by F. D. Lee
“Go pay a Raconteur.”
“Ashhif,” Bea snorted. “Can’t afford it. Go on. Ish just you an’ me.”
Ivor took the bottle and pulled on it, enjoying the momentary sense of power. “You ain’t worried about the informers? The Beast is out tonight, so I hear. What about your fine career?”
“My career ish about as fine as your eshtablishment.”
“Good enough for the likes of you then,” Ivor said, not exactly unoffended. “You really wanna hear one?”
Bea snatched the bottle back. “Yeah. Why not? Like you say, no one’sh botherered with us.”
“I said they don’t like to give us choice, not that the white suits won’t have us dead-headed,” Ivor replied sharply.
“Tell me the one, the one, the one about the girl, only she’s underground, but she married him, even tho’ she didn’t know him, shomethin’ like that, and her lover comesh to rescue her, he looksh at her, right?, and then she’s stuck there because ish cold. No, she makesh the cold? She’sh got a cold…”
“You’re drunk, girl.”
“’m not,” Bea hiccupped.
“Then you’re suicidal. No chance I’m telling a tale with the Beast in it on the very same night ’nother Mirror does down.”
Bea thought about arguing or trying to cajole a tale out of him but suddenly it didn’t seem worth it. It was just another disappointment in an already disappointing day. And she liked Ivor, despite his efforts to make himself unlikeable. Why bother upsetting him and frustrating herself?
So instead Bea smiled and bowed with unsteady sarcasm and climbed up to her room, trying not to acknowledge the leaden weight still sitting heavy in her gut, which the alcohol had failed to wash away.
There was an angry knocking at her door.
Bea, groggy and stuck to her table by a pool of drool, tried to frown it into silence without causing her head to explode.
The knocking continued, immune to her glares.
Resigning herself to yet another failure, she stood slowly and shuffled over to the door. It didn’t have a spyhole and was made of solid wood – but it was thin. She pressed her ear against the splintery surface and listened. She could hear breathing, laboured and straining.
She stood undecided for a moment, but figured it didn’t sound like the Beast, a conclusion based on nothing more than a vague idea of what a three-headed, giant dog might sound like when it was waiting outside one’s home.
She pulled the door open slowly and peered into the dark hallway.
The next thing she knew she was being frogmarched down the stairs, through the dirty reception and past Ivor, who sat with an affected interest in his new playing cards when he saw the brown uniform of her assailant.
Bea was dragged through the entrance of her building, over the puddle of 90 per cent proof regurgitation and towards a polished black carriage with two kelpi bound in leather bridles and reins, their unshod hooves stamping at the ground in angry impatience. Painted in gold on the side of the coach were the letters “G.A.”.
“What’s going on? I didn’t do anything-” Bea cried, but the troll, who had her by the shoulders, only sneered and pushed her unceremoniously up the little metal stairs and into the carriage. The troll slammed the door on her and a moment later the vehicle began to move, knocking Bea backwards onto the small bench, winding her.
The air tasted dusty and… she frowned… of juniper-spirit? As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness an entirely different – and yet equally unpleasant – notion formed in her mind. She wasn’t alone.
In the dark, small space were two brownies, each wearing the uniform of official Fiction Management Executives. Judging from their costumes they worked as morals, managing the kind of short stories in which, usually, the character learns to be more generous or to love their family. Morals’ stories were usually very short and needed frequent repeating to keep the belief up, but even so, they were official FMEs. Thus they were more important than someone who just watched Plots to make sure nothing went wrong during the off-pages. And, of course, Bea was also a fairy.
She could tell the two brownies were thinking exactly the same thing as they looked at her, their faces screwed up like they were swallowing cod liver oil. Bea fought the urge to smooth out her dress. She was not a natural seamstress. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to give into stereotype, but the truth was she didn’t have the patience. Still, she’d done her best. But now, sitting opposite these two real FMEs in their real uniforms, she wished she’d taken a bit more care over it.
