by Kevin Hearne
I used an emerald Visconti fountain pen for contract language and the Sigil of Contracted Labor that needed to appear at the top. The ink was a carbon black derived from pine soot with finely ground bits of stag-beetle carapace mixed in—honestly the most pedestrian ink recipe I had, the exoskeleton additive being the only thing that made it different from normal inks. After I drew the sigil, I wrote out the barghest contract and signed it. Then I had to switch to a flashy pen by Caran d’Ache that amused me to no end: The barrel was wrapped in leather and the cap was a sculpted rhodium skull, a limited-edition piece of gothica in honor of American architect Peter Marino. It was a fitting delivery system for an ink that contained pit-viper venom and cochineal to power the Sigil of Dire Consequence, which did not actually slay those in breach of contract but rather ignited all their nerves with pain so that they wished they were dead. My seal was last, applied with a handheld embosser that included my name worked into a Sigil of Binding Law. The finishing touch was a stamp of dry ink, a circle of solid pigment containing many rare ingredients that would cover the embossed ridges of my seal and power it up—which in turn would power up the other sigils, which didn’t activate except in the presence of Binding Law. There wasn’t any actual sound effect when the sigils activated, but I always imagined one, like a voom vibrating under a shiver of bell chimes and a harp flourish. There was, however, a visual effect: The ink took on a glossy, iridescent sheen it hadn’t possessed before.
Satisfied, I returned my pens and seal to my coat and informed Coriander that the contract was ready. He finished his conversation with Harrowbean, leaving his drink at the bar, and came back to fetch the contract and the cage.
“Remain well, Al. I wish I could linger to socialize, but I’d better see to this immediately.”
I waved farewell to him and took a few deep breaths once he’d disappeared in Virginia Court, trying to banish a gathering sense of dread. This business would get worse before it got better. I grabbed my Illicit Gin and murmured to it in a parody of Hamlet before draining it dry: “But what is your affair in Glasgow? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.”
It was a very good emergency gin.
High Street is one of the older streets of Glasgow, and it has suffered many refurbishments and its share of gentrification while retaining much of its original character. My printshop, MacBharrais Printing & Binding, was sandwiched in the middle of a row of businesses including a yoga studio, a travel agency, and a chip shop. On the side of the building at the north end of the row was a mural of a dark-bearded man in a woolly hat gazing down at a finch resting peacefully on his index finger, his hand curled into a gentle fist, and I found it an inspiring reminder that we should always consider the welfare of others and think of the smallest and weakest first. It was a modern look at Glasgow’s patron saint, St. Mungo, painted by an Australian artist. Even though I usually approached my shop from the south, because that’s where the train station was, I often took the extra hundred steps or so required to gaze upon this gentle giant and be conscious of my purpose: to love and cherish and protect the beings of this plane, and to be kind to its visitors until they prove they won’t respond to kindness.
It was already too dark to indulge in my pastime, however, and I had a visitor besides. A small figure about the size of a toddler sat hunched over in a wee grey hoodie on a set of steps next to the entrance of MP&B. The steps led up to the entrance of a residence located above the shop next door. I halted and looked around for anyone nearby who might look vaguely parental. Stopping and uttering a mild oath, however, drew the attention of the figure, who looked up and pulled back the hood to reveal a pink, snarling visage in the yellow light of streetlamps.
“About time, MacVarnish!” the hobgoblin said. “I’ve been waiting here an hour, at least.”
I dug out my phone and noted that he was instantly on guard. I didn’t know if I was going to talk for long to this hobgoblin, but it was best to be prudent. [Oh. Hello,] I typed. [Guess I didn’t need to set that barghest on you, then.]
“Wot? Why aren’t ye using yer gob like a normal human?”
[I’ll explain later. And don’t worry, the barghest is not supposed to kill you. He’s supposed to bring you to me for a wee chat. So when he gets here, we can declare mission accomplished and let him go home. Just relax and talk to me. Why are you here?]
“Because the game’s a bogie. I’ve got nowhere else tae go.”
