He was large – words like ogre and oaf come to mind – with his odd face and matted straw hair.

A large human, and for most parts just like any other human, except bigger and he came out wrong. He was born with two broad flat noses, in the correct location but side by side. And later when his teeth emerged there were a fair number more than there should be. His mouth was extra wide ( his head was extra wide) but they still jostled for space.

Few people knew his name, or cared to, as he was easily described and could not be mistaken for anyone else. Those who did, and who also cared for this mostly innocent, mostly gentle giant, knew him as Double. As in double take, as in seeing double, as in double trouble.

If you are picturing him in an inn, and in the days of lawlessness and legend, then he is sitting in the corner, on his own. Many greasy but finished plates are neatly stacked. A jug of beer has one fat finger curled around the handle. And he is snoring. If he had anything worth stealing, nobody would dare. Except for the odd actual dare, between drunken knights or the like.

With love hard to give, and none received, Double was a journeyman. Perpetually dreaming of settling down (and all that such encompasses) but rarely staying anywhere more than a week. Usually the work dries up. There is always some accumulated uses for a man of such strength, but then they are done with. Or, sometimes, he makes clumsy mistakes, with his indelicate hands or from his wandering mind.

Double is not someone who is easily pleased and content with his lot, for he carries the burden of his other born-wrong trait; he reads minds. In that he reads minds with the reading level of a seven year old. Which means he is more often than not perplexed, wondering about what those other minds are on about. So when he can, he sleeps outside, surrounded by sheltering trees and comforted by his own simple thoughts.

Landsbridge sprawls across one ridge of a dry ravine. It has the primary function of extracting tolls from pilgrims, and is of a size that requires three saloons. It is also a border town, with various activities that are legal on this side but not that. And plenty of men in the sheriffs department, busy men. There are women as well of course, but in these days, those days, they were mostly not of any obvious, special importance. The most well-known operated the usual businesses of ill repute, but their ambition was a modest retirement at best. Mostly the females were cooking and cleaning as you would expect (back then). Any “ladies” in town would be passing through on a pilgrimage, and some of them were very fine, and some were brave and some were intellectuals.

Higher-borne women had their ways, and talents, and they ruled and administered the wider world.

The ravine was passable before the bridge was built, and still is, but it is heavily guarded. There are tax-evaders who secret their laden selves around the guards, and there are pirate types who prey on them in turn. Double has been down there all week, guided by young sprites, recovering fallen items and busted things. He gets half of the selling price but it is of course not even quarter. He sometimes hears people saying what an idiot he is (in their heads), but formulating complaints and arguments is mostly beyond him and more effort than hauling a busted statue of Our Revered Mother the 7th up the steep scrabbled slope.

While he was paid that of ten men, he ate that of five, so his profits were modest. Still, he had been on the road for twenty years (if anyone had counted) and despite being ripped off and cheated as a matter of course, he carried upon him a purse that could afford a home in most towns.

This being a story that wishes to be told, something was up. Kathryn the Eager was passing through town. All of the higher-borne were called “the something”, to detract from what they were not. Not tall and not thin and not able to have children. Their enemies (and those whose lives are so wretched that the idea of punishment does not bother them) call them Stouts. Or stouts. A common curse is “may all you babies be stouts” because you don’t get to keep a stout baby, if yours is borne that way, short and wide and with purple eyes.

Kathryn the Eager didn’t even know that her world contained a giant, for his deeds were never noble or newsworthy. And although occasionally hearing of the mean little women who rule from afar, Double knew little of what power they wielded. Or that their faces were flat, chinless and devoid of expression.,

It was a dry night and Double was asleep in the woods. Far enough away from any thoughts to hear, and then further again, just in case. But on this night his purring sleep (through four nostrils) was interrupted by the thoughts of Katherine who was on a scheming midnight walk. Her words were different, complicated and jarring to the oaf. Almost another language, like someone speaking Curlish but using the odd phrase from the common tongue. But he did hear, as Kathryn wandered past a few yards away, hear her think kill her dead and the name of Agniss.

2

I trapped a sprite and I was still alive.

I am a thief, not a scientist, but there are similarities. A heist starts as a hypothesis, and then it gets tested. But whereas a scientist might not mind failing often, a thief needs higher rates of success. This particular heist was my riskiest by far, because sprites were untouchable and they were legion and if you were swarmed upon then a quick death could be expected.

She was in the corner, cowering, and then she wasn’t. Some people liken sprites to fireflies in that they turn on and off. Except the off for sprites is far longer than the on, and the timing is random, which is so annoying. But they are in tune – that’s an understatement – and when one is on they all are on, across the towns and valleys and peaks. Wherever we are, they are.

The room was small, by choice, so I could more easily get to her when she was on. The door was locked. I had the key. It had been a while and no other sprites had turned up so I was safe, for now.

I couldn’t tie her down, because that would only work while she was on, and that is typically just a few seconds. The rest of the time, off-time, they were barely visible, just a floating twinkle, like luminous dust. They are the fairies of old, who now choose to be corporeal – collectively, for they think as one.

I had deduced how it was that they managed to think as one. In their natural fairy state they were like us humans, in that they needed to be near each other, but how they talked, nobody knows. If you listen carefully you might think you hear the tiniest of buzzing chatter, but that could just be the fabric of the universe rustling. When physically present, I can’t have been the only one to have worked out how they do it (and it would be treacherous for me to talk of it), because of two constants. A sprite is always within a line of sight of another sprite, no matter what the distance. And they change color. I figured that the pattern of colors is some kind of code, like an elaborate semaphore, and that they must have very, very good eyesight.

I don’t know how I feel about killing a sprite. They are more like ants than humans – not interested in being individuals, so perhaps removing one from the equation is like plucking a human hair (yes, there are that many) and not a death that would be mourned. But I will try not to, kill her.

Their chosen form is highly appealing to men, purposefully so it is imagined, which suggests that they could look like anything at all, if they all wished. They all look like a young princess of the imagination (real princesses are in hiding), dressed for riding, blonde hair tied back, with iridescent purple eyes. And they are half-sized, but in proportion, unlike a dwarf. And thinner than a dwarf. Men of course would fantasize about being them, but with no personality to speak of, and them twinkling off all the time, such fantasies were hard to get into to.

Still, her presence and my general vanity – and predictable public reckoning – had me checking my hair in my hand mirror. Just quickly while I retrieved my torture tools from my knapsack.

I am Filip, bastard great-grandson of the last allowed king and master of all thieves I know of.

3

My shadow waits in the trees, whispering, always whispering. Not all royals have such special shadows, but they not aware of any others existing these days. For the most part the shadows are annoying, like a conscience, like an angel on your shoulder, like your mother. Mostly they hang out in the nearest darkest spot that you have recently been. But they can be anywhere, as long as you have stood there in the past, or, perhaps, rarely, somewhere you have gazed at or thought about. And rarer still they can be where your future lies, or could lie. Mostly they are a minor comfort at best, and an itchy annoyance at worst.

Only you can see your shadow, although some versed in the dark arts can see shadows of shadows, but that seems pointless.