The Fairy's Tale

by F. D. Lee

  “You don’t approve?” Joan asked, picking up on Delphine’s tone.

  “Their stories were for themselves, not the Mirrors.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bea.

  “Certainly sometimes a good little character would find a lamp, and would not be so corrupted by the strangely endless possibilities of three wishes that they ended up causing more harm than they ever imagined. Those stories fostered belief, they were retold, certainly; but they were few and far between. Most of the genie’s tales showed the characters exactly who they really were, not when they were despised and degraded, not when they’d reached the gutter and been given licence to look at the stars. No, the genies showed them who they were when they were invincible. The characters, they try to forget stories like that.”

  Bea nodded. “That… makes sense. No one wants to be reminded of their weaknesses.”

  “What happened to the genies?”

  “Perhaps the Teller Redacted them. And yet, you don’t see any dead-head genies, do you?”

  “How would you recognise one?”

  “Their looks, for one. They were said to be prettier than the elves, prettier even than the adhene, or so it goes. The characters trust beauty, do they not?”

  Bea looked at Joan, who shifted her head slightly, giving her an almost imperceptible nod. She needed to know more. She’d have to risk it.

  “The man in my story is very handsome. He’s also blue.”

  “Then this creature could be a genie. They did not hide themselves as we do. Arrogant creatures.”

  “So why is he trying to ruin Bea’s story?” Joan asked. “Even if he is a genie, why would he bother? It sounds like any genie should be too frightened of the Teller, whocaresaboutus, to risk exposure.”

  “Well, there was a story I heard a few years ago. A ridiculous thing, not even worth retelling. Or so I thought at the time.”

  “Can you tell it to us?” Joan asked quickly. “I can pay for the tale. I’ve got some teeth on me.”

  Delphine blinked her wide, round eyes. “Ah Joan, Joan, Joan. Such cruelty – you should have been a Redactionist.”

  “I just thought… you said your time…”

  “Put away your teeth. I will help you on your quest. Oh, don’t look so surprised, my love. How can we learn the value of saying no, if we didn’t occasionally say yes?”

  “I wasn’t looking surprised. I just didn’t want to assume you would. That’s all.”

  “I can afford to help a friend.”

  “Oh,” Joan said, looking awkward again. “Well, I’m pleased you’re doing so well.”

  “As am I,” Delphine answered neatly. “Now. There was a story, as I said, hardly an anecdote, but perhaps it will aid you. Some years ago, a human woman fell in love. They do so love to fall in love, don’t they? Still, this story was unusual for two reasons. Firstly, this man she loved, they say he was charming, confident, and that he made all her dreams come true.”

  “All the heroes are like that,” Bea said.

  “But this was not a managed story. So, how could a human ever live up to the standards of a hero, without us to aid him? Perhaps-”

  “He wasn’t human?” Joan and Bea said in unison.

  “Exactly. Now, to the second unusual thing. She didn’t marry him. She married a Count or some such title. Unusual, non, to turn down such love? I wonder if something about this hero scared her. What do you think?”

  Bea felt a glimmer of understanding. “Ever since the King and Queen it’s been expressly forbidden for fae to get romantically involved with the humans. But I heard him say he’d loved someone and lost them. It must be the same person – how could it not be?”

  “Narrative Convention is certainly on your side,” Delphine said.

  “What’s Narrative Convention?”

  “The Teller’s stories all have the same ending because he will not allow us to deviate from the Plots. But once, the stories followed their own path. Maybe again, who knows? The Mirrors are breaking, are they not?”

  Bea and Joan glanced nervously around, but they were safe. A Raconteur wouldn’t allow themselves to be watched – at least, not easily. The bronze was polished to a dull gleam, and so would interfere with any image the GenAm tried to pick up, assuming they were watching, and like Mistasinon said, the Mirrors don’t pick up sound. Plus, there was nothing illegal in seeing a Raconteur. They were probably safe.

  “Do you know what happened to this girl?” Bea asked.

