"I guess people come here from all over," Beth said in a strained voice. Next to the brass bed was a carousel horse that turned its head to watch them as they passed. Beyond it was a green tiger with purple stripes wearing a saddle and a glittering rhinestone collar.
"From everywhere there is," Kory answered. Beth was cheered to realize that he was staring just as hard as she was. "And from some places there aren't."
They found an empty post a safe distance from some of the more irritable mounts, and dismounted. The elvensteeds would stay unless summoned, and were more than capable of defending themselves.
"Hi, there. Need a guide?"
Beth stared. She was looking at a fox. A talking, five-foot-tall, cartoon-style fox. It was wearing a red James Dean jacket. Around its neck was a gold collar with a gold tag dangling from it. Engraved on the tag were the letters "FX."
"Special effect"? Oh, yeah. . . .
It swished its tail, and Beth blinked again. Not tail. Tails. Three of them, in fact.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the creature said, with a deep sweeping bow. "I am Foxtrot-X-ray. But you can call me Fox. Or you can call me handsome. Or you can call me adorable. Just call me, beautiful lady!"
"Uh, hi," Beth said, smiling in spite of herself. "Come here often?"
Kory had come to her side and was regarding Fox warily. Fox grinned, exposing a mouthful of gleaming teeth. "Hey, pretty lady, are you doubting my expertise?"
"No," Kory answered bluntly. "Only your sincerity."
"I'm hurt," Fox said, though he didn't sound it. "But if you'll pardon me for mentioning it, Sieur Sidhe, it's plain to see that this is your first time at our lovely fair, and I thought you might like a little help. No offense."
"And you would offer us this help freely?" Kory asked.
"Naw-w-w . . . but I figure, high-class folks like you, you might have a little something to make it worth my while. And I know where everything is. You could spend days wandering around here by yourselves."
"We don't—" Kory began. Beth put a hand on his arm. Hadn't Ria said to consult experts? If this creature was on the level, he could save them from spending a lot of time here, and Beth had the feeling that the less time they spent at the Fair, the better.
"I suppose you have references?" Beth asked.
"Absolutely!" Out of nowhere Fox produced a large parchment scroll tied with a bright red ribbon. He yanked the ribbon free, and the scroll unrolled.
And unrolled . . .
And unrolled. . . .
Beth walked over and peered down at it. It was covered in writing from many different hands, some of them even in English.
"Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold/And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;/Round many western islands have I been/Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.—J. Keats." She read. "He's the best there is at what he does, even if what he does sometimes isn't very nice.—W. Logan." "Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean.—R. Chandler."
"Ri-i-i-ight," Beth said, sighing. "C'mon, Kory."
"No, wait!" Fox yelped, jumping in front of them. The scroll vanished. "I'm one of the good guys! And you—you're those folks that saved the Sun-Descending Nexus, aren't you?"
There was a hiss as Kory's sword cleared its scabbard.
"Who asks?" the elven knight demanded in a low dangerous voice. Beth stared at him. Hadn't he said it was dangerous to draw steel at the fair?
Fox jumped back in terror or a good imitation, ears flat and eyes wide. "I've got friends—in the World Above. Friends of yours, too." He held his hands wide in a gesture of harmlessness.
"Names," Kory said, his blade still pointed at Fox's throat.
"Keighvin Silverhair—well, he's not really a friend of mine, but I do know somebody who knows him. Tannim. You know—he races cars at Elfhame Fairgrove?"
The names meant nothing to Beth, but they seemed to mean something to Kory. He sheathed his sword again and held out his hand. "The references again."
This time, Fox produced, not a scroll, but a perfectly mundane envelope, with the logo of a Holiday Inn on it. Kory opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Beth read over his shoulder.
"To whom it may concern: Fox is okay. —Tannim."
The words flared bright with magic, and slowly vanished from the page. Kory handed the paper and the envelope back to Fox.
"Very well. But I know your kind, kitsune. The fox kin are tricksters all," Kory said sternly.
"Yeah, but me, I got a soft spot in my heart for suckers," Fox snickered. "And you did say you'd pay."
Kitsune were Japanese fox-spirits, tricksters like Coyote or Raven. But the pranks they played were often harmless, and there were legends of them helping people in need, or so Beth had read.
