But the new overlords recognized that the fragmented nature of the continent could be used to their advantage. Towns and regions with unadventurous citizens and widely varying cultural practices could be better controlled if they knew less of each other. So they shut down all news that wasn’t local, they established trading gates where tariffs were paid, and they coerced or bribed local leaders to align with them.

This was made much easier because of the detailed maps and regular censuses that were already in existence. All such information was confiscated and owning it was punishable by death. Just to be sure, all those who had been employed as cartographers or census takers were executed, thanks to the detailed employment records. All books of knowledge were either locked up or burned, and all that remained in written form were fairy tales.

Not locked up or executed were Dusty and Matilda, an elderly couple who were teens in love during the Great Mapping funded by the Royals to commemorate something. Percy Manowar preferred women and wine, and had hired them – off the books – to do his map work for him, at way less than half of his salary.

These days Dusty and Matilda, along with their two donkeys and covered wagon, are slowly touring the boundaries of the continent, reliving their youth and reminiscing. Doing the lap they call it, and they are onto their 3rd lap. At many towns they have become quite popular, and sometimes wined and dined, as they tell tales of what went on generations back, taking great care to never mention their role in the mapping. The physical maps might be gone, but the pair of them have brains and memories that are as sharp as ever, thanks to a bit of help from Mr Mandrake.

Retirement and road were very satisfying but their travels only began when the levels of widespread oppression started to weigh heavily on their souls and lightly on their consciences. They knew that they could be part of a solution if some others took up the reigns. They knew things.

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Her own fortunes have not been great, for while she necessarily maintains sobriety while working, her extracurricular drinking leads to exceedingly adventurous but poor decision making.

Originally she was simply a vagabond alcoholic who used her feminine charms to get what she needed to survive. On more than one occasion (none of which she actually remembers) she provided a prophecy while flirting that was striking enough to remembered, and also came true.

Around the same time, after repeatedly wasting every swindled penny she had, a plan came to mind. The next time she had a good win from a gullible man, she would lock her self in her inn room to avoid any temptations. She told the innkeeper that she was a werewolf (seeing as it happened to be full moon) and for his own safety he should lock her away for the night.

And so she transformed from a lush swindler to a sober clairvoyant who was rumoured to be a howling beast once each month. And on that night each month she would be ceremoniously locked away, with some flagons of wine to reward herself.

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If Sam left now and followed its prompts, the knowicle would deliver him to a place where he will solve a mystery or crime. No matter how he achieves it, that future is known and certain, he will be a hero of something big or small. The art, the reason, as his forefathers had learned, was in the doing.

He stopped for barely a minute at home, grabbing his knapsack that had been on standby all this time, kissed his elderly mother on the cheek, and pocketed some sourdough buns, jerky and an apple. The knowicle had never been wrong, for anyone, ever – the journey will end with the solution, by the bearer, of a puzzle or question, or a discovery of sorts, or something admirable. It will also, quite likely, guide him to his death one day, so ruling out starvation was important.

Sam could walk all day and night ordinarily, and with the excitement he felt like he had unlimited energy, but nights are dangerous and stopping at an inn was a must.

The knowicle guides its bearer on a journey already known, so it rarely takes them through thickets or bramble. And along roads it is mostly quiet, only leaning in a direction at crossroads or where needed. To not miss a turn, Sam keeps it cradled in his left hand, in his jacket pocket. Today’s roads were quiet and barely worthy of existing. They mostly link farms to towns, but could be of use for people seeking a direct route between unknown places.

The inn was locked. A notice had instructions. Sam walked around the back, through a grove of fruit trees and found the cottage. Smoke rose from the chimney. Sam rapped the brass knocker and after a reasonable amount of shuffling and bustling behind the door, it opened.

“You are looking to stop for the night, I presume?”, said the old woman as she glanced past him at the darkening sky. She wore a bold yellow dress with a variety of flowers painted on it, her face was kind, her hair frizzy and she was short and stout and of an indeterminate middle age.

