Ethine Ch. 02

Thorn was sat on a sofa in the main hall, his signature vanilla suit glamoured to look pressed and fresh. About him were a number, perhaps a half-dozen, of Sorrow's boys, all in matching black business suits, white shirts, black ties - like extras from a movie, Calan thought. Reservoir Dogs, perhaps.

He and Gilraen staggered up, making a reasonable fist of looking like two drunken revellers up too early for work, Calan ran his hands through his hair.

"My Lord," Calan said. "You wanted to see us?"

"Yes. I seem to recall telling you yesterday not to go wandering about," he said calmly. "Yet this morning I hear that both of you were in the prison. I want to know why."

Gilraen shrugged. "We had too much to drink, I can't remember anything. Calan must have got me home..."

"Yes, the barkeeper said that Calan had to carry you away from the bar," he interrupted. "Calan, then, perhaps you'd like to explain, how did you end up in the prison?"

"This place is new to me, it's all wood and dim lights and faeries. I drank some really good bloodwine yesterday, which didn't help my sense of direction," he said, slowly, picking over his words as if still drunk. "I didn't even know you guys had a prison, I just tried a door and went along a corridor - I didn't know where I was going."

Thorn looked at him.

"I remember there was some hob with a whip, he helped me find my way back," he said. "Ask him."

"I did," Thorn said. "He supports your story, said you stank like a drunk and fell over."

For a while silence stretched. Gilraen fidgeted.

"Okay. I accept that you were drunk and lost last night," Thorn said, finally. "I won't accept that excuse in future. Tomorrow night we will be meeting with someone important, I want all the knights sober and able for that event - is that too much to ask?"

Thorn waited until they had both assented before continuing.

"Right, in the meantime I have a job for you two," he said. "Ironside. I was going to send some of the muscle, but since you two love wandering so much, you can go instead."

******

Ethine lay back on her rug, she had established that each of the fay had given up their true names, she had been the last. That had to mean something, she thought. But what?

"Guard's changed again," whispered Athinas the Troll, sitting near the cage door.

For some reason the arrival of her knight-errant had propelled Ethine into the role of unofficial leader and, at the suggestion of one of the other fay, she had organised it so that the prisoners observed the guards now, marking how many patrols they did before they changed, scratching the knowledge in the earth of the floor. She had no idea if it would help in any way, but it was better than sitting in silence, nursing despair.

The other fay had stitched her shirt back together again, patching the ruined fabric using threads picked from their own clothes, a splinter from the cage walls as a needle. It was remarkably fine work. "Ethine, your knight," Athinas whispered.

Ethine jumped, her heart lurching. Wincing slightly in pain from her wounds, she hurried across to the the door of the cage, dropping down into the shadows.

She saw him in the mouth of the corridor, crouched in the darkness. He watched the movements of the guard, the ogre this time, moving about the cage, waited until he had begun to pass down the long corridor away from the cage and dashed on silent feet over to her, slipping once more into the shadows.

"Ethine," he said, his eyes widening at the sight of her body criss-crossed with red weals, the marks of the whip. His face twisted - anger warring with anguish. "What happened to you? What did they do to you?"

For some reason his earnest concern made her tearful even as she felt herself smile. She rubbed at her eyes

"It's okay, I'm okay - they hurt me, they were trying to get my true name," she said, her breath catching at the memory.

He looked horrified. "Have they? Did you?"

"No. No...I didn't give in," she said, feeling strangely bashful, her eyes dropping to the floor, the feeling too raw to disguise. Suddenly, kneeling in the shadows before him, her mind still filled with memories of what they'd made her do, what they'd done to her, she was seized with a desire to explain, for someone to understand, for him to understand. "I...I kept thinking of you coming for me...I gave them a false name."

She felt his finger on her chin, lifting her head gently to meet his soft, green eyes. There was something new there, shining in his eyes - admiration, respect - and she felt herself tingle in response.

"You're amazing," he said, unguarded.

The memory of what she'd done, what they'd made her do, flooded back, a wave of self-loathing sweeping over her.

"No. No, I'm not...I did things," she felt the tears come again, trickling down her cheeks, "they made me do things..."

"Shh," he whispered, his finger touching her lips delicately. "I don't need to know, I don't care. You did what I asked, what you had to do to survive - nothing more."

