I put my shoulders back, smile, and step out into the huge multicoloured ballroom. It’s deserted, but I can feel my shoulder blades itching. I’d say that something’s watching, but as I take step after step and no-one stops me, I put it down to something automated. I get across the shining floor, swirling with colour, and through the smaller arch that leads to a servant’s corridor, and… safe. Well, safer.
The twig leads me down and down into the depths of the castle, where the walls turn into unfinished stone and the floors are unswept. I hear shouts and clanks, the occasional snatch of singing and cry of delight. Even down here, the Fae have their pleasures.
And then the bud rolls, directing me to a plain wooden door. I put my ear to it, using a little temporary spell I learned a few years ago to augment my hearing. One person in there, and echoes that sound like stone, wood. It’s just a room.
The door’s unlocked, and so I simply push it open.
Hah, ok. It’s not quite that simple. I’m not great at illusions, but I can do a door. As far as the occupant of the room knows, the door’s still shut.
The occupant is bent over the table in the centre of the room; most of what I can see is a haze of red hair above a patched blue robe. There’s a large window behind her, giving lots of light, and a bed to one side. The rest of the room is shelves, stacked with papers and boxes and brushes and tubs of colour.
I’ve now got a slight issue. The thing I want to steal is probably here, but I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve used up my charm on the Guardian, so I don’t know what I have to bargain with. I could stay invisible and sneak, but… I’m just going to go for the talk-my-way-out-of-this approach again. If that fails, I go back to the old-fashioned method: invisible snatch’n’grab.
“Map-maker?” I ask.
She doesn’t jump. I wonder how often the Fae have glamoured or snuck up on her, played a trick or come to tease. “How can I help?”
“I’m here for a map.”
She does look up, and frowns. She’s got brown eyes and a thin face. “Please do the courtesy of showing yourself.”
I do, and she promptly squeaks.
I raise a cynical eyebrow.
She takes a breath and settles herself, then gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Aren’t you used to people appearing from nowhere?”
“They aren’t usually young male humans,” she snaps at me, flashing from calm to irritated in half a second.
“Female,” I snap back. I know I look androgynous, but I’d hope it’s androgynous in a female direction.
Her gaze goes down further. “Male.” Crap, I forgot I was naked.
I roll my eyes. I guess clothes really do help when you’re trying to be a different gender to the one your genitals claim. “Whatever. Look, I’m here for a map.”
“Who are you?”
“A thief.”
She snorts. “Best of luck stealing from me!”
I gesture at my naked body. “Well, I did talk to you. So, this map?”
“The Fae sell them.”
I smile. “An uncharmed one.”
The irritation vanishes as quickly as it came, and she gestures to the seat on my side of the table as she sits back down. “That’s more interesting. Why?”
She hasn’t even asked who I am, how I got here or why I’m naked. She’s definitely dedicated to her craft. “Because then it shows more than the locked-down ones the Fae control.” I sit down at the table. “Can you do that?”
She smiles, and pulls out a sheet of parchment. “Here. This is one.”
It’s got a scroll of spellwork at the top of the sheet, but nothing else. I don’t really want to be paying for a blank sheet of paper… “How does it work?”
“A drop of blood fastens it to the recipient, and then it will show them the fate-nexuses.” She obviously spots that it goes straight over my head. A quick movement of long fingers has pulled out another scrap of parchment, and she glances down at it. “This one’s half-done. It’ll show a few points. Drop some blood there.”
I hesitate. Blood’s important, and to spill some in a Fae castle, for a woman I don’t exactly trust… but I weigh the options, and snag a stylus from the edge of the table. A nick on my finger and a single drop has fallen where she indicates.
The map blooms. Lines spiral out, inking themselves onto the parchment. Dots appear where the lines join and cross, and I follow the web down the scrap of parchment until it runs out of room and fades off into nothing.
“You can see them.” The map-maker smiles at me. “Put your finger on them.”
