Foul is Fair

by Cook, Jeffrey

  "Oh, and then there's Kerr," Riocard began. "First and foremost, I think your friend has had quite enough stress and attention for the day. The next time you see Kerr, though, please pass on that I think a promotion is in order, should Kerr want to pick a kitchen to be in charge of." Lani nodded and stepped back.

  Megan ascended the dais again, and was the only one close enough to hear Riocard addressing Ashling and the Count. "And the two of you? What would you like?"

  Megan was startled, finally hearing him at least acknowledge a sense of indebtedness to anyone, but got the feeling that the intense loyalty of the pixie was returned.

  "Caw, caw."

  "Yes, Count, that can be arranged. I shall procure a bust of Pallas for my chambers forthwith." His gaze turned to the pixie.

  "Make that two,” she said. “One for your room, and one for Megan's. Because I'm going back with Megan."

  "You're certain? There is still the matter of the Ellén Trechend hunt left unfinished."

  Ashling hesitated, then grinned. "Okay, so right after that, I'm going back. She can probably manage without me for a few days. But she has so much to learn. And I'm really good at explaining things."

  "Of course you are, my friend. Of course you can go back. She'll need you."

  Justin had still not left to fetch the sword. He was fidgeting slightly, staring at the far side of the room. A handful of sidhe women gathered not far from the door, talking amongst themselves.

  Despite the lack of dress code, they were dressed in party finery in tones suitable for the season. Beyond the dresses, it was hard to truly differentiate them, for they all had the slightly alien beauty of the sidhe, a bit too perfect, with pale skin, eyes of impossibly bright blue or green, and hair the color of spun platinum. When they noticed Justin's looking, they smiled back in bright, manic unison.

  Megan stepped off the dais to approach him. “What's wrong? You like the knight thing, right?”

  “Yes. Very much. I'm proud to serve,” he said. “But I know a little too much about courts, and a good bit about the fair folk on top of it. The combination…I need a favor.”

  “Okay, but favors get complicated, and Dad seems to be—”

  “Not that kind of favor. I'm added to the court novelties. It would be… less awkward, easier to avoid offending some courtiers, if the Princess beat them to it.” He lowered himself to kneel again, this time to Megan. “May I have a token from you?”

  Megan blushed. “A…token from me?”

  “I know you. I trust you.”

  “I…thanks. I trust you too.” Megan sort of understood, finally. In the movies, ladies gave 'their' knights scarves, embroidered things, or occasionally flowers. “But I don't have a handkerchief or anything.” She bit her lip for a moment, then grinned, stepping forward. "Sir Knight, I'm honored," she replied as she removed her Seahawks hat, placing it on Justin's head. He looked a little confused, but most of those watching just grinned, the platinum blonde sidhe ladies less so. "I hope that will do."

  "Very nicely, my lady, thank you."

  "And now that we're through all the knighting... just Megan, please."

  "All right, my... Megan." he responded, rising again, eyes up towards the brim of the cap, still getting used to it.

  “Great. Now go get your sword, so we can all go home tomorrow.”

  Chapter 40: Private Performance

  Megan was home on time on Sunday, just before dusk set in. She assured her mother that she'd had a great Halloween with Lani, and that she'd taken her medicine already. This was true; she’d had the lower dose, some much earlier, though her mother would also see fewer of the 'orange pills' if she looked. Vitamin C was healthy.

  "Hey mom," she said, as her mother was leaving her room.

  "Yes, honey?"

  "I was kind of thinking about taking some music lessons."

  “You are. Ms. Dahl. You still have an A, right?”

  “Yes. I do, but Music Appreciation and Theory isn't exactly the same as, say, voice lessons.”

  Her mother paused, looking at Megan for several long seconds before answering. "What brought this on? You already have your artwork."

  "Well, I did a little bit of singing, just silly stuff over the holiday. I got a lot of compliments on my voice." She saw no signs of her mother's expression changing and quickly shifted tactics, "And it brought to mind that some of my teachers and the school counselor said I could use some things to kind of broaden my college applications. Never too early to start thinking about those, now that my grades are getting better. I figured, maybe, if I had a knack for it, I could take a few lessons, see about maybe joining the school choir.”

  Her mother's expression softened. "So this would just be school things?"

  "And just trying a few private lessons, yes," she assured her mother, guessing at the reasons for worry.

  "Well, all right. We can look into it. I'll ask some friends who have done some vocal training. But this would be conditional—you need to keep up with your schoolwork."

  "I have my reading for English class mostly done. I'll be ready for the test on Friday," Megan assured her mother. "I'm actually kind of enjoying it. Lani has really been helping with math class too. She's really, really good at it."

  "I'm glad to hear it, honey.”

  “Thanks. And Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can we put up Christmas lights this year?”

  “Megan, it's November 1st. But maybe once it's actually December.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely not until December. Everything for the right season. Just thought I'd ask, thanks.”

  “Good. You're welcome. I should let you get back to studying, then. Dinner will be ready in a little more than an hour.”

  "I'll be ready for a break by then, thank you. And Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you."

  "I love you too, Megan." She left, closing the door behind her.

