I’ve ferreted out more than a few obscure keys, which made it irritating when said keys recently began spreading. Not all of those I know. I still have some knowledge to trade. But it’s caused an escalation in border security.

  Anyway, that’s the basics. I’ll fill in the rest as necessary, or make stuff up and hope you don’t notice.

  Returning to the city is always a bittersweet experience. It’s the only home I’ve ever had, and I hate it. It’s the embodiment of the story that governs our lives. You can almost feel it humming around you along the cobbled streets, guiding your steps. Even if you turned and retraced your path, it’s the story making you do so.

  The true nature of our story manifests itself in fae society. The elegant towers of the nobility visible on the skyline compete for the highest spire. The only time I see them up close is when venturing into affluent neighbourhoods on business.

  Even poor neighbourhoods have competition for the most ostentatious fronting of houses and businesses, with bright, often garish, colours. A veritable cavalcade of crassness.

  There’s also little uniformity in body types on these streets. While the nobility are predominately true fae, as am I, the city is home to all manner, size, and kind of faerie race, and others: diminutive pixies and sprites; centaurs, glaring at any wagon-master who dares raise a whip to his horse; satyrs and fauns, generally merchants with dubious repute among many fae; and pretty much any other fantastical creature you may’ve heard of. Apart from flying monkeys. They’re banned.

  While we call it a city, it may not be what you’d think of as one. Less New York, more Cleveland. And more dispersed. Not only because our architectural technologies haven’t advanced in centuries, robbing us of your towering skyscrapers - which are okay, but I’ve seen bigger. We intersperse our cities among the landscape, with districts, blocks, or even streets separated from each other by sad-looking growths of the life we used to live.

  Overall, the architecture may look quaint to you. After the centuries had worn off the quaintness and replaced it with a yearning for better structural supports. Buildings in the affluent neighbourhoods have weathered better, where they could afford dwarven workmanship.

  Most structures have some wood, even the rudest hovel warded with a story against fire. Larger buildings are often only a wooden facade over a stone structure. All blandly medieval compared to your smorgasbord of styles.

  No matter how much more efficient stone might be, we cling to the ridiculous cultural identity of being tree-dwellers. Some stories I wish we’d left in the forest.

  Architects are weird. They even salivate over different building materials. And that’s the grounded ones - those who don’t consider gingerbread reasonable for load-bearing walls.

  Walking the streets again, with all the associated sights, sounds, and smells, elicits the unmissed sensation of predatory stories eyeing me up for a role in their narratives. I’m sure that’s the reason there’s so little eye contact on the streets. No one wants to risk getting involved.

  Or that might just be me.

  I see stories everywhere. Every world has a story controlling events. As you can’t see them, many can live their lives without thinking there’s a story up there, decreeing our fates. They don’t care that the story supports the feudal system keeping us in our place, so a baker’s son is fated to become a baker.

  I, as you might tell, have a less causal attitude to such control.

  Part of my attraction to Earth is the indifference of your story, and the possibility it offers to forge my own path. If only it wasn’t illegal.

  Even if most of my countrymen might not think much about stories controlling us, the streets still clear quickly at a hint of trouble.

  The commotion on this occasion is a noble dragging his servant along by the ear. The unfortunate is bent double, scrambling to ensure he doesn’t fall, while probably paying little attention to the disjointed tirade listing his failures. They boil down to not getting out of his master’s way fast enough.

  I join other pedestrians taking cover in an alleyway. The cart driver can only pull in to the side.

  Unlike my neighbours in the alley, I linger near the entrance. Such scenes can be oddly hypnotic.

  You keep wondering what, if anything, goes through their heads. While many nobles consider themselves beloved of stories - with, unfortunately, good reason - most realise that acting so harshly could see you trapped in an unwanted role. But there’re always idiots willing to justify the stereotype, either certain they’re the hero, or convinced they can control the story.

  This one, I suspect, is an imbecile. It doesn’t mean that whatever misfortune may befall him won’t be preceded by more innocent victims. Hence the street clearing, which the idiot probably takes as respect.

  Nobody, with any awareness of such things, would choose to be a bit player in another’s story. Your choices swept away by the narrative flow.

  The story’s unlikely to accept wholesale slaughter of bit players. Even stories recognise the necessity of the little people for a functional society. Urban planning is a particular kind of narrative.

  They soon pass by, the servant dragged out of sight. As the excitement passes, the street fills up again. Slowly, with many glancing nervously about while avoiding each other’s gazes. Most want their stories predictable, just the same as yesterday.

  The remaining few streets pass in relative solitude as I head to return the talisman.

  Erlek’s shopfront at least restricts itself to a more understated display of flashy enchanted items in the window. The beaded headdresses currently in fashion among the well-to-do, and gem-studded belts that offer an ostentatious way of supporting one’s trousers.

  All beyond my means, and beyond what they’re worth. But those who can afford them don’t care. They probably wouldn’t care that they’re not his best work. They’re just the most visually notable, with flashy enchantments to give the impression he’s joining in like a good little drone.

