The Seekers

Part 1: Coast of opals and storms

Chapter 1: The coast road.

Rain

Cheat.

Liar.

Dirty cheating fairy.

Rain sighed. It had been the same story all the way along the coast from Anders Point through Barrowcliff to Rockhome where he was currently being cursed and spat at. It never used to be like this, but recently, humans had started to distrust all fae.

I played fairly, he said, knowing they wouldn't listen.

You must have done something. We lost.

You must have charmed the cards.

Or read our minds.

He hadn't done the first, and only wished he was capable of the second.

We should have won.

That was the crux of the matter. They didn't believe any fae could win fair and square. They were so caught up in their pride and their vaunted superiority that they would say anything to make him look bad and themselves look good in their own eyes.

Yeah, we should have taken his money. Not risked him taking ours.

We ought to take his money. He owes it to us.

Why do I owe you anything? It was pointless but if only for his self respect Rain had to try.

Because you're a dirty cheating fairy, that's why.

So they were back to their first ugly phrases and before he could even speak they were all out of their seats and surrounding him. He had some magic, but not the kind that could deal with three hulking humans all at once. He had strength, too, beyond what anyone might expect from his slight frame, but again, there were three of them. He thought quickly and took a kerchief from one of his capacious pockets. He glamoured it to look like a purse and used it to grab a few coins that were beside it. It would be worth losing some loose change. He glamoured that, too, so that in the morning it would appear to be leaves and be thrown in the trash. Perhaps some street child would come across it and have a short time of joy.

Here, he said, throwing it on the table, his grey eyes flashing silver, a sign of danger if they had the wit to see it. It’s all I have. I hoped to win enough for a night’s lodging from our game but it appears you only play to win.

The men looked greedily at the heavy purse and while they scrabbled at it, vying to be the one who would go home rich tonight, Rain made himself not invisible exactly, but less obvious. His brown hair blended into the wood of the inn’s panelled walls and gleaming tables, his dark skin reflected the colours of all the clothes around, and he slipped through the crowd of drinkers and gamers, turning their glances aside until he reached the open door. He turned on the step and ill-wished the trio for satisfaction and justice.

May all your ale be sour, your partners cold and your work onerous, he muttered, then before they could notice he was gone he was off round a corner, down some quiet streets and out onto the main road.

Wood fairies being nocturnal, Rain simply carried on walking all night. His worldly possessions, such as they were, were in his pockets as was what money he had left. There wasn’t much, and he headed for West Riverside, hoping he might find it a friendlier place.

This living by his wits and his totally non-magical card skills was getting old but he couldn’t see his way to altering things for the moment.

Rain finished his breakfast. He half wished it was the season for birds’ nests then he could have had an omelette. But mushroom soup was perfectly nourishing. He washed himself and his small pan in a fairly clean stream that joined the river near his campsite, drank a little of the cool water, shrugged on his jacket and strolled into town.

It was a pleasant evening and he had hopes that West Riverside would prove more cosmopolitan and welcoming than the smaller towns along the coast. There was nobody around so he was startled when he felt a searing pain in his elbow, followed by more muffled thumps on various parts of his body. A mental alarm shrieked into his open thoughts. His twin, the other half of his heart, hurt. Fallen? Injured? He had no way to be sure, but it had to be serious for him to sense it. Half his brain counted to a hundred very firmly, while the other half battled with his feet and kept him on the path. It only took a moment to realise he was not under attack, and indeed was not actually hurt at all. It had to be his brother. What on earth...

Rain and his twin, Shadow, had always been close, and could sometimes almost read each other’s minds. But as they grew older they had inevitably grown slightly apart. They still felt any serious trauma and their mother had sometimes had a job to work out who was injured and who was merely crying in complete empathy.