When she lifted her eyes he was looking at her - his face concerned, his eyes understanding. Tentatively, almost nervously, she reached out to touch his hand, her fingers slipping between his, her heart beating like a hammer.

"Thank you." She was blushing. Actually blushing. "I don't know your name, what shall I call you?"

"Calan," he said, smiling at her - a smile that seemed to warm her from the inside out. "Here, I want you to take this. I don't know what use it will be, but if they don't expect you to have freewill it may be all the difference." He slipped a small bootknife into the cage, the blade no longer that her thumb but razor sharp. She picked it up, sliding it into the seam of her mended shirt.

"Look, I have a feeling that whatever is planned is going to happen tomorrow night," he said, quietly, but she held up a hand to stop him before he could continue.

"I spoke to Sorrow, I know what he's doing," she whispered. "He's going to trade us to Hafgan the Hag, something about obtaining the services of some knights."

Calan nodded, his eyes widening with renewed respect. "That's what I feared," he said. "I'll try to get you out before that - but if not I'll be near, count on it. I won't leave you here."

"Guard's coming, lovebirds," a voice whispered in the dark.

Before she could react she felt Calan's hand on the back of her neck. She looked up, startled, and his lips were pressed to hers - warm, soft - kissing her through the bars. Moments later he was gone into the dark, hiding before the guard returned. She blinked, her lips still tingling at the touch.

******

Calan rang the buzzer, standing in the covered lobby of the decaying apartment block.

"Calan, what are we doing here?" Gilraen said.

"I told you, I need to speak with some old friends."

With a croak the electronic intercom sparked into life, Terror's voice rumbling through.

"Hey, Terror, it's Calan, open up."

There was a momentary pause then the door buzzed and the lobby was open.

Gilraen shrugged, entering past Calan's inviting arm, the door held open. Earlier in the day he'd stood by as Calan had done the work he was supposed to be doing - intimidating an exiled faerie into paying his loan dues on time. If he was honest he'd been a little intimidated himself - making him wonder if he was really cut out for work like this: the casual brutality, the sudden violence. Since then he had trailed Calan about the city as he had visited friends in various exiles' courts, their names as weird as their traditions, their dress. On each occasion he'd been excluded from the discussions - he knew something was up, but every time he'd tried to work out what was going on he was hushed with promises of later explanations.

Now he found himself in yet another apartment block, Calan leading the way, no closer to an explanation and, increasingly, the obviously junior partner in their relationship. Calan was already halfway up the first stairwell, avoiding the graffiti marked lift with its oppressive stink of iron, before Gilraen thought to follow.

"Come on, Gil, these are good friends - don't you want to know what's going on?"

Gilraen sighed, struggling to keep up with an energised and somewhat hyperactive Calan. After three floors he left the stairwell, kicking the adjoining door with its cracked glass pane open to enter a barren concrete corridor, its walls and floors marked with court graffiti. The window at the far end of the corridor was smashed, a few jagged pieces of glass still protruding from the frame, and, with the stair door open, the wind whistled along its length chilling Gilraen in his identikit business suit.

As he entered the corridor Calan was greeting an ogre at the door to one of the apartments, touching fists in what he now recognised as a form of handshake amongst the exiles. Clutching his suit close about his neck, he wandered over, feeling more than a little self-conscious. On this occasion, unlike the others, he found himself being introduced.

"Terror, this is my friend Gilraen," Calan said, pointing to him. "Gilraen, my brother in arms - Terror."

Gilraen nodded, too embarrassed to risk being rebuffed if he tried to touch fists as Calan had done. Terror chuckled, a sound like stones tumbling together.

"Any friend of Calan's is a friend of mine," he said, bowing a little, still chuckling so Gilraen didn't know what was genuine and what was humour at his expense.

"Uh, thanks," he said at last.

The apartment was an absolute dump - no item of furniture spared from the advancing neglect. Tentatively Gilraen perched himself on the edge of the sofa, a hobgoblin emerging from the kitchen with a dirty glass containing some kind of fruit cordial.

"Here," he said, drink this, "it's good."

"Monster - Gilraen, Gil - Monster," Calan added, taking his own drink.

"Pleased ta meetcha."

"Uh, likewise, uh, Monster."

