Page 59 of Once Broken Faith

“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.

“If either of you had killed him, I’m reasonably sure you would have done it someplace where the Merry Dancers wouldn’t have broken when they fell,” I said. “Also, the magic doesn’t match up. I know what Candela teleportation looks like, and this wasn’t it. As for you, Bucer, you didn’t do it. I know your magic, I know your methods, and I know you’re too much of a coward to have tried to stab me while Tybalt was in the room.”

There was always the chance that whoever stabbed me had been aiming for Tybalt—the stake had hit me in the back, but King Antonio had been stabbed in the chest. If I hadn’t jumped in the way, the stake would have struck Tybalt in the same place. More than anything, that reinforced my conviction that Bucer hadn’t been the one doing the stabbing. He would have been a fool to attack me in front of Tybalt. He would have been a suicidal fool to attack Tybalt in front of me—and if there was one thing Bucer had taken away from our time together at Home, it was a healthy respect for how much damage I could, and would, do if I was pissed off.

“So why are you talking to us if you know we didn’t do it?” asked Bucer warily. “We’re supposed to be in the audience, paying attention to the political bullshit.”

“Why?” I asked. “You don’t have a King anymore. Does any of you have a title?”

“I’m a Viscount,” said the male Candela.

“Which means none of you have enough of a title to make a difference when the vote comes around, unless you expect the High King to go for a show of hands,” I said. “He’s not going to do that. The Court of Cats would carry the day. Even with the wards locked, you can’t keep the Cait Sidhe out, and since they’re cats, it’s not like anyone would be able to prove they hadn’t been here the whole time.” The redwood paths in the high trees could be covered with sunbathing and mouse-hunting cats, and no one would know. It was a charming image. It was a terrifying image. The Divided Courts thought they were powerful, but cats could walk through anything, because Oberon had given them permission.

Bucer and the two Candela—who hadn’t volunteered their names; it didn’t seem important under the circumstances—looked at me, waiting to hear what I’d say next. I sighed.

“Nobody liked King Antonio. Fine. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill him?”

“His wife,” said the male Candela.

“Frequently,” added the female, and they both laughed, small, near-silent exhalations of air. Then the female sobered, and said, “He was a poor king, but a poor king was the best thing for Angels. If you’re wondering whether there had been threats against him, dangers we ignored to bring him here, the answer is no. No, there were not. He left his seneschal to run the kingdom in his absence. Not the act of a king who feared for his life. Antonio was a braggart and a bully and a foolish, foolish man. He was also a friend. Capable of great compassion. A person, like any of us, and like any of us, he was uninclined toward pointless risks.”

What she was saying matched up with what Antonio had told me himself, although of course, that would be difficult to explain. The ridiculousness of the situation was starting to get to me. I’d spoken to a dead man, to a sleeping woman . . . all that was left was for me to find a way to have a philosophical debate with the pixies, and I would have covered all my bases. “Before he died, the world stuttered,” I said. “Before I was attacked, the world did the same thing. It wasn’t teleportation—I didn’t move—but the world moved around me. Can you think of anything that would have done that? Anything at all?”

“No,” said the male Candela. His companions shook their heads.

I swallowed the urge to sigh. This was going to be an uphill battle after all.

SEVENTEEN

MY NEXT SEVERAL INTERVIEWS followed similar lines. No one outside of Angels had known King Antonio very well, although the kingdoms that shared borders with Angels generally thought of him as a good neighbor. He’d been so busy minding his own business and not telling people what to do that he’d never even threatened war, much less openly declared it. The kingdoms of Copper and Painted Skies both spoke fondly of him, mostly in the sense of “and nobody ever died because he was bored.” No one volunteered to let me ride their blood, even when I hinted about how much easier that would make things. No one had heard anything about a new kind of teleportation—or quasi-teleportation—magic, or time magic, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pick up any scents that would lead me back to the sound of tearing metal. Locking people in the pantry with me, one by one, meant I was learning magical signatures almost as fast as my mind could file them away, but none of them matched.

That wasn’t quite true. None of them was exactly right, but I’d barely smelled anything at all when the sound had happened. I might be looking my attacker in the eye, and still not be able to recognize them. That was just swell. I have one freak talent, and suddenly even that wasn’t dependable.