So Shadow must have broken his arm. But how? A fall from his stag? Shadow was a superb rider, but riding in the forest could be dangerous, and low branches could lie in wait for a fairy who was overconfident. A fall, he decided. But what about the other bumps and bruises? With a sinking feeling he knew it must have been their father, adding punishment for the fall.

Rain shuddered and tried to send love and comfort through his connection with his twin. He was not sure he had succeeded but there was little else he could do. Shadow was at least a day’s ride to the east, even if Rain had had a stag or a horse. Besides, it would be better if he remained exiled … outlawed… absent, anyway. Better for him and much better for his brother. Safer, indeed, for everyone.

He sighed and forced himself to think that it would be for the best if his wanderings led him well away from the woods of the eastern fae.

The pedlars in the market were packing up their wares, the docks were disgorging their stevedores and the shopkeepers were barring their doors. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but some early stars were out and a few lights shone on the cobbles. A lamplighter was already doing his rounds.

As he passed the crowds heading home from work and joined the merrier crowds heading towards evening fun, he considered the contents of his purse. He could have one drink in an upmarket establishment, two in a normal inn and three in a ‘dive’. He wouldn’t use spelled coins; that was never a good idea if you intended to go to the place again, and never a good idea if you were in a town where it had to be assumed all the innkeepers knew each other. Even less a good idea in a town where his kind were unpopular. He had every intention of coming here for at least the next few nights.

Automatically ogling every pretty girl or boy he saw, of any species, and automatically avoiding brushing against their escorts (no sense courting danger), he sauntered down the main street. What did West Riverside have to offer in the way of entertainment?

He paused for a moment outside the Three Stags’ Heads. Nice. But full of a hunting and sporting crowd whose idea of a bet would be connected with horses and speed, rather than cards.

He hesitated longer outside ‘The Friendship’, an inn that belied its signboard with its dirty windows, peeling paint and air of neglect. His coins would go further here, if nobody picked his pocket, but the regulars were unlikely to make him rich. He walked on.

He was far from destitute and could always go back east. But he had no intention of seeing his family again until he could do so with his head held high and his pockets weighted with riches. Not any time soon then.

When he found himself outside The Old Ship it looked pleasant enough, glass gleaming and door ajar showing an inviting glimpse of comfortable chairs and gentle firelight. It was just beside the docks but looked prosperous enough to be the choice of travellers and sailors eager to enjoy the benefits of civilisation after time afloat, and eager, too, to part with some of their cash.

If he was careful, he might get someone to buy him a drink. Perhaps he could play cards with a drink as the stake? If he won, well, he’d be one drink in hand. If he lost … Rain was not used to losing. His present embarrassment owed more to the prejudices of the humans than to any lack of luck at cards. West Riverside was big, possibly more cosmopolitan, and hopefully friendlier.

He stepped into the inn, called for a jug of the landlord’s best ale and settled down to observe the other customers. He was an expert at assessing fortunes, large or small, and the willingness to part with them. And tonight, he felt lucky.

The feeling was justified. A few games of cards satisfied his love of play and gave him as many jugs of ale. In fact, the last game netted him a small number of coins; he’d asked his opponent to hold the ale over to the next night but the man had laughed and thrown him a handful of change instead. So he was slightly better off and had enjoyed the evening as well.

The inn stayed open late, but not all night.

No call for accommodation here, said the landlord, shaking his head regretfully. The sailors have their ships to sleep on, and the travellers are only too anxious to head inland. Those that stop here for a bite to eat aren’t usually looking to stay longer.

Rain left and explored the town, memorising the streets, parks and notable buildings. All main roads led eventually to the river and dawn found him sitting on a capstan watching the early shift loading cargo and the night guards heading for home. He made himself inconspicuous. A few elves, dark and light, glanced his way and seemed to see something but no-one spoke to him.

He decided on the evidence so far he liked West Riverside. It would do nicely as a place to mend his fortunes.

