred to arrange her guests into scattered groups, the better for them to enjoy conversation with one another, but for Dr. Andrews's presentation she had set the chairs in rows. Galen, fleeing embarra.s.sment, took a seat next to Mrs. Montagu; Miss Northwood ended up two rows behind them. He tried not to wonder whether she was staring at his back as Dr. Andrews began his lecture.

He began by thanking Mrs. Vesey, but soon embarked upon his topic. "The French philosopher Rene Descartes," Dr. Andrews said, "spoke in his writings of the division between Body and Mind. The body operates like a machine, according to the laws that govern physical things, while the the mind is immaterial, insubstantial, and is not constrained by physical laws. But each can influence the other: if I raise my hand, thus, it is because my mind directed my body to do so. The pa.s.sions of the body can likewise influence the mind, as when anger leads a man to make a rash decision.

"But what is the means by which this interaction occurs?"

Mere abstraction would have been weighty enough for an evening's lecture, but Dr. Andrews soon proceeded to detail, speaking first of Descartes's obsolete notion that the pineal gland was the point of connection between Body and Mind. From there it was on to the ventricles of the brain and other matters Mrs. Northwood certainly would not have considered appropriate for ladies of any age.

And indeed, Galen saw some expressions of distaste when Andrews delved too far into anatomy. For others, though, fascination was the much stronger force. These were the same kinds of women for whom Mrs. Carter had translated Sir Isaac Newton's Philosophy Explain'd for the Use of Ladies, Sir Isaac Newton's Philosophy Explain'd for the Use of Ladies, from the Italian. Physics might be a cleaner subject, but their curiosity did not end there. from the Italian. Physics might be a cleaner subject, but their curiosity did not end there.

"There are times," Andrews said, "when no physician can tell what has brought life to an end. No discernible cause explains it. Or one man suffers a wound that defeats him; another, wounded just the same, lives on. The ultimate cause of mortality, perhaps, lies not in the body, but in the mind: if it can transcend the body's control, and become the sole master of the self..." He broke off with an embarra.s.sed, affected laugh. "Well, short of a reversal of the Fall, that isn't likely to happen. But we can at least dream of such a day."

Weaken the mind, Galen thought, not even certain what he meant by that phrase. Galen thought, not even certain what he meant by that phrase. Perhaps that's why the Dragon could not be killed. Its mind is more powerful than its body. Perhaps that's why the Dragon could not be killed. Its mind is more powerful than its body.

The lecture was done. Distracted, he rose from his chair and went to the table at the side of the room, where he poured a cup of punch for himself. Then he stood with it forgotten in his hand, biting one thumbnail, still thinking.

Mrs. Vesey found him there. "Well, Mr. St. Clair, inquiring busybodies wish to know-when do you intend to offer for her?"

Her question was so unexpected, and so little in keeping with his current thoughts, that he almost didn't understand the words; she could have been speaking Arabic. Once her meaning became clear, he glanced across the room to Miss Northwood, who stood in animated conversation with Mrs. Montagu. "I have until the end of the Season, as you well know."

"She is free," Mrs. Vesey said, "but not likely to remain so forever. Not with parents so ambitious to see their daughter matched well."

Galen liked to believe that Miss Northwood looked kindly upon him. He might not be the only man so favored, though. He sighed. "Free-as I am not. Mrs. Vesey, whatever shall I do? How can I, in good conscience, take a wife? It's one thing to have interests and business separate from marriage and one's wife-every man does so-but when they must be kept secret..."

Mrs. Vesey pursed her lips, then said, "You could could tell her." tell her."

"About-" Far too loud, especially for the words that had nearly come out of his mouth. Galen waited until he could speak more moderately, then whispered, "You must be mad."

"Must I?" She seemed unconcerned by the prospect. "I know you aren't the first man to be in your position. They cannot have all been bachelors, and surely some told their wives."