I’ve stuck my bloody finger in my mouth—no point spilling more blood than I have to—and use my other hand to touch one of the points further down the page. It gives me a flash of something; pain. I wince. The one next to it is lips on my lips, a moment of pure bliss and contentment. I wonder what they signify.
“Try an earlier one.”
That one rewards more detail; a door left open, which I recognise as the one to the map-maker’s room, and a hand in mine, a flash of red hair. “That’s you coming with me. So then what?”
“Trace the line!” Her voice is suddenly high, her hands gripping my arm. “Trace it!”
I run my finger down the ink. “Someone’s in the way,” I breathe. “A man with dark hair and blue eyes.”
“What’s the decision?”
Murder. Blood. “I attack him, or not.”
I trace both the lines that come off that one. One ends with stumbling pain and the Guardian, a decision to attack him or not. The other ends with four stone walls and a barred door, and a Fae offering me a bargain.
“You don’t come with me, either way,” I tell her.
Her hand slowly loosens on my arm. “Oh.”
“So what are they?” I ask.
“Moments of choice.” Her voice is brisk again. “Decision points, and what follows. I had hoped…”
“Why can’t you do one of these for yourself?”
She shrugs. “Map-makers can’t see their own fates.”
I look back down at the parchment, admiring the elegant lines, the tracery of decisions and futures. “This is mine?”
“Some of it. It’ll change, though, depending on your choices. That’s where the magic is.” She smiles, bright again. “Mapping the decisions as you decide.”
And that’s what Molly Parsons wants. A fate-map linked to her, and her alone, showing her the future laid out before her. Her path to fame and riches, or maybe that’s just me being cynical.
I point at the blank parchment. “So that’ll work?”
“With blood, yes.”
I place my finger on the open-door nexus of my scrap, and trace the other way. Do I get out? When’s the next decision-point? I see the Guardian; the apple. Hah, so I could keep it and live forever. That’s a nice decision to have.
I sweep the small parchment into my hand and watch as the map-maker rolls and ties the larger one. Hopefully my invisibility will cover that… and then I stand and bow to the map-maker as I take it. “I hope to be able to come back, and I hope the fates smile on that meeting.”
She gives me a smile that lights her face. “I would like to be stolen.”
I wink at her, and then vanish.
*
I return through the orchards to collect the apple, pausing for a few minutes to listen to the chime of the diamond leaves in the fresh breeze. It’s a beautiful place, and I have to admit that the Fae are attractive—both in physical sense and in mood. They love parties and pleasure; I passed enough enticing scenes on my way through to make me think briefly of staying here…
But I also know how fickle and tricky the Fae are. They are not to be trusted, and any bargain made with them—no matter how favourable it looks to you—will end in their favour.
I pluck a golden apple on my way past the trees, smelling the soft fruit in my hand. It’s bright and shining and joyful, and I can see why I’d want to keep
this, have eternal life and good health.
But I hand it to the Guardian, watching as he bites it in half and then swallows the rest. It doesn’t look as if it makes any difference, but then I don’t really know how lizards age. Anyway, as far as I know it’s just more life, not youth. I guess it depends on what legend you believe, and whether you’re part-lizard or not.
And then I’m away, picking up my poles and boat and making my escape.
*
I stop by the Market to curl in Arianne’s roots and tell her the story, with as much detail as I can. I return the bud, too; she likes having everything back to absorb into her bark and reuse the magic for another wayfarer. The poles go to the dwarves and the locket returns to them as well, as they can reuse it for another spell. The map stays tucked in my coat, along with my scrap of parchment. It’s used now, the lines fixed and the nodes no longer showing me decisions, just images. I’ve fixed that portion of my fate.
I head out of the Market and towards the Ridgeway. The place I’m heading for has a rather interesting spirit, but I’m really hoping that I can persuade her to let me through. If not, I’m going to have to take slightly more drastic measures.
