A Star Shall Fall (21 page)

He heard an echo of his bewilderment in Lune’s answer. “Araby.”

Galen couldn’t help but wonder whether Lune, like him, drew some strength from elegance of dress, and for that reason had ordered a delay while they both changed into more suitable clothing. Whether she did or not, he was grateful for the deep-cuffed coat and powdered wig Edward put him into; they helped him stand proud as the massive bronze doors of the greater presence chamber swung open to admit the traveler.

The chamber itself was such a wondrous space that Galen might have thought any additional wonder would seem at home. Soaring black pillars served as a frame for panels of silver filigree and faceted crystal, bestowing a degree of lightness on what otherwise would have been a grim and ominous space. The figure who entered, though, brought with him a different kind of wonder entirely.

It wasn’t that his countenance was especially grotesque. His bearded face was darker skinned than Galen expected of an Arab, more like a Negro, with a powerfully hooked nose, but beyond that he looked almost human. His dress was moderately odd, being a long, straight robe confined at the hips with a broad sash, and of course his head was wrapped in a neatly folded turban; that was not the cause, either. In the years Galen had been among the English fae, their alien natures had become almost familiar—but this fellow awoke that
frisson
again, the awareness that there was always more strangeness beyond his ken.

The lords and ladies assembled for this audience rustled and murmured amongst themselves, watching him approach. When the visitor reached a courteous distance from the dais upon which Lune and Galen sat, he sank gracefully to both knees, bowing his head just shy of touching the floor. “
As-salamu alaykum,
O fair Queen, O wise Prince. Peace be unto you. I am called Abd ar-Rashid, Al-Musafir, At-Talib ul-’ilm, of the land known to you as Araby.”

“Welcome to the Onyx Court, Lord Abd ar-Rashid,” Lune said, smoothly enough that Galen suspected she had practiced the foreign name while dressing. “Never before has our realm been visited by one of your land. Do you come to us as an ambassador?”

“I do not, O Queen.” The stranger had risen from the lowest part of his bow, but remained on his knees. The stone of the presence chamber carried his voice to them, clear despite the distinct and oddly French-tinged accent. “I an individual only, traveling the faerie Europe courts these many years.”

Galen, content to let Lune manage the niceties of welcome, had been studying that hook-nosed face, chasing a wisp of memory. It was the French letter of introduction that did it; his tutor had given him several books for practicing the language, years ago, and one of them had mentioned something like this creature. Galen’s mother had confiscated the volume in horror once she saw the title—too late to protect him from the scandalous bits—but he’d read enough to remember the word. “If you will pardon me for asking, sir—are you a genie?”

Abd ar-Rashid’s white teeth flashed a startling contrast against his dark skin. Smiling, he said, “A genie indeed, O Prince. Read you the
Thousand and One Nights
?”

Floundering for useful memories beyond the bare word—and succeeding only in recalling more and more of the scandalous bits—Galen caught sight of Lune, out of the corner of his eye. Without ever so much as uttering a word or changing the serene pleasantry of her expression, she somehow communicated her intentions to him.
You know more than I do of this stranger. Deal with him as you will.

God help him. Galen had stood at Lune’s side on various state occasions, fulfilling his duties as her mortal consort, but never before had he been the chief voice in such a matter. And now to hand him an Arabic faerie, sent to them by some French lady he’d never even met . . .

Well, it could not hurt to be polite. He hoped. “What brings you to England, Lord ar-Rashid?”

The smile flickered out of existence a heartbeat before the genie bowed again. “I beg your kindness, O Prince. I am not Ar-Rashid, The One Who Knows, being his servant only. I am called
Abd
ar-Rashid, meaning this: I serve the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate.”

Apparently his attempt at politeness
could
hurt. Galen had no choice but to forge ahead. “No, the apology should be mine; I did not realize.” Then, belatedly, he took note of the way the faeries had whispered amongst themselves at his words.
The Merciful and Compassionate—does he mean God?

Did this faerie just claim to be a servant of God?

That question seemed even more likely to drop him into a pit than the simple use of Abd ar-Rashid’s name had. Galen fled back to his original query. “Is it some task set by your sovereign that brings you to our shores, Lord Abd ar-Rashid?” Did genies even
have
sovereigns?

