Sir Cobb and the Amateur Rogue

Frederick had not often had the privilege of staying in an actual castle. At least, not one local to his own time and place. When he had trained with Avan Weatherstrong in the time of heroes, of course, the opportunity to stay under a roof with nobility had cropped up more often.

Frederick liked castles, they had high walls, portcullises, gatehouses, guard stations and, on occasion, moats. Until Frederick had settled on the course of his life he had always slept well. In the early days of being a knight errant the number of nights actually spent in beds had dropped dramatically. During his training the unpleasant nature of the world became more apparent. Sleeping in a large stone structure with forbidding entry ways and a round the clock guard started to show itself as a sensible precaution.

Roadside inns that called themselves 'The Castle' were, at the least, optimistically named. They were just as secure as any other dwelling place. Experience had taught Frederick that this meant nothing. Guards were a rare thing indeed and miniature portcullis features had never really caught on, being a pain to install.

'Sleep with one eye open' was not a piece of advice for a knight-errant, more a description of how they slept all the time. Even so, a good rest was a vital weapon in a knight's arsenal. There were not many aged insomniac knights, in fact, Frederick had never met one.

Frederick often found that looking out of the window and enjoying some night air before retiring helped him to drop off. This evening, staying in 'The Castle', a coaching inn on the Sommerslip Road, it allowed him to catch sight of a suspicious, shadowy figure mooching about the stables.

There was a time, not so long ago really, when a shadowy figure, moving in a series of darting shuffles from point to point, shortly after sunset, might have caused Frederick to raise an eyebrow, shake his head and continue on with whatever he was doing. These were the days before the hero's paranoia had taken hold.

Now all Frederick could see was a threat, skulking nearby, waiting to strike. Maybe the threat wasn't directly aimed in his direction, this was irrelevant. Frederick was a knight-errant. Whoever was endangered by the presence of this black-clad rogue was someone Frederick was honour bound to protect.

Frederick was not yet so jaded by his role that he regarded this fact as tedious. It was still inconvenient, he mused, casting one final glance towards the warm and inviting blankets neatly arranged upon his bed.

One of the things that really annoyed Frederick about common rogues was their inability to master even basic roguing. If you hired a guild-approved rogue for light espionage and workaday dirty deeds then most of those seeking to foil them would be entirely unaware of their presence until it was too late. If people just had the common indecency to have these things done properly then assassination attempts would be far less regularly foiled.

The fact Frederick had seen this chap by glancing out of his bedroom window told him that his quarry was in no way affiliated to any of the major thieving federations, he was, essentially, a bodger in the world of stealth.

This made him a nuisance, the longer the incompetent rogue were free the more he contributed to the common misconception that a proper thief was not such a big deal. Frederick wasn't just stopping this fellow for the good of his target and the detriment of his employer but, in a very real sense, Frederick was helping to erase the notion that stealth was easily achievable by the common man on the street.

As Frederick crossed the stable yard in the shadows, knowing he was only visible, and even then as an indistinct black lump, for less time than it would take for fifty grains of sand to settle in the lower chamber of an hourglass, he considered that he was a knight and would never pass the basic exams for affiliation to any self-respecting thieves' guild. Yet, here he was, silently lifting the substantial mass of a spade from against a wall, hefting it in his hand to assess weight and balance and swinging it down upon this foolish man's head. Frederick had not made a single sound, his breathing was calm and controlled, his tread careful, his actions fluid and discreet.

Frederick knew 'knight-stealth' a short term, quick and dirty profile of tricks used by men who preferred to fight face-to-face wherever possible. Yet this idiot had completely failed to detect him. If this man was any sort of rogue Frederick should have a knife between his ribs right now. As the spade made contact with the amateur's head Frederick glanced down to check he wasn't being triple bluffed.

Thankfully there was no stealthily concealed knife jabbing at the side of Frederick's stomach, the poor-man's thief was unconscious on the floor.

"I'm almost disappointed," Frederick muttered, bending down and pulling two lengths of cord from the belt loops at the top of his breeches. Having some lengths of cord handy to tie people up with was a trick Frederick had learned from Avan Weatherstrong. Of course, Prince Weatherstrong had a bewildering array of magicks at his command to restrain those who required it, but Avan, like Frederick, was a guy who liked to be prepared.

As Frederick was tying the man up he noticed a large amethyst signet ring on the pinkie of the man's right hand. There was a crosshatch of silver holding the amethyst down, five lines diagonal across the circular surface of the stone.

Recognising evidence when he saw it Frederick removed the ring to show to Phoebe and Harvey. Then he hoisted the man onto his shoulder and headed for the inn entrance. Before he made the mistake of blundering through the door carrying an unconscious rogue, an action that could lead to discovery and questions, Frederick stopped.

He returned with his burden to the stables where Gerda and Ferris waited impassively by Tabarnas's coach.

"Lads," Frederick said to the golems. "I found this fella sneaking about the stables and I would like to discreetly question him in my room. Any chance you could help me get him upstairs quietly?"

The golems were very helpful. Frederick went back to his room and Gerda stood on Ferris's shoulders. Between them all they lifted the thief in through Frederick's window.

A few moments later Harvey and Phoebe had been summoned. Harvey was the first to arrive and he cast an appraising eye over the bound thief as Frederick explained what had happened in more depth.

"So, you're basically saying that you saw someone you didn't like the look of and took it into your head to swipe him over the head with a shovel?" Harvey asked as Frederick's account came to a close.