“Er... hello?” she said.
The first brownie’s lip curled. “Why have they picked a fairy up? Has there been a mistake?”
“I don’t know-” Bea began, but she didn’t get very far.
“Mortal gods, you’re not an Anti?”
“What? No!” Bea said, shocked.
Anti-Narrativists believed the Teller’s stories weren’t working, and that it was time for a new Narrator and a new Chapter.
‘If,’ they said, or rather whispered, ‘belief keeps the Mirrors working, and the Teller’s Plots are supposed to be the best at making the characters believe, well then. Ipso facto, isn’t it? The Mirrors are breaking. So either the belief isn’t working or the stories aren’t.’
Which was the normal ebb and flow of a free-thinking society. This was what freedom was about: the freedom to say what you wanted, and then the freedom to explain to the Redaction Department, in any way you liked, exactly why you thought you should be allowed to say that.
“I am not an Anti,” Bea said, adding for good measure: “The Teller Cares About Us.”
“The Teller Cares About Us,” chanted the two brownies automatically. It wasn’t enough, however, to distract them from their horror at sharing their carriage with Bea.
“So why are they bringing you with us?” the first brownie whined. “You’re just a fairy. Not even an FME.”
“Don’t encourage it, Maeve,” the second brownie chided.
“Anyone can be an FME,” Bea protested. But it was no good.
“Listen to her, Dot,” Maeve said. “Where do they find them?”
The brownie identified as Dot inspected Bea over the end of her nose. “Being a Fiction Management Executive is a very important role. The Mirrors are breaking.”
“Absolutely,” Bea said, “that’s exactly why-”
“That’s exactly why one has to be recommended,” Dot snapped. “The Plot Department don’t take just anyone. What tribe are you?”
“I’m a garden fairy, but-”
“A garden fairy as an FME? Well. I suppose it takes all sorts.” Dot said this in the kind of voice that stated very clearly that, while it may well take all sorts to make a world, it was not the kind of world that she, a decent and upstanding citizen, wanted any part of.
Bea fell silent. Ignoring the tightness in her throat, she twitched the heavy curtain on the door aside. There was no point trying to explain. The brownies had already switched her off, chatting happily to each other, not even bothering to make a point of ignoring her.
I’m not even worth being deliberately rude to, Bea thought as she stared unseeing at the narrow, night-time streets of Ænathlin as they rumbled past.
Ænathlin was almost beautiful in the orange glow of the oil lamps. The coach had to be nearing the wealthier centre of the city. The streets were getting wider, and the buildings were more ornate and individual than those by the wall. Even the bars and dragon dens were cleaner, with names that didn’t require the speaker to be over 18 to utter.
The shops were better fronted, too. Some actually had window displays, with Thaianan-made glass in the frames. Once, when all the Mirrors were working, it had been possible to bring through decorative materials like glass, but the Teller had banned the movement of such frivolous items long before Bea was born.
The GenAm posters were nicer in the centre, too. Where Bea lived the posters were cheap woodcuts, mass-produced by the Contents
Department and spread over any available surface. They carried simple slogans: ‘The Teller Cares About You’, ‘Beware The Little Man’, that kind of thing. Here the posters were fewer, but they were also much larger and more beautiful.
Some showed stylised images of the Teller smiling benignly down at his city, while others depicted grossly deformed caricatures of the imp and Anti-Narrativist leader Robin Goodfellow. In these posters, Goodfellow stole food from homes or burned Books, his small face twisted in a spiteful smile. There were also delicately painted scenes from the Teller’s Plots, reminding the fae how important his stories were.
There were even some depicting the Beast, the Teller’s three headed, dog-like pet, black blood dripping from its fangs as it clawed at a nameless Anti. The Beast worked with the Redaction Department, sniffing out Anties, delivering them to the white suits to be interrogated and then Redacted. They said there was no escaping the Beast once it had your scent.