The Arab’s answer didn’t enlighten him. “It is not, O Prince. These years have I been journeying across Europe in the service of my own curiosity, and it brings me now to England.”

At the distance that separated the genie from the dais, it was unlikely he noticed Lune stiffening; Galen, at her side, could not miss it. “Curiosity of what sort, my lord?” she asked.

“That of a scholar, O Queen.” His accent made subtleties of intonation difficult to discern, and in the cool light of the chamber, Galen had equal trouble making out the expressions on the dark face. “I come here to ask of your Prince introduction to the Royal Society gentlemen.”

Had he asked for an introduction to King George II, Galen could not have been more surprised. “The Royal Society? The philosophers?” Perhaps it was some error in the genie’s English.

Abd ar-Rashid soon disabused him of the notion. “Once a great flower of wisdom grew in my land, but in recent centuries it has withered under the hand of the soldiers and the officials. Araby was the mother of medicine and alchemy, astronomy and the making of clocks; now the infant she reared has grown to manhood, and traveled to Europe, where he finds a more friendly home. Taqi al-Din has been succeeded by your John Harrison and James Bradley and Isaac Newton. I have no interest in war and the operation of government; therefore I come here, following in the footsteps of knowledge.”

It had the sound of a rehearsed speech; indeed, Galen suspected the genie had delivered it in French to the Cour du Lys—with, of course, suitable replacements for the English scholars he’d named. Bemused, Galen said, “And you believe I can grant you admittance to the Royal Society.”

The Arab hesitated. “Out of your kindness—if French would be possible—” Lune nodded, and Galen thought he saw relief flash across that dark face as the genie bowed again. In much more fluent French, he said, “In the Cour du Lys, I heard that the Queen of London kept a mortal man at her side, who governed all matters relating to the human world. When news came that this man had become a Fellow of the Society, I made arrangements to come here.”

His French was good enough that Galen, far more rusty in the language, had trouble keeping up; but he was able to catch where rumor had gone astray. “I am not a Fellow, sir,” he said, painfully aware of his own bad accent. “Only a visitor among them.”

The genie’s stillness came as a surprise, after all the bowing. “Was I in error, O Prince? Have I asked something not in your power to give?”

A tiny shift in Lune’s body told Galen she’d been about to speak, then stopped herself. He could guess why. She never turned visitors away from her court empty-handed; unlike most faerie realms, this one was composed of strangers who had come from a dozen other homes, some merely visiting, others resettling themselves within its dark shadow. Interaction with the mortal world was not the only thing that separated this court from others in England.

She didn’t turn visitors away—but neither did she give gifts without hope of something in return. “An introduction is within my power,” Galen said, wishing to Heaven that he’d been given some warning of this, so he could think through his reply without the genie, Lune, and the assembled courtiers watching his every move. “But it is no small thing, sir, to bring you into company with the gentlemen and lords of my acquaintance there. You are a stranger to me as much as to them, and a foreign stranger at that. I don’t know how these things are done in your land, but here, if a gentleman introduces another in that manner, he risks his own good name; he vouches to his friends that the new man is a trustworthy fellow, and worthy of their company. I mean no insult to you, but I cannot in good conscience give such assurances for someone about whom I know virtually nothing.”

He realized too late that he had lapsed back into English. Perhaps it was just as well; he would have embarrassed himself, trying to say all that in French. The genie’s eyes had narrowed, but whether it was a sign of hostility or merely difficulty understanding him, Galen didn’t know.

He hoped the latter, and that Abd ar-Rashid understood enough to see the opening Galen had provided. And indeed, after a silent moment, the genie bowed. “I would die a hundred times, O Prince, before I bring shame to you by my behavior. I am content to wait. Perhaps in that time I find some service for yourself or your Queen, and prove my character to you?”

Now Galen turned to Lune, gratefully handing off the burden of this negotiation. The notion of introducing, not just a faerie, but a
heathen
faerie to the philosophers of the Royal Society was a staggering absurdity his mind could scarcely encompass, but perhaps it would be possible to disguise Abd ar-Rashid with a glamour of an Englishman, and to improve his English. Or just to conduct the entire affair in French. In the meantime, Lune could decide what price she wanted to put on Galen’s help.