  Erlek’s among the finest crafters of talisman in the city. You can rely on his work to do as promised, unlike some. Many of his competitors oversell their wares, exaggerating and hoping any failures end fatally for potentially irate customers. The trade has a high turnover of sellers, many being fronts for the actual crafters. They constantly hire replacement front men, with new premises, but the same old promises.

  Erlek does his own work and takes a buy it or leave it approach. He’s reputable enough that he need not grovel or haggle. A fact that appears lost on his current customer.

  I browse the wares at the front of the shop while eavesdropping. My gaze sweeps over enchanted music boxes, faintly glowing hand mirrors, and jewellery whose abilities I’d have to read the cards to learn. I’m not that interested. I touch nothing, as that’d earn me a hard look.

  ‘This was genuinely worn by Lord Silverfell when he tamed the chimera of Darkendell Forest,’ says the man, holding the waistcoat up for Erlek to get a closer look than anyone needs. He sounds stressed by the barter process.

  ‘I believe you,’ Erlek says without enthusiasm. He barely glances at the proffered item. Lean and reserved, he seldom lets much show on his rat-like features, other than the professional smile he uses for proper customers. It keeps its distance from his eyes.

  ‘You accept its value then?’ The man’s vague amelioration won’t last.

  ‘To those interested in such things,’ says Erlek. ‘I’m not a collector. I’ve a family to feed. I accept only unstoried jewellery or foodstuffs.’

  The man’s bemused, unable to comprehend that some might want nothing to do with stories.

  Erlek shares my opinion on the subject. He doesn’t like his life decided by others, even a story. He certainly doesn’t like that it’ll also decide his son’s life, forcing the boy to follow the family trade.

  Not that Erlek lets it show when it could intrude on business.

  The problem with a barter economy is agreeing a value of exchange between such disparate worldviews. For some, storied items are more valuable because of their history. Their value stops being the inherent worth of their function and becomes what they’ve experienced. There are plenty of shopkeepers who accept that interpretation, and put it on display, hoping to sell it at a profit.

  Then there are the pragmatic ones, who know that storied items attract other stories. Stories with little regard for the concerns, or lives, of the item’s ostensible owner. Owning storied items is a sure way to get dragged into stories.

  The council has tried instituting stable forms of currency, again stealing from your world. But the local story resists such orderly measures. Gemstones form a kind of currency, though they’re restricted to high-end transactions.

  The idiot eventually gives up a few trinkets and the bag of apples. He’d expected his prized heirloom to be enough and remains confused as he stumbles past me and out of the shop.

  At least Erlek gave him a forced smile as he departed. I don’t even get that.

  Partly because the items I’m interested in are of the less legal variety. Not necessarily illegal, though their likely uses may veer towards that territory.

  Such as the talisman I offer him. I’ll at least get a refund credit. Since how the council’s agents detect travellers isn’t clear, he sells the objects cheap with disclaimers about their efficacy.

  It’s a rental system, with the possibility of never receiving them back if they’re unsuccessful and get seized with the customer. Or if they’re successful and the customer doesn’t want to return them, or shop with him again.

  Makes it hard to know what works, having only reports from those of us who escape and return them. I’ve always felt it’s a desperation thing for him, but haven’t asked in case he stops making them.

  ‘Couldn’t tell if it worked,’ I say. ‘There was a Border Guard about, hunting another target.’ No need to share more than is necessary. While I trust his discretion, it’s better that there are no stories circulating about a witness.

  ‘Did the Guard get anywhere near you?’ asks Erlek.

  ‘About ten feet away. I hid in undergrowth and he was looking for something more obvious.’

  ‘Then there’s either no passive detection of outsiders, or this hid you.’

  I say nothing. He isn’t asking my opinion.

  Analysing the available data is all he has to work with, so he’ll ask a few questions. If I want further stuff from him, I answer patiently. Not that he’d turn me away for rudeness. But since he doesn’t like me, I don’t push it.

  I doubt my failure as an apprentice soured our relationship. Despite being good at telling stories a talisman will believe, it was the skilled part of the work I never had the patience for. The carving. With a less demanding craftsman, I might have found a place. But I lack the interest.

  I think he sees me as too willing a slave to the story for his liking. I’m too much so for my own liking. But playing the rogue offers me more freedom than I’d otherwise have. I’m a wildcard, so doing the unexpected is expected. As is the risk of being caught.

  Still, you’d think he’d trust me a little more by now.

  ‘I ran while they focussed on each other,’ I say. I can at least be certain the Border Guard won’t report me. ‘He didn’t have time to look for me, and I’ve no idea whether he was alerted to my arrival.’

  He makes no comment, but gives me an odd look. At my running? What does he expect? My role might require me to take risks, but I’m not reckless, and I’m not stupid.

  Well, that part might be open to debate.

  He puts the talisman away, scribbling some notes to go with it. ‘You’re not trying again soon?’ he asks.

  ‘Not just yet.’ I want to listen for rumours first. What will a Border Guard’s death mean for the security situation? I assume they’ll be more alert, at least until the killer’s apprehended, so I won’t go straight back. Though I will go back.

