The Eighth Court (The Courts of the Feyr - By Mike Shevdon Page 0,2

of which was embedded in Carris’ chest. She looked down in shock at the place where it pierced her breast.

“The price of that particular nugget of information is rather higher than you imagined,” he said, his rich voice finding amusement in this sudden turn of events.

“Raffmir?” Carris whispered. “But how…?”

Raffmir pushed the blade a little harder, and she gasped in pain. She clung to the blade with her hands where it entered her chest, as if it were the only thing supporting her. Her blood welled through her fingers.

“The price is agreed,” said Raffmir, “with the small rider that you will not tell any one else. You won’t tell, will you?”

He allowed her to topple backwards so that the blade slipped from her with a sucking sound, and her slight frame collapsed onto the grass. She kicked once or twice and was still. Raffmir took a white kerchief from his sleeve and wiped the blade, then dropped the blood-soaked kerchief on top of the corpse. Carris’ magic was already claiming her, her body turning to ash as Raffmir watched.

“Good,” said Raffmir, “so that’s settled.” He sheathed his sword. “Well, one might as well enjoy the fair, since we made the journey.” He stepped between the stalls, leaving the body to decompose on the grass.

Marshdock stood then for some minutes, his heart hammering in his chest less the wraithkin return to check on his victim. For once, Carris’d had the real deal, but it had cost her everything. A secret meeting between the Seventh Court and someone from the High Court meant only one thing – treachery at the highest level. Information like that could be hard to sell, though. It would take all his art to broker such a deal. If only she’d named the traitor… still, the fact that there was a traitor was valuable enough.

He needed proof, though. He needed some token to verify his claim.

Cautiously, he moved to the edge of the shadows, towards the rapidly decomposing corpse. Carris’ magic would burn through her, and within minutes there would be little left but some skinny jeans and a few goth trinkets. Checking the gap between the stalls, he could see no sign of the wraithkin’s return. Steeling himself, he darted to the corpse, snatched the kerchief from atop the remains and ran for the gap between the caravans, away from the fair and away from the wraithkin and his sword.

The goth trinkets were worth nothing, but a wraithkin’s kerchief soaked in Carris’ blood – that was proof.

“What do you think?” asked Blackbird.

“That’s one of those questions again, isn’t it?” I said.

She swept across the floor in the dress, the heavy folds of damask rustling as she moved to stand before the tall mirror, turning one way, then the other. “It’s a simple question, Niall. Do I look the part, or am I going to be mistaken for an extra from a costume drama?”

“You look splendid.” In truth, it was a fabulous dress, cut from heavy turquoise cloth and fitted to emphasise her curves. “I expect it’s the height of fey fashion.” She caught my reflection in the mirror, her expression souring at my teasing, and turned. “This really isn’t me, is it?” she said. She held the wide skirt out sideways.

“Mullbrook thinks this is a good idea,” I said. “Trust his judgement. He knows the High Court better than anyone except perhaps the Warders, and we only wear grey.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I quite like you in plain grey. It suits you.” She held up the hem of the skirt and sidled over to me, leaning up for a kiss and sliding her free hand under my jacket. “I could take it off?” she suggested.

“If you do I’m going to be late,” I said, “and Katherine is not known for her patience and understanding, at least as far as I’m concerned.”

She sighed, returning to the mirror. “I feel like I’m going to a fancy dress ball. Maybe I’ll take it off anyway, wear something simpler, save it for formal occasions.”

“What, and offend Mullbrook? No disrespect my lady, but you know what happened last time no one paid any attention to his suggestions. I’m not a fan of tripe at the best of times.”

“There you go, you see? You start calling me, My Lady this and My Lady that. It’s not me, do you see?”

I moved behind her, turning her shoulders so that the light caught the pattern in the material. “You are the Lady of