Pasgen looked into the mirror one last time to assure himself that his disguise as Fagildo Otstargi (close, if little known, advisor to Thomas Cromwell, Cardinal Wolsey's steward and legal expert) was perfect. Despite the exotic name and the fact that Cromwell believed him to be a subtle and powerful magician, Master Otstargi showed no outward sign of his uncanny abilities. Not for him spangled robes or tall, conical hats. So garbed, no sensible man in political service would dare public association.
He nodded at the nondescript figure that nodded back at him from the mirror. His ears were round, his eyes a soft brown as was his hair, most of which was confined under a moss-green velvet cap. He had a well-trimmed mustache that grew down around his small pursed mouth into an equally neat goatee. His clothes were of fine cloth but muted color and very conservative style; his doublet the same moss green as his cap, his gown a darker green. A modest amount of slashing saved his doublet from being dowdy although the slashing showed only a glimpse of a very white and delicately embroidered shirt.
Aside from the sword that was belted over his doublet under his gown, he wore no jewelry except the two rings on his left hand. Even they were subdued, dark stones that occasionally sparked a sharp glint of red or gold set cabochon in very simple gold settings. He was the picture of a wealthy man with no desire to call attention to himself.
Such discretion should be a pleasant change for Cromwell, bound to the cardinal, who loved display. Even so, and although he was responding to a summons from Cromwell, Pasgen was not looking forward to this meeting. He was going to have to warn Cromwell that he must leave the sinking ship that Cardinal Wolsey had become and look out for himself.
There was no further advice, no additional clever expedient that even a magician as skilled as Otstargi could suggest to save the man who had virtually ruled England for fifteen years. Unfortunately Cromwell did not yet see that Wolsey's time had run out. Cromwell believed that Wolsey had been very clever in managing King Henry's last demand to be freed from his marriage. The cardinal seemed to be obedient to the king, convincing the pope to allow the court examining the king's marriage to be held in England.
However, the delay after delay in convening that court, which was supposed to give ample time for the king to grow disgusted with Mistress Boleyn's sharp tongue, had not worked as expected. Henry had grown impatient, but not with Mistress Anne, and the delays had been seized upon by Cardinal Wolsey's enemies.
That party, headed by the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, had long hinted to the king that Wolsey's loyalties were divided. Now they seemed to have proof that Wolsey did not really support Henry's purpose of divorcing his wife to marry Mistress Anne Boleyn. Look, they said, at how the cardinal was more fearful of offending the pope than eager to do the king's will.
The dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk pointed out that the court summoned to examine the validity of Henry VIII's marriage was presided over by two cardinals—Wolsey and Campeggio. Campeggio was an old man and very sick. It had taken him months to make the trip from Rome, which most churchmen accomplished in six weeks and a messenger could do in less time. And when he had arrived, Campeggio had taken to his bed for another few weeks. Surely Wolsey, who had dominated everyone else, could have seen to it that the sick, old man gave the desired verdict—that Henry's marriage was null and void.
Instead, proceedings had been dragged out for more than another three months, and then Wolsey had permitted Campeggio to adjourn the court, which virtually guaranteed that the case would be remanded to Rome. In Rome, still dominated by the influence of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, Henry's case was hopeless. Since Charles was Catherine of Aragon's nephew, he would never agree to any expedient that permitted King Henry to marry again.
The Emperor looked forward to seeing Princess Mary on the throne of England, possibly married to a suitor he would provide, which would put England right into his hand. Charles was taking no chance that his cousin Mary would be superceded by a male born of some subsequent wife. The pope had his orders; Henry's marriage was not to be dissolved.
Pasgen was as eager as Charles to see Mary on the throne, welcoming the Inquisition to England, but somewhat to his surprise Aurilia had convinced him that the Unseleighe Court could have their cake and eat it too. If they allowed the red-haired child to be born and abducted the babe, Mary would still rule, still set the fires of the Inquisition burning. Meanwhile, the babe could be raised at the Unseleighe Court, and they would control one of the most protean and inventive mortal minds that would exist for a hundred years.
