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Chapter 7

Vidal Dhu was in a foul mood. The dismembered parts of a half-dozen imps strewed the floor of his workroom. Five had come to their well-deserved fate through their inability to find Pasgen even though Vidal had reproduced for them not only Pasgen's appearance but the essence of Pasgen's being . . . as closely as he could remember it. But the imps failed him, time and time again. All his efforts had been useless and fury and frustration had brought death and destruction. Now he could not get an imp to approach him.

Usually imps came to him willingly because they enjoyed the pain and misery his messages caused. What was even more delightful so far as they were concerned, Vidal never minded that they inflicted their own small tortures on those to whom they carried his commands—provided, of course that the beings in question were weaker than the imps, for imps were cowards at heart. Nor did they usually care when he injured or killed one of them, since those that survived were allowed to tear what was left of his victim apart and eat it.

Normally, that is. Only now, his fury was warning them away.

That, of course, made him even more furious. Why am I so surrounded by incompetence? It was certainly not his fault that the imps were stupid, and failed in anything more complicated than bearing a simple message. It was maddening that even when they brought him an answer to the message, it was only bad news. Of course he was furious! Any rational being would be!

That was what had befallen the sixth imp. It had brought bad news from the servant in Fagildo Otstargi's house in London. Vidal ground his teeth and kicked the pieces of imp around the room, stamping down on one torso that quivered although its legs and one arm were gone.

Why had not that stupid servant of Otstargi's warned him that Baron Wriothesley, the tool he had so carefully shaped and controlled, had been more damaged by King Henry's death than he expected? In his heart, Vidal knew why; the servant was so mind-blocked he was far beyond thinking—but Vidal did not want to acknowledge that. Acknowledging that a failure was his and his alone was not an option.

Idiot servant! Vidal told himself he would tear the stupid mortal apart . . . He drew a long breath. No, he would not. Mortal servants were not so easy to replace as imps. Grinding his teeth again, he Gated himself out of the hidden workroom into Fagildo Otstargi's house in London.

As he arrived, Vidal took on the appearance of Otstargi—not so much different from his own except for the round ears and eye pupils. As he checked the appearance briefly in the mirror in the bedchamber, his breath drew in sharply. Had Pasgen chosen Otstargi's appearance deliberately to look like him? Had Pasgen planned to blame him for any crimes committed against Oberon's laws? If so, he had another bone to pick with that overindulged Sidhe.

After one last, fuming glance into the mirror, Vidal went out the door. He walked down the stairs and into the chamber Otstargi used to see clients and rang the bell that sat on the table.

It was fortunate that the servant was so slow. In one way it irritated Vidal further; in another, however, it reminded him that the servant was scarcely more than half alive and gave him time to control his rage. Eventually the servant shambled into the chamber. He showed no surprise at his master's presence, although Vidal had not played Otstargi in months. Had Pasgen been there?

Vidal was not concerned that the servant would lie; he would have no chance to do so. With utter indifference to any further damage to the servant, Vidal stripped his mind of all that had happened since he was last there: First, Pasgen had not returned to the house at any time. Second, Baron Wriothesley had come twice in the past week to ask for Otstargi; the second time he had struck the servant for not being able to tell him when Otstargi would return. Third, four other messages were waiting.

Being told to do so, the servant brought the salver on which the messages lay. Vidal opened them swiftly and breathed out quietly, his mood somewhat improved. All except one of the messages had been written after King Henry's death had been announced. That was very good. No one would know how long he had really been absent. Otstargi could write to each of them, saying he had returned as quickly as he could when the news of the king's death came to him and offer appointments the next day.

The three clients, useful but not really molded tools so that their dependence on him was not great, would accept that excuse for his lack of response for a few days. From three of them he could garner valuable news . . . He made a sour moue. It was likely he would need it since he could not lay hands on Pasgen and was forced to deal with Henry's courtiers by himself.

The last message had been written very early in the morning of the twenty-eighth of January, although it had been delivered later in the day. Henry had died only hours before and the death had deliberately been concealed. Vidal noted the name with care: Richard Rich. Not previously a client. Vidal's lips curved. Where had Rich got Otstargi's name? No matter. It was clear to Vidal that Rich was a man whose own interests came first with him. Such a man was most easily bent, although likely he could not be broken. Vidal's lips twisted. Of course not. There was nothing in the man to break.