All of this was lost on Bea, however. She stared through the little coach window, going over the same old mantra:
Just because I’m a cabbage fairy… One day, they’ll see they’re wrong…
The carriage sped on, bouncing her up and down. Bea realised suddenly how fast they were moving. Ænathlin was many things, but one thing it was not was easily navigated. Yet now the streets were almost empty and they were making unnaturally good time.
“It’s so quiet,” Bea said without thinking.
“Curfew,” snapped Dot, “the GenAm’s cracking down. The Beast is out.”
“The Beast? They’ve released it?” Bea’s attention snapped back to the window, now expecting to see the Beast stalking the streets, its three heads low to the ground as it searched for Anties.
Or those who’d changed the Plots.
“What do you expect?” said Maeve. “Another Mirror broke today. Don’t you know anything?”
“Of course, I-”
“Then why act so surprised? The Anties are sabotaging the stories. Without the stories the Mirrors don’t work. Without the Mirrors the city dies – we die. How are we supposed to gather goods, to find food or drink without access to the Five Kingdoms of Thaiana? You might as well suggest we farm the wastelands. I can only assume you have something more to offer the blue suits than your keen intellect.”
Bea stared at her. “Blue suits? We’re going the Plot Department?”
Maeve rolled her eyes at the stupidity of fairies.
Chapter Four
It was, in fact, to the Contents Department and not the Plot Department that Bea had been led, and where she now remained.
She had been waiting for hours. It was only the fact that the whole room was filled to the rafters with other fae that kept her from being swept away under waves of anxiety.
She focused on her surroundings. Never having been so far into the GenAm before, Bea wasn’t sure what she’d expected; but now she was at long last here she realised everything was, paradoxically, very busy and yet also mind-achingly dull.
She supposed she had always thought the inner offices of the GenAm would be calm and luxurious, with golden chandeliers and velvet sofas, like an upmarket dragon den. Instead, she found herself being led through a series of dull, beige corridors, and then unceremoniously dumped in this waiting room, a space that was for interior design what the plague was for a healthy complexion.
What was interesting, however, were the other occupants.
She tried not to stare, but the room was so full wherever she looked she would be watching someone. And, sitting far away from her, was a group that absolutely had Bea’s attention: FMEs, and not just any kind of FMEs – godmothers, all dressed in the famous purple uniform with the little cape. They sat in a huddle, gossiping and sharing boiled sweets and, Bea couldn’t help noticing, sly nips from a silver hipflask. Needless to say she hadn’t been invited to join them.
Besides the godmothers were other FMEs, including the two brownies, Maeve and Dot, with whom Bea had shared the coach. There were also some misks, who tended to work on young belief and tradition; a handful of clerks dressed in the dull brown uniform of the Contents Department; and, finally, a group of elves, probably drunk and certainly loud.
Elves were often pulled in by the GenAm to get them off the streets and away from the trouble that invariably followed them. A lot of the elves were said to be Anties, or at least have sympathy for their cause. They didn’t like the boundaries the Teller’s Plots placed on them, and pined for the older Chapters, when they had been free to do what they wanted.
And yet, even the elves were more highly respected than the fairies. They were beautiful, elegant creatures with pointed ears and creamy skin, and the characters loved them, and believed in them well into adulthood. Elves helped the Plots. Fairies didn’t. Fairies were the first tribe the characters stopped believing in. And there were too many fairies in the city, or at least that’s what everyone said. But most damningly, the King and Queen had loved the fairies.
The thought of the King and Queen brought back an image of the crisp, white-suited blonde Redactionist from the Grand. Bea bit her lip. They’d have had time to read her Book by now…
“I didn’t know you were back!” cried a shrill voice, causing the whole room to turn.
Bea looked down.
“Well met, Joan. I got back tonight – well, yesterday now.” She smiled at the long face and short, haystack hair of her good friend. Bea was used to Joan turning up unexpectedly. After all, tooth fairies were extremely adept at being stealthy, and Joan, as short and small boned as a child, with her warm cape, well heeled boots, rope and little bag of crampons, was typical of her kind.
