Ink and Steel by Elizabeth Bear Read Free Book Online Page B

player’s.”
    Will looked at Burbage, who sat with his hands folded between his knees, thumbs rubbing circles over his striped silk hose. Burbage tilted his head, eyes glistening. ’Twas true.
    â€œThe poem’s the thing, then,” Will said, when he thought he’d considered enough. “Give unto me what you would impart, and I will wreak it into beauty with my pen.”
    Oxford twisted his palm together, fingers arched as if to ease a writer’s cramp. “Excellent.” Another intentional hesitation. “Your play.”
    â€œTitus Andronicus .”
    â€œSend it me. I fancied myself something of a poet in my youth. Perhaps I can be of some small aid.”
    â€œMy lord,” Will answered, covering discomfort. “I shall.”

Act I, scene iv
    Was this the face that Launch’d a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.—
Her Lips suck forth my soul; see, where it flies!—
    â€”CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus
    Kit’s heartbeat rattled his ribs inside his skin. He clutched the balustrade in his left hand, Morgan steadying him on his blind side as she led him down the sweeping marble stair and into the midst of creatures diabolic and divine. His riding boots clattered on the risers: inappropriate to an audience with the Queen of Faeries, he thought inanely. But it was homely and reassuring that they hadn’t had time to make him boots and that the doublet, for all its fineness, bound across his shoulders.
    â€œBreathe,” the ancient Queen whispered in his ear. “You’ll need your wits about you, Sir Kit, for I can offer thee but small protection, and my sister the Queen is devious.”
    He turned his head to glimpse her; the movement brought a twisting sharpness to the savaged muscles of his neck and shoulder, which were stiffening again. Morgan must have seen him wince, for her fingers tightened. “Thou’rt hurting.”
    â€œFair face of a witch you are,” he answered with a stab at good humor. “Without herbs or simples better than brandy to dull a man’s pain.”
    She paused on the landing above the place where the stair began to sweep down and made a show of fussing right-handed with her skirts. He leaned on the rail and on her other arm while the pale gold-veined stairs reeled.
    â€œI’d dull your pain,” she answered, glancing at him before ducking her head to flick the soft moiré one last time. “And thick your tongue, and set your head to reeling. Which canst ill afford when you go before the Mebd, Sir Poet.”
    Her hair moved against the back of her neck, a few strands escaping the braid. He stopped his hand before it could brush them aside. A blade of guilt dissected him at the impulse, and he embraced the pain, gnawed at it. He had nothing left to be unfaithful to, save Elizabeth, now that his sweet Tom had discarded him. Kit welcomed the cold, the distance that came with the thought. Nothing Like ice for an ache.
    She’s very Like Elizabeth would be, had she Leave to be a woman and not a King. “Queen Mab?”
    â€œThe Mebd,” Morgan corrected, steadying his arm again. Below, faces turned up like flowers opening to the sun. “Queen of the Daoine Sidhe.” She pronounced the name maeve , the kingdom theeneh shee . “She has a wit about her— Ah! Sir Kit. Come and meet my son.”
    â€œMordred?” Kit asked, putting the smile he couldn’t quite force onto his lips into his voice.
    â€œDead at Camlann,” Morgan answered. “He was fair. Fair as thou art, ashen of hair and red of beard. A handsome alliance. Come and meet Murchaud the Black, my younger.”
    Something in her tone made him expect a lad of thirteen, fifteen years. But the man who met them at the foot of the stairs, a pair of delicate goblets in his hand, was taller than Kit by handspans, his curled black hair oiled