Vidal wrote carefully to Rich, saying he would be honored to meet him at any time Rich proposed. To Wriothesley his note was more abrupt, saying he had returned only that morning but if the chancellor needed so badly to talk to him, he could make time that evening. He was not really surprised to hear the bell and then the servant's slow steps less than an hour after the servant had dispatched various street boys with the message.

"That will be Baron Wriothesley," Vidal called to the servant as soon as he heard the front door open. To that stupid human it would sound as if Vidal had predicted his too-early arrival. Ironic, really, that Vidal did have arcane powers—they simply did not include FarSeeing.

"Where have you been, man?" Wriothesley gasped as he came in the door to Otstargi's closet. "King Henry died—"

"Yes, I knew when he died," Vidal interrupted, "but only when it actually happened. Three times before this he had trembled on the brink. Twice I started back to England, only to have him greeting ambassadors the next day, so I am afraid I discounted much of the news of his failing."

"What am I to do? That upstart Edward Seymour is trying to seize the whole government, just because he is the king's uncle. He is at heart a rabid reformer. He will drive us even further from the good old faith . . ."

After urging him to sit down, Vidal let Wriothesley talk. Let him speak with indignation about how Seymour and Paget had concealed the king's death until Seymour could get the new little king into his own hands. It was all news that Vidal could use and essentially he was in sympathy with Wriothesley. Vidal did not like Edward Seymour any better than Wriothesley did, though for entirely different reasons.

After Henry had married Jane Seymour and she had borne him a living son, Vidal had made a tentative approach to Edward Seymour. The Seymours were in fact upstarts, as Edward Seymour had only been ennobled as earl of Hertford, after his sister's marriage. Otstargi's approach should have been welcomed by one who had so few friends and connections in Court; instead it had been coldly rejected. Well, Vidal thought, Seymour would have to go.

Then Vidal jerked out of his own thoughts to full attention to what Wriothesley was saying. He had been bemoaning his opposition to Seymour and that he might lose his place as chancellor. But he had had a brilliant idea of how to redeem himself. He was formulating a proposal to the earl of Arran, the Scottish regent, and to Mary of Guise, the infant Scottish princess' mother, that he believed would get little Mary to be Edward's wife.

"You fool!" Vidal snarled. "What have you done?"

"I am not a fool!" Wriothesley snapped back. "Oh, yes, you can often see that this or that may happen, but it is I who again and again have arranged for the happening to take place. It will be best for this nation, and for Scotland too, that Princess Mary wed King Edward. The endless wars that drain our substance will be ended. By my plan, England will not interfere in the Scottish government and the Scots will be free to form their own Church, which will please the earl of Arran, but Mary will be raised Catholic, which will pacify her mother. God willing, Mary will draw her husband to the true faith, and who cares if the Scots go to Hell for . . ."

Wriothesley had got this far in his explanation because Vidal was speechless with rage. He actually had to clench his fists to curb the simmering power from blasting Wriothesley, but he dared not do that until he knew how far this proposal had gone. It was, he feared, something the earl of Arran would be happy to embrace. Mary of Guise less so, even if the baby princess was raised a Catholic. Still, if enough pressure was brought to bear on her, she might agree.

Mary would try to resist; she wished to tie Scotland even closer to France with a marriage of the princess into the French royal house. Vidal was an enthusiastic supporter of this idea, which would ensure the war between England and Scotland would continue, probably long into the future. There were French princes enough to spare, but Vidal had high hopes that Francis, the heir to the throne, would be chosen, that Scotland would thus be irrevocably tied to French policy, which was most often opposed to England.

"Whom have you told of this plan?" Vidal's voice grated.

"Paget for one and several others, who all thought very well of it," Wriothesley said resentfully.

Vidal barely refrained from spitting in Wriothesley's face. If Paget knew and approved of Wriothesley's plan, there was little hope that the plan would not be brought up in Council, which meant news of it would surely be carried to Scotland. And without him there, stiffening Arran's spine and urging Mary of Guise to stand her ground, who knew but that the Scottish government would agree to the marriage.

"Perhaps they did," Vidal snarled, "but it is not good for you. You have paid me to look out for your interests and I have done so. This plan, whatever its effect on England and Scotland—I have not considered that—will ruin you!"

"Nonsense," Wriothesley said. "If it is my plan and all think it good, how can it harm me?"