As the morning sounds grew stronger and the docks bustled with life Rain rose and headed for the market. He would wait to eat for free back at his ‘camp’ – fruits, more mushrooms, or maybe even fish, but it wouldn’t hurt to look at what might be available if he won again tonight. He dropped his ‘cloaking’; people never appreciated bumping into invisible bodies in a crowd.

The crowd was thickening and his attention was snagged by a minstrel, playing well, even if the songs were routine.

The singer finished a rollicking shanty and then beckoned to someone in the crowd.

You there, come and join me, he said, then when nobody moved, added, The large gentleman with the green skin.

Rain watched, amused by the idea of a troll as an actor or singer, and wondering if anyone else’s assistance would be required. He could sing well enough, and perhaps glamour would make up for any deficiencies. He noticed a hat on the ground, with a few coins already in it.

He also saw an artist sketching likenesses, quickly and competently. He was getting good business but Rain thought that might be due largely to the little marmoset he had with him and that he included in the drawings he produced.

Idly, he pitied the little creature, seeing the chain around its ankle, but thought no more about it until his attention was drawn away from the singing duo to a scuffle surrounding the artist. A scuffle with a small and very angry goblin at its centre.

Chapter 2: A Pedlar’s Lot.

Vrzvl

We’d be happy to grant you a trading licence, said the clerk. It will be good for a week, should you wish to stay that long.

Vrzvl took it, careful not to smile. He knew his sharp goblin teeth would not express friendliness here. He stroked his new document with his long thin fingers. A very impressive piece of parchment it was, too, with ribbon and sealing wax and all sorts of curlicues in the script. The mayor had either signed it or given a stamp bearing his signature to the licensing office. Vrzvl admired it. It permitted him to trade daily in the market square. Outside, of course, not in the market hall which was reserved for traders who inherited their stalls.

The licence did not, however, guarantee him a space. For that he had to jostle and shove. Smaller than most other traders, he would have been at a disadvantage if his elbows had not been so sharp. As it was, he ended up with a yard of cobbles where he could display his wares between a barrow boy hawking ripe fruit and a country girl almost hidden behind a pile of cheeses.

They were surprised to find a goblin in the outdoor market; goblins, in their experience, traded in the glass-domed hall opposite the mayor’s house and looked down on the day traders, all the way down their long goblin noses if not from any great height. But his neighbours were civil enough and Vrzvl found himself glad of their company and of their stalls as the day wore on. Housewives who came for fruit and cheese stopped to look at his pins and ribbons, and more than one impulse purchase went home between a couple of pears and a rounded ‘extra mature’.

The young pedlar was pleased with his day until evening brought the dismantling and wrapping of stalls and packs. Then he remembered he had nowhere to stay. He turned to ask his neighbours but they were gone, swallowed in the press of departing traders.

He shouldered his pack and started the hunt for lodgings. No luck. Human inns turned him away without fail, saying they were full or quoting outrageous prices and often laughing in his face. Dwarves were never hospitable to other than their own kind. Trolls scared him with their immense size. And of course, every right-minded goblin was by now at home with his family eating a well-earned dinner in front of a cosy fire and looking forward to a relaxing pipe. Even the more disreputable establishments, like The Friendship, refused him entrance. Open to all sorts they might be, but goblins might offend other customers, or sour the milk or …

Vrzvl got the message quickly enough and was beginning to despair until he saw that the goblin trading hall was still open and an elderly goblin was puffing and panting, pushing a cart full of merchandise out of the double doors. He rushed forward to help and was rewarded by a toothy grin from the oldster, who offered him a coin for his labours.

No, no, he said, waving away the proffered reward. But if you could tell me if there’s anywhere to stay? He hoped there might be an offer of hospitality but was disappointed.

I’ve a wife who’s not partial to strangers even if they’re goblins, said the goblin he’d helped. And I doubt if you’ll find anywhere in West Riverside. The humans are hardening in their attitudes to fae of any kind, and the fae places are usually full to bursting as a result.

