Free In Ashes Lie by Marie Brennan

golden-haired knight well, but he remembered the company in which Leslic had been seen. Fae who sneered at mortals as lesser beings, and rarely set foot outside the Onyx Hall. What bread they had was generally bartered for political favors, not kept for their own use.
    Antony said, “I will look for the answer.”
    “No,” Lune said, turning to look at him at last. “You have concerns enough of your own. I have others who can find out more efficiently.”
    Concerns. Trade, and his family, and the day-to-day governance of his ward. He would get plenty of rest, now that he need not concern himself with Parliament. But Lune was right; there were others who could do that work better. “Then let them have a care for their safety, too,” he said. “Those who would kill you would not hesitate to murder others.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 11, 1640
    Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Eochu Airt said, “I am glad to see you so rapidly recovered, madam. Please accept as well the sympathies of the Ard-Rí, who is most outraged over such a foul, dishonorable offense.”
    Lune was not quite so recovered as she took pains to appear, but the wound from that knife had already incapacitated her for nearly a week; she could not afford a longer absence from the field. She was at least glad to see that her thought about Eochu Airt had borne fruit. He was much more agreeable when given venison and boar to tear into, rather than pickled lampreys. The quiet meal they shared now was still not the rowdy public banquets hosted by the kings and queens of his land, but it helped, and was a bargain at the price.
    She sipped from a cup of wine well fortified with strengthening herbs and said, “The offender answered with his life.”
    The ambassador smiled in a way that said he recognized the opportunity she gave him. Lune’s body might still be weak, but she had not missed the implication of his phrasing: that the lunatic’s attack was more than an unfortunate accident. “But what of the one behind him?”
    Lune replied with nothing more than politely raised eyebrows, waiting to see how he would continue.
    “You may recall, madam,” he said, fingering a bone on his plate, “that nearly a year ago, I offered you information. I assure you, its value has not fallen with time.”
    “But has its price? What you offer, my lord ollamh, may not be so valuable as you think. No doubt you offer me some intelligence concerning the Gyre-Carling of Fife. Oh, yes,” Lune said, “I am not ignorant of the pattern here. This is the only attempt so direct against my person, but there have been other attacks, and I know their source. True, I do not yet know their cause—what has changed in Fife, thus changing Nicneven’s tactics. But you are hardly my only means of learning that, my lord.”
    “Aye, you have other ways—but how long will they take you? And how many more threats will there be in the meantime?” The sidhe had abandoned the last pretense of casual conversation; now he studied her with a frankness that stopped just shy of insult. “You know our price. It has not changed. Bring down Wentworth, and you shall have the name, and more besides.”
    Behind him, the door opened to admit Sir Peregrin, who bowed and waited. “We shall bear that in mind, my lord,” Lune said, rising and extending her hand. “In the meantime, I am afraid obligations call me away. You are welcome to attend, if you so desire.”
    “Thank you, madam. I may at that.” Eochu Airt kissed her hand and departed.
    Left with the lieutenant of her guard, Lune said, “I will come presently.”
    “If it please your Majesty,” he replied, “the Goodemeade sisters beg a moment of your time.”
    “Show them in.” The brownies dropped into respectful curtsies, straightening as soon as Peregrin was gone. “I am due in the amphitheater,” Lune said. “Please say you have something for me.”
    Rosamund answered briskly, incongruous in someone who still, despite years of