Contrary to everything they had tried to do before, now Pasgen needed to see that Anne climbed into King Henry's bed. It would be best, for his purposes, if she yielded her body without managing to seduce Henry into marriage. But to watch or influence either event, Pasgen needed to have access to the court.
Until now his access had been through Cromwell and Wolsey, which had conveniently kept him well clear of Aleneil and her connection to Anne's family as well as FitzRoy and Denoriel. However Pasgen was sure Wolsey was about to lose his grip on the king and Pasgen did not want Cromwell to go down with his master.
Cromwell was actually a human Pasgen enjoyed. He had a remarkably ingenious mind and could reason black into white. In addition he had a most captivating manner—even to a hired inferior, which was what Pasgen was pretending to be; Pasgen was well aware of the cruelty masked by the charm, but that only made Cromwell more attractive. Moreover Pasgen did not relish the idea of needing to establish a new "human" identity, so he had determined to save Cromwell from being destroyed with Wolsey if he possibly could.
Fortunately Pasgen did not need to travel far; Cromwell was currently housed at York House in Whitehall, which was a short ride. He left the bedchamber, which he locked behind him, and went down the stairs. A servant bowed, his glazed eyes betraying that he was capable only of following specific orders. Pasgen told him to send for his horse and while he waited, mounted, and rode to his destination he again rehearsed in his mind what he would say to Cromwell.
The first part of the interview went just as Pasgen expected, with Cromwell paling, denying, arguing, and slowly coming to recognize the horrible validity of Pasgen's prediction. He was driven at last to the feeble protest that the king could not be so ungrateful after all the years of Wolsey's devoted service.
"Devoted to whom?" Pasgen asked rather nastily. "Undoubtedly the cardinal has managed the affairs of the realm reasonably well, but as much or more to his own benefit as to the king's." Pasgen's mouth twitched. "He is probably richer than the king—and Henry is aware of it. Moreover in this latest matter, he has failed most disastrously. You know, too, that in ruling in Henry's name the cardinal has made many enemies, enemies far more supportive of the king's desire than Cardinal Wolsey."
"But the king and even Mistress Anne's father, Lord Rochford, were pacified over the adjournment of the divorce trial when the revenues of Durham were signed over to them." Cromwell knew, even as he made the argument, that it was a hollow one.
"Yes, but that was before Wolsey's blindness to the true import of the treaty of Cambria and his deliberate misreading or misremembering of articles."
"Because his spirit was so disordered over the king's displeasure." Cromwell rose from the chair he had been sitting in, opposite that he had invited Pasgen to use. "But that was in August. Why now?"
"Have not Mistress Anne and her father been constantly in King Henry's company while the cardinal has been denied access to the court?"
Cromwell paled at this reminder and sat down again. "Perhaps if I—"
Pasgen shook his head. "It is too late to do anything except to save yourself. If I were you, I would go to the king with a tale—"
"No!" Cromwell looked appalled and then suddenly less frightened and very thoughtful. "Betray my master in his time of need?" he said slowly. "No, indeed."
"Will it make it any better for Cardinal Wolsey if you are destroyed with him?" Pasgen snapped.
"Certainly not." Cromwell's lips, which had been tight with tension, softened somewhat. "I will speak to the Cardinal as soon as he returns and see what arrangements can be made to mitigate the blow, if a blow must fall."
Pasgen permitted a very faint hint of disbelief. "What arrangements will stand against King Henry's will?"
"Oh, none," Cromwell agreed, "but this is England, and even the king cannot swallow Wolsey and his possessions without raising protest from the people."
"But the people will be overjoyed to see Wolsey fall," Pasgen pointed out. "He is greatly hated. And though the people may protest, it is the king who rules."
Cromwell made a disdainful gesture, but at the same time bit his lower lip. "That may be true, but no man in this land will like to see any other—even one much hated—stripped of his rights and possessions without some account of the reason therefore."