  “She married someone of The Third Kingdom. That is all I know. As I say, it was barely an anecdote.”

  Joan stood up. “Thank you. We’ll let you get on with your business.”

  Delphine nodded her head. “You’re welcome. But Joany-”

  “Yes?”

  “If he is a genie, you must not get in his way.”

  “Why?”

  “They are dangerous. They are not like us, they do not belong in the Land any more than they belong in Thaiana. There is nothing they want or need, except the stardust.”

  Joan leaned forward on the stool. “Delphine, what do you mean?

  “Take my advice, and walk away from whatever you are caught up in. You and your cabbage fairy. The end is coming.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Ænathlin had always been a city designed to add to its own madness. The streets wound in circular patterns that could only be called normal by those who had a penchant for experimenting with two-dimensional infinities.

  The city was awake and teeming with life, if such a gentle expression could be used to cover the chaotic energy of the walled-in city, overpopulated by hundreds of tribes of the fae, all hoping to find a way to survive.

  At every level, someone was trying to trade for something. Shops and market stalls spilled into the streets, gnomes and dwarves and all the tribes that had once held the stories in their hands, reduced to trade and barter to survive – a survival that was becoming increasingly difficult, judging by the sudden hike in their prices.

  Tomptes, wyrewens and sprites, tribes that had always managed to find a pathway through the maze of rules the Teller had created, were now running businesses out of crates and barrels, eking out a living by selling services only the very small could offer. Bea had even seen a kelpie pulling a rope to work a grinder, its black hooves raising sparks and tail hanging in wet tendrils. The kelpie, a tribe of water horses, rarely allowed themselves to be employed outside the services of the GenAm, which at least appealed to their sense of dignity. It was, or had been, an arrangement that suited everyone. The kelpie had too strong a penchant for fresh meat to ever be truly welcome anywhere.

  If it carries on like this, Bea thought as she side-stepped a troll, the gangs will come back. The threat of Redaction and fear of the Beast had kept the city peaceful for hundreds of years, but the deal was that the Teller’s Plots kept the Mirrors working. And now that deal was in danger of breaking.

  Bea and Joan walked on, away from The Golden Claw and back towards Joan’s house. Bea wanted to ask Joan if she was alright, and about what had happened between her and the Raconteur, and why Delphine had decided to help them in the end, and how she had met the adhene in the first place.

  But she couldn’t think where to begin, so instead she said, “Thank you. For helping me.”

  Joan smiled. “Get away with you. It was no trouble.”

  Bea lowered her voice. “Do you think he really is a genie?”

  Joan stopped dead in the street. “Tooth and nail, Bea, are you serious?”

  “What? I don’t understand-”

  Joan grabbed Bea by the arm and pulled her down an alleyway. It wasn’t empty – before curfew, nowhere in Ænathlin was empty, but the only other fae were a couple of goblins, rooting through sacks filled with offcut material. They were behind a haberdashery in the centre of the city; what was scrap here would have value by the wall, and the goblins knew it. They wouldn’t pay two fairies any attention. Still, Joan pulled Bea as far away from them
as she could.

  “Does it matter if he’s a genie?” she said. “He’s either that or an Anti, or probably both! Who cares what he is? He’s dangerous. You heard Delphine.”

  “I was just asking-”

  Joan took a deep breath, her little hands pumping fists at the ends of her arms. “No. No you weren’t asking. You were hoping. I could hear it in your voice. You were hoping I might say no. Or that it didn’t matter. Bea, I’m sorry, but maybe Melly is right. Sometime we don’t get to follow our dreams.”

  Bea shook her head, searching Joan’s face. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do.” Joan said. “We all have to face up to it sometime.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Joan sighed and leaned against the wall. “I’m not trying to be mean, Bea. I do think you can become an FME, I really do. But this isn’t the way to go about it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t said anything about anything. I only asked if you thought what the Raconteur said was true. They’re storysells after all, always looking for the highest bidder.” Bea knew she was being spiteful and childish, but she couldn’t help herself. Joan was supposed to be her friend. So was Melly, come to that. But they were both telling her to give up, to go home. To forget it all.