"Will Seymour be pleased that the other Councilors wish to follow your lead in this matter? And how long do you think it will remain your plan rather than Hertford's? He will be doubly eager to be rid of you to remove you from the memories of the other Councilors."

There was a silence while Wriothesley considered and then, weakly, he asked, "Then what am I to do?"

Vidal wanted desperately to tell the stupid peacock to get out of his sight and stay out of it, but if he did, his other clients would feel he was disloyal and abandon him. And if Wriothesley was out of the government, he would need news. After a moment of staring into nothing, he shook his head.

"I do not think it matters what you do now, Baron Wriothesley," Vidal said, at least getting some satisfaction from the expression of dismay on Wriothesley's face. He could not leave it there, however, or Wriothesley would rush off to tell all the people who knew he went to Otstargi that the soothsayer would desert them at the first difficulty. "I am sorry," he continued, "that you will likely lose your office—I can do nothing about that. However, I have this comfort for you. Hertford will not rule England for long"—if Wriothesley took that as a prediction, that was fine, since Vidal intended to see that Hertford did not rule long—"and if the other Councilors remember you opposed Hertford's policies you may well come back into office."

Wriothesley was silent for a moment and then looked down at his hands. "There is no way that I can hold my position?"

Swept with irritation, Vidal snarled, "Be glad I have Seen no blood flowing over your image. Do not tempt fate. For now I can only suggest that you be circumspect."

Wriothesley paled. "How circumspect? Should I go to the country?"

Ah, to be rid of this idiot. Vidal swallowed down his immediate and enthusiastic approval of that idea. He might still need the man, so he said, "I have no Seeing for that. You must do as good sense dictates. Do not make Hertford believe you are dangerous. Now first tell me of those closest to Hertford that I may look for them in my glass. He has a wife and children?"

"You should find the wife easily." Wriothesley made a face. "She is so proud that I have heard her complain because Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth, the king's own daughters, have precedence over her. There is also his brother, Thomas Seymour, who is a bit of a madcap. I heard he suggested himself as a proper suitor for Lady Mary or Lady Elizabeth. His sons . . . those from his first wife are of no consequence and those of his second are too young to be important."

With some effort Vidal remained utterly expressionless, hardly hearing what Wriothesley said about Hertford's sons. He was fixed on the fact that Hertford's brother Thomas had already suggested himself as a suitor for Mary or Elizabeth. Thomas must be turned away from Mary; no scandal must touch her. Vidal wanted her on the throne. But Elizabeth . . . Yes, it was possible that Hertford's brother might have access to Elizabeth and use it. He would act foolishly and impulsively because it was plain that Thomas Seymour had more pride than sense. Wonderful.

It would take little effort to beglamour this fool to woo Elizabeth openly. She was only fourteen. She would be flattered if the brother of the man who would soon be king in all but name courted her. Perhaps, Vidal thought, if this Thomas is as much a fool as Wriothesley's remark hints, I can convince him that he should marry the girl quickly, before anyone can say him nay, and that the sin would soon be forgiven.

"This brother, Thomas," Vidal said, cutting off some inessential nonsense that Wriothesley was spouting, "I would like to meet him. It seems to me that he might be the doorway to his brother's destruction."

Wriothesley, about to take offense at being interrupted, instead looked thoughtful. "True enough, he is a man of large ambition and too much belief in his own good fortune. But Hertford is not one to listen to foolish bombast. Still . . . I will do what I can to urge him to come to consult you. And now, I have taken up enough of your time."

On the words, Wriothesley rose and left the room. Vidal was too glad to be rid of him so easily. He was very much wrapped up in his own plans, and too concerned about whether it would be safe to ensorcel the man—once Wriothesley convinced Thomas Seymour to visit him—to give much thought to a tool that was now broken and near useless. Would Thomas Seymour be too close to the hand ruling England that Oberon would deem ensorcelling him dangerous? Hertford was definitely of the "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" kind. If he suspected magic, he would pursue it relentlessly. Enough to bring Oberon's wrath upon him?

* * *

Vidal was not happy, and the interviews he had with his three other clients the next day made him even less happy. Wriothesley's scheme had found favor with much of the Council. All agreed that it was the purpose of their late monarch to have little Princess Mary as wife to King Edward. King Henry had made war for that purpose, but if the Scots could be cajoled into sending the princess to England, they would not be violating the late king's will.