Pasgen laughed. "Well, there are surely reasons enough to send Wolsey to the gallows, and the people more than willing to see him there and believe any ill of him. It is time to think of saving yourself by—"
Cromwell shook his head. "Perhaps I cannot save his power, but great wealth can be used to good purpose aside from making a fine show to impress the mighty. And given time to recover, who knows what the cardinal can do?"
Pasgen paused, and allowed his eyes to catch and hold Cromwell's for a moment, willing him to recall every moment when he had seen the king panting after Mistress Anne like a dog after a coy bitch. "I do not think even Wolsey's wealth will buy back the king's favor nor any time, no matter how long. Not unless Wolsey has been concealing a decree of annulment about his person."
"I wish he were," Cromwell said, "but unfortunately he has no such bribe. But for others . . ." He seemed to make up his mind about something. "Look into your crystal, Master Otstargi, or your wreathing smoke or whatever means you use to foretell the future and tell me who should have pensions settled on them."
"Pensions?" Pasgen repeated, bewildered.
Cromwell stared at him meaningfully. "Unless stipulated in a will as a charge on the heirs and the estate—and Wolsey has no heirs, beyond a few minor bequests to servants, except the king—a pension ceases with the life of the payer of the pension."
"Ah, I see," Pasgen said, "I can see why the pensioners would do what they could to protect the cardinal and his estate. But if you are the one who arranged the pensions but are not tainted with failure in the matter of the divorce and yet have done what you can for your master . . ." This was a truly clever ploy.
Cromwell nodded and gestured the end of the subject, then smiled winningly. "So, Master Otstargi, I thank you for your warning, but I called you here for another matter entirely. I have just been looking over some old reports about the young duke of Richmond and have come across some instances of his exerting his power. I had always believed he was a good-natured and rather stupid child, but these reports show him to be surprisingly clever, and one case shows that he can be quite . . . ah . . . ruthless, or shall I speak more plainly and say 'vicious,' in order to get his own way."
"The child is not important," Pasgen said, dismissively. "He will never be king, of that I am quite certain."
"Oh, I am certain of it too. The king will end his marriage, one way or another and take a new wife, whether or not it is Nan Boleyn. Still, there is no doubt that the little duke's father is fond of him, and he is the premiere duke of the realm." Cromwell knitted his brows thoughtfully. "He will have influence, especially as the king grows older. I am afraid my master did not pay enough attention to the men appointed as his council. He thought more of their ability to govern the north than about Richmond, but now I believe it time to show the little duke we are his friends. I am thinking of having the boy brought back to court—"
"There is no time," Pasgen said through clenched teeth, getting to his feet.
"No time?" Cromwell rose too, frowning. "Perhaps you have seen true and the king may be contemplating a dismissal, but the cardinal is even now at a council meeting where all is as usual or a messenger would have been sent to me."
Pasgen shook his head. "I cannot tell you the day or the hour, although I have strained my abilities to the uttermost—"
That much was true; he and Rhoslyn had pushed their ability to FarSee without the mirror and the power provided by the wan Sidhe of the tower to the limit.
"So." Cromwell shrugged. "Likely nothing will happen until the divorce case is remanded to Rome—"
"No!" Pasgen exclaimed. "I can tell you it will be soon, very soon. I have seen the cardinal at the head of the table in the council once—perhaps that would be today—or, perhaps twice. But then, I saw him in an empty room where I think he previously held court, and officers came to call him to the king's bench to answer some charge . . ." He shook his head, and loaded his words with warning. "Master Cromwell, I would not delay making whatever arrangements can be made."
When Harry stopped dead and stared around with wide eyes and open mouth, Denoriel's breath caught and he sought wildly for danger. After what the boy had seen during his time Underhill and the calm way he had accepted the High King and Queen and the creatures that inhabited Furhold, Denoriel could not imagine what horror could stop him in his tracks.
But, as it turned out, it was fortunate he was holding the saddle on his shoulder or he would have had his sword in his hand.
There was nothing! Could Oberon have given the boy enchanted sight as well as protection? Or the gift of presentiment, to warn him of danger?
"What it is, Harry?" he asked, forcing his voice calm.