As it turns out, the Lady is more than happy to talk to me—mostly because I tell her that Mithras let me in and took a memory.
“I’m surprised he’s even still sentient,” she comments. When in true form as The Lady of the Gates, she’s tall, imposing and regal. When in let’s-chat-to-Ghost form, she’s got her dress hoiked up around her ankles and she’s sitting on a plinth, swinging her legs. “He’s going to end up as a mass of sacrifice and want, and nothing else.”
In a couple of thousand years, probably, but then the Lady’s timespan is far, far longer than mine. “He’s getting worse already.”
She smiles happily, booted feet swinging. They’re those kind of half-boots that I recognise from museums, made of skins and laces and not much else. Her dress is entirely modern, though—if I knew something about fashion I’d probably be able to tell you who designed it, but as it is I’ll tell you that it looks good and expensive. “He’s an idiot. So what are you carrying through that you don’t want him to know about, little Ghost?”
I have less problem telling the Lady about the fate-maps. She’s interested enough that I get my smaller piece out and show her the little scrap of fate from Stromberg, now fixed in ink and images.
“May I have this, Ghost?” she asks, looking up from where she’s examining it.
“Will you use it to harm or control me?”
“Your Fate is already fixed,” the Lady says, running a long finger down the scrap of parchment. “This is just for my interest. I will not use the parchment or the knowledge to harm or control you in any way.”
I consider it. The inhabitants of the Otherworld can’t lie, although they can bend and manipulate the truth. However, in this case, I’m inclined to trust her. I’ve met the Lady enough times that I know she prefers to gently meddle, as opposed to the outright bludgeoning that many powers enjoy. If I’m going to come to harm by her hand, it’s not likely to be something I’ll spot. “Deal.”
I get a kiss from her to seal the bargain too, but this one’s a lot more pleasant than the one from that bloody sun-god. The Lady’s lips are cool and as she embraces me, the world around me whirls, the stars and land circling beneath my feet, turning me over and over until I’m not sure where I am…
And I’m back in the real world, with blue sky over me and a breeze on my face.
*
It takes me a couple of hours to get to Cirencester and the smart house where Ms Parsons resides. I ring the doorbell and am rewarded by Molly herself opening it. Wow, I’m obviously important.
It’s smiling formalities and offers of tea—she takes guest rights seriously—until we get settled in the tastefully-decorated lounge, and then she gives me a smile with a hint of tiger. “So how was your trip?”
“Uneventful.” I pull the rolled-up scroll out of my inside pocket. “Your delivery, ma’am.”
She unrolls it and reads the writing; she obviously understands the spellwork, as she immediately goes to get a small needle before I’ve even had to explain about the blood. I wait, drinking tea. The Otherworld is nice, but they can’t do a decent cup of tea. That said, I’m feeling rather out of place with my cup and saucer. Give me a decent mug any day.
Molly allows a drop of blood to fall onto the parchment and in the second that follows, my stomach is lead. Has the map-maker cheated me? Will it work?
And then the fates blossom.
Lines scroll down the page, and intricate tracery of black against the tan parchment. Images and scents come across the air, mixing with the scent of tea and air freshener; a moment of burning, a scrap of summer flowers, a hint of lime; the cry of a child, the snap-thump of broken bone, a terrified question. I don’t know what Molly’s future holds, but I’m not sure I want to know.
I watch her trace the top few lines with her finger, lingering on the nodes. And then she carefully re-rolls the scroll and smiles at me. “You are satisfied with our deal?”
I nod. “My payment was sufficient.” I’m not going to tell her what that tattoo’s worth to me. Anyway, it’s mine now, indelibly drawn into my skin and linked in to my magic.
As I leave the house and head for Cirencester’s busier streets, I look at my hands, covered in lines winding across my palms, tracing down my fingers. When I touch the magic inside, the world starts to go blurred at the edges; it’s like looking through thick glass. Light is bending around me.
