Dog, Cat, and Asp stood before her, without bowing. Bowing was a show of submission, and was not necessary with Bel Zheret, who were submissive to her by their very nature. Bowing would have been redundant.
'Speak,' she said.
'One of the magicians in your Secret City, a Journeyer Timha, has disappeared,' said Dog. 'He left the city for his mother's funeral and has not returned.'
'Who authorized the leave?' asked Mab.
'Master Valmin sent a pleading note to the lieutenant of the guard whose task it is to provide security for the city.'
'I see.'
'You wish the lieutenant to die.'
'Yes. But do not kill him. There is no gain in it.'
She turned to Ta-Hila. 'Have the gracious lieutenant reassigned to less sensitive duties, where his generosity will reflect well upon me.'
Ta-Hila nodded, making a note.
'Do you have any knowledge of journeyer Timha's whereabouts?'
'No,' said Dog, smiling. 'It is a mystery to us at the moment. A most meaty mystery.'
Mab wished she could enjoy such uncertainty as much as her creations did. They were designed to love their jobs and never to despair. Fear and stress were great motivators to the average Fae, but they also caused mistakes, and the Bel Zheret had been crafted carefully to make as few mistakes as possible.
'This incident may perhaps explain another,' said Mab. 'I received word today from my contact in the Seelie government that three Shadows have been dispatched onto my soil.'
'Really?' said Cat. 'I would enjoy killing one of them very much. Is one of them named Paet?'
'I do not know,' said Mab. 'And my contact was unaware of their mission. But I believe your information provides the nature of the mission, does it not?'
The three Bel Zheret nodded in unison.
'Here is what we must do,' said Mab. She gave them their instructions, and they left without being dismissed. They knew when she was finished with them.
Once certain plans had been set in motion, Dog, Cat, and Asp had treated themselves to a righteous slaughter in the Secret City. It had been a lovely afternoon. Running, screaming. A merry chase through the bone-white streets of the Secret City. Hot blood spilling on cold white stone. Simply beautiful.
Now, Dog stood with his companions in Master Valmin's office. The few magicians who'd managed to survive their ministrations hung by their fingertips from the ceiling. Master Valmin wasn't one of them, sadly. He'd killed himself as soon as they'd arrived. That showed foresight, Dog supposed, though it certainly robbed the Bel Zheret of some fun.
All the begging and pleading was over, which was nice. Desperation wasn't pretty, wasn't aesthetically pleasing in any way. But beyond the desperation was an exquisite, ragged resignation, and that was worth the effort.
Cat was toying with one of the magicians, nibbling on his finger.
'This one is a holy man,' said Cat. 'I can taste it on him. Devout Chthonic, I suppose. If he were an Arcadian he'd never have made it in here.'
'I like holy men,' said Dog. 'They have a delicate flavor to them, a certain something that's hard to define.'
'Tastes like children,' said Cat, between mouthfuls.
Disaster is not a tragedy. Failing to plan for disaster is the tragedy.
-Unseelie Proverb
his is madness,' said Silverdun.
He, Ironfoot, and Sela stood in the center of the station known as the Locks of Mab's Glorious Union, in the heart of the Unseelie.
'I have to admit,' said Ironfoot. 'Silverdun has a point.'
'Stop it, both of you,' said Sela. 'We must behave as if we're Unseelie.'
'What are we supposed to do?' asked Silverdun, his eyebrow arched.