"There was a bit more to it than that," Frederick complained. "Trust me, he was up to no good."

"There's a town in the Skyleg mountains where they award the largest swine of the year's herd to the person with the best knee-jerk reflex," Harvey said. "I think you should seek that place out, you'd be eating fresh bacon the next day for certain."

"I think it's better to apologize for over-caution than die for complacence," Frederick said.

Harvey's sly, narrow gaze fixed on Frederick's earnest face for a few more moments. The faint smirk twitching the corner of the djinn's lips communicated a level of smugness it would have been hard to describe in actual words.

"I'm only teasing," Harvey admitted eventually. "I think it's great that you're taking the law into your own hands, very chaotic. I'm a big fan of chaos. The right to a fair trial is highly overrated."

"I'm not trying to deny anyone..." Frederick snapped.

"Boys!" Phoebe said from the doorway. "I am about sick and tired of your arguing. Harvey, you know I have the power to apply a severe attitude adjustment to you so don't bait Frederick so much. Frederick... well... try to be a bit less easily baited. You have to understand that every word that falls from Harvey's lips is utter nonsense. The sooner you do the better for all of us."

"Every word?" Harvey objected. "Isn't that just a tad harsh?"

Phoebe only had to look in Harvey's general direction to get the mischievous sprite to lapse into silence.

"He's still not awake, then?" Phoebe said, inspecting the still unconscious rogue. "How hard did you hit him exactly."

"I tend to hit hard enough to give me a decent head start," Frederick shrugged. "Anything softer and you'd end up on the wrong end of a cross country pursuit, or a term in a castle dungeon with the looming prospect of probable execution."

"I never realised that whacking someone with a shovel was such a precise science," Phoebe remarked drily, uncorking the small bottle that she'd fetched from her room. "Get ready," she said, holding the bottle under the rogue's nose and moving it back and forth.

The rogue's head rolled, twitched and then jerked upwards as the man came back to consciousness. The muscles in his shoulders bunched as he attempted to reach up to massage the sore spot on the back of his head. As he realised he was bound to a chair his eyes widened as he focused on the three people intent on his every move, standing too closely for his comfort as the inn's lodging rooms were not intended for gatherings of this size.

"One false move," Harvey said to the man, truculence dripping from every syllable, "and we'll give you a smile from ear to ear via your throat, get me?"

The man panicked and started straining at his bonds, muffled yells tried to find their way through the gag improvised from Phoebe's collection of coloured handkerchiefs.

"You are treading the line," Phoebe warned the djinn. "Apologies sir, whilst you are, temporarily our captive we do not intend to kill you, my associate believes that he is funny."

"We just want to know what you were doing sneaking around the stables in the middle of the night," Frederick said. "And, more importantly, on who's behalf. Don't bother telling us it's none of our business and there's no point acting innocent. I'm a knight, she's a witch and he's a djinn. We can practically smell mischief."

The rogue looked from Frederick to Phoebe, not liking the expression on her face he tried looking at Harvey's face, although everyone could have told him that would be a waste of time and energy.

"Thief," he said eventually, "Horse thief... I am... just looking for horses... to thieve."

"So," Harvey said, moving in closer to the man. "You are so scared of your employer you'd rather pretend to be a horse thief than reveal your true allegiance. That means you're working for a noble. Probably one with a fair degree of power and influence, someone whose name is known in the region."

The rogue's eyes widened and his mouth opened, even at amateur level this fellow hadn't been rogueing for long.

At that point the door to Frederick's room opened and Tabarnas shuffled in.

"I heard voices..." Tabarnas said before catching sight of the prisoner. He stumbled to a stop with a perturbed 'ah, I see'.

"Sorry," Phoebe said. "We didn't want to disturb anyone."

"Who is this?" Tabarnas asked.

"That's what we're trying to find out," Frederick said. "Although now I come to think of it we may be taking the wrong angle. Tabarnas, does this tell you anything?"

Frederick reached into his pocket and retrieved the signet ring he had taken from the unconscious rogue's finger. Tabarnas adjusted his eyeglasses and squinted at the ring.

"Ring of fealty," Tabarnas said. "Silver would indicate a moon tribe, the circle is usually a light stone, the purple, particularly occluded like that is the new moon. Unfortunately these items are not really traded. If I were to buy one I would have to melt it down for parts, they're not magical but they do have very particular meanings in the One Hundred Kingdoms. Any kind of civil servant should be able to tell us specifically who this belongs to in the morning."

"So," Phoebe said, looking over at the prisoner. "Either you are a horse thief in the employ of a local noble, or, as we already worked out, you are lying to us. You also must be aware that it is only a matter of hours before we know who you are working for anyway."

"You have two choices," Frederick chipped in. "Either you come clean and, as long as we like what you say, we may even let you go. Or I can go get the constable now and you can go to jail for... what was it, horse theft?"

The rogue didn't look as if he really knew what to do. His gaze travelled around all of the room's occupants, the light his eyes distant as if he were doing some immense calculation. Before any concrete result manifested an explosion outside sent a shudder through the inn's frame and rattled the window panes.

"Too late," Harvey chimed in.

It definitely looked that way, and the wise man knows that when things look that way, often they are that way, and, indeed, in this case they were. But the why's and the how's of what followed are a tale for another day.