[Bollocks. You have nine Fae planes.]
“No, I don’t, ya sad, shriveled ballsack of a man! If I did, dae ye think I’d be sittin’ here waitin’ for ye?”
I sighed. [You’d better come in.] When the hobgoblin cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, I added, [If you want to, that is. If you’d rather talk about Fae shite out on the street and get us in more trouble than you already are, that’s fine.]
“Swear ye won’t try tae bind me like yer apprentice did?”
[I swear.]
“Awright. But you go first, and keep yer hands away from that coat. If ye try tae reach for a sigil, I’ll punch ye in the nuts and scarper.”
[Fair enough. But I need to get my keys out of the coat.] We had presses running around the clock but the main entrance was locked after business hours.
“No, I’ll get them. Where are they?”
I pointed to my right outer pocket and raised my arms away from my sides. He darted forward, fished out the keys, and tossed them up into the air for me to catch before scooting away again. Damn Gordie for making him so suspicious.
He stepped aside as I unlocked the door. A wood-paneled reception area greeted us, where customers could come in and ask for quotes and debate the merits of various paper stocks. I strode past that and pushed through the swinging door that led to the actual shop floor. The printers were humming and clacking, the night shift just a few hours into it, and I waved at the foreman before taking the metal stairs to the right that led up to the offices on the first floor, which looked from outside like sandstone-faced flats as the rest of the street did but served us as a warded set of rooms—three of them, in total, accessed by a balcony, and the rest of the floor was open to the ground.
“What is this? A trap? Those steps have iron in them!”
[Good thing you’re wearing shoes. Come on. We can talk up here and it won’t be so noisy.]
My office was a refuge from the presses, an insulated study of ink and glue and wards. Bookshelves lined the walls to the left and right; the one on the left slid open to a safer, secret office in which I kept my magical inks and a sizable store of prepared sigils. Beyond that was Nadia’s office, where most of the printshop’s actual work got done.
This space was largely devoted to receiving rare guests, like the hobgoblin, or more usually customers and vendors from the mundane world. Paper salesmen, I had noticed, loved to visit me. Near a window that looked down on High Street I had a mahogany desk, at which I did practically nothing; it displayed some props to make it look like I did things there, but mostly it was a place for me to store business cards and hide the button that would open the bookcase to my real office.
In front of the desk, closer to the door, were four brown leather upholstered chairs arranged around a piece of furniture we called a “coffee table” from three A.M. to noon and a “whisky table” at all other times. (The paper salesmen, I had noticed, tended to visit after noon.) Right now it was a whisky table. A crystal decanter and glasses waited on a silver tray.
[Drink?] I asked, taking a seat that faced the door. The hobgoblin leapt nimbly onto one opposite me after first rotating it slightly so he could keep one eye on the door.
“Sure. But you go first.”
I poured us a finger each and gestured toward a mini-fridge lurking on the side of my desk. [Rocks?]
“Neat,” he said. I shrugged and took a sip. The hobgoblin watched this, checked the level in my glass to make
sure I’d actually swallowed, then sniffed at his suspiciously. “What is this? Something from the Highlands?”
[It’s an Islay that drinks a bit like a Highlands, goes easy on the smoke. Eighteen-year Bunnahabhain.] The speech app had no bloody idea how to say Bunnahabhain correctly, but the hobgoblin appeared to recognize the name anyway.
“Not bad.” He took a sip, held it in his mouth awhile, and swallowed. “Ahh.”
[Let’s start over, shall we? I’m the sigil agent Aloysius MacBharrais. What’s your name?]
“Ye can call me Buck Foi.”
[That’s not your name.]
“I know that, ya tit. I said it’s what ye can call me.”
[Fine, Buck. Tell me how you came to be in a cage in Maryhill.]
“I was promised real work, the kind hobs used tae get before the Industrial Revolution. Domestic service, all legal, permits signed by you.”
[Signed by me, you say?]
“Aye.”