Other news was little better but no worse. From what was hinted, it seemed that Hertford would rule . . . and so Vidal said he would. That he said so and thus inclined the three men who visited him to support Hertford now guaranteed that outcome. To Rich, whom he saw last, he hinted that Hertford must be watched and if his pride offended the other Councilors that Rich should somewhat withdraw himself.

He gestured while he spoke, and soon Rich's eyes became just a little glazed. He did not seem to notice when Vidal took his hand, slipped off his seal ring, and under it slid a narrow gold band. The inside was inscribed with words that Rich would not be able to read—if he ever noticed the ring. For now the spell the ring carried would have little effect; Rich's thinking and behavior would be perfectly natural. Bit by bit, however, the man would grow dependent on Fagildo Otstargi.

One aim Vidal did not accomplish was to gain admittance to Thomas Seymour. He sent a message. It was ignored. He tweaked Wriothesley's chain and the chancellor—he had not yet been deprived of office—sent Thomas a message. That too was ignored. Vidal went himself to Seymour Place, Thomas Seymour's house, wearing the Don't-see-me spell—and it was a waste of power that nearly drained him dry in the mortal world. Thomas was not at home and he could not discover from the servants' talk where Thomas was, only that everyone knew the place and did not need to name it.

Dangerously weakened, both from use of power in the mortal world and from the excess of Cold Iron weapons and locks and decorative grills in Seymour Place, Vidal decided to deal with Thomas Seymour at some other time and Gated back to Caer Mordwyn. His workroom had been restored to order. The pieces of imp had been removed, probably eaten by the cleaners. The twisted agony of the figures hung on the walls and from the roof beams was soothing, but they offered no advice.

Vidal Gated again, this time to Aurilia's living quarters in Caer Mordwyn. Fortunately she was there, lying on a long, opulently padded chair with a high back and arms that supported her. The ever-present glass of cloudy blue liquid was on a small table beside her, but the glass was full. Her eyes were bright, she did not start or wince at the magic when Vidal appeared, and her brows lifted in easy question.

"My own creature," he burst out "has gone mad and is planning to bring about peace between England and Scotland."

"Ah," Aurilia breathed. "I see why you are angry. You cannot permit peace with Scotland. We have been strong and well fed by the war that King Henry waged." She looked toward the glass of cloudy blue liquid but she did not lift it to sip from it. "Your creature? How did you let your creature get so out of hand?"

Vidal snarled and flung himself down on a sofa opposite Aurilia. "I was sure Wriothesley would follow the path he had pursued as long as Henry lived. But the king's death seems to have broken him loose from all common sense. He had always been so clever at following the main chance. How was I to guess he would of a sudden be afflicted with conscience over his stupid faith? All the years he was the king's servant he followed Henry's will in such matters without a qualm. And all because of a form of worship. Mind, it is the same god, just how to worship him that he sticks at—and because of that he will lose his place as chancellor."

"So?" Aurilia drawled the word. "Forge a new tool."

"I have already set that in motion," Vidal snapped back. "But meanwhile, that madman has presented a plan to the Council to end the war and get the little Scottish princess for Edward's wife."

Now Aurilia frowned and swung her legs off the long chair to sit more upright. Her back was to her glass of cloudy liquid and she did not glance at it.

"But that is just what the Scots do not want," she said. "They fear to be swallowed up by England and will fight forever to escape that."

"Except that Wriothesley's plan—and it seems he has already presented it to Paget and others on the Council and they think well of it—offers the Scots autonomy in politics and religion."

"No!" Aurilia exclaimed, leaning forward in her anxiety. "They might believe it but in the end it would mean the two lands would be one. We will starve! You must stop Mary of Guise from agreeing."

"Yes, but I cannot do so without returning to Scotland, and that would mean that I would not be able to watch the English court."

Aurilia relaxed again and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair thoughtfully. "I see that," she said after a moment, "but I do not see why it is important. Let the government be formed while you stiffen the Scots' resistance. When you return you will be able to fasten your hooks firmly into your new tool and through him push the Council in the direction of a new war with Scotland."

"And what of my plans for Elizabeth? And Denoriel and Aleneil?"

"I will take care of that."

Vidal snorted. "As you took care of the death of that maid? You do not know the mortal world, Aurilia."

"No." She smiled. "But I now have a most faithful servant who does. Who is mortal." There was a moment of silence while Vidal stared suspiciously at Aurilia. She laughed musically. "You ordered him brought to me yourself."

