"You don't have to threaten me," you inform Madrigal. "You could just tell me where we're going."

  Madrigal rubs the corner of her eye. "It's not a secret, Charlotte, I just didn't mention it. I'm going to go see Branwen."

  A familiar name. "Morris."

  "Yeah, her. You know her? Yea high—" Madrigal indicates about an inch above you. "—bangs, hat, funny accent— maybe? No?"

  You shake your head.

  "Well, the long and short of it is, she lives a mile or two into the Fen. Best place to find wild animals and so on— she breeds them, see. She breeds them, I broker them, rich weirdos from over west buy them. Everyone wins."

  This tangle of words takes you a moment to work through. "You smuggle exotic animals?"

  "I broker exotic animals. Branwen breeds exotic animals. Other people buy exotic animals. Nowhere is there any smuggling."

  "Are they illegal, though?"

  Madrigal scoffs. "By whose law!"

  "Wind Court's, I guess." You're a smidge defensive over this, though you're unsure why. You've rarely dealt with the Court in person.

  "Do they have exotic animal smuggling laws?"

  ?Yes.?

  "Y-es," you say. "Indeed."

  Madrigal's brow furrows. "Really? Huh."

  "Yep."

  "…Might be smuggling, then. Ah well. So anyhow, I'm trying to set something up, Branwen's been ignoring my semaphore, so to speak, so I'm stopping by."

  "Also," you note, "Ellery said he visited there."

  She crosses her arms. "So he did."

  "And it's unrelated?"

  "Yes."

  She has a sort of I-dare-you jut to her chin. You decide challenging the current arbiter of your lifestyle isn't the best plan. "Okay, that's fine. I'll, uh, meet you at the trailhead?"

  "Or else."

  "Sure thing."

  You part ways. Not having much in the way to gather, you make a point of meandering back to your tent. Richard has wound his way down your sleeve.

  ?Ahem. As I was saying, your cockamamie—?

  Actually, you've been thinking about it since Madrigal danced around thanking you. And upon review, you mostly tried to ask about those things. It's just he wouldn't answer, or changed the subject, or flat-out denied it. And what can you do about that? You're not a mind-reader, are you?

  ?Be that as it may, if you noticed he didn't answer, you ought to have said something.?

  ?And if you didn't notice, you're frankly dense, Charlie.?

  What? No. It's not as if he pointed anything out.

  ?I function poorly in groups. You know this.?

  ?Cogent communication requires a great deal of effort on my part, and having three or more—?

  Excuses, excuses!

  You enter your tent, confirm everything's as you left it (yes), deposit your stack of papers, attempt to deposit the mirror shard before realizing Madrigal still has it, retrieve your pocketknife, retrieve a pinch of chit (you never know), straighten your linens, and leave again.

  You meet Madrigal by the trailhead. She's got a full rucksack on, a crude spear lashed to her back, and the bomber jacket tied to her waist. She's wearing close-toed shoes.

  She frowns at you. "Where's your stuff? Don't you have any other shoes?"

  "I travel light," you say haughtily. "It's a lifestyle. And no."

  "Have you got a weapon, at least?"

  You flash your pocketknife. She curls her lip. "That? Charlotte, that couldn't cut fishing line. How are you alive?"

  ?Me. And never forget it.?

  You curl your lip back. "I've done perfectly well so far, thank you."

  "Somehow. Good fucking god. Here."

  Madrigal reaches back into the front zip of her rucksack and pulls out a wicked-looking blade. You brace for her to toss it at you, but mercifully she only dangles it. "Hand dagger," she says. "You're good at punching, right?"

  "Um," you say.

  "It's like punching, but you've got a knife on your hand. Or you can just use it as a knife, I guess. Better than that."

  >[1] Take the hand dagger and get moving.

  >[2] Refuse out of principle and get moving.

  >[3] Hey, Madrigal. You don't suppose you've got any… swords? [Roll.]

  >[4] Write-in.