In Which Saeed Encounters A Masque In Jeopardy

Saeed was a young man who did not really look at the world in terms of security versus danger. Anyone outside of Saeed's life would have pointed out that by the time the young thief was old enough to appreciate security he was already living in a state of constant danger. This probably helped him to view dangerous situations with a cool and rational mind. To Saeed life was danger and vice versa. Not that he would say something so grandiose because only those people for whom life might not be danger would say them.

Saeed's phlegmatic attitude to sneaking around a cave network tracking a man in a dark cloak leading two muscular talking wolves carrying a pallet bearing a chest of dragon crystals was probably born of these life circumstances. Certainly Saeed did not resent Kalico for sending him on this mission, nor did he fear that he would be unable to return to the Patchwork Market with the intelligence that he had gained.

Did this make Saeed a hero? Or more of a fool? How large is the gap between these two states of being anyway? Saeed didn't bother himself too much with pontification on any of these topics. So you can if you want. In the meanwhile, however, Saeed continued to ease through the shadows following the man in the dark cloak and his consignment of mysterious Dragon Crystals.

After walking along a number of passageways, up various ramps carved into the rock and along winding extensive tunnel sections, Saeed decided that the party he was following were headed in roughly one direction and climbing upwards as they did so. They moved from the cold of the tunnels where they had arrived throughh the magic portal into an area that appeared to have more architecture.

They had not been walking too long before the man in the black cloak stopped outside a large wooden door. He opened the door with a key he retrieved from his belt and lead the wolves inside with the crystals. After a few minutes the man in the black cloak emerged alone, closed the door and locked it behind him. He continued on his way through the tunnel complex without the wolves or the dragon crystals.

Saeed had to make a split second decision, try to break into the cellar storage room to follow the crystals, or follow the man in the black cloak. He decided on the latter course of action because there was always a chance Saeed might be given the opportunity to steal the key from the man. Besides, Saeed knew the man had a wand that could open magic portals. Maybe he had just opened a portal back to Sorrowblade for the wolves inside that room.

What would Saeed do with a room full of dragon crystals? He didn't even know what dragon crystals were. The choice was really no choice. He must follow the man in the black cloak to find any further information on the situation.

The man soon came to a set of steps leading up out of the tunnel network. Saeed had to be careful now as the stairwell doubled back on itself every ten steps. Saeed could not allow himself to be seen but he didn't want to lose the man either. He had to stay two staircases behind and follow the footsteps.

At the top of the stairs there was a metal gate, the man unlocked it, passed through and locked it behind him. This was a disaster. Saeed had to stay out of sight one staircase down to evade detection. He heard the man lock the gate and walk away before he could hurry after. The gate was of the barred variety with three cross bars dividing the gate into fifteen narrow barred slits arranged in five colums of three gaps each.

Saeed could probably ease himself through, except for his head. His ears would probably cause a problem. He was sure he could best the slits eventually but what if he was discovered in the meanwhile? Saeed did not relish the thought of being captured. He would only come back here if he could not find another way out.

He returned down the stairwell to the bottom, where the cellar area was laid out. The passage stretched off for about three hundred paces in both directions. The way Saeed had come the passage terminated a ramp that curved away into the cave network, at the other in a blank wall. Doors were placed along the corridor at odd intervals. To the cave network end the doors were all blank stout wood. Towards the other end some had hatches at the height of an adult head.

Saeed recognised a prison cell when he saw one. He wondered if there were any prisoners down here. There was only one way to find out.

Saeed started with the cells at the far end of the passage and worked his way back towards the cell, knocking on each door as he went. After seven doors there had been no answer to his muted knocking. At the eighth he found what he had been looking for.

"Who's there?" came a voice.

"You are a prisoner of the man in the black cloak?" Saeed asked.

"Who are you?" the voice replied.

"My name is Saeed," Saeed said. "I am a thief from the streets of Old Araby. I have taken a vow to never again tell a lie and am seeking to reconcile the last untruth that crossed my lips with the spirit of my dead mother."

"Are you making some sort of a joke?" asked the voice. "Is this some sort of trap?"

"You are already in a trap my friend," Saeed replied. "Think seriously, would the man in the black cloak really try to play a trick on you concerning an honest thief addressing you through your cell door?"

"Cankerthorn is an odd duck, for certain," the voice responded. "Although he does not appear to have any whimsy about him. So, what are you doing here honest thief from a long vanished land?"

"This Cankerthorn," Saeed explained. "He is involved in business dealings with a certain knight at the Patchwork Market, I have been asked to find out the nature of these deals and report back to the Master of the Market."

"Sounds like the slimy toad who threw me in this room to die," the voice answered. "So why have you come here to disturb my long, silent captivity?"

"Cankerthorn has left this underground area via a staircase about two hundred paces hence. There is a locked gate at the head of the stairs and I am reluctant to attempt to bypass it without first assessing my options. You are my first option."

"What kind of an option is that, boy?" the voice asked. "I am no more than an old prisoner in a dank cell, lost and forgotten for centuries, in danger of coming undone at any moment and subliming into ether."

"Are you a djinn?" Saeed asked. He knew a little about beings of ether, djinn as they were called in Afsana.

"Ha, well, yes and no," the voice said. "I am of the primary order of sprite. I am a servant to my master, an agent of the great Wheel, as such my sub-species is actually referred to as a masque. Djinn are cousins of mine though."

"Well, as I understand it djinn have some power. Maybe we could assist one another. If I were to set you free, what could you do for me?"