A spasm of anxiety so brief that Vidal hoped Aurilia had not noticed touched him, but she had. She laughed again.

"No, your memory is not at fault," she said. "It was a matter of such small importance to you that you did not bother to remember. It is the human healer that you bid Pasgen find for me."

He frowned. It seemed a mighty frail support to hang their hopes on. "A healer? What good is a healer for my purpose?"

"Oh, Albertus will do nothing himself, but he can serve as my conduit to instruct and hire those who kill for money. Although he is happy here, I think Albertus would like to visit the mortal world. There are things he misses."

"Visit the mortal world?" Vidal repeated. "And boast of what he has seen and done Underhill?"

"I do not think he will do that," Aurilia said calmly. "He is no fool and must realize that no one would believe him. Moreover, he knows I will set watchers on him and that if he speaks he will never be allowed to come back here—and that his life in the mortal world will not be long."

Ah. Better.

"And I can furnish him with a handsome gold chain for his neck that will tighten if he speaks of Underhill or of magic and will strangle him if he persists." Vidal nodded.

"Oh, no, my lord," Aurilia protested. "He is too valuable to me. Let it cause him great pain but not kill. I want him back." She gestured behind her at the potion.

Vidal looked at the full glass. "You do not seem to need it anymore, but perhaps a tame mortal healer is useful." Then he frowned and shook his head. "Yes, a healer? How would a healer know those who kill for money?"

Aurilia smiled. "He is quite taken with me and is more than willing to linger in my company. Thus he has told me much about himself—" she laughed aloud "—it was true, too. I had him bespelled to speak only the truth."

"So what is the truth?"

"Common enough among mortals, where strength and cleverness often go without reward. Albertus was a good healer, but never grew rich enough, fast enough in his own opinion. Thus he did many things that are against the stupid mortal laws. He was found out by a clever rival, accused, and would have been burnt alive."

Vidal laughed. "No wonder he was so willing to come here with Pasgen."

"No, that was years ago. He was eager to come Underhill because he is growing old. But when he fled, he was so nearly caught he could not take money enough to go abroad. All he could do was hide in the worst parts of the city where what they call the Watch does not go. The mortals—" she laughed again "—call it the underworld. There he still practiced as a healer . . . healing criminals and providing drugs and means for murder."

Vidal sat for a few moments considering. Finally he said, "Good enough. I see that he might well know such as would serve our purpose. Do you set your spies on him. I will bespell the neck chain and send it to you."

"Send it?"

"Yes. I will not return here from my workroom. I will Gate to Scotland and pretend I have just come there from France. Now, to get your Albertus to London . . . Yes, why not. I will also provide an amulet that will permit him to Gate to Otstargi's house. The servant there is so dull of mind that he will not interfere and probably will obey any order given him. But you had better warn your Albertus that he is not to meet with his hirelings there. Otstargi is still useful. I do not want him associated with any other crime than fortune telling."

Aurilia looked sidelong at Vidal. She did not really like the way he had repeated "your Albertus," but she did not wish to argue with him either. The amulet that would permit the healer to Gate to the mortal world would work for anyone, giving her an easy way there. Slowly she leaned forward again and stretched so she could touch Vidal's knee with one finger.

"I will see that Albertus commits no offense, my lord," Aurilia said softly, "but you are angry and your mind is troubled—no mood in which to cajole those stupid, stubborn Scots. Surely there is no need for you to make such haste to Scotland. You can bend the time to make your arrival earlier. Linger here with me a while to drink a cup of wine and perhaps rest . . . or not rest . . . in my bed for a few hours."

 

When she was sure Vidal was gone, Aurilia rose from her bed and went to look at herself in the long mirror that was fastened to the wall between two windows in her bedchamber. The light was wan. A gesture caused it to brighten. Aurilia hissed lightly between her teeth and then smiled. She was bruised all over and one of her breasts was torn and bleeding.

A gesture brought a troubling of the air that resolved into a squat, black, winged creature, which squalled as it was caught and suspended. Another caused a door at the far side of the room to open. In a moment a bent and wizened figure clad in filthy rags, with hair in tangled ropes and a long, twisted nose sporting several black and hairy warts appeared in the doorway.

"Quickly," Aurilia said. "Mend the damage."