  >Obtain sword: 95, 100, 34 vs. DC 45 - Success

  >Navigate: 83, 76, 86 vs. DC 60 - Success

  "Um," you say. The hand dagger isn't bad, you guess. It seems well-made. It's metal, even. Could be an antediluvian relic. You, channeling the ways of those long dead? That'd be something. That'd be worthy of note.

  It's not a sword, though. That's the problem here.

  Madrigal shakes the dagger. "Hello?"

  "Um," you say again. "Might you have a sword?"

  "A sword? Does it look like I have a sword? You see any swords?"

  "Could have one strapped to your back," you say. "Where I couldn't see."

  "Oh, to my back? To my back where I've got a backpack? To my back where I've got Fi— my spear? That back?"

  This seems patently obvious. "Yes."

  Madrigal puts a hand to her forehead. "Okay, then. Okay. Let's— why would I have a sword? I don't use a sword. I didn't know you wanted a sword. I don't haul around large sharp objects for no goddamn reason, Charlotte."

  "Seems like something you'd do," you say mildly. "Also, you could go back and get one. Like a normal person."

  "I don't have any swords to get! Well—" Madrigal closes her eyes. "I have a hilt. Is that what you want? You want to hold this whole thing up so I can run and get you a useless fucking sword hilt?"

  "I mean…" You vacillate. "It might be better than nothing…"

  "No!"

  An attempt to raise one eyebrow just makes you look like you have a tic. "Suit yourse... ow!"

  ?Oops.?

  Something happens in your head. Some kettle whistle blows, some spring goes sprong, some long-neglected flywheel is set awhir. The corner of your good eye tightens. The corners of your vision grey.

  >[-1 ID: 5/11]

  "You gonna die?" Madrigal says, a little worried. "What happened?"

  You shake your head no to both.

  ?Wy— no, here, you're fine.? Richard darts in diagonals. ?It's fine. Nothing happened. Just talk.?

  "You're sure? Coz you looked a little funny for a second."

  "Like your face," you mumble inaudibly. "Yes," you say. "Yeah. I'm all here."

  As best you can tell, it's true. You don't feel or sound or think any different, you think. It was just a thing.

  Madrigal sighs. "You're the boss. But if you are gonna die, you've got to tell me. Are you taking the hand dagger or not?"

  "I'm not," you say. "It's sword or nothing."

  "Cool. Nothing." Madrigal shuffles the rucksack around and drops the dagger back in its pocket. "Ready?"

  You fold your arms. "No."

  "Son of a bitch." Madrigal pinches her temples. "What?"

  "You've got a sword," you say. "On your back."

  "You're a nutcase. You want to look at my back? Look at the sword not on it? We can do that, Charlotte, we can waste everyone's time—"

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "No." You gesture. "You've got to pull it out."

  "Pull out the sword I don't have."

  "Yes."

  "On my back, where it isn't."

  "Yes."

  "You're a nutcase."

  Something fragile slips. "I— come on, Madrigal. Do it to prove I'm crazy."

  "Good god." Madrigal shakes her head in disbelief, but with one hand she pushes her rucksack and her spear aside. She feels around on her back. She contains her shock very well.

  She pulls out the general idea of a sword. It's sword-shaped and sword-sized and sword-colored and except for the fact you can't exactly look at it it's sword in all the other ways, too. It will probably cut things.

  Madrigal holds the Sword like it's contagious. "What the fuck is this?"

  "It's a sword," you say.

  "Yes. I can tell. What the fuck am I doing with it?"

  You shrug. "Giving it to me, I guess?"

  "If you want it…" She gives you the Sword.

  "Thanks," you say. "Now we can go."

  Madrigal glances at you slantwise. "…Yeah."

  The Sword is sword-heavy in your hand. Your fingers find easy purchase on the sword-hilt. You've gripped something like it before— but not quite. You wanted a sword. And now that you have the Sword, you realize… no you didn't. You wanted The Sword.

  What sword? The Sword. That sword. Your sword. You'll know it when you see it. You've never owned a sword in your life, unless you count the fettling knife, which you don't.

  You're at sixes and sevens, you are. And that's without considering what the living hell just happened. Did you do that? Did Richard do that, and was just uncharacteristically subtle about it? Did— you're clinging to this possibility at the moment— did Madrigal just have a sword?

