"That's the best example of biter bit I've ever seen," Matka Toimisto gurgled. "You two should set up a booth here. You'd be rich in no time. What with the boy's wide-eyed wonder and you looking as if your heart would break over that stupid saddle . . . That was the slickest piece of trading I've seen in a long time. And why in the twelve planes of Hell have you been carrying that thing around anyway?"
"There aren't twelve planes of Hell," Denoriel said absently, counting steps and turns and fixing them and whatever landmarks he could spot in his mind as they worked their way through the narrower, back alleys of the faire.
The kitsune frowned. "Was there something special about that saddle?"
"No, nothing at all. I'm glad we're taking such a circuitous route. I have a feeling there'll be a metal army on our heels soon."
"Maybe not." Toimisto shrugged, and seemed singularly unconcerned. "One thing this market does teach is that what's waste to one being is precious to another. So, why were you carrying it?"
"For the purpose it served. As an item of trade. And, kitsune, I'm not blind. This is the fourth time I've seen that weapons booth." He frowned. "We've been going in a circle of sorts."
"That's right," Matka said, agreeably. "Once passed widdershins, once deosil, then once more widdershins. Fourth time a square should open . . . ah, there it is."
Denoriel noticed that the kitsune sighed slightly with relief. Perhaps the complicated path they had taken had not been purposely to confuse him. Not that it had. Denoriel was one of the most skilled of the Wild Hunt and he could track and remember the hiding places of the slyest of mortals. He would remember the way to Magus Treowth's lodging.
This, however, did seem to be the end of the road. They crossed the square, which looked surprisingly like any square of houses of the wealthy in mortal London, and came to a tall, narrow building. Matka Toimisto knocked on the door.
A large eye opened in the wood. A mouth formed below it. "You again," the mouth said. "Go away."
"But I brought someone I know you want to see," Matka said urgently. "Look behind me." He stepped aside, but not so far aside that he could not get through the door if it opened. "Here is Lord Denoriel and the mortal boy he is guarding. They need a path into the mortal world."
There was only silence. Denoriel stepped closer. "Magus Treowth," he said. "I am sorry to trouble you, but two Gates that Magus Gilfaethwy made for me were meddled with. One destroyed itself. I did not dare try the other. I need to know if the Gates you built for me are safe to use. I cannot risk this mortal boy. He is precious."
The door popped open. The kitsune slid inside and seemed to disappear. Magus Treowth appeared halfway down a steep flight of stairs, and he was in a temper. Denoriel braced himself, but did not have a chance to warn Harry.
"Who would dare meddle with my Gates?" he roared.
Harry winced, wide-eyed, and shrank behind Denoriel.
"I don't know whether your Gates were changed or not," Denoriel said. "That's what I came here to find out. I do know that Magus Gilfaethwy blamed me for trying to repattern his Gates—which I had not done—and told me that both the Gates he had built for me had been damaged. As to who . . . I have no proof, but I believe with near certainty that it was my half-brother."
The mage glared at him, as if he suspected a trick. "Why?"
An unhappy frown creased Denoriel's brow and—somewhat to his own surprise—he felt a surge of emotional pain. "I think he wanted to kill me." He shook his head, and swallowed. There had always been an intense rivalry between himself and Pasgen, but there had been an unspoken agreement between them, or so he'd thought. After all, they were blood-kin. . . . "I knew he didn't like me—well, I don't like him—but kill me?"
But the mage snorted. "If he thought he could kill you by damaging a Gate, he's a fool and knows nothing about Gates. It's true that the Gate anchor itself would explode and burn, but anything or anyone inside the Gate would just be cast out, usually into the chaos lands."
"Truly?" Denoriel felt his frown fading. "Of course, you must know, no one knows as much about it as you do. Pasgen knows a great deal about Gates, about magic in general, much more than I do. But he couldn't have known that I'd have Harry with me, so I thought he wanted to destroy me." He smiled, feeling a great deal of relief—though for the life of him, he couldn't have told why. "My dear half-brother just wanted me to be lost for a while so I wouldn't interfere with exactly what I did interfere with."
"Maybe that makes sense to you," Treowth said, and sighed. "All right, come up to my workroom and I'll see what I can discover."