The crone hobbled forward, almost seeming eager if one had not glimpsed the hatred shining from her eyes. Aurilia had, but she only laughed, and when the crone reached her and placed a hand over the savagely bitten breast, she glanced up at the black imp hanging impotently in the air. Although she winced slightly as her flesh was drawn together, her attention was on the imp, which she directed to bring Albertus.

"And mind, none of your tricks with Albertus. Tell him politely that I want him, or you will have no wings and be walking on sore feet for a long time."

The breast was healed. Now blood showed on the crone's rags but her nose was almost normal in size and appearance. The bruises began to fade on Aurilia's body and the crone whimpered slightly as the pain was transferred to her. At the same time, some of the lines smoothed from her face and her lips filled as teeth returned to her jaws.

"Enough!" Aurilia said. "And do not think you can pray for me to be hurt again so that you can regain your youth and strength by healing my hurts. I will know, and worse will befall you. But you are learning. When you are thoroughly obedient . . . who knows."

A gesture sent the old woman hobbling from the room, and another closed and locked the door behind her. Aurilia looked in the mirror again, muttered a few words. The faint remnants of the bruises that still showed on her body disappeared, her lips reddened and became fuller, her hair thickened and glowed a richer gold, her eyes became more luminous.

A last gesture brought two female Sidhe through the main door of the room. Both showed the too-fine hair and faded eyes of the aged, but they were not reluctant to serve Aurilia. They went at once to the east side of the bed where the wall seemed to be made of elaborately carved panels. Each placed a hand into a half-hidden slot and gently pulled. The carved panels withdrew, showing within a fabulous wardrobe.

On racks on the floor were shoes, some leather, some satin, some fur. All had gilded or silvered heels and soles; all were inset with precious stones. Above were gowns of heavy, shining, slubbed silk and of diaphanous veiling. The colors began on the left with silver and slowly intensified from pale to brilliant, from brilliant to deeply rich and on, at last, to black.

"Cerise, I think," she said.

One of the Sidhe lifted a heavy silken gown from where it hung and carried it tenderly toward her mistress. The other removed a tunic of the same color, but of fabric so fine it looked more like mist than woven stuff, coupled with full flowing trousers of just a slightly thicker weave.

"This will cling like a second skin to your body," the Sidhe with the silken gown said. "Not to the eyes, but to the senses will you be naked, thus exciting without offering any compromise of yourself."

"This," the second Sidhe lifted the tunic, which floated upward, "is invitation as well as temptation. Which will you have, madam?"

"The human is old and needs more blatant stimulation," Aurilia said, pointing to the tunic and trousers.

The first Sidhe went to hang the silk gown in the wardrobe and shut the doors while the second gestured down her mistress's body where undergarments appeared. Aurilia bade the first Sidhe wait in her sitting room for the healer and then stepped into the trousers. The tunic went over her head.

A last glance in the mirror showed her hair in place, her eyes glowing, her lips full, red, and inviting. She smiled at herself and went into the adjoining chamber where, on the table beside the glass of cloudy liquid, lay a thick and intricately woven gold chain. She leaned over to touch it, felt the hum of power, nodded, and lay down on the sofa.

The mistlike fabric of the tunic did nothing to hide the protuberant, dark nipples of her breasts. One of her legs negligently trailed toward the floor; the other was slightly raised at the knee. Through the diaphanous tunic and the scarcely more solid pants, a glint of gold showed where her thighs met.

She did not need to hold the pose long. The outer door opened; the first Sidhe said, "The healer Albertus, madam."

Aurilia gestured and Albertus entered. He bowed at the door, his eyes going at once to the full glass of cloudy blue liquid standing on the table. As he came upright, his brows were raised in query and then creased in worry.

"There is something wrong with the potion, madam?"

"Not at all but I find that I need it less and less."

The worried frown deepened. "Are you warning me that I am to be cast out? Discarded?"

"Oh, no! Not at all. Do come closer, Albertus. There is no need for us to shout across the width of the room."

As he drew closer, bowing again about halfway into the room, Aurilia examined him. He had claimed to be old and in fear of death when Pasgen—and where in the seven levels of Hell was Pasgen—brought him to her. Well his hair was white, but it was still plentiful; he was only a little stooped; she had given him back his teeth so his mouth was not sunken and while his nose was sharpened with age it did not yet hook toward his chin.

"I was only trying to explain why I feel comfortable parting with you for a few days," Aurilia said. "Would you not like to visit the mortal world for a little while?"

