I did have a suspicion that some of my previous commissions had been for her, but I don’t usually mind who my clients are too much as long as I get paid. However, this time she wanted to see me in person to discuss a theft—and a payment.
Let’s not get maudlin and go into my history. I’ve always stolen. It was an easy way to get what my Ma wanted, and then what I wanted. I didn’t bother about payment until I had a revelation in my teens, and now I steal with an eye to the effects. I don’t steal from poor people. I don’t steal from anyone who can’t afford it. Some days, I don’t steal anything. But I’m a thief, and I’m good; I’ve got a reputation in certain circles… which is why said Ms Parsons asked me in for a chat over tea and rather nice cake.
The theft was… an item. I’ll go into that later. And the payment was something I’d been considering, and even talked speculatively to Taylor about.
Molly Parsons would pay for my invisibility tattoo, if I stole an item for her.
Let’s face it, my commissions would be one hell of a lot easier if I could go invisible. I’d been able to, ahem, borrow a magical cloak for a time, and it made certain jobs a lot less snatch-and-run and more snatch-and-stroll. I like that.
It took a certain amount of bargaining to get the payment before the theft, but once I learned where the item was, I refused to budge. If she wanted me to break into the Castle of Stromberg, I sure as hell wasn’t going in without that in my arsenal. I need to be completely undetectable—and that includes smell, heartbeat and warmth as well as sight.
So, this tattoo is the first thing. Next stop, once Taylor has stopped checking my pain receivers work? A certain half-forgotten temple in London.
Speaking of which… everything’s hurting a bit less, now. I perk up as Taylor comes round to my head.
“I’ll need to tie it into your magic now, Ghost,” she says to me. “This might sting a bit.”
Oh, bugger. When a tattoo artist says that, you know it’s going to hurt.
*
Walbrook isn’t too busy; admittedly, it’s a street in London, which means it’s got its fair share of buses, cars and smog fumes, but I’m not really noticed as I stroll along. My body’s healed surprisingly fast from Taylor’s ministration… don’t entirely understand how the tattoo works, but once it was tied into my magic everything healed itself pretty quickly. I tried it out with Taylor watching—or not watching, because it actually worked and therefore she couldn’t see me. But anyway, she was happy and signed me off.
I’ve got my payment. Now to get the actual item.
I stop at the railings of the Mithraeum, flip on a don’t-notice-me air that will last long enough for me to do this, and hop over the ironwork. I’m careful to stay outside the brickwork for the moment, until I get myself lined up at the entrance.
Then I turn on my Sight. It sounds funky, but all it really does is show you the magical world—or what’s visible of it in the real world. Anyone magical probably shows up, as do the doorways through. Most of the world is frankly dead boring, as the Otherworld doesn’t come through often these days. We’re out of King Arthur and Merlin times, so there isn’t as much wild magic floating around.
But where I am… whoo-ee.
The Temple goes from being dull brick foundations to being a looming structure, clad in black marble and shining black columns. The light spilling out of the doorway is so bright that it’s almost the sun… which is sort of the point. I mentally sigh. If he’s in this cheery a mood, I’m going to have a really fun chat.
I puff air out of my lungs, put my chin up to try to increase my five-foot-not-a-lot height a little more, and step through.
“Little sunbeam…” the God sitting on his altar drawls at me. “Are you desiring to pass through the portal again?”
“Yes, please.” He’s being polite. I’m definitely suspicious.
He stands up, barely visible due to the light streaming from behind him. I can make out a triangular head—he wears a stupid cap—and a cloak, but even for that, I have to squint. “And to return?”
I shrug. “I’ll make my own way back.” He’s never too keen on people going both ways, so I’ll take a more dangerous but less expensive route home. Plus, if all goes to plan, I’ll have baggage. I don’t want him knowing what I’m bringing back across.
“You know the price for a trip.”
“And you know our bargain,” I remind him sweetly.