"There can't be a faire this big," the boy said, breathlessly. "There can't be. I've been to faires. I've been to the markets in London. They were streets long, but this is as deep as it's wide. It's as big as a town. It's as big as London!"
"I thought you'd seen something that frightened you," Denoriel said, breathing out in relief. "It is a big market, but don't believe everything you see. Remember the sign. I would bet, though I'm not sure, that half of what we think we see is illusion."
"I'faith?"
"Yes, truly."
The boy shook his head. "It doesn't stink either. Is that an illusion too?"
Now Denoriel laughed. Of all of the things that had been difficult to get used to in the mortal world, the stench was the hardest. Eventually, he'd placed a spell on his own nose, to filter out the odors. "No, I don't think so. I suspect whatever it is that 'removes' those who don't obey the rules also removes the garbage."
FitzRoy giggled and squeezed Denoriel's hand. "Will you buy me a fairing? I would have somewhat to remember this by."
"Ah . . . do you remember? How we came to Underhill?"
"The monsters that pursued me? And how you swept me off my poor foundering horse and . . . and saved me?" His eyes grew wide with recollection. "How could I not remember?"
"And where we went and what we saw?" Denoriel persisted.
The boy was quiet and then he whispered, "I cannot say it. It is all clear in my head, but I cannot say it." His lips trembled and he firmed them. "I am sorry you do not trust me, Lord Denno. I promised I would not speak of what I saw, and I think I have been good of my promises in the past. I . . . I am ashamed that you do not trust me."
Denoriel dropped to one knee before the boy. "Not I, Harry. It was not I. The king or queen, perhaps. Likely the queen, since she touched you. It was for your good; so that none should say you were mad. Also they do not desire that where we live comes to the notice of your people. You are so many and we so few, you see, and you have cold iron."
"You think I would ever do anything to hurt you and yours, Lord Denno?" Now the wide eyes were filled with a world of hurt. "After all the good you have done me?"
Denoriel stood up again. "No, of course I don't, but the High King and Queen do not know everything that is between us, and do not really know you. And they have done you little harm, only made it impossible for you to betray their secret."
FitzRoy frowned. "I didn't say they did me any harm, but they most surely insulted me by their lack of trust. I said I would not speak of what I saw."
Denoriel sighed, but before he was able to think of a way to salve the child's hurt feelings, Matka Toimisto touched Denoriel's arm.
"Are we going to stand here all day?" the kitsune asked.
"No, we are ready to go. Shall I ask—"
"No need to ask. It took me five visits to track Master Treowth down, but I have him now, and the faire does not shift like so much of Underhill." The kitsune all but preened at his own cleverness. "Go straight ahead until you reach that very large blue-and-gray pavilion."
They walked as directed, but not exactly straight since Harry was continually crying, "Oh, look!" and tugging Denoriel off to the left or right to look at some displayed item. None were anything that Denoriel wanted FitzRoy to have; one that sent the boy into fits of laughter was so obscene that Denoriel pulled him away and scolded him.
FitzRoy looked up at him, totally astonished. "But it was only a fat jester slipping and sliding and doing tumbles. What is wrong with that?"
Denoriel could feel heat rising in his face. It was time, he thought, to find a woman. Apparently the toy was one each person saw as something different. What he had seen did not speak well for the state of his mind.
"I don't think that would work at all in the mortal world," he said. "Or, if it did, it would certainly cause a great deal of trouble. You can't have that one, Harry."
"I don't really want it." The boy glanced sidelong at him and grinned. "Well, if I could see what you saw, I might, but I suspect after the second or third time I saw the jester I would grow tired of him. That's why real jesters are necessary. They make up new things all the time."
The kitsune urged them on impatiently, and groaned each time Harry stopped, but he did not seem as anxious now as he had before. They were making reasonably good progress, only two or three items on the booths having drawn FitzRoy's attention, until suddenly the path was blocked by a corpulent Sidhe who reached for Matka Toimisto's arm. Denoriel and FitzRoy stopped and stared, neither having seen an overweight Sidhe before. The kitsune dodged around Denoriel.