"So, Calan, what's this all about?" Terror said, squeezing back into his chair. Monster flopped down next to Gilraen, leaning forward attentively.

"Okay. Gil, you're going to hear some stuff now, stuff you may not like," he said. "At the end of this I will ask you to join me but, if you don't feel you can do that, I won't hold it against you if you refuse. Just hear me out first, okay?"

"Sure, Calan." He already had a sinking idea that he wasn't going to like this.

"Terror, I found Ethine. You were right, Sorrow has her," he said, his voice unconsciously tender, "Her and a load of other fay. I also know that Sorrow is planning to trade them to the Hag. Thorn let slip today that they're meeting someone important tomorrow night. The two may not be linked, but I think they are."

"He's playing a dangerous game then," Terror said, voice rumbling. "The Witch Queen is not someone to lightly take into your confidence."

"More to the point, if he completes this trade it's bad news for you and yours - the exiles are going to be the target of whatever he's got planned."

Terror nodded. "Go on," he said.

"I spent most of today visiting the old courts, sounding out the territory. The Court of Glass are in, the Eastside Court and Bloodmoon Court likewise. Some of the others a little more tentative, though all are agreed about the danger."

Terror nodded thoughtfully.

"I need you, Terror. They won't deal without you."

For a long moment silence crawled through the room. Terror obviously thinking things through, his fingers idly scratching at his beard.

"She mean that much to you, eh?" Terror said. "You'd start a war to get her back?"

Calan nodded. "I gave her my word, Terror. You always told me nothing was more important than that."

"I suppose I did at that. Monster?"

Gilraen felt the hobgoblin shift next to him. "It seems to me that sooner or later we're gonna have to fight Sorrow. Might as well be sooner, before he gets any stronger."

"Okay," Terror said, slowly. "I'm in. I'll organise the courts for you, what's the plan?"

Calan turned to face Gilraen. "This is the point at which I ask you whether you're with me or against me," he said. "You've heard what I said. I won't let him give Ethine to the Hag. I mean to rescue her, and the other fay, before that happens. I have the ghost of a plan but before I discuss it..."

Gilraen stared quietly, thoughtful. Calan looked earnest, his face open, Terror was unreadable, his ogre's visage twisted but passive. He didn't even look at Monster, he could sense the tension without looking around.

"Sorrow's Court is the only home I've known... I was born into exile. Thorn took me in..."

He felt Monster shift next to him, saw Calan's head drop.

"Look. I don't think that what Sorrow is doing is right, and I know this Ethine means a lot to you. I won't hinder you, or interrupt your plans, but I can't help you... Do you understand?"

For a long moment the silence crawled, tension strung like a bow across the room. At last he saw Calan shake his head. For a second the gesture appeared meaningless then he realised that it was intended for Monster not him. He recoiled from the sofa, spun about in time to see the hobgoblin slip a cruelly curved silver blade back into its sheath. His body felt suddenly weak - he'd been that close to death and not realised it! He really wasn't cut out for this.

"Sit down, Gil," Calan said. "We're not going to hurt you. Just a precaution, okay?"

Gilraen nodded. "Calan, you bastard, you scared me half to death!" his voice was shaky, adrenaline making his legs rubbery.

"Look, in a minute I want to discuss preparations with Terror and Monster. I accept your offer, but I will have to ask you to wait outside while we plan...the less you know, the less you can give away, right?"

Gilraen nodded. "Sure, Calan."

So it was that for forty minutes he huddled on the draughty corridor while Calan made what plans he could. Through the broken window he could see the city skyline stretching away, the first lights of evening turning it into a fairground of colours.

This was what Thorn had told him might happen, that Calan might well not be loyal. Not like him, he was a good little soldier, right?

******

Surrounded by sagging damp plaster, mould and broken glass, Thorn looked out of the corner window of the upper storey of the Palace of the Bronx, watching the sun set behind the Empire State Building, the towers and lights of the city opposite. It was a magnificent, rousing sight but he couldn't shake his nervousness at the coming meet. He knew that Sorrow and the Witch Queen had been in contact, had agreed terms - but giving her any kind of toehold in their operations seemed like a high risk strategy to him.