  ?No need to worry your pretty head about it.?

  But what if you do worry your pretty head about it? You've got a Sword in your hand, for God's sake.

  ?You're impossible. It was a fluke accident, Charlie, that's all. Poor timing. A number of factors converged.?

  What factors?

  ?Let's see. Among other things, you have a very strong idea of what a sword should be, and almost no knowledge of how a sword actually functions.?

  ?In a certain light it's impressive.?

  Madrigal coughs. "Charlotte."

  Damnit. "What?"

  "Uh, nothing. It's just that we've been walking— well, not that. It's that you've been mouthing a lot of words."

  You close your lips. "Oh."

  "Also, that thing." Madrigal points at the Sword. "It makes me all fucking skittery."

  "It's just a sword," you say defensively.

  "My head hurts if I try to look at it, Charlotte."

  "Well, my head hurts when I try to look at you. So."

  Madrigal rubs her forehead. "Fucking whatever. Yeah, but— are you gonna make more? Where'd it come from?"

  >[1] How are you supposed to know? You're not even the one who touched it. Seems more likely she made it, or whatever.

  >[2] Yeah, you made it. And you can make more, if you wanted to, which you don't. You're so cool.

  >[3] What are you talking about, Madrigal? You were carrying a sword. You gave me a sword. [Roll.]

  >[4] Smile mysteriously and refuse to answer any questions whatsoever.

  >[5] Write-in.

  You smile.

  Madrigal doesn't. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

  You smile.

  "Well— know this. If that thing comes within two feet of me, I'm stabbing you first."

  You smile and nod.

  "Holy fuck."

  And with that, you're back off. Navigating the Fen is a matter of two things: either dexterity and cunning, or an unshakable belief that, despite everything to the contrary, you're heading in the right direction. Madrigal possesses the former, you the latter, and between the both of you you make short work of:

  - The immediate loss of the trail (mud has buried the marking-stones)

  - Mud

  - Unidentifiable hissing from behind you

  - Unidentifiable hissing from in front of you

  - Some fish's rudimentary web trap

  - Clouds of biting sargo

  - God there's so much mud

  - Brine pool your foot, that thing's more like a brine lake, it's going to ruin your boots, what do you mean we've got to go through it

  - Your boots are just fine for hiking, Madrigal, at least you have sleeves

  - What do you mean around it there's massive bladderworts

  - Can't we just go around those

  - "Might as well go around Charybdis" honestly Richard just shut up if you're going to spout gibberish

  - No you don't want to know what Charybdis is

  - Mud

  - Would you look at that, your boots are ruined, just like you said they'd be

  - "Just rub them down with oilcloth" well maybe you don't want to, Madrigal

  - A corpse.

  The corpse is recent but not incredibly so— it's pinned at about a month old. It's well-preserved except for the worms that've colonized its mouth and eye sockets. It slumps against a tree inside a semicircle of its own blood. Cause of death? The flechette buried in its neck, the hives around the wound, and the greenish pallor of its skin all indicate a poisoning. Maybe accidental— some fish hunting down an alligator, say, and missing his target. Maybe intentional.

  These are all things Madrigal and Richard say, anyhow. You're busy gagging.

  Madrigal stands. "Hmm," she says. "Maybe an expeditioner, but I can't tell. You can't tell, right? No blood in the thing."

  "Uuurh," you say.

  "You think we should go through the pockets? Could have some good shit in there. Waste not want not, right?"

  "Euggh," you say.

  "I mean, I don't know. I don't want to catch anything." Madrigal scratches her chin. "But good shit."

  >[1] Good shit.

  >[2] Assert your obvious moral superiority. No good shit. MADRIGAL.

  >[3] Write-in.

  You cease gagging long enough to visit upon Madrigal the longest, haughtiest stare you can summon up. "I do not steal from the dead."

  >[+2 ID: 7/11]

  Madrigal raises her eyebrows. "Didn't you 'think' Ellery was dead?"

  "That wasn't theft! That was evidence." You're glad you didn't make off with the radio yet. "And geez, who's the psychopath now, huh? Petty robbery? Not a drop of remorse?"