"Where's the girl you promised me, kitsune?" the Sidhe growled.
"I didn't promise her to you," Matka Toimisto said. "All I said was that I would get her to talk to you."
The Sidhe glowered, and Denoriel sensed something that he did not like. "But you never brought her, did you?"
The kitsune's ears were flat to his head. "She was on her way, I swear it, but her father and two brothers grabbed her and . . . and I didn't see her again."
"But you had what you wanted from me, and it's not something you can give back, is it?" The stranger's smile held no humor in it. "So, you owe me a debt, kitsune."
Matka Toimisto cast a glance at Denoriel and sighed. "All right, I owe you, but no blood, no life, nothing that's a mortal danger. I would have found that turn on my own. Well, what do you want?"
The Sidhe laughed softly, "Half share of whatever you get from Treowth."
"But it isn't the kind of thing—" Matka Toimisto began, then stopped and frowned. "All right," he said, "half share."
"And don't think I won't find you. I—or my friends—will find you wherever . . ." He started to turn away then swung back to Denoriel. "What will you take for the boy?" he asked. "He isn't very pretty, but—"
Vaguely Denoriel was aware that Matka Toimisto had slipped away, but he was not concerned. He was reasonably certain that he would find the kitsune waiting for them at the blue-and-gray pavilion. For some reason Matka wanted his company, or Harry's. He shook his head at the Sidhe, and frowned.
"The boy is not for sale or trade, and you should be able to see that he has King Oberon's protection." He didn't understand this fellow—he wasn't precisely Unseleighe, but he wasn't Seleighe, either. In fact, Denoriel was beginning to wonder if he was Sidhe at all.
He certainly had an unpleasant smile. "Well, I'm not going to do him any harm, am I? He'll enjoy himself, I promise. Come, name a price. I have toys and joys you cannot imagine—"
"No!" Denoriel said. "And he isn't 'mine' to dispose of in any case. He is his own person."
"Oh, is he?" The Sidhe turned his attention to Harry. "Poor boy," he said. "I see that your protector is either poor or unkind. Here we are in the greatest faire in any world and he has not bought you so much as a stick of candy. I will buy you anything you want if you will come with me."
"Thank you kindly, sir," Harry replied, shrinking a bit closer to Denoriel, "but I cannot accept your offer. I am required to return to the mortal world as soon as I can. There are those there who will be anxious over my absence if I overstay the time."
Denoriel bit back a smile. Anxious was a miracle of understatement about what Harry's council must be feeling right now. He missed most of what the fat Sidhe was saying, however, because he suddenly realized that Harry had understood what was being said. And now, listening carefully, he realized that the language was not Elven. It was like the message boards at the Gate and the entrance. Whoever saw them saw them in his own language. Whatever language was spoken, each being understood in his own language. There must be a powerful spell set over the entire faire so that no one could misunderstand anything that was written or said. It might be the single most powerful spell Denoriel had ever heard of!
His attention was recalled when Harry shook his head and pulled gently on the hand he was holding. He turned the shoulder that held the saddle toward the fat Sidhe and began to walk toward him at a pace that showed he would walk right over him if he did not give way.
"The boy says no," he said firmly and clearly. "No it is. Let us go now. We have business with Master Treowth."
The corpulent being—Denoriel truly was no longer sure it was a Sidhe; it had not reacted properly to his mention of Oberon's protection and probably had not been able to see the glowing star—shrugged and walked away around a nearby booth. Denoriel watched for a moment, but it did seem to be going away, and he went toward the blue-and-gray pavilion again, stopping here and there to let Harry look at various displays. As he expected he found Matka Toimisto waiting.
Before he could speak to the kitsune, the proprietor of the part of the pavilion near where they had stopped came forward. He, or rather it, was apparently made of metal, its overlapping plates flexible enough so that it could move fluidly. Around the oval sitting atop its shoulders, which Denoriel assumed was its head, was a circular dark band within which bright sparks danced. Denoriel stopped to stare and found it was holding out an exquisite golden lap harp. About to shake his head, Denoriel remembered that Mwynwen occasionally played the lap harp. He put the saddle down on the ground between his feet and reached out, only to have the kitsune knock the instrument to the ground.