Aurilia's legs spread just a little farther apart as she pushed herself more upright. She saw Albertus' eyes flicker from her crotch to her breast and back to her crotch. She knew that none of the female Sidhe had been willing to bed Albertus, and she had not provided him with a construct that any sane man would want in his bed.

"I am sure there are things and people that you miss in the World Above," Aurilia went on, smiling. "And I have a small piece of mischief that would be best accomplished by a mortal in the mortal world. Thus, we each will gain—you a chance to satisfy any desires that are not fulfilled Underhill and I to be rid of a pair of nuisances that are interfering with fulfillment of my desires."

"Madam . . ."

He bowed again. Aurilia thought as much to hide his face and give him time for thought as out of fear and respect. She wondered why she had not in the past used mortals for any purpose other than torment. Well treated they were far more loyal servants than the Dark Sidhe.

"You know I wish to serve you as best as I can," Albertus continued, eyes on the floor now, as if he realized what he had betrayed about himself in his hungry glances at her breasts and crotch. "But to do that I must admit that I was nothing and no one. I had no riches and was no lord of great power to order men to do my bidding. I fear if I . . . ah . . . rid you of the nuisances you mention that I would be caught and punished."

"Riches are no problem. You will be well supplied with gold. Nor do I wish you in your own person to have any dealings with these nuisances. Surely there are those who would rob a house and do violence to those within or attack a man on the street if they were paid to do so?"

Albertus' eyes gleamed. "If I had the means to pay, yes indeed, my lady. There are those who know how to enter a house to steal and would not hesitate to quiet anyone within so there would be no alarm. And there are those who make their living by taking from careless folk in the street, who occasionally die of their carelessness."

"I am glad to hear that you think you can serve me in this."

"Only there is one problem, madam. How am I to explain where I have been all this time . . . however long it has been?"

"You will not need to explain unless you wish to do so. I can put a seeming on you so that no one will know you. But wherever you say from where you come, this place must not be mentioned. There will be watchers to make sure that no hint of your present place or duty escapes you."

She reached behind her as she spoke and picked up the gold chain. "You will wear this," she said, and he took it readily and clasped it around his throat, thinking, she was sure, that it was some kind of listening device. As he fastened the clasp, it disappeared and the chain shortened. He frowned, fear showing on his face, his fingers now trying to pull the chain away from his throat.

"Let it lie," Aurilia snapped. "It will do you no harm . . . so long as you do not mention, even in a hint, that such a place as Underhill exists. If you do . . . the chain will choke you. For a slight hint, it will merely tighten. For trying to continue to speak of our world here . . . it will strangle you."

"But an accidental mention . . ."

"You will choke. You will cough. You will change the subject. An accident will call forth only a reminder . . . unless the accident is repeated too often."

He seemed about to protest again; she frowned at him and he remained silent and bowed once more.

Aurilia nodded her satisfaction and went on briskly, "Now the nuisances. In London on what I believe is a street called Bucklersbury is the house of Lord Denno." Hidden by the coils of the gold chain had been the amulet for Gating to London. Now she picked it up. "This amulet will take you from any Gate in Caer Mordwyn to the house of a fortune-teller and magician called Fagildo Otstargi. Otstargi is away at present and his servant will not interfere with you. You may stay in that house for a day or two while you find another lodging, but do no business from there."

With obvious reluctance, Albertus took the amulet. He looked relieved when it just lay in his hand, and after a moment he tucked it into a pouch supported by his belt.

"You are to rid me of both Lord Denno and his distant cousin, Lady Alana, who occasionally stays in the house. I have no other direction for her."

"If this Lady Alana comes only occasionally, it may take me some time . . ."

"For now time is not an urgent matter. I admit I know little of the mortal world. I am leaving to you and trusting you to accomplish my purpose without more help than the gold I promised and the new face and body. And I must warn you that the man will be no easy target. He can use a sword. Be sure you send enough men against him. Do not think to spare the gold and keep it for yourself."

Albertus was silent, staring into the reflecting surface that had appeared before him. He was younger, but not a young man so that he still had the authority of age; his hair was grizzled, his eyes black instead of faded blue, his nose was shorter and broader and he had a short, pointed beard, also grizzled. His eyes shifted to Aurilia and he bowed almost double.

"No, indeed, madam. Why should I be tempted to steal your gold? As long as I am assured I am to come back here to Caer Mordwyn, for what do I need gold?"

 

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Framed