Meanwhile FitzRoy had been tugging at Denoriel's hand, and when Denoriel looked down at him he said plaintively, "Breakfast was a long time ago, Lord Denno. I'm hungry."
"Of course you are," Denoriel said. "I am, too." He looked up at the Magus Major. "Magus Treowth, I must feed my young charge here. Can you recommend a safe food stall, and can I purchase something for you as well as for the boy and myself?"
"Boy." Magus Treowth looked down at FitzRoy. "Yes, we can't starve the child." His head swung, his gaze fixed on the fox-man. "Kitsune, go out and bring food enough for all of us—even you, you worthless toy."
Then he gestured for Denoriel and FitzRoy to come up and opened a door on a room full of books. However, there was a table and some chairs in the center, and a gesture and muttered word sent the books spinning back onto the shelves. Another gesture brought a most peculiar thing to the table, a snarl of golden wires that offered several ends and loops which seemed to promise that if you pulled the right one the whole device would unfold into something fascinating.
"Yes, yes, boy," Treowth said in answer to FitzRoy's inquiring glance, "go ahead and try to unwind that while we wait for out dinner."
FitzRoy narrowed his eyes and tucked the pump away in one of his hanging sleeves to free both hands. He did not do the obvious thing, which was to pull a loose end. Instead he grabbed a loop and carefully pushed it back through the strands of wire that were holding it. The tangle of wires began to unfold, but only the part where the loop had been seemed straightened. The remainder looked even worse. FitzRoy took his lower lip between his teeth and began to look for another likely spot to work on.
"Now," Treowth said to Denoriel, "he won't hear us—oh, he'll know we're talking but won't make sense of what we say. How and why did Oberon mark the child?"
"You know of the FarSeer's prediction about the red-haired babe?"
"If I knew I've forgotten." The mage shook his head. "Tell me again."
So Denoriel gave a swift and abbreviated version of what the coming of the red-haired child would produce and what the failure of that child's acceding to the throne would produce. Treowth winced now and again, but didn't interrupt except to ask why, if FitzRoy was not the red-haired child, he was so important. Denoriel admitted he did not know, only that it was his duty to protect the child. "There is something about him that is important to the welfare of the babe, but we have been unable to FarSee what it is."
"Then with Oberon's mark on him, you can keep him Underhill," the mage observed, clinically.
He sighed. Life would be so much easier, if only that were true! "I wish I could. Poor Harry wishes so too, but he is too near the seat of power in England. If he went missing, so ferocious an investigation would be carried out that the very secret of Underhill would be in danger and his father, who is king, might launch an attack to regain him."
"Then he must be returned," Treowth said. He pulled on his lower lip, and muttered something under his breath. "Well, it will not always be the case that we must go in fear of mortal discovery. Some day I will have the secret of how to resist mortal weapons."
Denoriel looked at him in surprise, and for the first time, the irascible mage smiled. "That is why I am here, where stranger things than those of the mortal world are available. There are certain weapons . . . but they need a power we do not have."
"Weapons?" Denoriel asked unhappily.
The mage gestured vaguely. "To use as a shield, something that will turn their cold iron red hot and make it impossible to hold, or to change it into some other metal that cannot harm the Sidhe."
Denoriel shook his head. "But if they are defenseless, will not they be abused?"
The magus looked at him and sighed. "As many of them as there are, they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers. We must have some protection. Gilfaethwy is working on the same problem, but he thinks he can find a way to make the Sidhe resistant to cold iron. He thinks it is something in the blood."
"In the blood of mortals?" Denoriel was pleasantly surprised. That explained Gilfaethwy's desire for mortal blood in a most innocent manner.
"No matter." Treowth waved a hand. "You need passage to the mortal world to return the child. I will add a pattern to your Gate to take you the same distance as but in a direction opposite to where the destroyed Gate was anchored."
"But I think my half-brother will be able—"
"He will be able to do nothing, nor will his master, no matter how powerful. No one will meddle with my Gate." He smiled, ferally. "At least, anyone who does meddle will get a very rude surprise."
