I checked myself, trying to get my poker face back on. “Last time I went to one of these,” I said, “things went kind of sideways.”
“Heh,” the old man said. “Me, too. Just you remember what I taught you.”
“Never start the fight. Always finish it.”
“Not that.”
“Make your bed and do your chores?”
“Not that.”
“Something, something, never let them see you sweat.”
A grin flashed over the old man’s seamed face, there and gone. “Close enough.”
Then he gripped his stumpy staff and strode forward into the gathering.
I took a deep breath.
Then I followed him.
20
Marcone’s little castle had a large central hall that took up what had to be a goodly portion of its ground floor.
The room was lit by chunks of glowing crystal mounted in sconces. Brownie work, unless I missed my guess, by the faint tinge of spring green and yellow coloring various pieces of white quartz—itself a potent charm against dark magic when properly attuned. That got my attention, right away. Summer Court work was unmistakable.
And apparently, Baron Marcone had convinced them to help him.
Music played from somewhere nearby, from live musicians, perhaps in an alcove behind some light curtains. I didn’t recognize the composer of the little chamber orchestral piece, but that mostly meant that it wasn’t Vivaldi. One of the Germans was as close as I could get. Whoever was playing, they weren’t human. It held too much exactitude, too much unity in the tones, as if one mind had been playing all the instruments, and the shivering notes of perfect harmony it cast brought forth the ancient enchantment of music that had nothing to do with magic. That was Sidhe work, or I’d eat my tie, and from the sheer murderous precision of it, members of the Unseelie Court were responsible.
And they were playing for Marcone’s party. Something that crowd did not do just for kicks—if they were doing this for a mortal, it was because they were paying off a favor.
I thought about the vaults we’d partially wrecked in the basement of Marcone’s bank, where he’d been entrusted with protecting assets from a dozen different supernatural nations at least. Just how many markers had Marcone given out? How many truly scary beings were in the man’s debt?
I frowned. The robber baron of Chicago was becoming a real concern.
And the hell of it was, I wasn’t sure the residents of my town weren’t at least partly better off for it. For all the harm he dealt out to the world, Marcone’s people had taken the fight to the Fomor when they’d been hitting the town.
The swirl of attendees was a little dazzling, and I took a moment to just take it in.
Broad sheets of silk in a variety of colors decorated the roof and walls, streaming down from overhead to vaguely imitate the interior of an enormous tent, where negotiations would doubtless take place in the field between ancient armies. It took me a moment, but I recognized the various colors and patterns representing many of the nations of the Unseelie Accords, arranged subtly enough to be noticed only subliminally if one didn’t go looking. But of course, here, everyone was looking. I regarded the various colors and patterns on the silk and realized the intention.
Our host had drawn up something of a seating arrangement.
Or, perhaps …
Battle lines.
A swirl of silver and onyx fabric patterned in strict geometric lines spilled down to backdrop a little area set with masterfully crafted furniture carved of … what looked like naturally ebony hardwood of some kind, chased with silver. Seated in a high-backed chair was King Etri of the Svartalves, appearing in his diminutive natural form, his grey skin and huge dark eyes striking against the backdrop. He was dressed in an impeccable suit of silver silk with black pinstripes and carried a cane of shining silver in his right hand.
Etri looked resolved—and exhausted. His broad forehead was wrinkled into a frown as he apparently listened to Senior Councilman Cristos, seated in the chair next to him. The wizard was in a conciliatory posture, bent forward slightly, his hands open, speaking quietly to the svartalf leader.
Etri’s sister Evanna sat next to him, elegant in her own black suit, her fine silver-white hair spilling down over her shoulders like liquid metal. Her forehead was crossed by a band of some kind of metal that seemed to reflect colors that were not actually present in the room. Her dark eyes flicked toward mine and narrowed in immediate suspicion upon seeing me.