"I do not think you will be able to set me free," the masque replied. "If you could then I would be able to return to my master's hands, he would be very grateful for my safe deliverance. I think this is a task that is too difficult for you."

"I am willing to try," Saeed said. "What is the harm."

"Ah, well, for that you will have to see my prison," the masque said. "Open the door to the cell, it is not locked. Have the utmost care as you do so, however, my life depends upon your stealth and dexterity."

Saeed smiled. "I flatter myself to believe that your health and well being could not be better entrusted to the stealth and dexterity of any other person," he said. "I shall open the door."

Taking heed of the masque's words Saeed carefully turned the handle of the door, lifting the latch and easing the door open on its heavy metal hinges. It complained and stuck a little but Saeed took care to open the door only as far as was necessary to slip inside.

Once he got into the cell, and his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior of the chamber, Saeed understood the masque's concerns. A mirror was placed upon the floor of the cell and above it hung a sword suspended by a gossamer thread. Inside the body of the mirror Saeed could make out the sad face of the masque peering upwards at the sword hanging before it.

"Careful," the masque said. "The slightest disturbance and the thread may break, this isn't a mirror prison that can be opened by breaking the glass. In fact, if the glass is cracked I will be instantly constricted into the ether. It will take a great deal of magical energy to retrieve me then and, to be honest, I know of no magic worker that would ever bother."

"So how can I get you out?" Saeed asked, trying not to breathe in the direction of the sword.

"You need to turn the mirror upside down, that opens a portal into the tiny world inside the mirror. Do not try to pick up the mirror without first uncrewing it, it is held down. Do not attempt to pull down the sword, it is too heavy and has been enchanted to fall straight into the surface of the mirror at the slightest hint of interference."

"So I need to unscrew the mirror and slide it out from under the sword?" Saeed asked.

"You must remove all six screws that hold the mirror to the floor," the masque said. "Without the vibrations of the screws causing the sword to fall. It's an impossible task."

"Things that are tricky are not impossible," Saeed said. "That's why they call them tricky."

"I don't know," the masque said. "I think this is probably impossible."

"When I asked my mother," Saeed said, "what stopped the sorcerers from taking over Afsana and ruling the kingdoms of Araby with magic, she told me that magic was delicate and required a particular balance to work. Whenever an enchantment is cast there must always be some kind of an exception or loophole by which the enchantment may be undone. The powers that be do not permit the unchecked manipulation of magical forces."

"You talk of etheric philosophy with a sprite?" the masque complained. "I know this as well as anyone but I do not know the secret of Cankerthorn's enchantment."

"Maybe we do not need to," Saeed said. "I shall survey further the resources available and return with a solution."

"I'm glad you're so confident," the masque said, his lack of faith in Saeed showed through in every word.

Saeed didn't allow the misery to affect him. In Saeed's world you could either get something done or it was impossible, there was no sense in worrying about whether a task fell into one category or the other. He slipped out of the cell door again to make his way down the corridor, past the stairway and into the side of the passage lined with storage rooms rather than prison cells.

It didn't take him long to find an unlocked door. It appeared that the storage nearest the stairs was used to store the things that were most common. He found a maintenance room filled with mops, small towels, bottles of chemicals, rags, buckets and other ephemera associated with running a clean castle and dungeon. In here Saeed found a tool suitable for unscrewing the mirror from the floor. The only question was whether he could do all six without the sword falling and dispersing the masque.

Saeed did not think that he could specifically achieve this without some further assistance. So he continued to search the storage rooms. Four rooms further on he found an armory. He immediately took note when he saw that the items in the room all glowed with a soft blue-white light indicating that they were imbued with some sort of magic.

Saeed looked over a rack of buckler shields all of which shared the luminous property. Logically it did not seem that one would enchant a shield to weaken it. An idea began to form in Saeed's mind. Saeed took the screwdriver he had pulled out of the box in the maintenance room and tried to gouge or scuff the surface of one of the bucklers. The tip of the screwdriver could not even make the smallest scratch upon the shield's surface.

"I think that this will be an excellent solution," Saeed muttered under his breath, lifting the buckler from the rack.

He made his way back down the corridor to the masque's cell. He had to slide the buckler carefully through the door to rest against the wall before entering the room himself. As Saeed squeezed himself round the door he could hear the masque tutting and fretting to itself.

Once he was in Saeed crept forward to the edge of the mirror.

"I have a solution," he said to the masque in the hushed tone he had become used to when crouching near to the sword.

"What is it?" the masque asked, it did not sound happy but maybe there was an edge of hope in its voice.

"I have a magic buckler," Saeed explained. "It repels damage. I also have a screwdriver," he held up the tool so the masque could see it, "I will slide the magic buckler under the sword and attempt to unscrew the mirror. If the sword falls it will not strike the surface of the mirror. If you are not sure that this is adequate then I am afraid my only other option is to leave."

The masque thought this over for a moment, then it said:

"I have been trapped behind this glass for far too long, if I am dispersed then there is always some hope that a magician will pull me out of the ether one day. While I wait in here I have no such hope. Put the shield over my mirror and proceed with your plan."

Saeed did as he was told. He put the buckler carefully under the point of the sword before beginning to work out the screws that held the mirror down on the stone floor of the cell. He managed to unscrew four of the six without incident, the fifth he attempted turned out to have been caught on its thread. Swiftly he switched to the other remaining screw, undoing that one before returning to the one that had stuck.