As if time had been somewhat suspended while he and Treowth spoke, when the Magus Major finished, Harry pulled a new strand of the golden wire and the whole mass unfolded and reformed itself into a narrow shape, rather like a small whale but with enormous outstretched flippers. The boy crowed with delight and the door opened showing the kitsune carrying a large tray with many bowls and covered containers on it.
"Eat," Treowth said, and promptly disappeared.
They were just finishing their meal, having put aside a portion of each dish for the magus, when Treowth walked in the door. He came to the table and smiled at FitzRoy, who touched the golden creation and said it was beautiful.
"Unfortunately it will not work in the mortal world so I cannot let you take it with you," Treowth said. It appeared that not even Treowth was proof against Harry's charm.
"Oh, no, sir, I couldn't take it anyway," Harry demurred. "It's too big to hide and . . . how would I ever explain it? I'm supposed to be lost in the woods."
"A most sensible child." Treowth patted FitzRoy on the head and the boy grimaced, but the magus did not seem to notice. To Denoriel he said, "If you are ready?"
Denoriel stood up and Harry did so too. Denoriel took the boy's hand.
"I will send you to the Gate at Logres," Treowth said.
"If you please, magus, we need to leave the Bazaar afoot," he demurred. "Our elvensteeds are waiting at the entrance to the Bazaar. We cannot abandon them."
Treowth shook his head, and chuckled. "Fool. They know. They will meet you at the Gate."
"Thank you," FitzRoy and Denoriel said in chorus, but found they were talking to the chalcedony pillars of the Gate.
FitzRoy bounced off the white marble dais and ran to Lady Aeron who was, as Treowth had promised, waiting. Denoriel gave the boy a leg up into the saddle Lady Aeron produced for him and then mounted Miralys. They were back at the palace of Llachar Lle in moments. Denoriel was very happy to see that the great gates were closed and the wide corridor was empty.
In Denoriel's apartment, FitzRoy changed back into the soiled clothing he had been wearing when he had first arrived. The sleeves and pockets were not as capacious, but the gun, pouch, and pump were tucked away. Denoriel then dirtied the boy's face and hands and finally stood with his head cocked to the side.
"How about a few tears, Harry?"
"I'm too big to cry," the boy replied indignantly.
"Even if you were lost in the woods?"
"Well . . ." FitzRoy hesitated. "You know, I don't think I can say I was lost in the woods. They'll have had the whole castle guard combing the area and they'll have found my horse. I'll have to find a place to hide. There's charcoal burners' huts in the wood. If I was locked into one of those and maybe tied and gagged—"
"That's very clever, Harry, but you can't be tied and gagged. It wouldn't be comfortable for you, and they'll expect to see marks on your wrists and face after all these hours. Just say whoever dragged you in there held your nose and poured something down your throat. If you were drugged, you'd have been asleep and unable to call for help. Then when you woke up and started calling for help . . . I'll see that Ladbroke or Dunstan is there to hear you."
The boy grinned with delight at the idea of being the hero of such an adventure, but Denoriel shook his head. "Don't be so pleased," he said. "I doubt there'll be any hunting for you this autumn. In fact, I will give odds that that's the last time you go out riding for a long time."
The grin disappeared and FitzRoy sighed. "I know, and they'll probably watch me in the keep nearly as carefully as outside if I say I was snatched off my horse. It can't be helped, and I'll have my gun to practice with and . . . and a lot to think about." He hesitated and then said, "You'll come to see me, won't you, Lord Denno?"
"Of course I'll come," he assured the boy, "although God only knows what excuse I can conjure up in order to come up here in the autumn. Don't worry, I shall manage."
They went out then, and remounted the waiting elvensteeds. When Denoriel thought about a destination, a glowing oval appeared with four dark spots. One, Denoriel knew was the Gate under the stair in Sheriff Hutton; mentally he rejected it and it disappeared. A second was his house in London; that, too, vanished, as did the mark that represented the copse near Windsor. The one remaining spot became blacker and then larger and larger. When it would accept her, Lady Aeron stepped through; Miralys followed.
The blackness did not lift, and Denoriel was momentarily panicked. Then he realized that the darkness was simply full night in a moonless wood. His eyes soon adjusted and he saw they were in a thicket that had grown up around the stump of a huge tree that lay on its side so that the enormous roots formed almost a small cave. Lady Aeron's pale hide gleamed a few feet ahead. She was already walking toward a rather overgrown opening that had long ago been cut through the thicket so the charcoal burners could harvest the tree branches.