“That I would” said Sam, “ and whatever is on your stove smells delicious if that is on offer”. Sam was already inside, knapsack off, and admiring the well-stocked kitchen.

“I’m Maria”, she said. “The Inn isn’t worth opening these days. Locals prefer to drink in Perry now that it has a market and, ahem, entertainment for men. That just leaves the occasional interloper like yourself. Sit down and tell me your story while I attend to your dinner. Ale?

Sam cannot divulge anything about his secret little organic device, and he had no idea where he was headed, or even why. But he is unlikely to make any mistake, here and now. He took off his Chesterfield hat and sat on the wooden chair without a cushion.

“I’m headed to Flaysbury or thereabouts, that direction anyhow. Seeking my fortune, as they say”.

“That suggests that a fortune is what you lack. Where are you from? Been on the road long?

“ I have no home to speak of, ma’am, you could call me a drifter, albeit a drifter with some direction. I seek card games, I play poker. For money” he added, after a pause.

“Just call me Maria. I know a bit about games of chance, of likelihoods and outcomes. Poker requires a special set of skills, and well done on making a living of sorts from it. Is that all that you are good at? Seems like a perilous existence.”

“Sorry, where’s my manners, Maria, I am Sam.” He looked around the room, which was full on every wall, boxes half obscuring the window, and books in neat stacks and otherwise. “My skill seems to be luck, although I don’t only win because of it. But sufficiently good luck for me not to be welcome for too long in any one place. So I keep on the move.”

Maria was focusing on scooping out soup and finding cutlery, while Sam fondled the knowicle in his pocket, and thought of something else.

“My secret weapon is this little fella” said Sam as he reached into his pants pocket and pull out a small, green wooden cube with dots embossed onto each edge. “I live by the die”.

The next morning, early, Maria overcharged Sam and gave him a generous bag of supplies, enough to last him through tomorrow if he got lost. The road to Flaysbury was not wide enough for a wagon and would rightly be called a vague path in places. Making sure that Sam at least got the start of his journey correct, she escorted him to a 3 way junction, with a 3 way sign.

Sam took his hands out of his jacket pockets and held up his die between thumb and forefinger. “You might find this odd, but it is my way.” He rolled the die across the stony path, and it changed directions a few times before landing with five dots on top.

“Seems that I am going via Polk today”, and he bid Maria farewell and strode off along the Polk road with assuredness.

That night Maria was blessed with her second guest of the week, and she had a fresh and odd story to share, about a portly chap who wore a Chesterfield hat and let dice make decisions for him.

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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.

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I call him Beat-en on account of the beatings I have witnessed, and the hypnotic beat he employs when he sings. That is clever of me, but his enchantments are overwhelming for some.

He sings people to ecstasy and then sleep…

When we encounter him, all of the stalls have fallen asleep in line with his spells, and lost their intimate treasures to fingers from behind the curtain.

He merely seduces, he will say.

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Diggir shovels shit for his livelihood, but he is also very good at it, the best, perhaps. Or not, as he doesn’t belong to a guild or anything.

While there are places with modern toilet systems, with pipes and whatnot, many of the more esteemed residences still use the old way, with humans transporting the excrement instead of pipes. Retrofitting a castle’s plumbing can be expensive….

And so it is that Diggir shovels the shit of the queen. That shit doesn’t sparkle, and he is not paid any extra because of the royal backside it came from. When you factor in the risks of being anywhere near a powerful, volatile woman, Diggir perhaps has the worst job in the world, but in a fancy location.

Being born into such an occupation doesn’t mean he is suited to it, so thankfully it is not a difficult job. But unfortunately Diggir is quite smart, and he spends much of his working day pondering, speculating and scheming. There must be more to life…

Fun fact: he digs through the shit he is tasked to remove, in case an accidentally swallowed gem might be there. Or a win that cannot be imagined from his lowly station.

Dreaming of such a win, an escape, is possibly all that keeps him going.

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