Bea was pleased to be surprised by a familiar face, and tried not to notice the way the godmothers were the first to start up their whispered conversation again, shooting them dirty looks.
“Do you know what’s going on?” she asked. “I got pulled out of my flat and brought here. What’re you doing here?”
“Dropping off the teeth. What d’you mean, pulled out of your flat?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Bea said airily, managing to convey a lot more certainty than she felt. “I had to share the coach with two FMEs, though.”
Joan groaned in sympathy. “Still up in arms?”
“I don’t think they’ll ever be down in arms, to be honest. It was only a few written requests, you’d think I’d murdered a character. This whole recommendation thing is rotten.” Bea thought about Carol. “I’m sure it encourages some very underhand methods. Anyway, so you don’t know what’s going on?”
“Only that another Mirror broke, but everyone knows that.” Joan dropped her voice. “I heard the Beast’s been released.”
Bea leaned down, so she was level with Joan. “I saw the white suits today. In the Grand. I thought for a moment – but there’re so many people here. You don’t think anyone’s in trouble?”
“Why would anyone be in trouble?”
Bea stood up straight. “No reason. Have you seen any Plotters?”
“Why? You don’t think you’re going to be invited to meet one?” Joan asked, her eyes widening as realisation dawned.
“I don’t know, but listen,” Bea said, trying to keep her voice down, “another Mirror’s broken, and they’ve called all these people in… I reckon they’re going to need to get some pretty big stories going to fix the Mirrors, and if they need stories then they must also need-”
“Fiction Management Executives!”
“Shhhh! Maybe. Possibly,” Bea said, worried that if she spoke too loudly someone might overhear and take it upon themselves to disabuse her of her hope.
“Just imagine!” Joan said. “What story would you choose, if you could? Journey of Discovery? Lost and Found? Oooh! Girl Meets Boy Who At First Seems Rude And Arrogant And Then She Meets Another Boy Who Seems Really Nice But Actually He’s Not And Then Girl Realises The First Boy Is Actually Nice But She Thinks It’s Too Late Because He Appears To Have Found Someone Else B
ut At The Last Minute It Turns Out He Hasn’t And He Actually Loved Her All Along And They Get Married And Live Happily Ever After?”
“Honestly, if I got the chance to be a godmother, I’d take anything… A story where I get to actually do something,” Bea sighed, encouraged by Joan’s enthusiastic grin. “Which do you think is best?”
Joan opened her mouth to answer when a frayed-looking imp in a crumpled brown suit walked in and began to call Bea’s name.
Bea jumped up, a blush already sweeping across her face at the dreaded first syllable. “That’s me,” she admitted.
Bea saw the brown of his suit and tried not to be disappointed. She and Joan had spent hours imagining the types of stories she would one day manage; there was no reason to get upset now, just because she’d thought for a moment she might be about to meet a Plotter. And, of course, the suit wasn’t white. That was what was important.
The imp spun mechanically on his heel and walked back through a door marked ‘Private’, assuming Bea would follow.
She looked down at Joan, who gave her a wide smile and waved two crossed fingers. Bea smiled back and then followed the imp out of the waiting room and down a long, bustling corridor decorated with the same lack of style as the room she’d just left.
“I thought it would be a bit more glamorous,” Bea said, more to herself than to the imp.
“i do not understand” he intoned, coming to a halt. He turned around slowly, looking at Bea with a face that, with no emotion to animate it, hung slack. “do you need me to change something”
Bea stared in horror.
The imp in front of her had been Redacted: erased and emptied. She’d seen a few fae dead-headed like this, but always at a distance. Up close, the vacant, foggy eyes of the Redacted were as disconcerting to behold as the blood-spattered scene of a violent murder. Although you couldn’t see it, you knew that in this space, not long ago, something barbaric and incomprehensible had occurred.
“Er…no, no thank you. I was just thinking aloud.”
“if you would like me to alter the halls i am able to do so”