The problem with this gateway, and the reason Mithras is often in a bad mood, is the price he demands: a sacrifice. Sure, you can bring a bull along and slit its throat—or a human, for that matter—but it might get you in trouble with the real-world authorities when they find the corpse. Changing times mean that very few people come this way, and that means Mr Sunshine here has no friends.
So, a few years ago, I played on that desperation and offered him the next-best thing: the memory of a killing.
In addition to being a thief, I’m Not A Nice Person. I’ve seen a few killings in my time; I’ve been the cause of a few deaths and I’ve murdered once or twice. Not often enough that I can use this gateway as a revolving door, but often enough that if I need to come through here, I’ve got the payment for it.
The God pouts at me. “Fine. Pay your price, then.”
I walk down the sunken aisle towards him, seeing the mosaic under my feet, noting the benches either side. They’re filled with shadows, remembered worshippers who craved the bright light and the warm, rich smell of blood as it poured from the bull’s throat. Mithras might be a sun god but he hasn’t been worshipped in centuries, and he surrounds himself with memories. I almost feel sorry for him.
Up until the point he grabs me by the shoulders and shoves his face into mine.
I have to shut my eyes; he’s too bright. The light’s nearly burning and I feel his lips touch mine—definitely for longer than needed. Just because he’s got no friends, apparently he isn’t getting any either.
I want to knee him in the balls, but apparently that’s rude. Especially if you do it to a god. Hey, I do listen to etiquette lessons when they involve ‘ways to not get struck by lightning from pissed-off deities who don’t understand boundaries’.
That said, I’m grateful when I feel the memory replaying across my mind as Mithras takes his copy. It’s not a nice one; there was blood. Mithras seems happy, though. He lets me go, and I manage to not stagger. I collapsed the first time.
“Pass, mortal.”
I head for the doorway behind the altar and make sure I’m definitely outside the Temple before I mutter, “Fucking jerk.”
But hey, I’m here. I look around at the battered and shambolic version of London I now find myself in, and I grin.
I’ve got some people to see, and then I’m goin’ a-thieving.
*
My first stop in the Otherworld is the Market. It’s in a fairground, tucked between The Real and The Other; the waltzers spin with half-formed shadows shrieking happily inside, and sometimes you can hear the music, drifting through with a raunchy beat and undertone of laughter. I weave my way past a duck-bobbing stall—have I got that right? I don’t do real fairgrounds—and alongside something designed to throw people up in the air, dodging a green-coated man with a huge beard and a woman who seems to be woven out of pure darkness. Half-hidden between the duck stall and the back of the dodgems is the place I’m after.
The roof of this stall is made of chunks of cardboard, interwoven with tarpaulin and dry reeds, while the walls are gnarled poles and fabric. The two figures inside are small, hairy and give me a grin that says I’m their most valued customer. I’m not, of course, but it’s a nice feeling when someone’s actually pleased to see you.
“What can we get for you, madam buyer?” the left-hand one asks.
“I need to get into Stromberg.” I don’t bother disassembling with these two—my destination will be round the market within an hour, but it’s easier than trying to get what I want while not telling them anything. Screw th
at sort of politics.
“Needles, then, for the mountain.” They’re long walking-poles with hooks on one end and spikes on the other. “A boat, then, for the lake.” That’s a tiny folded paper one, which I know will be enchanted. “A charm, then, for the guardian, to slip past his eyes.”
“I’ll be fine without that,” I break in. “How much for the rest?”
“A favour, ghost-thief.”
I smile. They’ve hired my services before, and their commissions are ones I like. They’re always interesting. “Throw in another charm, one to know what someone wants.”
The right-hand dwarf ducks under the table as the left-hand one chuckles. “You know what your services are worth, ghost-thief. Same price.”
“Done.” The right-hand dwarf resurfaces with a tiny, red, heart-shaped locket in his hand, and I take it along with my walking-poles and boat. “Catch ya later.”
“So rude,” the left-hand dwarf tells me, but she’s smiling.
