The Mephit's Tales

Thievery, Alain had found, demanded a peculiar mix of patience and committed impulse. Whether it was picking pockets, lifting goods at the market, or breaking and entering, there was always the need to wait for just the right moment to act – and then to do so without hesitation.

Even on the larger scale, picking exactly which job he was going to undertake took much the same discipline.

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He knew things had been tense, of course.

How could he not? It would take an idiot to miss that, and Jake was no idiot. He’d been working long hours; Allie’s days hadn’t been all that much longer, but this was the season for them to be hectic, even crazy; and yet things had piled on so much that between the two of them they’d barely been able to make ends meet. He’d been short, she’d been shrill; afterwards, they’d always made up, told each other that things would be better once life settled down, but it was so draining that things just hadn’t settled down.

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With a rattle of beads, a figure entered the hut.

His stride was slow and thoughtful, his attention focused on one small thing in his hand. He set that thing upon a carved and inlaid platter and brought it with him to a mat in the back of the hut, opposite the bead-strewn entrance. There he sat, cross-legged with the platter in front of him, his back against the central pole, gazing down upon his treasure and thinking.

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Tonight the manor gardens were abuzz with activity. Normally, this courtyard was for the baron’s private use; but the current baron, as he had for thirty years, invited people in for the Harvest Fair. Most of the people of the village were here now, dancing or singing or laughing or feasting. The tables were heavy with the bounty of the farms and the forests alike, and the wine flowed freely. Farther out, couples walked among the trees and ponds, or found some space to occupy together.

It was these that Janni paid the most attention to. The people at the centre of the gathering were mostly distracted by one another, but some of those wandering ones and twos were watching the night, and might notice a newcomer more readily. Even if they didn’t see her, that wouldn’t help if she stepped on someone’s toes. She made her way across the moonlit gardens, from the shadow of one tree to another. She couldn’t hope to keep entirely to the shadows, much as she might wish to do so; closer to the gathering, there was simply too much light. But her weaving path kept her in shadow as much as she could arrange, and when it could not, she trusted to her hooded cloak to make her just another patron of the Duke’s generosity.

Just another fair-goer ambling about the grounds, that was the key.

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Springtide dawned heavy with clouds, which was encouraging to nobody. Indeed, everyone in town was apprehensive as they went through the day. Oh, it wasn’t ominous as such – not yet. But the leaden skies didn’t bode well for the clear, starry night that everyone hoped for.

The old seer always said that the stars told about what was, not what would be; that the only way anyone, even he, could predict the future was in light of the present. And sometimes, people tried to encourage themselves with that. Even the gloomiest of visions did not mean that the future would stay so dark.

But the world didn’t change overnight, did it?

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The day had been lively, even noisy – brightly-coloured cloth strewn over every surface that would support it, children laughing and playing, youth and adults playing at all manner of competitions. The sun was warm, the breeze was mild, and the hills were green again after the winter’s chill. What wasn’t to celebrate?

Now the fires were lit, the sun was sinking under the mountains to the west, and the sky was darkening; it was time for the games to be set aside, time for the energy to settle down. The people gathered around the bonfire, mothers gathering their children close, and one by one, chattering voices fell silent.

When all that remained was the hiss and crackle of the fire, the wise woman emerged from her hut.

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“Give your fears to the fire,” the old seer called to the passersby. “Give a name to your nightmares and see them consumed! Find the courage to face whatever you must!” And some of the people going by would pause, and scribble something on a scrap of paper, and toss it into the brazier while the old man smiled.

“You, sir!” he called out to one in particular. “Yes, you, traveller. Your heart looks heavy – come, put a name to your innermost demons and consign them to the flames. You’ll feel better for it, I assure you!”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, old man?” a young warrior passing by hissed. “That’s the Dragonslayer, the bravest man in the land! He’s not afraid of anything!”

The man who’d been called the Dragonslayer snorted, cuffing the youth on the shoulder as he came up to the seer’s little stall. “The graveyards are full of people who aren’t afraid of anything,” he observed, tapping the fingers of one hand atop a scrap of paper and turning a charcoal stick in the other.

“Aha.” The seer nodded slowly. “It’s a wise man who grows to your age living by the sword.”

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