Galen had no idea whether they had or not. It was not something he'd ever thought to ask the Queen. On the surface of it, there was no reason Mrs. Vesey should be wrong; after all, as Lune had reminded him, if he wanted to reveal the secret of the Onyx Court to some mortal, he had the authority to do so. Yet in his mind, mortal mortal had always meant had always meant man. man. Even standing here, within whispering distance of a woman who had tea every week with a faerie, he'd never thought to include the gentler s.e.x. Even standing here, within whispering distance of a woman who had tea every week with a faerie, he'd never thought to include the gentler s.e.x.

But of course Mrs. Vesey's suggestion only addressed the objection of secrecy. She knew nothing of his love for Lune, that would make him unfaithful to his wife from the moment they were wed.

Galen gritted his teeth. I thought I left that objection behind in my father's study. I thought I left that objection behind in my father's study. Apparently his conscience would not let go so easily. Apparently his conscience would not let go so easily.

Mrs. Vesey said, "Well, do consider it. I think Miss Northwood is a proper match for you; she, of all girls, might be able to accept that truth. And if you wait until the end of the Season, Mr. St. Clair, you may well lose her to another gentleman. Think on that, that, too-and while you do, please take this punch to Dr. Andrews." too-and while you do, please take this punch to Dr. Andrews."

The Onyx Hall, London: May 18, 1758 On her way to the night garden, Irrith pa.s.sed a surprising number of fae in the corridors of the Onyx Hall. They fell neatly into two groups: the rough-clad, non-elfin ones were going to the arena to watch a mortal boxer stand up against the yarthkin Hempry, and the elfin ones in fanciful dress were on their way to one of the greater halls, for a masquerade ball.

Near the branch that led to the Temple of Arms, she ran into and almost did not recognize Segraine. For once the lady knight looked more lady than knight, in a dress woven of mist that complemented her eyes. "You aren't going to watch the boxer?" Irrith said in surprise.

Her friend scowled. "A pair of mermen showed up in Queenhithe this morning, come to negotiate with her Majesty about the clouds. She didn't expect them; this might be the first time they've deigned to come so far upriver. The hope is that it's a good sign. But it means she wants a big retinue at the ball, to impress the sea folk."

The speculation on Segraine's face made Irrith say hastily, "I have nothing nothing suitable to wear, and couldn't possibly find anything in time." suitable to wear, and couldn't possibly find anything in time."

"And if I go looking out a gown for you, you'll vanish while my back's turned." Segraine made a frustrated noise. "Rumor has it Carline will be showing up in a dress made of flame. flame. I liked her better when she was scheming; then she wanted something, and was willing to display the tiniest bit of tact in order to get it." I liked her better when she was scheming; then she wanted something, and was willing to display the tiniest bit of tact in order to get it."

The reasons for Irrith not to attend the ball kept mounting. She said, "I was going to the night garden, to talk to Ktistes. He says his people have ways to talk to the winds, and I think that might help me with the clouds."

"Better the Greeks than the merfolk. Their desires are far more comprehensible." Segraine brushed her hands across the false hips of her dress, sending mist eddying outward, and said, "Her Grace is waiting for me. If she asks, I'll say I didn't see you."

Irrith barely waited to express her grat.i.tude before bolting for the night garden.

The place was eerily silent. Normally there were fae scattered around enjoying the fountains or the flowers or conducting an a.s.signation under a bower, but tonight Irrith had it to herself-except for Ktistes, of course, who showed no interest in masquerades, and preferred wrestling to boxing. On her way to his pavilion on the far side, though, Irrith realized there was one other person in the garden.

Galen sat on a low bench next to a slender white obelisk. What he was doing there, Irrith didn't know; he should have been with Lune, preparing to greet the amba.s.sadors from the sea. Certainly he was dressed for court, in a deep blue coat heavily crusted with silver embroidery and a diamond-b.u.t.toned waistcoat. He sat unmoving, though, and his expression was a complex blend of melancholy and speculation, and it drew her like a moth to a flame.

She made enough noise that he heard her coming and rose. "Dame Irrith. Is her Grace calling for me?"

"Probably," Irrith said. "I came to visit Ktistes. What are you doing?"