A very short, also badly overgrown path, led to a much more used trail. This showed not only ruts made by the wheels of a cart, but footprints too. Fortunately the marks were not fresh. It looked as if the charcoal cutters had passed through a week or so earlier. Perhaps they had been checking on their ovens, making ready for the busiest burning season, just before winter.
Denoriel looked back and gestured. Hoofprints and tiny signs of the elvensteeds' passage, like broken twigs and torn leaves, disappeared. The opening from which they had come was now more overgrown. Denoriel nodded and followed the direction of the footprints on the trail, listening intently, but there were no sounds beyond those of a normal night.
When they reached the woodcutter's hut and FitzRoy had to part with Lady Aeron, Denoriel got the tears he had wanted. They weren't for fear of being locked up in the dark but for parting with his elvensteed.
"I might never see you again," the boy sobbed into her mane.
The steed nuzzled him with her soft muzzle and lipped at his hair. Miralys came near also, and nudged FitzRoy's shoulder. Denoriel hugged him too.
"I can't promise," the Sidhe said, "but if there's an opportunity—if there's a time when your absence won't be noticed—I'll come for you. There are places to hunt where we were, we could . . . but don't think about that now. You need to look scared." He hugged the boy again. "Don't be. Not really. I won't be far and no one is really hunting you."
Denoriel was as good as his word. It took him less than half an hour to find Ladbroke, whom he led to the charcoal burners' hut. He looked meaningfully into Ladbroke's eyes for a moment, then turned Miralys and rode away.
Ladbroke shouted FitzRoy's name and inside the shed, the boy heard him with relief, shouted back and ran to pound on the door.
Pausing only to summon Reeve Tolliver and Dunstan by the use of a shrill whistle, he pushed up the crude wooden bar that kept the door closed and FitzRoy tumbled out into his arms. Ladbroke held the boy tight, weeping with relief and FitzRoy patted him comfortingly on the back, also shedding a few tears, partly for the lost Lady Aeron and partly in relief, because a half hour is a long time for a boy to be alone in the dark.
When Reeve Tolliver arrived, gasping more with terror than with effort, and saw his master, he did more than weep; he knelt on the ground and kissed FitzRoy's feet. Only a few years separated Reeve from the starving boy Ladbroke had found abandoned in a church yard; no one wanted the stable ostler's son when his father died. Tolliver knew that FitzRoy was the source of his food, his shelter, all the stability in his life.
Dunstan also embraced his charge, but he immediately proffered a flask of water and a roll, which he had been prudently carrying. FitzRoy drank the water eagerly and then began to pick at the roll—he had eaten very well at Treowth's table but he would not speak of that. Instead he reminded himself of Lord Denno's story about the drugged drink and complained of a foul taste in his mouth.
Finally Ladbroke ran down the charcoal burners' track, shouting for FitzRoy's personal guardsmen. They were the only ones still searching; the others had given up when the light failed. Sir Edward had then sent out summons to the other councilors with appeals for more men, for a veritable army of men, intending at dawn to search outward from the road foot by foot.
Ladbroke shouted "Found! Found safe!" as he ran down the road, and soon roars of joy drifted back.
Meanwhile Dunstan and Tolliver had offered to carry FitzRoy, which he refused, saying he was eager to walk after having slept for so long. He asked if his horse had escaped, and was assured that it had, although it had been found in a completely different part of the wood. Two of the guardsmen soon met them on the track. The other two had gone running back to Sheriff Hutton.
There, even Sir Edward enfolded FitzRoy in his arms and wept with relief and joy as he stuttered questions about what had happened, where the boy had been.
Mistress Bethany cried out in protest at the questions. She wanted FitzRoy to have a meal in bed and then sleep. The boy patted her but shook his head.
"Been asleep," he said. "Don't want to go to bed. And my mouth tastes foul so I'm not very hungry."
"What happened, Your Grace?" Sir Edward asked. "Where have you been all this time? We searched. God knows we searched and called for you."