“So young,” the right-hand dwarf chides.
I give them a wave as I stride off into the crowd.
*
My next stop is a hazel-tree that sits on the edge of the market. “Arianne!” I say as I get into the shade of the beautiful leaves.
“Ghost!” Arianne’s face pushes out of the trunk like it’s water, forming smooth curves and lines out of the bark as her green eyes open. “You need a destination?”
“In a minute.” I sit down in the curving hollow between the roots that’s designed for gossip and is angled so that it’s relatively private. A lot of people pass the Way-Tree, but she can point the destinations well enough with her branches; I’ll be undisturbed for a little while. “What do you know about fate-maps?”
“And their creators?” Arianne’s shrewd, I’ll give her that. She’s a centre for a lot of gossip, and she’s been in the Market long enough to have picked up a lot of knowledge. “You’re going to Stromberg. Are you stealing their maker?”
I consider it. “What do you know about why the maker’s there?”
“Several stories,” Arianne admits cheerfully, “and all with truth.”
“Then probably not the maker, just a map.”
“A map.” The Way-Tree’s tone is disapproving. “To show you which way to go? What can they tell you about where the wolves are, or who will give you soup, or how many hills to cross? It tells you what it thinks you should know, not what you need to know.” She stretches out her branches, rustling cheerfully. “And that’s what I do.”
“You do it very well, Arianne.” I can’t help the smile. Arianne has Opinions about maps. “But I want a fate-map.”
“Still a waste of paper. Urgh!” the tree tells me.
She’s got Opinions about that, too. “Do you know where in Stromberg the maker is?”
“I can give you a pointer?” the Way-Tree suggests.
“What’s your price?”
“The story when you return.”
She’ll want details, anything that could be useful to other travellers. But that’s a fair price. “All right.”
A bud on a twig drops down into my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking it behind my ear. “So you don’t know anything else about the maker?”
“Nothing helpful. They probably made a bargain.”
I sigh. A lot of people make bargains with the Fae, and a lot of people regret those bargains. That’s one life lesson I’ve definitely learned from seeing other people’s mistakes. “So tell me the way to Stromberg, Way-Tree.”
She shivers again, branches stretching and leaves rustling. “The Castle of Stromberg… that way. Over the hill and through the dale, up the glass mountain and over the lake.” She subsides as I unfold from her roots, looking at the branch pointing to my destination. “Bring me a story back!”
“Always,” I tell her, laughing.
*
The journey to Stromberg is fairly typical of travel through the Otherworld; I avoid most of the danger, bluster my way out of the rest, and get sore feet. Time might not pass here but it doesn’t mean that travel is any less tedious.
I climb the glass-like rockface, using the sharpened poles to claw and hook my way up in tiny cracks, almost swimming up the surface rather than climbing. I whisper my paper boat into full size and it carries me across the lake before shrinking back down to fit in my pocket.
And then I’m at the Bridge where the Guardian waits. I would say it’s the final barrier, but it isn’t. It’s the final barrier outside Stromberg. I’ve still got to sneak around inside a castle full of faeries and who-knows-what magic.
The Guardian himself is sitting in a golden hut at the entrance to the Bridge. He’s some sort of lizard-mixed-with-human; slightly scaled skin and eyes on the side of his snout-like head, but a more human-like posture. I have no idea what the Fae are getting up to here, but I guess this is a good flavour. I’ve left my poles and my boat behind, I dislike taking magical things into places when I don’t know how they’re going to react—but I still have the charm around my neck. So, time to see what this tattoo I’m toting is worth.
Apparently, not a lot. He sticks an arm out as I approach and I mentally sigh. Fuck. Although… he is having difficulties seeing me. He’s turning his head from one side to another, trying to work out where I am. Maybe it does sort of work?
“Stop.”
I consider making a run for it. After all, how many people would try to run in?
Ok, ok. I’ll try talking my way through this. “Hi.”
Not a brilliant opening line, but he squints at me. “What do you want?”