  I consider telling him what happened, so he can warn others of the danger. To avoid them getting nabbed and leading back to him. But that’s hardly a fae thought to have, when self-interest suggests I keep it to myself.

  Another customer enters, looking far from the type who’d dabble in the black market.

  I thank Erlek and leave.

  He isn’t strictly part of the underworld. Neither am I, really. But there’s plenty of shadowed ground between law-abiding and hardcore malfeasance. It’s the area most fae inhabit, if we’re honest with ourselves. Though honesty is itself rare.

  I might have broken a few laws in my time. Mainly the stupid ones. I’ve never hurt anyone, though, apart from the wounded pride of the deserving. And I always act more out of mischief than greed.

  I’ve recently toyed with the acquisition of Earth artifacts, mainly as an excuse. Even with the flood of keys offering more chance to travel there, the black market remains lucrative. It’s also risky, obviously.

  While trading in Earth contraband isn’t strictly illegal, it’s also not legal. And less wrong than the actual stealing I sometimes engage in.

  What do I do next?

  To begin with, I’ll stop distracting myself with questions of what happened to the Border Guard. While I’ll admit I’m curious, snooping would be unwise.

  Practical concerns first. I need a change of clothes from my kip, then nose around for some means to satisfy my landlord. I don’t want to return to find myself evicted again, and my stuff vanished after being chucked to the streets. The wild strawberries might buy me some time.

  While hardly palatial, my current kip is far from the worst. The woodworms are almost housebroken, and keep the rats in line. I’m not cut out for sleeping under the stars. They’re always so judgemental.

  It turns out even getting a change of clothes may be an overly optimistic ambition, and I might not get the chance to bribe my landlord.

  The pair of city guards outside my place stare blatantly in my direction, with no attempt at subtlety.

  Running is always an option. But if they’re here openly, they’ve been waiting. They might expect me to run and have others waiting nearby. Even if not, running from the guards is probably a crime.

  I’m certain they have nothing on me, and they might want me to run so they can use that against me. If they’re after me, I could run forever. The smarter play is to see what they have. And be ready to run.

  I plant a smile on my face and stroll towards them. ‘May I be of assistance?’

  They get suspicious at such a reception, eyeballing me and exchanging looks.

  It turns out I may assist them. By being arrested. I’m bodily manhandled away, with nary a mention of my crime - though they hardly need concern themselves with such trivialities.

  I think we can all agree though, that was rude.

  Chapter 3

  I spend at least half a day, and all the night, in the cell. Without even being told the charge. And when you’ve been as experimental as I have in testing the limits of the laws, some hint which ones they wish to discuss is helpful.

  It’s a proper cell, too. With iron bars. You only get those after committing serious crimes - serious enough that you should know what they are - or if they’re softening you up. It’s in the basement level, for special prisoners, rather than the subterranean levels where they take the riff-raff. Near enough the surface that they could include a small window, also with iron bars.

  Fae have problems with confinement as it is. The iron is just nasty. Even the slightest physical contact burns. A cold, sharp, burning, that penetrates to your soul. It’s been a long time since I last experienced it, but the feeling burrows into the back of your mind, hibernating until you need a reminder.

  I can’t stop imagining the smell of burnt flesh.

  We take iron seriously. The quarantine of Earth may be more to block access to your plentiful supply of it, rather than the official reason of your orderly governing story being a hazard. While iron won’t travel through circles, any enemy who transported some to this world could pose a danger to fae. The limited supply of iron here is therefore never used rashly.

  Since I’m sure they can’t have evidence of me committing any serious crimes, I figure this is all to the good. They wouldn’t need to intimidate me like this if they had anything.

  It makes the iron no more comfortable. I feel its presence, emanating hatred. I’m careful to keep between us what distance the cell permits. The bars on the window keep me from the outer wall, but the iron door holds my attention.

  It prevents me resting, which I need after the walk back to the city. I also can’t plan without knowing the charge.

  I’m stuck waiting, and patience isn’t part of my skill set.

  I try not to let the obvious questions pester me.

  What’s going on? What do they know? What can they prove?

  Not that they need proof. Suspicion alone is enough for these bastards. I’m not a noble and therefore don’t deserve fair justice.

  I’m sure I left no traces anywhere. I’m always careful about that, no matter how impulsive I appear. And I’m not aware of having been seen anywhere.

  Though if I left traces behind on Earth, they might suspect me of the Border Guard’s death. It’d be ridiculous, especially with the destruction of the Sentinel. No, if they thought I could destroy those, there’d be more security.

  And I wouldn’t be kept waiting so long.

  They’re softening me up to compensate for a lack of evidence. Trying to make me confess, possibly with no idea what I’m confessing to.

  For now, they’ll leave me to grow anxious and uncomfortable. Which, unfortunately, is what happens.

  They won’t wait forever, obviously. With iron’s rarity, they reserve uncomfortable accommodations like this for special cases. I hardly qualify, no matter what they suspect me of.

 

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