He tried to bear down on the screw, pressing his weight onto the screwdriver head to give it more purchase. The screw slowly began to turn but as it did there was the merest vibration as part of the thread ground against the stone of the screwhole. The tiny quiver seemed to expand out through the stone walls of the cell and eventually reached the thread that suspended the sword over the buckler.

The blade of the sword sang the lightest, quietest high note you can imagine and then the thread snapped.

Saeed rolled back out of the way of the blade, hoping the buckler's magic would hold. It did hold, just but the point of the magic sword pierced the protective energy surrounding the shield resulting in a bright white flash as the magical energy dispelled. The sword fell to the floor, no longer a threat but the force of the magical discharge was sufficient to blow the shield into the air to spin above the mirror.

If the shield caught the glass the wrong way when it fell the glass would shatter. The sword had been enchanted to fall towards the mirror but the shield was not. Saeed leaped forward plucking the shield out of the air before it could strike the mirror's surface to land against the cell wall, breathing heavily, his heart hammering in his throat.

"So, have you finished?" came the voice of the masque.

Saeed nearly burst out laughing as the tension gripping his insides dispelled. He scrambled back to the last screw and quickly removed it.

"All done!" he announced. "Are you ready?"

"I can't believe that I am about to be freed," the masque rejoiced. "Please, quickly."

Saeed picked up the mirror and held it out in front of him. He flipped it round so that the surface was facing downwards. There was a feeling of movement from the bottom of the mirror and the masque dislodged itself from its prison.

The masque, that resembled a tiny goblin dressed in a fool's motley, jumped down onto the floor of the cell. It worked any kinks out of its muscles by doing a little jig.

"Oh yes!" it crowed. "Free! Free! Free at last! I can feel my powers returning." It turned to look up at Saeed as the young thief rested the mirror prison carefully against one wall. "I have been so long in that mirror that I will need a little time to rest and recharge," it said. "So I will leave you to receive appropriate thanks from my master. For my own part I can only assure you that you have rendered myself, and hence the forces of the wheel a great service on this day Saeed. I bid you farewell."

With that the little sprite reached up to fiddle with something behind his left ear. He unhooked something and pulled at the corner of his face. Saeed was amazed to see the spirit's face come away in his hand. The little sprite gripped at the freshly exposed edge and pulled his face right off.

Saeed didn't know by what mechanism a tiny little goblin in motley became the curled up figure of a tall, thin man dressed in a great coat, a tall hat proud upon his head, but the transformation happened. The man held a mask, moulded into the shape of the little sprite's face, in his left hand. This new figure filled the room with a great deal more presence than his servant.

Saeed did not know much about the nature of gods, or the difference between gods and powerful djinn, but he knew magical power when he saw it, ever since he had seen the shade of death standing over the body of his mother.

"Saeed ibn Abihi, an honour to make your direct acquaintance," the man in the tall hat said. He grinned a white and perfect grin that made Saeed want to go and pick a pocket, just to prove he could.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," Saeed said politely. "I am afraid that I do not know your name."

"Some days," the man in the tall hat said, "I can hardly remember my own name, so there's no shame in it escaping someone else. I must thank you for returning this little masque to me. Every one of my missing children is like a small shard of glass in my tender heart. Every one returned a blessed relief."

"I am happy to be of service, sir," Saeed said. "Your servant was of the opinion that you may wish to render me some assistance in return. If you could that would lighten the load on my heart, for I am far from home and a little lost."

"Indeed you are," the man in the tall hat said as if he knew every move that Saeed had ever made, and who was to say that he didn't? "So, where would you like to go? The souk?"

"Oh no, sir," Saeed said. "When I lost my mother in the souk it ceased to be my home. In truth I would like to be nowhere better than by her side again, so that I could apologise for the lie that I told her when she was alive."

"If I could send you straight there I would," the man in the tall hat said. "You have some more to do before that day comes."

"Then I should return to Kalico, the Master of the Patchwork Market," Saeed said. "It is for his sake that I have made my present journey and I have much to report to him."

"Kalico," the man in the tall hat said. "Like the Master of every Market I have had some occasion to cut a deal with that individual. He has a heart of stone but it burns in the centre like a furnace. I can take you back to the Master's Tower in the blink of an eye, if you're sure that's where you want to go."

"I made him a promise," Saeed said. "If I do not honour it then I will have gone against the vow I made to always be honest."

"I love a paradox!" the man in the tall hat crowed. "And you my little honest thief are one of life's golden nuggets in that regard. Now, I left a door round here somewhere. I tend to leave them wherever I go and Cankerthorn has certainly earned my attention in the past."

The man in the tall hat opened the door of the cell and, Saeed following along behind, walked down to the blank wall at the end of the passage. He reached out into the blank stone of the wall and undid a latch hidden, seemingly, inside the rock. He pulled open a wooden door that emerged from the dead end in a similar manner to the one in which a tiny goblin had turned into a thin man in a tall hat.

Saeed peered through the open doorway and was amazed to see Kalico, sat at his desk, his back to the door. The Master of the Market was mere feet away, working, oblivious to the man in the tall hat or Saeed.

"He won't hear you until you step through," the man explained. "It's the way my connecting doors work."

"Thank you, sir," Saeed said happily. "I am honoured to receive your assistance."

"Think nothing of it," the man in the tall hat replied. "If you were stuck here then how would it come that the weave would deliver you back to me at the appointed hour?"