I’d already found a lack of welcome, said Vrzvl. It’s different where I come from. Out in the countryside we all get on. But we’re a bit like your wife in our distrust of strangers, too. His face must have shown his intense disappointment and his worry because the old goblin gestured to the stall he’d emptied.

You can sleep under there, he said. The hall’s open all night because nothing of value is left in it. Just watch for the cleaners. They start early and might sweep you out with the rubbish. He grinned again as he spoke and Vrzvl assumed he was teasing.

It was better than nothing. He had already eaten a pie bought from a fellow vendor and a bruised apple from the barrow boy, and now he quenched his thirst at the fountain in front of the hall and surveyed his sleeping quarters.

He fastened his purse carefully, and tied it inside the pocket of his breeches. He took off his coat to use as a blanket and put his pack under the stall. It would make an adequate pillow even if the lumps were not as comfortable as feathers. He lay down with his staff in his hand and watched the evening crowd while he waited for sleep.

He slept badly. The floor was hard and his pack, as he’d suspected, was uncomfortable. To add to his misery the cleaners, who came in at dawn, dowsed his feet with water before realising there was a sleeper under the counter. His benefactor had not been teasing after all.

Hey, there’s someone under there. One of the cleaners was laughing as Vrzvl sat up, banging his head on the underside of the stall and trying to draw his feet out of the water.

You’re lucky we missed your pack, said another.

And even luckier to have your feet washed, added the first.

The rude awakening and the amusement at his expense made a sour start to the day but it was time he was up and about. Goblin traders were beginning to fill the hall and some offered jobs but any they could give him would pay less well than trading his fancy goods, and would only leave him under a stall again that night. He determined to leave town and camp along the river somewhere. Anything would be better than what he’d just endured. Meanwhile, he had a licence, and goods to sell, and a place to get, by elbow power.

He was concentrating on finding a space when a street urchin twitched his licence out of his hand and ran off laughing. He gave chase but soon lost sight of the boy in the crowd. Now he might as well leave straight away; he wouldn’t get much help from the officials in the licensing office, and he’d soon be run out of town if he tried trading without a permit. There were notices everywhere to that effect.

He bought an apple for breakfast and munched it glumly. Then he heard music, the popular, romantic kind that he really loved, coming from a minstrel, human by the look of him, who was entertaining the crowd and asking for volunteers for his next ‘act’ or story. Vrzvl was entranced, and sat down on his pack (which formed a kind of seat when folded the right way) to enjoy the entertainment.

Vrzvl was amazed at the commotion. One moment he was enjoying a street entertainment, the next he was almost trodden on by an extremely large and green big person, and surrounded by other big people, though he did see another one his size in the crowd. She wasn't a goblin, however, and he ignored her.

His attention was all taken by the large green - troll? Yes, troll. And the troll seemed to be upset. It seemed it hadn't intended to run, to frighten, to almost crush ... and despite himself, Vrzvl started to feel sorry for it. Now he was surprised at himself.

Half his brain told him to get out of there while he still had all his limbs intact. The other half told him to show some sympathy for someone in distress. Maybe if he went round showing sympathy, others would show sympathy for him and someone might offer him a bed. He didn't really articulate these thoughts completely to himself, but he did find himself rummaging in his pack to find anything that might be of use.

His customers were of all sizes, so he managed to locate a very large spotted handkerchief that would useful for wiping the sweat from the troll's brow. He proffered it wordlessly.

Then he turned to his pack again, anxious to find something for the minstrel, as a sign of friendliness, and appreciation for the music. Nothing seemed quite right but maybe the singer would like some ribbons for his hat. He held up a bunch of mixed colours.

May I give you these? he asked shyly. I enjoyed your songs so much. Then he spoilt the effect by grinning and wondered why everyone looked aghast at the wide mouthful of pointed teeth stretched in what to them seemed a grimace.