  Megan pulled the Late for the Party CD out of her bag, looking over the playlist a few moments, before tucking it back in her bag, to make sure she didn't absently start playing it at home like she was certain she would if it was kept in reach. After that, she found another CD from her collection and put some music on, quietly enough that it wouldn't bring her mother back into the room.

  She cracked open the book, trying to moderate her impulses by rewarding herself for every ten minutes of reading with a bit of doodling in the margins, decorating the pages of Romeo and Juliet with dancing butterflies and moths and, eventually, a Queen butterfly with tattered wings, watching the dance from her crow-shaped royal throne.

  Forty minutes later, with the page fully illuminated and multiple Verona residents dead, Megan needed some air. She stood, turned off the stereo, opened the window, and looked out into the twilight sky. Smelling the crisp Autumn air, she imagined she could feel the pull of Faerie. She closed her eyes, imagining different stars, imagining the low fog rolling in. She began to hum, keeping her voice low and soft.

  Without opening her eyes, she trusted her memory of her room, moving through the steps of a complex dance again. The breeze picked up, and she would have sworn its whispers were singing along to the tune. When she opened her eyes, a dozen leaves had blown in through the window, laying flat on her bedroom floor.

  She began to hum again, and the winds picked back up, carrying the leaves around in gentle eddies, circling and spinning as she recalled the notes. She stepped around in their midst, humming a little louder. The leaves whirled and danced around her feet, never quite touching her.

  A thought hit her, and she stopped humming. The wind died down, and the leaves settled back onto the floor. She started with a quiet voice, teasing about silly, fluffy pop songs and starting to bounce and shift. Sure enough, the leaves picked up again, this time, on their own, darting and weaving around.

  She paused, and again the leaves dropped. She crouched and started tying stems together, binding each set of two leaves into little wings. T
he song picked up again, Megan unable to resist bouncing along as she sang 'Yet Another Song About Jumping' to herself. And even in the cautious, hushed tones, the leaves picked up, and her Autumn Butterflies danced for their Princess.

  Preview of Book Two in the Fair Folk Chronicles

  Street Fair

  Chapter 1: Evaluation

  "Conflict in Gaelic Cultures is a 400-level course, Mr. Thomas. They knew it was going to be difficult when they signed up.” Dr. Brian O'Neill paused just long enough to let the other voice on the phone utter two and a half sentences before interrupting. "Do any of them discuss all nine salient points covered in class?” This time the pause was only for two and a half syllables before he interrupted his TA again. "Then no one earned an A. I don't think the instructions could be any clearer.”

  He allowed a few more words as he walked briskly through the mostly empty halls, then continued, speaking just as briskly. “All the more so for the first test of the Summer quarter. A bit of tactical advice, Mr. Thomas: always set the bar clearly high from the beginning of the term, when they still have time to do better quality work.” He began the first of three flights of stairs, his free hand clutching the duffle bag over his shoulder to keep it from jostling irritatingly. “And their electing to take the class in what could have been a vacation term is commendable, but it does not change the grading standards of the university.”

  He was intent on not letting his breathing get too much heavier as he spoke. “I'm sure you'll handle those questions ably in your own office hours. Mine will not resume until the autumn. My current research is very time-consuming. I'll see you Monday.” He hung up as he reached the third flight of stairs, then the final hallway.

  Dr. O'Neill reached his office. He took a deep breath, whispered a few syllables in an old dialect of Gaelic, and shifted his foot in one shoe a little to make sure the penny he'd placed in the heel was still there, even if he'd been vaguely aware of it throughout the long walk. Caution was critical. Finally, he reached for the doorknob, turned—then paused, looking about to make sure he was actually alone, before he slipped into his office.

  As he closed the door, he checked to make sure the horseshoe was still nailed perfectly above it. Over the window, he'd gone with daisy chains to complement the salt on the windowsill. He set the filthy duffel bag on the desk and opened it, removing stack after stack of damp $20 bills. His thumb brushed off some of the grime from the top bill of each stack.

  He lifted one closer in the florescent light. "L-7-2..." His voice rang clear, even when just reading a serial number. "525..." Precision was important—so, so important—but it wasn't everything. "383..." He should be able to command attention if he were reading the phone book. "...B. Exactly so. For the first."

  Then he replaced the bills in the bag, set it down, and took his seat at his desk.

  Fifteen centuries of genealogy charts, on various qualities of paper and various things that technically were not paper at all, covered the left wall of the office. He glanced over at them, studying name after name. He looked at one of the lowest ones, printed out in a calligraphic font on multipurpose laser paper: Brian Angus Ui Niall.

  He refocused. He opened drawers, taking out antique coins from one and an old book from another. He laid the coins out on his desk and stared a while, then carefully perused a few pages of the book. Frowning, he put the coins away. He rose and stepped over to the right wall of his office. Taking down a framed certificate, he studied it for a few moments as he returned to his seat.

  This is to certify that BRIAN ANGUS O'NEILL, having submitted a thesis entitled The Wielding of Sacred Power in Ancient Ireland and having satisfied all the conditions prescribed by the Statues of the University, was on 1 June 2002 admitted to the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY.