It took me a while to type a response. [I’m not saying that never happens anymore, Buck, but it’s rare. I haven’t signed a contract for domestic service in seven years. It didn’t occur to you that it might be a fraud?]
“Seemed legit tae me. They gave me these clothes ahead o’ time, said they’d last me for years.”
[Did they fix up your teeth as well?]
“Naw, that was ma own idea. Ye get further with humans if ye have a nice smile. Thought it worked too. Thought that was the reason they offered me the contract.”
[The big question, Buck, is who are they?]
“Oh. Well, it was a bunch of bean sídhe, but I don’t know their names. And Clíodhna, o’ course.”
I’d been about to take another sip of whisky and nearly dropped it. For the bean sídhe, or banshees, to do anything but wail in advance of someone’s death was strange enough. But Clíodhna was a deadly Irish goddess who should have nothing to do with arranging domestic service for hobgoblins. I set the remainder of my Bunnahabhain down carefully before composing a reply, because it was old as a full-grown adult, and I also didn’t want the trembling of my fingers to spill any. I didn’t want any of this to be true. [Clíodhna of the Tuatha Dé Danann—we’re talking about Clíodhna, the Queen of the Bean Sídhe—gave you forged permits to come work on earth?] The app mispronounced the Irish Gaelic words horribly, but Buck was able to follow along. The Tuatha Dé Danann might not have been so tolerant—the members of the Irish pantheon did have their pride—but a hobgoblin cared nothing for bungled names.
“That’s right. And, no, before ye ask, I couldnae be mistaken. It was Clíodhna. I tell ye three times.”
[Methinks I need a double, wee man. You want?]
“Aye. I’ll say this for ye, MacVarnish: Ye don’t pour a shite dram.”
I poured us two more fingers, took a fine, burning mouthful, letting it linger on the tongue to detect all the flavors, and leaned back in my chair with my phone. [Okay, you think the contract’s legit because it’s Clíodhna who’s offering. That’s understandable. I don’t suppose you have those permits with you?]
“Naw. Yer boy Gordie took ’em off me.”
[That grimy bawbag.] I hadn’t seen anything of the sort in the papers I pilfered from his flat, but, then again, I hadn’t been thorough, occupied as I was with getting into his laptop. Maybe the faked documents were still hidden there somewhere. More likely, he’d destroyed them. I could use some proof—I would need it before I made any accusations. [Very well, then, how did you get here from Tír na nÓg?]
“I was given ma permits, and one of the bean sídhe led me through the Old Way that ends in Kelvingrove Park. Ye know it?” I nodded and gestured that he should continue. It wasn’t used as often as the one in the necropolis or the one in Virginia Court, but I’d known about that path to Tír na nÓg since I was an apprentice myself. “Gordie was waiting there for me, and he introduced himself as yer apprentice. Like I said, I’d heard o’ ye before and yer name was on ma permits, but I didnae know anything about ye otherwise except that ye were based somewhere in Glasgow and looked like an older man. Never had any reason tae look ye up before now. I’ve been tae Glasgow a few times, ye understand—I used tae run errands for Manannan Mac Lir and Fand if they needed anything from here or Edinburgh.”
I held up a finger to interject and typed out a query. [What kind of errands?]
He raised his glass. “Stealing whisky like this, mostly.” I nodded. Such little breaches of the law were common. The Tuatha Dé Danann observed the treaty well in most cases and rarely came to earth—the Morrigan had been a notable, pants-ruining exception, because Choosers of the Slain tended to do what they wanted and she had never agreed to the contract—but as a group, the old Irish gods often sent various Fae to steal whatever luxuries they desired, and if the Fae got caught by one of us, it didn’t matter to them. They remained out of our reach in Tír na nÓg.
“Anyway, I thought Gordie was bringin’ me tae see ye and I didnae know where ye lived or anything, and I had no reason tae be suspicious then. He took me tae that tenement of his and I thought it was all proper. I was gonnay see the sigil agent I’ve heard about and he was gonnay tell me all the rules for living among the humans. But once we got through the door, Gordie popped a sigil in front of ma eyes and I woke up in the cage next tae the pixie. At least it was an aluminum cage.”