"I said no such—" Kory stopped himself. "What do you want?"
Fox drew himself up with an elaborate display of unconcern. "Well, I couldn't help noticing when you rode in that you've got some fine trade items with you. Like . . . chocolate?" The kitsune licked its chops with a long pink tongue. "There's this girl I know. She's just crazy about chocolate, and I kind of thought . . ." He looked hopeful and abashed all at once, black-tipped ears swiveling out to the side. Beth wondered if that fur was as soft as it looked.
"If we give you chocolate, will you take us where we need—where we want to go?" Beth asked, catching herself just in time. One lesson that had stuck with her from all her fairy-tale reading was that the Fair Folk could be as literal-minded as any computer, and positively reveled in the chance to lead you into disaster by doing exactly what you said.
"Hey, pretty lady, I told you: I'm on the side of the angels. Give me chocolate, and I'm yours to command!" Fox said eagerly.
Beth turned back to Bredana and fumbled with the buckle on the saddlebag, reaching inside and pulling out one of the big Hershey bars. They'd brought smaller ones, but it didn't pay to be stingy. She tossed it to Fox, who examined it carefully, held it under his nose as if it were a fine cigar, and then tucked it away inside his jacket, regarding her brightly.
"We need to find an information specialist," she said carefully. "Someone with a lot of access and resources, who can do research on a project of ours and come up with answers. Trustworthy and reliable a plus."
"Woo-hoo!" Fox said. "You don't want much, do you? A research geek who stays bought. I might—might!—know someone like that."
"We don't care what you know," Kory interrupted. "You offered to guide us through the fair to where information about such a person can be found."
"O-kay, Mister Spock—meaning no offense, milord—" How Fox could grovel and look impudent at the same time was a mystery to Beth, but somehow the kitsune managed it. "If that's what you want, that's what you get." He bowed elaborately again, hand over his heart, tails lashing. "Follow me."
They followed Fox into the Fair, past a large sign that read "No Violence Beyond This Point." That explained why Kory had been able to get away with drawing his sword in the parking lot, at least.
The Market was a swirl of distraction and color. Beth held tight to Kory's hand, fearing to lose him in the crowds. This wasn't like Elfland, where, weird as it was, everything seemed to be drawn from the same basic set of givens. The Sidhe were fond of experimenting with their forms, changing shape and size and color to suit a momentary whim, but here, a thousand totally-different realities rubbed shoulders. She saw men in medieval armor as elaborate as Kory's, and others in what she could only think of as space-armor, with blasters at their sides. There were anthropomorphic animals, things that looked like they'd walked right out of the Cantina scene of Star Wars, creatures whose bodies had the bright flatness of two-dimensional cartoons, and others that seemed to be humans (dressed in everything from feathers to blue jeans), or robots, and some who were both, like the woman whose body seemed to be made of golden rings, the featureless face dominated by a glowing turquoise bar where the eyes should have been. She moved with the grace of a dancer,
and Beth craned her head to watch until she disappeared from sight.
But the fair-goers, exotic as they were, paled to normalcy beside the stalls of the vendors and the wares they sold. Half the stuff was so weird she couldn't even imagine what it was, other wares were so prosaic it was somehow an even greater shock—like the bookstall displaying a collection of paperbacks that wouldn't have been out of place on the shelves of any Barnes & Noble. The air was filled with smells—cooking food, fresh fruit, perfume, incense, wood smoke—and she heard scraps of music ranging from medieval to heavy metal.
Meanwhile, Fox led them on a twisting trail among the booths. To call their progress labyrinthine would be a grave insult to labyrinths everywhere. She lost all sense of direction after the first few turns, and could no longer tell where they were in relation to where they'd left the elvensteeds.
It was all too much. Beth clutched tighter at Kory's hand, feeling a familiar sense of vertigo and panic begin to overwhelm her. Everything was closing in, crushing her. . . .
No! Beth Kentraine, you are stronger than that! You've shopped at Macy's during the Christmas rush, by the Gods. You are not going to be gotten the better of by one lousy interdimensional Bazaar of the Bizarre!