  Very slowly, he took apart the frame and ran his fingers over the certificate—over the historic seal, the name, the title—with a look of regret. He stared for a while at the left wall. He took a deep breath, put the certificate into a folder, and put the folder in the book.

  The resulting melancholy of the room was broken by an inordinately chipper voice. “Did you remember to check that the bills were 1969A? You try to pass on knockoffs to people like this, and…Well, actually, I'd love to see that. Don't check.”

  Dr. O'Neill nearly knocked over his chair as he scrambled up. “But … how?”

  The boyish figure standing there, shaking out a shaggy mane of tawny hair, smiled too big. “The daisy chains are a nice touch, but you need some along the floorboards. You've got a mouse-hole behind the mini-fridge. So, what about my retainer?”

  Having regained his composure—pointedly so—Dr. O'Neill strode over and opened said mini-fridge. He removed a tall, frosty glass of milk and handed it over. Then he ventured, “Not to inquire too much, Rob, but isn't a glass of milk for a retainer in keeping with brownie protocols?”

  “Them, certain dime-novel detectives, mice who also want cookies, ultraviolent dystopian thugs—don't even try to label me, Doc. I can go from milk to a nice Chianti in nothing flat.”

  “Noted.” Dr. O'Neill, attempting to be ever so casual, also checked the bag of $20 bills once more, to make sure the year was right.

  “Of course it is. So how's the master plan going?”

  "Well enough. I'll let you know when I need you. The first part's just going to be coordination, finding the nexus point, making the initial deals, setting out, and...” He trailed off, before trying to smoothly trail into another sentence entirely. “And it doesn't trouble you?” He picked something off a far corner of his desk. “What I've done? What I may do?”

  'That's just it, oh Captain, my Captain, or ...” Rob took a look at the left wall of the room, then gave him a mocking bow. “...whatever it will be. What you're doing will trouble everyone. And that's more fun.” He smiled, again too big. “Why do you ask, Doc? Do you think I'm scared of what you chipped off of old gates?” He stepped closer than any concept of personal space—and closer than someone fidgeting with slivers of wrought iron might expect. “Do you think I'll stab you in the back?”

  “Rob, buddy,” Dr. O'Neill spread his arms as much as possible while being careful with what he was holding. “No need to worry at all.” He met the yellow eyes evenly. “I know you're going to stab me in the back. Just not yet.”

  Rob stepped back, still smiling. “That's why you're the smart guy. Remember, though, you're calling in a solid, not a guided tour. I'll be a distraction when you need it, but I'm not going to hold your hand. Making sure people don't get lost isn't any of my schticks.”

  Dr. O'Neill nodded. "Provided I get all the information I need, triangulating the locations should not be a problem," he said as he looked to examine the tiny scraps of wing-membrane pinned to the butterfly board.

  Street Fair is expected to be released in 2016

  Acknowledgements

  We’d like to thank our spouses, Cody Armond and Jennifer Wolf, for their support, as well as our families: Bill, Carmen, Sam, Maggie, Ben, Jeanne, and Kiera Perkins, Gerry Cook, Carol Wells-Reed, Kelly and Scott Hendrix, and Matthew Lewis, who counts.

  Thanks particularly to Matt and his fellow intense beta reader, Creel Gallagher Java, for their careful attention and invaluable feedback.

  Thanks to artist Christopher Kovacs for the title page logo and to A.J. Downey for her assistance and perspective.

  Thanks to the unnameable amount of friends and neighbors for sticking by us to this point. Thanks to those, particularly Crawford Comeaux, who provided resources on ADHD.

  Thanks to all those who took the time to review any of our published works so far, with particular thanks to Amanda Hopkins for her swiftness and enthusiasm. Thanks to the New Authors community and the Writerpunk community for all the rallying. Thanks as ever to the AFK Elixirs and Eatery in Renton, Washington, for being such a great venue for book events.

  And thanks to everyone who bothered to read this far.

  We hope you’ll join us again
in each of the Four Lost Cities, which are a story admittedly much older than ours.

  www.authorjeffreycook.com

  www.punkwriters.com

  About the Authors

  Jeffrey Cook lives in Maple Valley, Washington, with his wife and three large dogs. He was born in Boulder, Colorado, but has lived all over the United States. He's the author of the Dawn of Steam trilogy of alternate-history/emergent Steampunk epistolary novels and of the YA Sci-fi thriller Mina Cortez: From Bouquets to Bullets. He’s a founding contributing author of Writerpunk Press and has also contributed to a number of role-playing game books for Deep7 Press out of Seattle. When not reading, researching, or writing, Jeffrey enjoys role-playing games and watching football.

  Katherine Perkins lives in Coralville, Iowa, with her husband and one extremely skittish cat. She was born in Lafayette, Louisiana, and will defend its cuisine on any field of honor. She is the editor of the Dawn of Steam series and serves as Jeff’s co-author of various short stories, including those for the charity anthologies of Writerpunk Press. When not reading, researching, writing, or editing, she tries to remember what she was supposed to be doing.