And I stand in the centre of the crowd, people walking towards me. It takes someone bumping into me for me to realise.
I’m invisible.
In payment for this, I gave away the most precious thing I could ever own. I had something that could have told me my life story; could have predicted a path for me that made my steps golden, my touch lucky, my path blessed. I could have had happiness and health, good fortune and blissful joy.
I feel a smile touch my lips and I shove my hands into my pockets, throwing a fuck-off ward around me. That’ll keep everyone away for the moment, even if they can’t see me.
The point of a fate-map is that it only tells you the decision points, and it changes every time you make one. Trying to map a path towards happiness, or wealth, or fame… well, that’s like walking on shifting sand. And I, of all people, know all too well that a safe decision is not always the best one. I live on risk, and some of my best moments have been deciding between two dangerous options.
What’s the point of happiness, if you don’t have the sadness to counter it? What’s the point of joy if you never know what you’ve lost? What’s the point of wealth if you’ve never known poverty? What’s the point of luck if you don’t have pain? What’s the point of having that planned out, checked and sorted by a piece of paper?
I am my own person. I choose my own path. I won’t have it dictated to me by a paper seer, created by some unknown hand and directed by a force I know nothing about.
I’ll map my own life.
* * *
Kate Coe
Kate Coe is a writer of fiction and fantasy, and blogs at writingandcoe.co.uk. She writes the GreenSky series of novellas, is a librarian in real life, and fills her spare time with web design, reading, cross-stitch and DIY (which may or may not involved destroying things).
SAFE HAVEN
Lynn Rushlau
“I’m looking for Explorer Sevasstar. I heard he lives around here.” The words cut through the chatter of the noodle house.
Drey snorted into his bowl. Sevasstar, an explorer! Grinning, Drey flipped the corner of the broadsheet down. Who—his smile died.
The hands on her waist pushed back the aviator’s padded leather jacket to show off an ample chest barely contained by a midnight blue bodice. Black leather pants hugged her like a second skin. The clothing fit his brother’s taste in women, but the rest made Drey wish for more than a broadsheet between them.<
br />
Three lightning bolt tattoos started at her chin and ran up her left cheek to disappear under the goggles perched on her shaved head. Drey didn’t recognize the kinship tattoos. He didn’t much care what clan she belonged to. Why was an Air-raider looking for his brother?
Darry, the owner’s son, shook his head. “Don’t know any Explorer Sevasstars. Only Sevasstar I know’s a journeyman carpenter. He’d be down at the shipyard.”
Drey winced and ducked behind the paper. Couldn’t Darry have left it at the fact that Explorer Sevasstar didn’t exist? The door banged open. A crowd of people entered. Drey checked the clock perched over the counter. Quitting time. His little brother was supposed to meet him at home.
Drey used the crowd for camouflage and snuck outside. He dared a look through the last window and saw the woman remained at the counter with Darry, who met his gaze. Drey shook his head, turned away, and hurried up the hill towards home.
He paused at the top and looked back over Gulls Rest. Hundreds of airships were tied up at the docks. Not Phelan’s though. He wasn’t due back until tomorrow. Unless he got in early.
Drey scanned the docks. The day had been clear. Perfect flying weather. Gaslights glinted off goggles on almost every head below and marked them as docked airship crews seeking out what entertainments could be found in Gulls Rest after dark. The crowds stretched the length of the docks all the way to the multi-colored lights of the brothels at the north end. No way to tell from here if Phelan’s ship was among them. No way to tell which ones were raiders.
Drey shook his head, pivoted, and entered the warren of tattered apartment buildings. The tiny alleyways between buildings were as crowded as the docks with workers heading home or out for the night. Drey offered hurried greetings to those he knew and only managed to get tangled into two conversations. He climbed the rickety stairs that clung like a spider’s web to the side of the building. They swayed like one as he climbed them.
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