"You owe me again, kitsune!" the metal creature snarled.
"I don't owe you anything now," Matka Toimisto snarled back. "I've just saved your metal skin. Talk, that's one thing. Harm's another. That's iron under the gold."
"Well, and so what? It's up to the buyer to watch out. If he can't see that it isn't solid gold, that's his problem not mine."
"Iron hurts Sidhe, you fool. Our debt's cancelled. I told you I've saved your worthless carcass. If he took that and was hurt or died, you'd be removed."
"Ignorance isn't violence," the metal being retorted. "How was I supposed to know?"
But Denoriel thought the thing did know, thought he recognized the sound of the voice as that of the corpulent Sidhe. It was very hard to read malice in a band of sparkling darkness on an otherwise featureless metal face, but he felt malice. And he wondered whether the metal being had hoped to incapacitate him and somehow snatch Harry. He wasn't sure whatever it was believed in removal.
The kitsune picked up the lap harp and replaced it on the sales counter. Denoriel shrugged and turned away. The boy was tugging on his hand. He picked up the saddle.
"Look." Harry pointed at an object another of the metal creatures was holding out. "That's what I want, Lord Denno, please?"
"What in the world is it?" Denoriel asked.
It was made of a silvery metal, somewhat like the bodies of the metal beings, but like them it caused Denoriel no discomfort. It had a curved handle obviously meant to be held in the hand attached to what seemed to be a narrow pipe above which was fixed a small, flat, rectangular box, little wider than the pipe. On the underside, where it could be reached by an extended finger, was a curved trigger like that of a crossbow.
Wordlessly, the metal being pulled the rectangular box out of the thing revealing a long open slot in the pipe. It reached into a leather pouch and withdrew five darts, which it dropped in before it replaced the box atop the pipe. Then it unscrewed the curved handle, fitted to it a pumping mechanism which forced open a valve and proceeded to pump nothing into the handle. When the pump would no longer depress, it was pulled free, the valve closed, and the handle was screwed back into the pipe.
The being then turned, pointed the whatever-it-was at a target at the back of the pavilion, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp hiss and one of the stubby darts appeared in the target, sunk right up to where it widened. Denoriel gasped. Harry crowed.
"Please, Lord Denno, please?"
"What is it called?" Denoriel asked.
"A gun," the metal being said.
Gun. Denoriel was familiar with the word; it referred to various instruments of iron that threw out metal pellets, expelled with great force by the explosion of black powder. That was a mortal invention that the Sidhe wanted no part of. It was one of the reasons that they were so determined to keep their very existence a secret from mortals. But those guns were huge. This one . . .
Denoriel put the saddle down again and held out his free hand. The metal thing put the gun into it. Denoriel turned it this way and that, careful not to touch the trigger, which he now saw was caught by a hook that would prevent it from being pressed back and allowing the gun to fire. There was nothing at all about the object to suggest it was Sidhe work. The thing had a rather crude appearance, the metal rather uneven and unfinished looking, like a casting that had not been polished.
"It isn't like any gun I've ever seen, and it doesn't use black powder," Denoriel muttered.
"So it isn't against the rules," Harry said eagerly. "I'm not allowed to use black powder yet. Sir Edward thinks I'll blow myself up or set fire to my apartment. I'm not such a fool. But this doesn't have black powder."
"How will we ever explain it?" Denoriel asked, unable to resist the pleading in the boy's eyes.
"I'll hide it unless I need it. Anyway, I can always say you gave it to me—that would be true—and that I had no idea from where you got it."
"And what do you think you'll need it for?" Denoriel asked, fighting a rearguard action against total yielding.
The boy's face grew surprisingly hard. "I'll have iron darts made for it, cold iron. I can bring one of these to the blacksmith and he can copy it. I'll say it's a game piece. And if anyone chases me ever again, I'll shoot them with cold iron."
