Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(82)
“I see,” said Aethlin. “Was there anything else you needed?”
“I was also given permission to remove people from this conclave as I saw fit. I’d like to speak to whomever accompanied King Antonio out of Angels.”
“Very well.” High King Aethlin turned to the audience. “Will the delegation from Angels please rise and follow Sir Daye to wherever she leads? I promise you, there will be no final votes taken in your absence.”
Two Candela and a Glastig rose from where they’d been sitting on the shadowy side of the room. The Candela were unfamiliar. The Glastig . . .
“Hello, Bucer,” I said.
Bucer O’Malley, late of Home, currently of Angels, winced. “Toby,” he said.
I offered a quick bow toward the gathered thrones before hopping down from the stage and heading toward the back door. As I’d hoped, the emissaries from Angels followed me, the two Candela walking almost as silently as one of the Cait Sidhe, Bucer tapping along on sharply pointed hooves that couldn’t be muffled by anything short of being wrapped in pillows. I knew that from experience. He and I had done our share of breaking and entering back when we’d been street rats in Devin’s service, stealing what we were told to steal, shanking who we were told to shank. Since Home had been a changeling domain, there’d been no one to stop us from hurting each other—it didn’t break the Law, and so no one had particularly cared. The last I’d heard of Bucer, he’d been running for Angels, getting the hell out of town before he could be arrested for his part in the kidnapping of the Lorden boys. Looked like he’d managed to fall on his feet.
That was the thing about men like him. They almost always did.
I led my motley little gang down the hall and past the kitchens, stopping at a cold pantry that the household staff had shown me once, proud of how much ground they’d been able to recover from the cobwebs and decay. Opening the door freed a burst of cool air, and the distant, earthy smell of potatoes. “Inside,” I said.
The two Candela, who were used to dust and shadowy spaces, went willingly. Only Bucer hung back, giving me an uncertain look. “Do I have to?” he asked.
“I’m coming in with you,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to shut the door and lock you in there to die. Even if I did, you’d have two Candela with you.”
“We’re not carrying him through the web,” said one of the Candela, sounding affronted. Her hair was pale gray, the color of volcanic ash, and cut in a shoulder-length bob. The other Candela, male, with darker hair, nodded his agreement.
“You wouldn’t have to,” I said. “You could just pop out of the room and open the door. Now come on, unless you want me asking for your King’s dirty secrets while we’re all standing around in the hall.”
Bucer slowly walked past me into the room, glancing over his shoulder several times. I followed, closing the door behind me before yanking off my gloves and dropping them on the nearest shelf. The glow from the two Candela was more than bright enough to allow me to see their faces. They looked calm. Bucer didn’t. Unfortunately, because of our history, I had no way of knowing whether that was because he’d done something wrong, or because he was waiting for me to kick the crap out of him again.
“Your King is dead,” I said, without preamble. “The person who killed him attacked me earlier today, presumably because they were afraid I was going to learn something they didn’t want me to know. Who would have wanted to kill King Antonio, and why?”
“Half the purebloods in Angels wanted him dead, for refusing to support their claims to this and that,” said one of the Candela. “All the changelings wanted him dead, for refusing to order the purebloods to leave them alone. Angels is where dreams come true, after all.”
A surprising number of film and television stars were changelings. Fae blood made them beautiful and sturdy enough to survive doing their own stunts; human blood made them resistant to the iron in camera rigs and muscle cars. And the nature of the industry was such that if you were careful, you could keep a career going for decades, writing off your apparent inability to age as clean living, drinking lots of water, and keeping a plastic surgeon on speed-dial. “Swell,” I said. “Who didn’t want him dead?”
“We didn’t,” said the male Candela. “He didn’t make a lot of rules. He didn’t interfere with people doing what they wanted to do. That’s harder to find than you’d think.”
“He brought me because I knew the Mists, and because I knew you,” said Bucer. “He wanted to be able to predict what was gonna happen at this stupid thing. Said I’d be forgiven for a few little things if I came.”
“Little things?” I asked.
“He stole the crown jewels,” said the female Candela.
I had to swallow a smile. “Some things never change, I guess,” I said. “Whoever killed him snuck up on him, yes, but they also disoriented him. I thought at first that it was a teleporter. Now, I’m not so sure.”
The male Candela frowned. “Why are you speaking so openly to us?”
“Because you didn’t do it,” I said, very calmly. “When King Antonio was killed, his Merry Dancers shattered. Fragments, all over the floor.”
The four Merry Dancers that shared our space swirled madly around their respective Candela, outward manifestations of their distress. Bucer flinched, but said nothing.