  “Oh really?” said Joan, an unexpected edge in her voice. “And you’re so brilliant, are you?”

  “I’m not a quitter.”

  “You quit on me when I needed you.”

  Bea blinked. “What? When?”

  “My mum died, last year. She got sick, and we couldn’t trade for the right herbs. You weren’t here then, but you’ve been back nearly a week and you haven’t asked either Melly or I what’s been happening in our lives. You’re obsessed with this whole FME business. It’s made you selfish.”

  Bea felt her throat dry. She looked in horror at her friend.

  “I didn’t know… how…?”

  “The usual way,” Joan said, the anger ebbing from her voice to be replaced with tiredness. “She was sick when you left, that’s why I was so busy getting teeth. I thought at the time perhaps you hadn’t realised, and then you took on that long Plot-watch, and when I saw you at the Contents Department you were so excited…”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Bea said, reaching out uncertainly and placing her hand on Joan’s shoulder. She didn’t know what to do.

  “It’s alright,” Joan said. “I’m not really cross. Well, no I am. A little.”

  “I’m so sorry Joan. I wish – I don’t know what to do…”

  “She was old. The iron got in her blood. So it goes. But you don’t have to run behind her, Bea. You’re my friend and I don’t want to lose you either.”

  “Some friend. You’re right, I’ve been so caught up in my own life, my own problems. Oh mortal gods, Joan, I’m so sorry.”

  “Bea, listen to me,” Joan said, meeting Bea’s eyes for the first time since the conversation began. “You are a good friend. When I first met you, I was in trouble and you helped me. You didn’t judge me or ask questions. You took me as I am, and you always have. I’ve still got the spyglass you bought for me, and I remember how you helped me hide my Thaianan detective books when they did the sweeps a few years ago. You’re brave, Bea. You don’t know it, maybe, but you are. And you’re moral, too. But yes, you’ve become…”

  “Selfish.”

  Joan shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know if that’s the right word. You’ve never really explained why you came here, or why it’s so important to you that you succeed in the GenAm, and I may not be a detective but I pick things up. I know what it’s like to lose someone, and the guilt that goes with it.”

  “Joan-”

  Joan waved her hands. “You don’t have to tell me if I’m right or not. I’m just saying it so you’ll know that I’m not writing you off. But this business with the Plot, Bea, it’s all wrong. A heroine who won’t marry the hero, an Anti who’s a genie… even the way you got the Plot is weird. You weren’t recommended, were you? Who even is this Mistasinon – what tribe is he? Where does he come from? And I think you’re more worried about your heroine than you let on. I know you think this is your only chance, but please, get out of this story.”

  “But how can I? Even if I wanted to, the Redactionists’ will have my head.”

  Joan sighed. “That I don’t know. But there must be a way, and if anyone can find it, you can.” She smiled. “You’re the fairy who changed the Plots, remember? Just find a way out, and then leave all this FME stuff alone. At least for a while. Take a few years off.”

  “I… yes. Alright. I’ll finish this Plot, and then think. How’s that?”

  “That’s all I ask,” Joan said, sagging with relief.

  Bea realised how difficult it must have been for Joan to say the things she had. She wanted so much to say something to make it better, but she didn’t know where to begin. She looked at her friend, returning her smile. But there was something in Joan’s eyes, something Bea was only now seeing, and she wondered how long it had been there.

  Chapter Thirty

  King John looked up to see his Adviser slouch into his private study. He thought he could detect a greenish tinge to his normally healthy complexion. John blinked as his eyes started to tear-up. Bloody candle smoke.

  “Where’ve you been? It’s almost 6 bells, man.”

  Seven walked slowly up to the throne, his movement heavy. Nevertheless, he bowed low to the King.

  “Lord, I apologise most sincerely. I was delayed unavoidably.”

  “What’s this? Unavoidably you say? Explain yourself S.”