"Am I to understand that we should meet again?" Saeed asked, choosing his words carefully.

Careful or not the man in the tall hat said nothing, just motioned for Saeed to step forward as the wide, white smile shone out of wide, thin-lipped mouth.


Saeed stepped forward without receiving an answer to his question, in the fullness of time he did meet with the man in the tall hat again, but that is a story for another time.

Avan Weatherstrong and the Stalker Wolf

He turned to face the creature and understood now why the people of this land called it the Stalker Wolf. The beast stood, seven and a half feet tall, on its hind legs. 

On occasion it would do us all well to be reminded that there are real heroes who wander between the realms of man and the realms of the folk. One such was the great magician Avan Weatherstrong, a braver, wiser and kinder wandering prince one could not hope to find.

The knight was the youngest of an embarrassingly large number of male siblings. For this reason Avan Weatherstrong was compelled to search hard for his path in life. He required a social position that would allow him to be appropriately royal. At the same time, it could not be so royal that it sparked political difficulties between himself and one of his brothers.

Thankfully he had a talent for magic. This would have been a disaster if Avan Weatherstrong was a serious contender for his own royal seat. Or if one of his brothers had got there first. Happily, neither was the case. Because of this serendipity the prince became a fine and disciplined alchemist. He learned his craft under some of the finest tutelage available in his land at the time.

When Avan Weatherstrong came of age the celebrations were somewhat muted. At twenty one, he had only nine years to work out what to do with the entire rest of his life. By thirty a prince is expected to have made all the important decisions. Further he is expected to be ready to go forward into a future filled with stability and prosperity.

Avan Weatherstrong was a student of some accomplishment. Despite this, he had no life experience. He was wise enough to know that, unless he acquired some, he risked being an embarrassment to his family line. He did not want to be the sad kind of prince who never found ease with their station in life. Such men were always reversing direction and indulging in fads and fancies. Much apart from anything else Avan Weatherstrong did not believe that suited his own sense of self. Something had to be done.

What Avan Weatherstrong did was to make a road pack, saddle up a steed and set out into the world to find adventure. Today's story is about one of those adventures.

When the young prince set out upon his journey he determined to explore some of the far off places. In the fringes of reality magic is more potent and strange things are commonplace. His desire was to gain an insight into the heart of magic, the Liminus, a point in the great weave that is between all things.

There are tales of his time at the edges but nobody knows whether Avan Weatherstrong did get his insight. There are facts to suggest that he did. He returned from the soft places and undertook further adventure. he eventually settled to happiness and stability. Storytellers offer these facts as the proof. Only he could have told us and it would appear that he never did, for stories of his exploits are all very old and there will be no more that are new.

It came about that on his way from Weatherstrong outward to those soft places Prince Avan passed through the land of Skulkmite. A land that was caught within a moment at the edge of winter, cold and bitter, with little in the way of daylight. Avan had been riding since morning as the sky had darkened and the air had slowly turned to bitterness.

He had been in the saddle long enough by this time to have developed some sense of a day on the road. He only stopped to make camp or, occasionally to stay at a coaching inn for the night. He had passed through three large cities and had taken some time to learn a little of each of them.

Avan Weatherstrong was not a young man who would rush into peril. Even so, he always felt that something was lacking when time was passing too pleasantly. So, as the warm weather of the summer he had left behind was cut to ribbons by a constant north wind. As he was forced to stop to pull on a heavier riding coat. As the outline of trees on the horizon began to resemble clawed hands more than soft green clouds. Avan got a taste of something amiss in the air.

The prince had not considered what he would do if he encountered evil or mischief on his wanderings. He was not a knight for he obeyed protocol, which is neither code of law nor spiritual path. Seeing the desolate wasteland that surrounded him he understood that evil was now close at hand.

Avan Weatherstrong decided that he should seek it out. He resolved that if it was in his power he would put an end to this evil, whatever it proved to be. As he rode his horse along the main road that lead into the land that he had entered he approached a farm house in the distance.

He spurred his steed on to reach the dwelling, dismounted and rapped upon the door of the house. After a few moments a hatch in the door, decorated with the symbol of a shooting star, opened. A man looked out through the barred slit, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Who are you?" asked the man.

"A traveller in this land," Avan replied. "I notice that the weather here is significantly worse than in the bordering lands, unusually so. I wonder if you would be able to tell me why that would be."

"This land belongs to the Stalker Wolf," the man behind the door replied. "It hunts under a fat, autumn moon, it has made the land this way for many years. You would best to be off the road by nightfall."

"Is this wolf dangerous?" Avan asked. "Can no one drive a lone wolf from your realm?"

"This is the Stalker Wolf," the man replied. "Sir Skulkmire battles with the beast whenever he is able, but the wolf is cunning, it eludes capture."

"Maybe Sir Skulkmire would benefit from a helping hand," Avan said. "Where might I find him so that I may offer him my assistance?"

"Many have come, traveller," the man said. "None have left alive. If you are another fool you will need to follow the road for Skulkmire Woods. At the end of the road is Skulkmire Manor. Good luck."

His speech finished the man closed the door hatch without waiting for thanks. Avan got back up on his horse and made his way along the road into Skulkmire Woods.

The woods were sparse and marshy, filled with mist. Avan had to ride across several bridges to find the manor. The house was made of stone blocks that may once have been a light grey, or white, now they were black and grimy. The manor was not just old but looked to be in bad repair.