“To visit Stromberg.”
“Are you here to rescue someone?”
I feel the story tugging me, but smile it away. “Nope. I’m here to steal something.” Hey, he’s not going to let me in anyway, and I refuse to spin a sob story.
He eyes me. “Then I cannot let you in, can I now?”
I sigh, and reach up to touch the locket. “What do you want?”
Life. Lifespan. Consistency. Security.
“This.” The Guardian seems to relax slightly.
“Why don’t you have it?” Wanting means for something.
“I’m old. I swore to serve a lifetime, and they want that to end. They want a new guardian,” he adds with some bitterness.
“You’re aging.”
“Without my apples, I’ll have a lifetime. They’re ending my bargain.”
“Apples…” I start to smile. “The golden apples that grow within the walls, and give life?”
“That’s the ones.”
“Don’t you want to leave?” I ask, curious. “There’s a world out there.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” the Guardian says, sitting down again, settling back into his place. “I’m content. I did all my wandering as a youth, and I don’t like the world. Too big. Too unfriendly. I don’t want to change.”
Well, it suits me. I nod. “Well, how about you let me through and let me leave again with my item, and I bring you back an apple as payment. If I get caught, then you didn’t let me in.”
He smiles. “If you get caught then I’m sure I’ll be disposed of anyway as useless. Bring me that apple, thief.”
*
I’m now feeling paranoid about my invisibility. If it was my clothes that twigged the Guardian… well, they’ve gotta go. It takes a lot of effort to take them off; terror’s clenching my stomach and making my limbs heavy. I know none of what I’m wearing would help against anything I’m likely to encounter in there, but it’s just a reassurance. Without my clothes, I’m psychologically naked as well as literally.
It means I’m not me. My clothing’s part of what I project to the world; I don’t entirely like what’s underneath. I don’t necessarily want to change it, but… I just don’t want it on display.
And I am really not very happy about wandering around a Fairy castle with cock and balls just danglin’ in the breeze, and no other protections beyond a curling, glowi
ng tattoo to cover my skin.
But ho hum. Them’s the breaks… and, frankly, I’ve done worse to sneak into places.
Don’t ask.
I push my pile of clothes into the shelter of the Guardian’s hut and get extra confirmation that they were the problem when he looks straight through me. He doesn’t even flinch as my hand dances in front of his face.
I feel very bare walking across the Bridge. The wind’s cold, and the spikes in the deep moat below very sharp. Stromberg itself is beautiful; soaring towers and delicate arches and elegant stonework—a fairytale castle, in an entirely literal sense. On top of a really big hill and guarded by a lake and a lizard-man. I guess it beats the standard wall of thorns.
I hesitate in front of the gateway, listening to the faint laughter and chatter of voices, the sounds of music and a rumble of machinery somewhere deep below. This place will have wards, and this is the second test of my invisibility. Although I guess if no-one’s screamed at me walking across the Bridge, then I’m good so far…
I’m expecting the shock of magic as I step through the gateway, but this time it feels different; oily, sliding. My invisibility has gotten me through. I grin, resisting the urge to punch the air.
Ok. This doesn’t mean I can get complacent. I have no idea what other things are here, waiting to catch me out. Better get going. First, the map-maker. Second, the apple. Third, get the hell out of here.
*
The bud and twig roll on my palm, pointing me through the arch ahead. I’m pretty deep within the castle now; I got across the courtyard, dodging a hunting party going out; walked through the three orchards of gold and silver and diamond trees; strolled through high-ceilinged corridors and reception rooms with scurrying servants; slipped past odd creatures and occasional beautiful Fae. This is, I hope, the last public area, and then I’ll be facing different challenges.
No-one’s paid the slightest bit of attention to me so far, even the dogs; obviously the tattoo is working. It doesn’t mean I’m not nervous—this has been a lot easier than I’m happy with, but… well, I’ve got a magical tattoo that took four hours and a shitload of pain on my side to get. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised when it works pretty damn well.
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