"Happened? Well, those things—monsters? demons?—scared my horse—" He shuddered, then looked defiantly at Sir Edward. "Scared me, too, but I didn't fall off. Only I couldn't stop the horse from running away. And then I realized two men were chasing me. My poor horse was so tired, and they caught up. One of them grabbed the horse, the other grabbed me and dragged me out of the saddle. Threw a cloak or a blanket over me. I couldn't squirm free and . . . and I could feel the horse was moving pretty fast. I didn't think it would be smart to try to jump."
"No! God's grace, no. You could have been hurt . . . killed. But did you see them? I've got men hiding near the charcoal burner's hut. Surely they intended to come back for you as soon as the search died down. Thank God your guards and servants wouldn't give up. If we catch anyone, would you be able to say they were the ones that captured you?"
FitzRoy shook his head. "I don't know. They were behind me most of the time and when we were in the hut and they made me drink that stuff that put me to sleep, it was too dark to see much. They were dark-haired and dark-eyed, I think, and one had a neat beard. And I didn't understand the language they spoke. It sounded a bit like French, but it wasn't French. I can speak French."
FitzRoy described the men who had attacked him years ago in Windsor; their appearances were burned into his memory. He knew they were dead. Lord Denno had told him that they were dead not long after the attack, when he had expressed a fear of being attacked again. It was safe to use their faces and the way they spoke, so he wouldn't by accident describe someone he had seen around the castle or village and get an innocent person into trouble.
By the time Sir Edward had asked all his questions at least three times, FitzRoy was drooping. He claimed to have been in a drugged sleep all day, but actually he had been wide awake and having some very exciting adventures—singing in Furhold and passing through the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Eventually Mistress Bethany got her way and he was escorted back to his apartment by his own people and another ten guardsmen.
He ate a little of the meal Bethy brought and then dismissed her. He thought about sending Dunstan away too, but then decided he needed at least one ally, and without speaking brought out the gun, the pouch, and the pump. Dunstan stared at them, open-mouthed.
"We need to hide them," FitzRoy said.
"Where have you been, Your Grace?" Dunstan breathed, but he didn't wait for an answer, gathering up the gun and its accoutrements.
Staggering with sleepiness now, FitzRoy followed him and saw him stow everything away in a bottom drawer of a chest in the dressing room that held odd tools and rags for repairing chains and settings for jewels and other decorative metal adornments on clothing that might be damaged by wear. The gun itself he partially concealed under a rag in a far back corner of the drawer; the remainder of the objects he simply tossed into the drawer and left in plain sight.
FitzRoy breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone looked into the drawer, those odd parts would draw no curiosity. They seemed to belong among the odd tools. Before Dunstan closed the drawer, however, FitzRoy removed one of the stubby darts from the pouch.
"I need to get the blacksmith to copy this—only in cold iron," he said to Dunstan. The valet's eyes widened, and FitzRoy knew that Dunstan understood and breathed another small sigh of relief.
His confidence was justified. Dunstan was surely aware that magic had been used to try to abduct FitzRoy. He must have known, or learned, that Reeve Tolliver had been disguised by illusion to look like his master. Dunstan and everyone else had seen the monsters attack. Cold iron was a defense, at least against some of the creatures.
"I'll see to it, Your Grace," Dunstan said, face and voice grim.
The valet put the dart away in his pocket and began to remove FitzRoy's clothing. Now FitzRoy recalled that Dunstan and Ladbroke had been recommended to his service by Lord Denno. He felt warm and protected, almost as if Lord Denno was there. He was quite sure that Dunstan and Ladbroke knew what Lord Denno was. Likely they knew about, possibly even had been to, Underhill.
Tears came to FitzRoy's eyes. He would so have liked to talk about it, to tell someone about Lady Aeron and how riding her was a whole new thing—but he knew he could not and he suspected from Dunstan's expression that he could not either.
Here they were, trapped in silence, and yet—he exchanged another look with Dunstan, and the latter nodded. "Fostering, m'lord," the man said, quietly. "We've been fostered 'mongst Lord Denno's folk."
That was all he needed to say. FitzRoy sighed, and smiled. "Wonderful," he said softly. The spell upon him allowed him that much.
"Oh, aye, Your Grace," Dunstan said, with a smile that reached and warmed his eyes. "Every bit of that."