With a rueful quirk of her lips, Lune asked, “Do the powers of a genie, by any chance, extend to the weather?”

The Onyx Hall, London: April 28, 1758

The effort to find a weapon against the Dragon had sent Lune’s ambassadors farther than ever before—but never beyond Europe. For the first time in her reign, she found herself with a visitor about whom she knew precisely nothing.

A state of affairs she did not permit to last for long. A week and a half after the genie’s audience, she convened a small meeting of fae: Sir Adenant, Lady Yfaen, and the puck Beggabow.

Sir Adenant had not even brushed the dust off his boots, so recently had he returned from France. “My report, madam,” he said, handing over a sheaf of papers with a bow. “I judged it more important to get this information to you rapidly than to uncover every detail, but this is the essence of it.”

He was far from her best spy, but he’d gone to France before, and had friends in the Cour du Lys. “What did you learn?”

“He’s definitely a traveler, madam. Before France, it was Italy and Athens; his home, inasmuch as he has one, is Istanbul. But he seems to have gone there with that fellow he mentioned, Taqi al-Din, nearly two hundred years ago, and they met in Egypt.”

Beggabow whistled. Lune felt like doing the same. Most fae looked oddly even on those who served as ambassadors; travel was not something they did much of. But perhaps genies had a greater fondness for it. “Why all the movement?”

Adenant spread his hands. “It seems to be as he said, your Grace. A thirst for information. Madame Malline told me those later parts of his name mean ‘the traveler’ and ‘the seeker of knowledge,’ or some such.”

“What about the first part? ‘Servant of He Who Knows’?”

The faerie knight shuddered. “That’s the strangest part. They say he’s a heathen—that he follows the Mohammedan deity. And he isn’t the only one, either. He claims several genies are ‘of the Faithful.’ ”

Lady Yfaen laughed, a bright, disbelieving sound. “Surely you don’t mean they
pray
.”

“They do,” Beggabow said. “Or at least he does. Five times a day. I’ve been watching him the last week, wondering what in Mab’s name he thinks he’s doing.”

The puck was one of Aspell’s spies, diverted from the Sanists to follow Abd ar-Rashid. “Where is he living?” Lune asked.

“In Wapping,” the puck said. “Bold as you please. Makes himself look like a Turk, and rents a room from some Lascar near the Frying Pan Stairs, right by the river.”

Now it was Adenant’s turn to whistle. “Does the Lascar give him bread?”

Beggabow shook his head. “Not as I can tell. He don’t seem to
need
it. Iron don’t bother him, and neither do holy things, him praying and all. Wish
I
could learn that trick.”

It explained why he hadn’t asked for shelter in the Onyx Hall. Lune had been uneasy about that, not certain whether she wanted to offer it to him or not. Strangers were common enough, but not strangers whose capabilities and motives were entirely opaque to her. And while it seemed, at least so far, that this genie’s motives were honest enough, his capabilities were still a dangerous unknown.

Adenant’s report might contain something of that. So, too, might Yfaen’s contribution. The sylph had a tall stack on the table at her side, books and loose papers alike. “This is all I could find, madam,” she said, with an apologetic duck of her head, as if she hadn’t assembled a month’s worth of reading. “The
Thousand and One Nights
he mentioned—a French translation, and two English ones. Also a few other books, and a manuscript from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I don’t know if it says anything about genies, but her husband was the English ambassador to Istanbul about fifty years ago, and she went with him; this is what she wrote about her experiences. It may help.”

Anything
that chipped away at Lune’s ignorance would help. She sighed, foreseeing a great deal of work ahead. “My thanks to all three of you. If you learn more—”

Beggabow snapped his fingers, then blushed and tugged his forelock in apology for interrupting her. “Sorry, your Grace. I just remembered. There’s a Jew around the corner from where he lives, a lens-maker named Schuyler; your Arab has him and a silversmith working on some kind of mirrored bowl. Not sure what that’s for, but it’s big.” The puck held out his arms, indicating something at least a yard across.