She took a deep breath and held it, willing the panic to fade. Fox appeared at her side, looking worried.
"You okay?" he asked anxiously.
Kory stopped, looking at her questioningly. She could see fear in his eyes—whether for her, or of the Fair, or both, she wasn't sure. Beth let her held breath out slowly, willing calm.
"It's a little much," she said, and was pleased that her voice was steady.
"There's no place like this place anywhere near this place, so this place must be the place," Fox answered gaily. "Chin up, pretty lady. We're almost there. And you look like you could use a drink."
"A good stiff one," Beth muttered to herself.
They'd been moving in toward the center of the Fair, where tents replaced the booths and were mixed with more permanent structures.
"Up ahead," Fox said, pointing.
Surfeited with wonders, and used as she was to the Underhill habit of co-opting bits of the World Above and turning them to their own uses, she still wasn't prepared for what she saw when she looked where Fox was pointing. At the end of the lane was a large stucco building in a Moorish style. Its wooden double doors were studded with large square hobnails, and over the door was a blue neon sign that said "Rick's Cafe Americain."
It looked exactly like the Warner's set.
"Everybody goes to Rick's," she and Fox said in chorus. He looked hurt, as if she'd stepped on his punch-line.
"Casablanca used to be one of my favorite movies," Beth said darkly. Humphrey Bogart, where are you when we need you?
"Hey, I didn't design it," Fox protested. "But this is what you guys said you wanted."
"A place to find the specialist we need?" Kory asked suspiciously.
"Rick knows everything that happens at the Market, and a lot of other places, too," Fox said. "He'll know where you can find this researcher—or someone else there will."
Beth looked at Kory and shrugged. She guessed a bar was as good a place as any to start looking, especially when you weren't quite sure what you were looking for.
As they watched, the doors opened, and a large white rabbit stepped out, blinking at the daylight. He was wearing an elaborate waistcoat, with an ornate watch chain hooked across the front. He pulled a large gold watch from his pocket and gazed at it, then hurried off muttering to himself.
"Come on," Beth said.
"Uh-uh. This is where I leave you," Fox answered. "I'm not . . . well, let's say that Rick would prefer I didn't come inside after what happened the last time. You know how it is."
"The letters of transit are hidden in Sam's piano," Beth said cryptically.
"And Rosebud was his sled," Fox answered, mixing movies with gleeful relish. "Well, see you around."
"Be sure of that, if you've led us astray," Kory answered.
Fox vanished with a pop, like a soap bubble in a cartoon. A moment later, just his head reappeared, floating in midair like a fanciful balloon. "And don't say I didn't warn you," it said, and vanished.
"Although he didn't," Kory footnoted. "Though the Market itself is warning enough, I think."
"I thought I told you not to say that!" Fox reappeared, shaking a finger at them warningly and vanishing again instantly.
Beth shook her head, sighing. "Is everything here like him?" I don't think I can deal with Life As Sitcom.
"We'll see, won't we?" Kory answered. He took her hand once more, and the two of them walked up to the door.
It took a moment for Beth's eyes to adjust to the gloom, but once she did, they widened. The inside had no connection to the tumble-down exterior, nor to the movie Casablanca. It was several times larger than the outside, for one thing. For another, it looked like the unnatural liaison of an MGM musical and a Turkish bordello.
The central area directly ahead was filled with small round tables swathed in immaculate white linen, most of them occupied. Beyond them was a dance floor that looked as if it had been carved from one giant slab of blue goldstone. Its surface glittered like a starfield, and behind it stood a bandstand with an old-fashioned stand mike and a glistening white piano. To the right, the wall was lined with a series of curtained alcoves, their gold draperies shimmering. Some of the curtains were drawn back—Beth couldn't see the occupants very well, but she could see glowing eyes in a variety of colors—and arrangements—and pulled her gaze quickly away.
To her left was the bar—a long glowing sweep of something that looked like purple mahogany. Behind it stood the barkeep, in white dinner jacket and black bow tie, rubbing the surface with an immaculate polishing cloth. He looked just like Humphrey Bogart—if Humphrey Bogart had bright blue skin, long pointed ears and a ponytail.
"That must be Rick," Kory said. Beth nodded. Okay, it's official. I've sprained my Sense of Wonder. . . .