As Avan rode up the path towards the manor he was met by a figure dressed in hunter's garb.

"Who goes there?" the man asked.

"I am a traveller in these lands," Avan replied. "My name is Avan Weatherstrong, I seek Sir Skulkmire."

"And you have found him," the hunter replied. "What business do you have with me, stranger?"

"I understand that it is your duty to find the Stalker Wolf," Avan said. "I offer my assistance."

Skulkmire said nothing, just nodded his head.

"You're most welcome here," the knight replied. "Whether you will find the Wolf so friendly I severely doubt. Come, eat with me, we will set out when the moon rises."

Avan and Skulkmire sat down together at an old, worn table that would have gladly provided seating for twenty guests. Skulkmire's servant, a tall, thin man with gleaming eyes, brought a meal of cold meats and boiled vegetables. The prince observed the servant carried out his duties with a tall, crooked top had sat atop his head.

"Is it just you and your servant?" Avan asked Skulkmire as the meal was served. He was curious to find out the story behind the top hatted servant. Protocol and diplomacy prevented him from asking directly.

"My family are dead," Skulkmire explained. "Killed by the Stalker Wolf. I cannot marry till the beast is dead."

Skulkmire fell silent. That was the end of the conversation. Avan felt that he was not truly welcome at the manor. He could not understand why.

While they ate night fell, a Hunter's Moon rose over the land pale and fat. The moon was so large and so bright that it provided almost as much light as filtered through the greasy, grey clouds of the daytime. The night sky was clear, making the air even colder, but the Hunter's Moon was so bright that no stars shone in the inky sky.

"Come then, if you're coming," Skulkmire said as he lead his own horse out from the stables. "And may the Hunter's Moon bring you the luck to live through till morning."

With that the dour knight climbed up on to his horse and rode out of the Manor Estate. Avan mounted his own steed and followed after.

For hours the two rode together, searching Skulkmire woods for sign of the wolf. The hour grew later and later, then earlier again. Not long after midnight Avan believed that they would not find the wolf that night.

"I hear something!" Sir Skulkmire said. "Wait here!"

The knight spurred his horse and rode into the trees. Avan had not heard anything. He was not confident that separating was the best course of action. Skulkmire was too hasty, already gone before Avan could voice his concerns.

Before long Avan did hear something, the sound of heavy paws squelching through the marshy ground of the woods. Avan heard the snuffling breath of the beast, from the rumbling noise he guessed that the Hunter's Wolf must be large indeed.

Avan dismounted his steed and drew his sword, tilting his head in an attempt to identify the location of be beast. The wolf was fast. Before Avan could work out where it was it charged him, bursting out from between two trees, claws extended, jaws open.

Avan dodged and managed to evade the first attack. One look at the beast told him that it was no ordinary wolf, it was not even the larger dire wolf that terrorised some lands. All mundane wolves hunted in packs. A hunter encountering one alone could best them. The reason the Stalker Wolf dominated this land was that it was clearly a supernatural beast.

This beast was bigger than a man, more like the size of a bear. Missing Avan it sailed past, tucked and rolled to a stop. Avan knew the beast had magic but he didn't know exactly what that magic was. He didn't intend to stand still and ponder the matter if he was not swift he doubted he would get any second chances.

He knew that, short of a swift beheading, sword wounds would only make the animal more angry. Avan did not have the necessary equipment to win a fight. He knew he needed to retreat and come back with a more suitable weapon.

He hurried to the pack he had slung over his horse and picked a vial of powder from one of its front pockets. He could hear the wolf was coming for him, it had recovered and he could hear a slow tread approaching him. It was only five feet away now, but Avan knew that to live he would have to be calm and act with purpose.

He turned to face the creature and understood now why the people of this land called it the Stalker Wolf. The beast stood, seven and a half feet tall, on its hind legs. If there had been any doubt in Avan's mind regarding the nature of the wolf its loping two legged gait dispelled them in an instant.

Avan unstoppered the vial and threw its contents into the wolf's face as the beast leapt toward him again. He dodged out of the way a second time. As he did so he knew that he had succeeded in his goal. He could hear the sizzle of the wolf's skin burning. He could smell blood in the air.

The vial had contained powdered iron. Iron was an extremely dangerous substance for anything that had magic running in its veins. The wolf would recover but Avan bet that he had a chance to escape while the beast was surprised.

Avan lost no time, he climbed up into his horse's saddle and rode the animal away from the wolf as fast as he could. Before long he passed through the gates of the manor house and closed the gates behind him. He rode up to the front of the house where he was met by Sir Skulkmire's servant.

"I think your master is in some trouble," Avan said to the man.

The servant looked up at Avan with his sparkling eyes, a slow smile spread across his face.

"The master is home and in bed," he said. "He came back not long ago. I shall take your horse and prepare you a room, sir."

Avan dismounted.

"Sir Skulkmire came home?" he asked the servant.

"That he did, sir," the servant replied.

"But he left me in the woods!" Avan said, shocked.

"He believed the wolf would surely end you. He told me so before the pair of you even left, sir," the servant said as he tied the horse up in the stable building.

"He planned for the wolf to kill me," Avan said.

"I probably wouldn't go that far, sir," the servant replied. "But you are the first to survive a night in the woods. The first ever since the wolf came."

"It is a magical beast," Avan said. "It will need a special weapon to kill it."

"That it will, sir," the servant replied. "And a special man to wield the weapon. Come with me."