  "Look, the guy's got his eyes eaten by worms. You think he's using the shit? He's not, it just happens to be sitting here on him. 'Robbery' implies someone's using it."

  You shrug. "I'm just calling a spade a spade, Madrigal. And it's a psychopath spade."

  "You dragged me into the woods to die!"

  "I dragged you into the woods," you say, "to protect you from looters. Like yourself."

  "Looters!" She scoffs. "Oh, yeah, those looters off to steal my shoes. And my clipboard. Those looters already searching through the brush— we were already in the goddamn woods, you realize?"

  "Better safe than sorry."

  "I—" Madrigal points at the corpse. "Okay, Miss Fancypants, are you gonna throw a shitfit if I search the pockets?"

  "You can commit any knavery you choose," you sniff.

  "'Knavery.' Were you born with a pole up your colon?" But Madrigal crouches to search the corpse's pockets. You refuse to watch.

  "Oh, shit," she says. "Jacket's lined with feathers. I think this is a Court guy."

  You ignore her.

  "Yeah, okay, here's an ID. Lookit. 'DARWIN SCHWAB — NIGHTBIRD.' Oh, he was kinda cute, before the whole worm thing. Too bad he's a Court dickwad."

  "Also dead," you can't help but add.

  "Yeah, course." Madrigal rubs her nose. "Huh. Nothing else— oh, hold on. Hidden pocket." She fiddles around. "Aha. Okay, here's his chit pouch— keeping that. And— oh-ho. What's this." She withdraws a linen handkerchief and unwraps it. It's a crystal. Murky, impure, not like the ones on your crown— but a crystal nonetheless. "Oh, this guy must've been hopped up. He was not supposed to have this."

  "Does it—" you say. A stirring has reawakened. "Is there anything in it?"

  "Fuck if I know. Can you put anything in crystals? I mean, I thought they were kinda solid?"

  "Not something physical. Just—" You make grabby hands. "Give it here. I'll look."

  ?I'll look, you mean.?

  "Oh! Now Miss Fancypants is cool with knavery, huh?" Madrigal rewraps the crystal and places it in the chit pouch, which she places with the ID in her backpack. "Finders keepers."

  "What do you want with the ID?"

  She shrugs. "Never know when you'll need it. Besides, I've got to take what I find. This guy was totally cleaned."

  You have to stop to translate this into correct speech. "He— nothing was on him?"

  "Yeah. I think we were beat to the punch." She kicks the corpse's leg. "Oh well. 'Least they didn't find the chit."

  The two (?three?) of you carry on, keeping up the same clip as before. Which isn't fast, exactly, but nobody twists an ankle or loses a leg or dies, and you both agree that's the important thing.

  It's when you hear the scream that you stop for the second time. "Oh good," Madrigal says. "We're close."

  "We're what?"

  "It's not human. It's one of her things. The— damn, I forget what it's called. Blue, lots of spindly bits. Not very popular, as far as they go."

  Another scream.

  "For obvious reasons."

  "Yes," you say dryly.

  "So we'll just keep going until we see the gate, and then we're there. Thing is stone, got some glowy runes on it, you can't mi—"

  "Patty?" From absolutely nowhere— well, from between the trees, but the visibility's so cruddy and the trees so thick together it might as well be nowhere— storms a short dark-haired woman in a hat. You marvel at the hat. You'd like to wear one, but even for you it's leagues too impractical— it just flies right off at any light current. To keep one on without a chinstrap represents an extraordinary force of will.

  "Bran! Hi." Madrigal stiffens. "We were just talking about your gate."

  "PATTY! You SEEN my snake?"

  You stiffen, too, like you've been shocked. Richard, around your wrist, constricts.

  "I haven't seen your snake, Bran. No need to yell."

  "Pardon." Branwen stops short. She's got some sort of black cape/sleeveless coat on, with a high collar of damp black fur. "Damn thing’s scarpered!"

  “Scarpered?” you say.

  “Escar– escaped!”

  [END THREAD 5]

  [END VOLUME 1]

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