Vrzvl realised that his grin was causing concern. He hated that. These big people with their loose weak mouths and their tiny blunt teeth … he closed his mouth and tried to draw in his lips in a heroic effort to show that he did not mean to threaten, and certainly not to bite.

Then he became aware that the minstrel had accepted his offering and was even introducing himself.

I’m Jon, the singer said, in a friendly tone, and my troll friend is Tor. Thank you for your gifts.

He must respond. After all, it was friends he wanted.

I’m Vrzvl. The way he formed the words without letting his teeth show came out like a mumble, but he knew big people rarely grasped goblin names on first hearing anyway. At your service, he continued. That was a mumble too, but he accompanied it with a small bow.

Then he heard further commotion. A guard, who had obviously come to investigate the disturbance, was harassing the street artist at the edge of the crowd. Vrzvl had seen him earlier but hadn’t taken much notice. Now he saw the artist had a small marmoset. Vrzvl had had a marmoset for a pet when he was small. Its name was Mschvs and he loved it dearly. His younger brothers and sisters played with it now but it still came to be petted when he was visiting his family. But this marmoset was not exactly a pet. It was some kind of slave, with a chain on its ankle. That couldn’t be right. He stepped forward to give the artist a piece of his mind and as he did so the other small person in the crowd, a light elf, stepped forward too, her arm outstretched. Vrzvl watched as the links in the chain seemed to melt.

The marmoset immediately realised it was free and stepped smartly away from the artist, who was trying to explain to the guard that he had a licence for the creature. A licence. Vrzvl had not known there were licences for slavery. The guard was looking dubious but at that moment the marmoset saw Vrzvl and for some reason knew he would be sympathetic. It leapt onto his shoulder and twined its tiny arms round his neck.

Hey! shouted the artist. Stop hassling me and look there! He’s stolen my monkey. Vrzvl didn’t take much notice. Everyone must have seen what happened. It was the elf who melted the chain and he, a goblin, had merely been the person to whom the marmoset fled. And yet, the guard was looming over him.

Give it back, he said.

That’s up to the marmoset, said Vrzvl. I’m not holding it; it’s holding me. But I wouldn’t advise it to go back to anyone who kept it in chains.

Give it back. The guard was growling now.

You can see he isn’t restraining the creature, said the elf. Why don’t you fine the artist for chaining it in the first place? I shouldn’t think his licence permits him to do that.

The guard was getting angrier by the minute. His authority was being questioned on all sides. By fae, too. Although the artist was human. But even the monkey seemed to be some kind of rebel.

Give it back or I’ll take it, he roared, and grabbed for the monkey’s ankle, the one that still had chain wrapped around it.

The marmoset, seeing, no doubt, further restrictions on its liberty, promptly bit the guard’s finger. The guard, furious and in pain, hit out at Vrzvl. Vrzvl, angry himself by now, hit back.

Right, said the guard. You’re coming with me. You’re under arrest. Stealing property, encouraging a dangerous animal to bite a member of the guard who was doing his civic duty, and then offering violence when that same guard tried to arrest you. It was a confused version of events but it seemed likely to carry the day, until a new voice joined in.

Chapter 3: Never trust guards or monkeys.

Rain

Rain was watching, at first bemused then with a sense of resentment against the officious guard and the people who seemed to blame the troll for what was obviously an accident. And now the guard was bullying the goblin who had merely shown kindness to an animal. Time to intervene. He sighed. He was never able to hold himself aloof when there were people in distress.

He stepped towards the guard, relying on his ability to charm. He caught the man’s eye and held it.

The sun is in your eyes, he remarked, in a friendly, conversational tone. The animal has been chained; it would seek comfort with whoever was not its enslaver. The goblin could not have melted the chain; goblin magic isn’t like that at all. So you see, he continued, Someone else must have freed the creature. All you’ve seen is the aftermath and there’s nobody around to blame.

It should have worked and at first he thought he had calmed the situation. But