The Manticore's Tale

  The Manticore's Tale was one of the cheapest establishments in Krefeld am Nain, a booming industrial town situated on the mighty Nain river. Fed by snow-cd mountains, the great artery of trade could be distinguished as 'upstream' and 'downstream' from the city by the shade and consistency of the water.

  The cool early autumn air had a tang of ash and an acrid charge to it courtesy of the rge mana-steel works situated not too far from the Tale, and which poured lurid blue smoke out into the sky day and night as an army of humans, but also dwarves and elves and various demi-humans stoked furnaces, attuned ley-taps, poured great vats of molten azure steel into moulds, and packed up the cooled result for shipping across the Southnds.

  Outside, above a crooked door, a rge, badly painted sign featuring a red blob that might have been a manticore glinted in the anaemic light of the ash obscured noonday sun It was an establishment frequented primarily by workers at the steel mill or surrounding manufactories, and was, in Marci's expert opinion the perfect mix of cheap but honest enough not to water down its beer, making it the best inn in the city.

  "Come on—hic—Mr. Harring, I swear, I just—hic—need one more for the road, " said Marci, fluttering her shes and fring her wings just so to produce a glittering halo of fairy dust. "You can put it—hic—on my tab! I'll have your gold tomorrow!"

  "You already owe me fifty gold. Get you yabout — get," said the rge, usually jolly, currently unjolly, balding proprietor. He waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the glittering golden cloud. "And quit it with the dust!"

  "But Miiiisster Harrrrring," she said in her more adorable voice, raising her mug and making her pointed ears droop. "What about a half-pint? Fairies need—hic—we need alcohol! It's—hic—physio—hic—physiological!"

  Mr. Harrington stared at her ftly. She smiled toothily, revealing her perfect, pearly white teeth. Marci's smile was irresistible, she knew, able to melt the iciest of hearts and charm the pants off just about any man or woman in the Middle Realms. Not that she was trying to seduce Mr. Harring, he was ostensibly happily married and in her experience innkeeper's spouses of both genders had long memories and held grudges.

  The rge human reached over the bar, and with a single hand grabbed her by the back of her blouse, just above her beautiful, diaphanous wings, and hoisted her into the air.

  "Hey!" she shouted as he began to carry her petite, four foot four frame (tall for a fairy!) out of the tavern to the raucous ughter of the other patrons. "Hey! This is- this is—hic—an outrage! Assault! Discrimination against us little—hic—little folk! Let me go!"

  He obliged her, although with significantly more force than was proper when dealing with a dy, flinging her out of the door and into the slightly anaemic triangur beer-garden that was wedged between the inn and the brick wall of a textile mill, with a churned mud street running along its hypotenuse. It had patchy, withered grass, and an oak tree with rough and irregur branches that still stood mighty and defiant in the face of the brave new world of industry.

  "And stay out!"

  She caught herself with a flutter of the wings, and only swerved slightly before arresting herself and bringing herself to a hovering stop. Well, more or less of a stop, the world did seem to be listing slightly rightward.

  She turned, and with a dramatic flourish threw her wooden mug at the innkeeper. She missed, and it struck the wall next to him and cttered to the ground.

  "This is an outrage!" she shouted again. "Discrimination against—hic—against fairy kind! I'll have you—hic—you brought before the Magistrate for—hic—racial discrimination!"

  Mr. Harring pointed to where a group of fairies covered in ash-stained coveralls were drinking perched on the branches of the beer garden's rge oak tree. One of them waved.

  "Colborators!" she shouted at them. "You should be—hic—ashamed! Mark my—hic—words! In a few year's—hic—you'll be saying 'first they came for Marci, and I—hic—said nothing, for I was not Marci-'"

  "What a surprise to find you making a scene."

  Marci blinked, staring at the innkeeper for a moment. That was weird. She didn't think he had a Northnds accent. He had been born here, in the Southnds—in Krefeld am Nain.

  "Eh?" she said to him.

  Mr. Harring sighed and pointed behind her.

  Marci whirred on the spot, lurching and listing slightly as a tall, very handsome man wearing a breastpte over rough travelling clothes, with a long grey cloak slung over one arm. He had a sword belted at his hip, and a bag she could feel was enchanted over his shoulder. His long pink hair was pulled back into a ponytail, his pointed, cat-like ears—or more accurately, kattdjur ears—were pressed back against his skull, and his handsome clean-shaven face had an unamused look pstered on it. His long pink tail was swishing behind him.