They'd forged what they had alone. First it was Sorrow, making his court the most ruthless, the most feared of the exiles' courts - coming to dominate the Bronx, taking the money from the protection rackets, the prostitution, the drugs trade amongst the exiles. That had attracted Memory, turning a gang into a proper court, a business - increasing profits, driving down expenses. He it had been who had acquired the Andrew Freedman Home from the city, a weeping financial sore they'd been glad to lose. And lastly it had been Thorn - taking the gang's feared soldiers and uniting them into a truly effective fighting force, knights such as any Court should have.

With better organisation and better fighting strength, Sorrow's influence had moved into Brooklyn and now they were shouldering into Queens - forcing the other courts to pay tribute or be annihilated. Now this.

He heard a polite cough behind him, turned to find one of his knights hovering in a grey pinstripe.

"My Lord, Lord Sorrow would like to see you."

He allowed the messenger to lead, taking him back into the basement of the building, the place where the mortal world and Faerie came together. The transition was impossible to feel, impossible to limit - you were either in Faerie or you were not - sometimes you could even be in one then the other yet remain unmoving, if you occupied an area close to the border. Thorn had no doubt Sorrow's office was in Faerie.

Thorn knocked, was summoned.

"My Lord, you called for me?"

Sorrow looked up, his eyes cold.

"Yes. Is all in readiness?"

"It is. The knights stand by for your word. The prisoners are ready, all we await is your pleasure."

Sorrow nodded slowly.

"Good, Thorn. Good. And the traitor?"

"Will be taken care of shortly, My Lord."

"Excellent. Nothing can be allowed to interfere with our victory, old friend, nothing. Go now, choose me a prisoner - I want a sample to take with me, to show the quality of our goods."

As he spoke he stood, picking up a large leather bound book in one hand, his fell-sword in the other. Thorn felt himself flinch involuntarily away from the cursed thing, saw Sorrow smile slightly at his discomfort.

"I have already chosen just the one, Lord," Thorn said.

Sorrow nodded. "Fine. Go then, I shall meet you in the hall."

******

"Thorn's coming," hissed a voice in the dark.

The prisoners recoiled into the darkest corners of the cage, drawing back from his gaze. Ethine and Turiel huddled together, watching him approach, four knights standing escort, the two in red and yellow and two others in more familiar dark suits.

Ethine had shared Calan's knowledge, his intentions with the other prisoners. They knew that this was the night that he intended to rescue them - as a result the cage was alive with tension, the prisoners reading every change, every alteration to their routine as a sign of the imminence or failure of Calan's plan. Strangely, the same tension seemed to have infected the guards, they were patrolling more than before and seemed more attentive, more vigilant - something that had sparked frightened debate amongst the prisoners. For a while they had consumed themselves in maudlin conjecture - what if Calan had been caught? What if Sorrow moved them before the rescue? - but Ethine had ended it, her own faith in Calan so complete that it had stifled all thoughts of failure. For a time.

Thorn approached the cage, a scrap of paper in his hand.

"Elan Ethine Era." He read from it. Her false name, she realised. "Step forward," he commanded.

She didn't hesitate for fear of giving the game away, but her heart quailed as she walked to the door.

"Elan Ethine Era by the power of your true name I order you never to harm me or another knight in this court, or yourself unless I command it," he said. "Furthermore, you are to obey me immediately and absolutely."

Ethine stood as still as stone, behind her she heard the prisoners hissing in shock and fear.

"Well my little plaything, it seems that we are going on a trip," he said, his voice smug. "But first, I have a nice surprise for you."

He grabbed her hair painfully, twisting it in his grip, making her whimper. Gripping it tightly he dragged her out of the cage and along the corridor, pulling so hard by her hair that she felt tears in her eyes, the pain making her wince. Around her the four knights formed a wedge.

******

Calan picked up his sabre, casting a last glance along its razor sharp length. Satisfied, he sheathed it, slung it over his shoulder, copying the fashion of the other knights around him. Having surrendered his bootknife to Ethine he had taped a switchblade to his ankle with duck tape, a last ditch weapon. Not for the first time he glanced over at Gilraen - since returning they had barely spoken two words to one another, whenever their eyes met Gilraen looked distinctly uncomfortable. Not a good sign, Calan thought.

At least the waiting appeared to be over. It had become oppressive sitting around all day long - never mind that he wanted to go to Ethine, to talk to her, reassure her, oversee her safe rescue. He checked the clock on the wall - not long now.