Deeds of Men Read Online Free PDF

what price that friendship? What did he surrender to you?”
    “Nothing,” Lune said, spreading her gloved hands. “We laid no snare for him, Master Ware. He came and went freely. We only gave him what he desired: a source of wonder in his life.”
    The young man glared at her. “So too would the Devil speak.”
    Deven winced. “We took nothing from Henry. If you like, I will swear that, too, with a holy book beneath my hand. But not here, where it would cause her Grace much pain.” Lune had undoubtedly swallowed a bite of mortal bread before entering the room, in case she needed its protection, but Ware need not know that.
    “Swear rather to give me his murderer,” Ware said violently. “Or was that merely the bait to lure me, as your promises of wonder lured him?”
    “No bait.” It was like speaking to a growling dog: a level voice, no sudden movement, and always watching to see if the dog would bite. Deven wondered if Lune had guards outside the chamber, in case Ware’s hostility turned to action. “’Tis a player’s trick I have in mind…but it may work, with your aid. Tell me: do you think you could counterfeit Henry’s manner? His carriage, his habits of speech?”
    He expected Lune to see where he struck; what surprised him was the speed with which Ware arrived at the same conclusion. “You think to deceive the guilty party, by the imposture of his ghost. But I am not so like him as to be mistaken for such.”
    “And so we have come here,” Deven said. “Faerie arts can give you the appearance of your brother, and you have the familiarity necessary to carry it off. There are two most likely of guilt—not themselves murderers, but who would have given the order. With her Majesty’s aid, we can contrive instances for them to encounter you here, and thereby provoke from them some sign.”
    It worked in plays. Deven had some hope it would work here. The dead were a familiar thing to the fae, who discoursed with them on All Hallow’s Eve; the guilty courtier would be unlikely to blurt out a confession at the sight of a ghost. But they needed no confession. Only a hint to guide them in the right direction.
    Young Ware was still struggling with the notion of letting a faerie lay any charms upon him. Lune said, “The Prince and I will spare no effort in this endeavour, nor flinch to punish the guilty, once found. Murder of any kind is abhorrent to me, and the murder of a mortal ally, doubly so; but Henry’s death goes far beyond that. We must ensure this does not happen again.”
    The boy’s attention returned to her, and for the first time Deven noticed what he should have seen from the start: that Antony Ware met Lune’s gaze without flinching. Her eyes might have been two new-minted shillings, a pure silver never seen among humans, and most mortals found their shine disconcerting. If Ware shared that apprehension, he showed no sign of it.
    Instead he asked, “And the price for this?”
    “None,” Deven said, knowing no sensible human would believe it from a faerie. “Nor any consequence to you afterward. Think of it as paint, such as an actor wears upon the stage. Once washed off, it is gone forevermore.”
    Ware’s body had tensed again, as when first he confronted Deven, with his hands curled tight into fists. But this time, the cause was not anger: he stood as a man at a precipice, nerving himself for the leap.
    “Do it, then,” Antony Ware said. “For my brother.”

    Arr.       A riotous youth,
    There’s little hope of him.
    Sab.       That fault his age
    Will, as it growes, correct.
    —I.i.106-8
    The Onyx Hall, London: 29 July, 1623
    Henry’s laughter bubbled out of him, his cards momentarily forgotten. “You cannot be serious. Immortal creatures, the very air they breathe the stuff of enchantment—and they care what drunkard James and his ministers do?”
    “Not all,” Deven said, gesturing for his friend to continue the game. “But her Majesty, yes, and many of