  "Of!" she said lurching forward and wrapping her arms around his neck as she gave her old friend, sometimes fme a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She drew back and pouted. "You'll never believe it, this human-"

  "Two milk and honeys, thanks," said Of, flicking the innkeeper a silver coin. "I'll make sure she leaves after."

  Mr. Harring snatched the coin out of the air. "She better. And don't think I've forgotten about your damn tab, you menace!"

  Marci stuck her tongue out at him as he turned away and moved back inside.

  "Of!" she said again, fluttering her eyeshes at him trailing after him as he moved over and took off his sword before sitting at one of the benches. She joined him, alighting on the table itself since the outside seats always made her feel like a child: bigs had no concern for the rights and dignity of little folk. "I didn't know you were—hic—in town. Say, I'd really—hic—prefer a beer-"

  "Stars, how much have you drunk?" he said as he put out a hand to needlessly steady her.

  "Just a few," she said defensively. "Is that a crime? Is it a crime to—hic—enjoy a pint or five after a hard days work? A delicious—hic—creamy pint-"

  "Oh yeah, long shift?" he said, raising a pink eyebrow and jerking his head up and the noonday sun overhead.

  "Well, ah, yes, I—hic—I mean-"

  "I know you're out of work, Marci," he said. "What went wrong with the Enchanting Mill?"

  "It was a waste of my talents," she sniffed.

  Also, they had accused her, baselessly, of stealing equipment. She'd bought that industrial metal press, and anyone who said otherwise was a liar.

  "Wasting your talents has never mattered to you before," he said. "Marci, that was good money, regur pay. You're not going to get better than that without finishing your Mastery."

  "I don't need some piece of paper to tell me I am a brilliant thaumaturge," she said. "And anyway, my thesis was far too radical and groundbreaking for those fuddie-duddies at the Academy to accept-"

  "You didn't even submit!" he said.

  "Here," grunted Mr. Harring, two gsses of milk down on the table. "Finish it, then I want you out, fairy."

  "Appreciate it," said Of as the innkeeper stomped away.

  Marci sniffed at her boring beverage, idly wondering if she could make a charm to ferment it. It did contain sugar, thanks to the honey. It should be possible, even without a high ranked transmutation spell…

  "Don't recognise something that isn't grog?"

  "Hirious," she said. Then she smiled. "So, what brings you back to this—hic—charming little city? Don't tell me it was little old me." She reached out and ran a finger down his cheek. "Do you want me to—hic—make you purr-"

  "No," he said firmly, grabbing her wrist and pulling it away from his face. "We've discussed this. Please don't tease me."

  Marci sighed. "Right… sorry," she said. "Then what do you—hic—want?"

  "I heard you were out of work," he said.

  "Work, work, work!" she said. "Everyone's always talking about work!"

  She gestured around to the courtyard.

  "Workers this, workers—hic—that! What's so good about work?"

  "Typically, it lets you buy food." He gnced her over. "You've lost weight."

  "Oh, you ftterer," she said, touching her colrbone and swooning.

  "No, I mean, you're not eating enough." He grabbed her blouse's white sleeve, which had a small, inconsequential stain on it and peered at it, then he looked at her hair which, well, maybe it wasn't as spectacur as normal, but honestly it was fine, there probably wasn't anything in it. "Marci, are you sleeping rough?"

  "No!" she said, jerking her sleeve back and spilling some milk. Muttering darkly, she put down the tankard and took a deep breath, focusing her mind and will. It was a bit harder than normal to picture in her mind the single runic matrix and its contained geometric forms, but she didn't have to dig deep for the mana for such a simple spell.

  Her blue eyes fshed, and a swirling whorl of power washed over her, head to toe, cleaning off a few specs of dirt and beer and that weird fishy oil she'd nded in and had gotten all over her nice blue skirt, and she'd been meaning to clean off, scouring her clothes and body, head to toe. She grimaced, the Scrubbing Charm always made her feel weirdly itchy.

  "See?" she said, smoothing her shock of pale blue hair down. "I'm—hic—fine."

  "You're not fine, you're just better at hiding it than most," said Of. A pained look crossed his face, and she found she couldn't meet his eyes. "Marci, I thought you were turning over a new leaf. You were doing better st I saw you."

  Marci huffed and picked up her milk and sipped at it. It wasn't bad, it just didn't feel her with a warm, fuzzy feeling which she could really do with right now. Of cared about her, she knew that, but he was also always pushing her to do things she didn't want to do, always insisting that she live her life in accordance with his ideas of what was good and bad.

  "But I find you getting thrown out of pubs, drunk at noon, not eating properly, grimy-"

  "I was not—hic—grimy!" she protested. "And I don't need you to tell me how—hic—how to live my life! You're not my mother!"