  To John’s surprise, Seven sat at his feet. “I was in town, Lord. I wanted to ascertain the mood of the citizenry. There is a general optimism regards the Ball. Tension appears lower between the natives and the refugees. You were right to suggest such an event.”

  “Yes, yes, well, well,” John said, slightly mollified. “That took all day did it?”

  “I also made another delivery of food and supplies to the encampment, Lord. Anonymously, as you requested,” Seven said.

  “And the rest? Something’s up, fella. You look like hell.”

  “I am simply tired after a long day. One it seems full of wasted effort. I thought you would be pleased, Sire. But I am sorry if I have overstepped myself. It was unconsciously done.”

  John puffed his cheeks up, but after a moment he released his anger with a pop. The Adviser was looking at him with such sincerity, John felt guilty for questioning him.

  “If you say so S. Poor show not letting me know you were planning to be out gadding around. Had things for you to do today.” John said, walking over to the table with the map.

  John’s private study was, unlike the majority of the castle, quite cosy. The old Kings and Queens of Llanotterly had shared one vision for the castle, and that was that it should intimidate. This had translated itself in number of ways, from King George’s Penqioan red, gold and jade pillars and wall paintings of dragons and fish that stretched over the ceilings in the south wing, to the wooden panels, trophy heads and sombre portraits in the main throne room, which were the taste of John’s father, Edward. Even Queen Margaret, a woman best remembered in the folk song ‘Old Red Meg’, had found time to furnish the castle in velvet and gilt.

  John, however, hadn’t been left enough money to afford to put his mark on the castle in any great way. Still, he had done the best he could with what he had. The King preferred to collect cheap antiques to commissioning, but he had a good eye and, although there was nothing in the room that necessarily matched, the overall result of his collecting was both warm and welcoming.

  He stared down at the map, where the black figures that represented his workforce remained insultingly still. Little wooden tiles, painted white to represent Ana’s encampment, were dotted around the main arc of the river.

  “Not much of a kingdom. What isn’t field is forest, what isn’t forest is field. No great cities,
no empire.”

  “I confess I am not sure I follow your line of thought, my Lord.”

  “I could just kill them. Round them up and hang the lot of them.”

  Seven joined his master at the table.

  “You could,” he answered.

  “It’s what father would have done. Well, I say father. My aunt Constance, she was the one really. Power behind the throne and all that. The old man didn’t last long after her, and that’s a fact.”

  “So why have you not?”

  “Not what?”

  “Killed them, my Lord.”

  “Dash it all, S. I’m not going to start hanging me own people for having an opinion. Some might find their way into the dungeon I suppose, but I’m not my father, S. Or rather my aunt. Look at this map here.”

  Seven did so.

  “Land’s jolly powerful, you were right there, old sweat,” John said. “But so’s money. No need to invade us if we’re paying up, what?”

  “No, my lord. This is why we endeavour to sell wood from the forests.”

  “Yes.” John said, looking at the map. “But these ones here,” he pointed to the white tiles, “they reckon I’m inviting trouble. Making a splash. Might be they’re onto something. Sit still and the Baron gets us, stand up and the Baron gets us. Wish there was some other way, old bean.”

  Seven winced, brushing his fingers against the snake necklace he insisted on wearing. The man looked like he was about to lose his lunch.

  “My lord, do not forget the Ball. Perhaps, there, another route might be discovered. We know not.”

  Poor fella, John thought. Working all hours, running around. Strain’s starting to show.

  He offered him a wide smile. “Quite right, old sport. S’always darkest before dawn, what? So then, best get on with the arranging. Where’s that list…?”

  Much later, Seven entered his suite. Yawning, he turned around and locked his doors, a habit so ingrained he wasn’t even aware he did it.

  Stepping into his rooms, he allowed himself to relax. He was concerned how exhausting he was finding everything, but he reminded himself that he hadn’t exactly slept the night before, nor had he planned to use so much magic that day. Still, it was worrying how much it was hurting him.