As they stood there, two men passed them, leaving. One was huge, muscled like Arnold Schwarzenegger. He had bright red hair and a beard, and was dressed in bearskins and a long red cloak. His companion barely came to his elbow, as small and slender as the other was huge, and dressed all in gray, down to his hooded cloak.
"I told you we shouldn't have come here, little man," Redbeard said.
"Ah, where's your sense of adventure? Even a barbarian like you—" the rest of Greycloak's rejoinder was lost as they exited.
Funny. Those guys look almost familiar. . . .
"Come on," Kory said. He led Beth to the bar, where they found seats between a red-headed woman carrying a sword and dressed in a bikini that seemed to be made entirely out of silver disks and a six-foot ferret wearing a gold collar and drinking tea in the Russian style.
"What'll you have?" Rick approached them.
"Water," Kory answered, pushing a gold coin across the gleaming wood.
"Lemonade," Beth said. "And information."
"Ah. Drink I've always got." The barkeep brought two tall glasses and a black bottle from beneath the bar, making the coins vanish at the same time. He poured both glasses full—but while Kory's glass was full of clear still water, Beth's was filled with lemonade, sliced lemons, and ice.
"Neat trick," she said.
"It passes the time," Rick said, smiling Bogie's crooked smile. His teeth were long and white and very pointed. "Oh, by the way. A friend left this for you. Said you'd be wanting it."
Beth stared at the blue ceramic ashtray for a minute before the penny dropped. She giggled. "Fox didn't lead us a-stray. He led us to an ashtray. . . ." Incorrigible punster: do not incorrige.
She missed the little critter already. Almost.
"And information?" Kory asked.
"Well, now, that depends," Rick drawled. "On who's asking, and what for. Don't believe everything you've heard about this place."
"What I heard is that here we might be able to find a
research specialist. We are looking for information."
"If you can't find it in an Elfhame, that must be some information," Rick said. "Well, this is the Cafe Americain. You may find what you're looking for. 'Scuse me." He moved quickly down the bar toward a new customer.
Beth picked up her lemonade. Frost was forming on the glass. She sipped. Tart and sweet, not too much sugar, just the way she liked it. "I wonder what he'd have done if I asked for coffee?" she asked idly.
"Brought you a cup," Kory said. "Or if you had asked for Coca-Cola, or the Red Wine of Hengist, or ambrosia, or human blood. The laws of other realms do not apply here."
"Um," Beth said. An anarchist's paradise—no law but your own common sense. But freedom was a double-edged sword. If you could do anything you wanted, you could manage to get yourself into real trouble, too, with no one and nothing to get you out.
Several musicians had moved onto the stage and were setting up their instruments—a full-sized concert harp, a cello, violins, and a flute. They were all dressed in the height of 17th-century fashion, in lace, pink satin, and powdered wigs, but not one of them was human. There was a badger, a frog, something that looked more like an owl than not—although it had hands and fingers—a sheep, and some others whose species she couldn't place from what she saw. Once everything was arranged, they began to play. The music matched their garb, stately and baroque. Several couples got up from their tables and moved onto the dance floor.
Rick didn't look like he was coming back their way any time soon. "Why don't we go get one of the tables?" Beth suggested. "I'd kind of like to watch the floor show." She picked up her glass.
* * *
The entertainment at Rick's was certainly eclectic. The chamber-music group was followed by a black-leather-garbed crooner doing vintage rockabilly, but in a language Beth didn't know. His face was long and lupine—not quite a wolf, but not human either. More like a B-movie werewolf than anything else, Beth decided.
"You the folks lookin' for help?"
The speaker had slipped into a vacant chair while Beth was watching the stage. She looked—though by now Beth doubted anything here was exactly what it seemed—like a teenaged girl, and though it was hard to hear beneath the music, Beth thought she spoke English with a pronounced American accent. She had fire-engine-red hair with a silver streak in the front; it hung in an unkempt shoulder-length mop, and her eyes were the bright foil-green of Christmas paper. She was wearing a white T-shirt, a black vest, Levis, and motorcycle boots with spurs. Strapped to one leg was a battered and clangingly futuristic firearm.
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