And Denoriel remembered that he had seriously considered not following the cortege this time, and Harry could have been taken. Likely there was no need any more, with Oberon's blue star blazing on Harry's forehead, but there were non-Sidhe threats to the boy too. He glanced at the dart in the target. It looked as if that would have gone right through a mortal.
"What will you take for the gun?" he asked.
The first metal being had been sidling closer. Now he spoke urgently to the second.
"The boy?" the second metal creature said tentatively.
Denoriel glanced at the first being and laughed. "I have said several times that the boy is not for sale or trade. He is a free person. I do not own him. Besides which, it is the boy for whom I want the gun."
"Come with us, boy," the first metal being said. "I will give you all the guns you like, far handsomer than this one, which is a cheap thing only made for trade. Come, I will show you—"
Whereupon the second metal being swiftly touched the first on a silvery knob on one side of the sparkling band that ran around its head. For an instant the sparkles blazed into a solid band of light; then the band went dark and the creature stood still.
Had the second harmed the first? If so, the removal spell did not recognize what the creature had done as violence. Interesting. Denoriel shrugged, put the gun down on the counter, and picked up the saddle.
"Lord Denno?" Harry's voice was small and pleading. "Even if it is just a cheap thing, I'd like to have it. If we were going to stay long and could look around, maybe we could find a better one, but if you're going to take me home right away, we won't have time to look. Please."
Denoriel sighed like one much put upon. "So, how much? I have ears. I heard what your fellow being said—a cheap item for trade."
"That." The metal being pointed at the saddle on Denoriel's shoulder.
"The saddle? You want my saddle for the gun?"
The disbelief in Denoriel's voice at the offer to exchange something that was rather wonderful for so mundane an object as a saddle must have come across to the metal creature as shocked rejection at the thought of giving up his precious possession. It put a possessive finger—there were only two and a gripping thumb Denoriel noticed—on the gun, nodded decisively, and leaned forward to touch the saddle.
Harry had not attended numerous chaffering sessions with Mistress Bethany without learning something. He was going to be the stupid, eager buyer, careless of the value of what was traded. He tugged at Denoriel's hand.
"Oh, please, Lord Denno. Please. I'll get you another saddle. I promise I will, and it will be just as fine as this one that you've insisted on carrying with you wherever we've gone. Please, Lord Denno. I'll have a special saddle made for you when we get home, if you'll get me the gun."
Denoriel allowed the saddle to slide from his shoulder to where he could clutch it against his chest. He started to shake his head. Harry began to plead with him again. The metal creature began to curl its hand around the gun. Harry snatched it from the being's hand and held it up. Denoriel turned his head toward the gun and saw from the corner of his eye that sparkles were beginning to light the darkness of the band around the head of the first metal being. It had not really been harmed then, just temporarily silenced. He had better finish this business and get the gun before that one woke up completely.
As if he were doing something he already regretted, Denoriel released a great sigh and let the saddle slide further down right onto the counter. He kept one hand on it, however, the fingers curved around one edge as if he was ready to snatch it back into his arms.
"Everything goes with the gun, right?" he asked. "The pump thing, the bag of darts, and an extra square part."
Harry yipped and clutched the gun to his chest. Denoriel told him to be careful lest he shoot himself. The metal being began to expostulate about the cost of the pump and the darts. Denoriel noticed more sparkles dancing around the headband of the immobilized metal creature and that one of its hands was twitching. He shrugged, reached into his purse, and threw a golden guinea on to the table.
"Take the pump and the pouch, Harry," he said. "Unless the trader wants more. In that case, just put the gun down and let me take my saddle back. I'm sure we can spare the time later to look for another gun."
Silently the trader handed over the pump and the pouch. Denoriel stroked the saddle. Harry tucked the gun into one of the capacious pockets of his gown and followed it with the pouch. Then he took the pump in hand and started away from the pavilion, tugging at Denoriel, who gave the saddle one last stroke and then followed the boy's lead.
At the next side alley, the kitsune appeared and gestured for them to follow him into it. When they reached him he was shaking with laughter.