Gordie couldn’t have come up with this scheme on his own. The shape of it, though still masked from me, was already larger than his intellect. It was quite possible he had learned his extra sigils and ink recipes from Clíodhna and that the other sigil agents weren’t the cause of the leak. That didn’t relieve me of the necessity to ask the others about it, but it made more sense to me than my colleagues being shadier than a mine shaft behind my back.
[Did you cast any kind of curse on Gordie?]
“Naw. Never had the chance. Had me locked down tight with his sigils until he choked tae death and the juice in them wore off. He was pretty good for an apprentice, ye know.”
[I do know, aye.]
“That’s not tae say I wouldnae have cursed him if I had an opportunity. I woulda loved tae give him a nice set of colorful boils on his arse. Maybe drop a piano on his heid. But he was already deid, ye see.”
Well, that exploded my budding theory about how all my apprentices died. Maybe they really were tragic accidents. After all, there is nothing so deadly, so ultimately terminal, as being alive.
The door to my office rippled, darkened, and clouded with an oily black mist, and I raised my hand, palm out, to warn Buck.
“Stay very still,” I said out loud, not having time to type.
“Wot? Why? Ye suddenly remembered how tae talk?”
If Buck just slid his eyes right he’d see it, but his gaze was focused on me. I just widened my eyes and waggled my hand at him, emphasizing the command. The black mist poured in, solidified, and took shape as it floated up behind Buck’s chair and advanced to the right arm. Red eyes and sharp yellow teeth appeared, then a snout and floppy ears and the square head of a mastiff. The rest of the body then filled in, silently, and Buck didn’t see it because he still thought I was the dangerous one in the room and he shouldn’t even blink. But once corporeal, the barghest licked his chops, and Buck heard that. His head whipped around and he startled, jerking his hand and spilling a few precious drops of Bunnahabhain.
“Gah! Fuck ma ears, it’s a barghest!”
The ghost hound—now a very real and solid hound—growled and drooled impressively, slobbering on my fine carpet. Slobber was all well and good; it’s the blood you can never wash out properly, so I really didn’t want him to be taking a bite of Buck.
“Just don’t move or piss yerself!” I told Buck, then spoke to the hound. “Barghest! I’m the contract holder!” I pulled my copy of the contract out of my coat with the sigils still glowing and pulsing with p
uissance—a phrase that drove Nadia mad, so I used it all the time. “Ye were supposed tae fetch the hobgoblin tae me. Ye can see he’s already here. I hold yer contract fulfilled. Understand? Ye’ve done yer job. That’s a good dug. I would scratch yer ears if ye wouldnae bite off ma fingers.”
The barghest looked at the contract, and then at Buck, and back at the contract, and whined. He’d not had even a little bit of fun.
“Here. I’ll get ye sorted,” I said as I hauled my carcass out of the chair. “A little sumhin for the road—but take it tae go, eh? I do no want tae listen to yer slobbery gob macking the shite out of some poor coo’s remains.” I went to the mini-fridge, which did in fact contain the ice I’d promised Buck if he wanted any but also contained a sirloin roast wrapped in paper. I unwrapped it and tossed it in the air to the barghest, which caught it neatly in his jaws.
“Off ye go, then, back tae Tír na nÓg. Thank ye kindly for the service.”
The barghest whuffed around the roast and dissolved into oily black smoke, departing through my door the way he came. Buck stared at me and waited until I sat down again before speaking.
“What kind of diabolical shite was that?”
Emergency over, I went back to my phone. [I told you earlier that I’d sent a barghest after you.]
“I don’t mean that. I mean the mini-fridge with a bloody roast in it!”
[I am a practical man. My fridge contains ice and roast and that’s it. Always good to have something for the dugs when they visit.]
“The dugs, eh? Ye work with barghests on the regular, then?”
[I do. All sorts of troublemakers come visit us from the planes, and barghests track them down better than most anything. I like to keep on their good side, so meat is my friend.]