  "No, unlike her, I actually care about you," he said. "Look, I was in town, heard you were doing it rough. And Crence-"

  "Oh, Crence," she said venomously. "That jumped up dil—hic—dilettante who you repced me with, you mean?"

  "Yes, the wizard we hired after you, and I remember this vividly, were drinking rum while we were fighting a cave troll," said Of, his tail flicking wildly. "No one wanted to let you go. We gave you so many chances."

  "Ah yes, Marci the fuckup, can't do—hic—anything right," said Marci, losing her temper. "Well, you know what? Fuck you, you sanctimonious-"

  "I came to offer you your old job," he said, cutting her off.

  Marci blinked. "Oh." She cleared her throat. Well, that was a bit embarrassing. "That- my old job? What about Crence?"

  "Having a kid with his partner," said Of. "Taking some time off, he's not sure if he'll come back either. I've got a solid lead on a tomb, untouched apparently, but I need a wizard. A good one. When you're not drinking yourself stupid, you're the best."

  Beneath the warm bnket that Marci loved so much she felt something stir in her heart. Things had been pretty shit since she'd been kicked out of the party. Regur work as an enchanter was both tedious and repetitive, odd-jobs were a bit better, at least the variety was interesting, but although she was better than almost any of the suck-ups who'd gotten their Masteries, the ck of that bit of paper had somewhat hampered her ability to make it as a freencer. Adventuring, although it had been occasionally frightening, was much more fun.

  "I mean, well… I could see if I had time in my busy schedule," said Marci. "And I'd need an advance-"

  "I'm not done," he said, holding up a finger. "There is a condition. For the entire trip, you're dry. Not a drop. And I'm not giving you an advance so you can spend it all on booze. If you need some gear, yes, but I'm not giving you free reign."

  She glowered at him. "I'm not a child!" she said. "You know, you bigs always assume that just because your children are such freakish giants that somehow makes it OK to talk down to-"

  "That's the deal, Marci, take it or leave it," he said, cutting off her accurate and insightful analysis of inter-species politics.

  Marci huffed and crossed her arms. "Fine."

  "You agree not to drink while on the job?" he said.

  "Fine, yes, whatever!" she said, throwing up her hands up. "What else? Are you going to—hic—give me a bedtime too?"

  He snickered. "I know better than to ask the impossible," he said, drawing a quirk from her own lips. "I had to wear a blindfold to sleep, you'd always be reading till almost dawn."

  Marci smirked into her milk. "Just to sleep?"

  He didn't rise to her jab, and gave her a serious look that made her feel both annoyed and embarrassed. "I still love you Marci, you know that, right?" he said softly.

  She blushed and looked away. Right. Love. Sure. Just something else she could fuck up.

  "So, when does—hic—our train leave?"

  "The North-West Express tomorrow, to Saxmoor, two in the afternoon," he said. "You can stay with…"

  He trailed off, looking past her, his brow furrowing in a way that she knew meant 'suspicion.'

  "What?" she said, turning to follow his gaze to where several more fairy workers were flying in from over the rooftops, their aprons stained with ash and their skin bckened from working in the most common employment that fairies could find in Krefeld am Nain—Chimney-sweeping. "Just some—hic—fairies, so what?"

  "Chimneysweeps carry stun nces now?" he said, turning his head to the oak tree, where the other group of Faries seemed to be paying her and Of, but mainly her, naturally, an awful lot of attention as they slowly pulled the wooden weapon stocks from their jacket. Of's hand drifted to his sword.

  Her somewhat inebriated mind pushed this all aside for a moment, but then it caught, and her eyes widened. Stun nces? Chimneysweeps didn't carry stun nces, kidnappers did.

  "Fuck!" she said, summoning her magic and only managing to visualise the double runic form and channel enough mana of the rank two spell, 'Shield,' in time thanks to long and practised reflex, barely managing to block the barrage of blue and silver stunning magic that erupted from both the flying fairies, and those who had been sitting on the branch.

  The magic crashed into her spell, deflecting off around the beer garden at random, dropping a few shouting and screaming patrons. One or two of the reflected bsts, however, did what she'd been intending to do, and one of the fairies of the branch was knocked flying, his body going limp as he toppled to the ground and began to snore.

  Still, there were at least four more on the branches, and seven in the sky.

  "Princess Marcelle, lower your shield and surrender!" boomed one of the airborne fairies, a woman, her amplified voice unmistakably the same upper-css Edraine accent Marci, despite all her effort, had never quite been able to shake. "We don't want to hurt you! But we will use force if necessary!"