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purpose?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Unless he has taken leave of his senses at last,” Doyle said, “he has a purpose to all of this. But I confess that I do not see what it could gain him. I do not like that we seem to be deep in a game and I do not know what we are playing.”
    Doyle stopped talking, and looked across the table at the lawyers. “Forgive us, please. We forgot where we were for a moment.”
    “Do you believe that this is all some sort of intercourt politics?” Veducci asked.
    “Yes,” Doyle said.
    Veducci looked at Frost. “Lieutenant Frost?”
    “I agree with my captain.”
    Last he looked at me. “Princess Meredith?”
    “Oh, yes, Mr. Veducci, whatever else we are doing, it is most certainly intercourt politics.”
    “His treatment of Ambassador Stevens makes me begin to wonder if we are being used here,” Veducci said.
    “Are you saying, Mr. Veducci,” Biggs said, “that you are beginning to doubt the validity of the charges made against my clients?”
    “If I find out that your clients did what they are accused of, I will do my best to punish them to the greatest extent that the law allows, but if these charges turn out to be false, and the king has tried to use the law to harm the innocent, I’ll do my best to remind the king that in this country no one is supposed to be above the law.” Veducci smiled again, but this time it wasn’t a happy smile. It was more predatory. That smile was enough; I knew who I feared the most on the other side of the table. Veducci wasn’t as ambitious as Shelby and Cortez, but he was better. He actually still believed in the law. He actually still believed that the innocent should be spared, and the guilty punished. You didn’t often see such pure faith in lawyers who had spent more than twenty years on the bar. They had to give up their belief in the law to survive as a lawyer. But somehow, Veducci had held on. He believed, and maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to believe us.

CHAPTER 3
    WE HAD ADJOURNED TO A DIFFERENT ROOM. THE ROOM WAS smaller than the conference room, but then so were some single-family homes. There was a huge mirror on one wall, the glass of which held small imperfections, bubbles near one corner. The mirror had an almost smoky quality in a few spots. Its frame was gilt edged, and worn with age. It had belonged to the original Mr. Biggs’s great-grandmother. We were here, in Mr. Biggs’s inner sanctum, to make a phone call of sorts, though no phones would be involved.
    Galen, Rhys, and Abeloec had had their turn at the questioning in the conference room. They hadn’t been able to do much but deny the charges. Abe had stood there with his perfectly striped hair: black, shades of gray, white, all perfectly even and artificial like some artful modern Goth, but it wasn’t a good dye job; it was real. His pale skin and gray eyes matched the look. He looked odd in his charcoal-gray suit. No amount of tailoring could make it look like the clothes he would have chosen himself. He had been a party guy for centuries, and his clothes usually reflected that. Abe had no alibi because he’d been trying to crawl into a bottle with a drug chaser at the time of the accused attack. He’d been clean and sober only about two days. But the sidhe can’t truly be addicted to anything, just as they can’t truly drink or drug themselves into oblivion. It was an upside downside. The fey couldn’t get addicted, but they couldn’t use liquor, or drugs, to hide from their problems either. You could get us drunk, but only up to a point.
    Galen looked cool and boyishly elegant in his brown suit. They wouldn’t let him wear his signature green because it brought out the green undertones in his white skin. What they hadn’t seemed to understand was that brown made the green undertone darker still, and much more noticeable. His green curls were cut short, with only one thin braid to remind me that his hair had once fallen in a glorious sheet to his