The servant lead Avan into the manor house and up three flights of stairs into an attic storage room. In the room piles of dusty crates and boxes stacked up to the ceiling, seemingly at random. The servant picked his way through the clutter with ease.

It was a silver short sword, the emblem of
the shooting star engraved into the blade.

In the very back of the room there was a display cabinet, that contained a single item. It was a silver short sword, the emblem of the shooting star stamped onto its blade.

"What is this?" Avan asked.

"It is a weapon that will kill the beast," the servant replied.

"Why are you showing it to me?" Avan asked.

"You are the man to wield it, sir," the servant replied. "You will need one more thing from me."

The servant reached up into the cabinet and appeared to grapple for a moment with empty air, he turned back to Avan with his hands raised.

"Please, approach," the servant said.

Avan came forward and the servant moved around, making motions as if hanging something on Avan's shoulders. Avan was amazed to find the sensation of heavy cloth landing there, even though it appeared that the servant held nothing at all.

"What is this?" Avan asked.

"Invisible cloak, sir," the servant explained. "It were best that the master believes you to be dead. I will tell him your horse returned alone. You take the sword and wrap yourself in the cloak. When the master goes out tomorrow night you can follow and observe."

Avan Weatherstrong was not one to back down from confrontation but he did as the servant asked. Skulkmire Woods and the Stalker Wolf had claimed many lives, neither should be underestimated.

When the night came round again Avan left the attic rooms and moved slowly and carefully down to a side entrance to the manor. From there he left the house and moved out to the front expecting to see Sir Skulkmire mounting his horse.

The knight did leave the house by the front entrance but he remained on foot and took a path through the estate into a small walled garden. Avan Weatherstrong followed on behind. Sir Skulkmire walked through the walled garden. Its beds were overgrown and wild with neglect. Skulkmire walked on, out through a gate into the woods.

There was another, hidden, path laid out from the walled garden. It wound through the trees to a small clearing. In the clearing was a stone table, bolted onto the surface of the table was a metal box, old and weathered.

"That foolish stranger can't have had any meat on his bones," Sir Skulkmire complained. "I am absolutely ravenous."

With that he opened the box on the table. Then he reached up to the sides of his face and fiddled around behind his ears.

Avan Weatherstrong had seen a few things whilst he had been apprenticed as an alchemist. What he saw next caused his eyes to widen and his breath to catch. Sir Skulkmire's face came away from his head, revealed as a mask held over another face by no more than a thread of gold.

As the mask came away the whole of Skulkmire's body changed. His knightly attire, his very shape and substance became smoky and indistinct. The smoke rose quickly in the night air, evaporating under the Hunter's Moon. Avan believed that he could see images in the smoke, cackling demons, squirming snakes. So many evil, hungry things.

The images appeared to reach out for Avan, through his eyes and into his mind. He believed that he could feel claws scratching at some part of him, deep inside. He felt a mounting panic, he was giddy with the sensation of falling.

He scrambled through his thoughts for something to ward off the sensation that he was being attacked. In amongst the jumble of concepts and memories was a clear picture of the emblem of the shooting star. For no reason that he could define the image brought him comfort and stability, so he concentrated on it.

Avan's senses returned to his control. He breathed deeply and returned his gaze downward from the smoky vapour, all that remained of Sir Skulkmire's form. The Stalker Wolf, now revealed under the mask with the golden thread, placed the mask into the box and closed it tight. Avan knew that it was time to reveal himself.

"What should I call you," Avan asked as he shook the cloak from his shoulders. "Stalker Wolf? Or Skulkmire?"

"Call me what you will," the wolf replied. "I will eat you either way!"

The wolf stepped forward, jaws open, claws raised and shining in the moonlight. Avan Weatherstrong swung the silver sword he had taken from the manor's attic. In a single motion he cut the wolf's head from its shoulders, killing it in an instant.

The death of the Stalker Wolf raised more questions in Avan Weatherstrong's mind than it answered. Avan knew that he was a competent swordsman, but he was nothing special. There were a dozen men who could have used the silver sword, so why had the servant entrusted him with the task?

"It is not your sword arm, Prince Weatherstrong," said the servant, emerging from the shadows of the wood. "It is your mind and your heart that I had to assess. It seems I am not yet so old that I could be called a fool."

"Who are you?" Avan Weatherstrong asked the man.

"Just an old sprite who serves his lord," the servant says. "I have many names, and one secret one."

The servant opened the box on the stone table and removed the mask.

"I also have many faces, and sometimes those faces are lost, or stolen," he said. "Thank you for returning this one to me."

The servant put the mask up to his face and, in the last moment before it made contact with his skin he said:

"Keep the sword but change its nature. There is a moon maiden who can imbue it with a power over evil. When she does this tell her to keep it safe, for the boy-fool who will save a hundred worlds."

"Who shall I say sends her this message?" Avan Weatherstrong asked.

"Tell her that humble Pombero bids the great goddess Arasy greeting," the servant said. That was the last thing he said, for as the mask fit snug over his face he vanished. For just a moment Avan Weatherstrong believed that he got a brief glance at the servant's true face. Yet, when he came to think on it further, all he could remember was a strange thrill. A shiver at the presence of something terribly old and fearfully cunning.

Avan Weatherstrong took the silver sword to the moon maiden and delivered the servant's message. The task was maybe not as straightforward as he had expected, but that is a story for another time.