The Fletcher

There wasn't any work that day, so I was perfecting my foot dangling when the ugly kid knocked. He does that quite often, especially because he has such trouble telling the bloody doors in the inn apart. The candle's lit, mind you, where that ugly kid is concerned, but the light is dim.

I show him how to open the door from the inside, and he says, all out of breath and sweating like a thief saying his lengthy confession, that there's a strange woman looking for me downstairs. Like most inns, this is a tavern pretending that it is a modest house of lodging that offers its guests customary amenities. The truth is, if the keeper of this inn stopped serving ale and what he believes passes for a decent meal, he'd be begging alms in the street before the new moon. He takes all comers, too, not just those who pay to sleep uncomfortably and store their goods in a drawer in a marginally warmer part of the inn. His "lodgers," he calls us.

What a laugh.

I chased away the ugly kid and washed up. I told him to go and find a cure for curiosity. That should have him blundering around elsewhere for a spell. I've got my pipe going. I always like to sit and talk with my pipe when a new development appears. I discuss it with the smoke. I decided to find out who this damsel is, and what she wants with me.

Down the stairs, through a door that still baffles the ugly kid, and I'm in the tavern. The kid starts waving and grinning like I'm his heart's desire. I make my way over to him, tell him what's what and ask him where the damsel is. He points her out, suddenly demur, and fades into the crowd of surly drunks and scoundrels. Many of them are my "fellow lodgers."

The walls are thin in this inn. Too thin.

"What are you running from?" This is what she asks, the strange damsel, when I sit down opposite with a couple of mugs of the best this dump can do. Cold.

"My responsibilities. What about you, mysterious damsel looking for me in the tavern?"

"A plague. It takes quite a bit to make me run off."

"I'll try not to alarm you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit to the place I am embarrassed, for the moment, to call home?"

"These yours?" she asks, and points to the foot of our table. Long, long tables at the inn. No one ever wants for a place to sit. Many sit next to me who I wish had not. Many have fewer teeth than sons. I've had to take a few behind the inn and make sure the figures add up.

The arrows are my boys, alright. There will come a day when the skill of a fletcher means nothing to ordinary folk. Sure, there might be some perfumed aristocrats or greedy merchants who will keep a fletcher as an ornament or a joke, but we'll all be killing each other with something other than arrows by and by.

Not yet, though. A fletcher is a revered artist and purveyor of death and carnage in these parts. I have been told I have some skill, which is not news. What I like are the times they talk about style. I do the necessary things, but in a way you haven't seen before and want to see again.

"A terrible father pretends not to recognize his children, especially in places like this. I am a good father. Those are mine. Where did you get them? It must be nice to have time to trace every chair you sit in back to the poor sod who hammered it together."

She moves her legs a bit. I look. Elves. If you don't mind the ears, well...her heels weren't round, let me put it that way. Some knees will make you bend.

"A goblin gave them to me. He took some convincing. I think I know how he got hold of your arrows. I think it has to do with the plague you didn't have the sense to ask about."

"What's this? Are you trying to suggest that my boys are diseased? I will have you know that they are fine, strong, healthy fellows, the lot. A few are prettier than most of the elves I've seen. How dare you impugn my work?"

The next time you say something foolish to your mother, watch her face. There's a fight going on behind it between who you are and who she hoped you'd be by now. That was the expression on the mysterious damsel's kisser.

"What, do you pity me because I'll be dead before you launder your sheets? Pity is worthless. Keep it."

"Look at you. Such a fine mortal. Somebody bought your arrows and gave them to the goblin long after the plague. The trouble is what the plague has done to my neck of the woods. Our local lords used to act like a nice cocktail made of priest and soldier. Now, they're all banker and bookkeeper, with a twist of lies. Most of our bodies got through the plague just fine, though we lost a few to the death you see coming every morning. It's our souls that it changed. I don't like the feel of home anymore."

Not an elf of few words. She's as full of surprises as the "stew" in this excuse for a roof. I didn't know her kind got sick. I thought they stayed beautiful and aware, always quite aware, of their beauty--barring a few of my boys in the right places or some sorcerous lunacy. Class is in session.

"So you're looking for new digs. I can get behind that. What I can't abide is my boys getting into trouble. Where's the little green archer who tipped you off about my wayward lads?"

She offers to show me the way. We get some odd looks from the sorry lot in the inn as we're walking out together. I take them all as compliments. The ugly kid gives me a wide, goofy smile. He has his good days.

She rides a horse like she's enjoying it. I have a feeling the horse is, too.

We're far enough into the forest that I'm starting to wonder if it ends. I'd like it to end, sooner or later. It doesn't, but we get to the part where the small monster who stole my fine boys is busy putting some of them into other goblins who've rubbed him the wrong way.

She's off her horse and into their midst before I can ask my horse for an honest review of the ride. She sends the ones her friend has been shooting with my carefully crafted little kings running. She does some sort of magician's trick.

She shouts some things I can't make out, their eyes flash violet for a breath, and they're off into the trees, screaming in a language I do not want to learn. She pulls the same stunt on her pal, so he just stands there dumbstruck, arms slack at his sides. Smooth.

I'm glad she did that, because I could have done it, but I chose not to, on account of my vow. You see, I've done all sorts of harm to crowds of living creatures with my bow and and my daggers and someone's severed leg at one point, and I've had it. I've made a pledge, not to one of the many gods and goddesses and saints and prophets. To my boys.

I might make extraordinary instruments, but I won't play music until I absolutely must. I couldn't make an art of killing. I could hack my way through a crowd well enough, even if the crowd was entirely made up of other hackers, intent upon hacking me. I could handle any comers from the crowd if they took a special interest in shortening my calendar. But I never did have any style. Look at my boys. There's art for you.

She's giving it to the goblin pretty good. He's shrieking and mumbling and twisting in place like a sausage on a spit. Then he coughs up what she's looking for. I can see it in her look. You ever see the look on a cat's face, when it finds the mouse where you never thought it could be? Bingo.

Then she pulls another trick: she throws her cloak over the goblin and shouts some more words unknown to me. Quick as you please, the cloak is wrapped up in a tight little package, no more than a hand's span across. I'm quite sure the goblin has shrunk some, and is screaming inside. Nice work.

She delivers the package into one of her saddle bags and mounts up with some grace. "I know who gave your arrows to Gelack," she says, "he's the growling cur at the feet of our local lord. He'll do anything. I mean anything, to keep his master happy. His own sisters are not safe, nor would Gelack be, if it came to that. Are there people you hate?"

"Of course, but only because they've earned it. Do you know where to find the worst elf I've never met?"

"It's not a long ride from here. You interested in straightening this out?" She looks a mess, after all the tricks. I guess it takes a toll, whatever it is. It can sure tip the balance in a fight, but it makes me nervous, magic. I think the ones who use it are the ones it hurts most. Not like my lads. Arrows fly one way at a time.

We start riding. "You don't look so good. It was expensive, what you did back there. I mean, it worked out nicely, but boy, you paid for it."

She looks offended. I've got a knack for that.

"Plagues are funny things, you know? They take so much, you learn what you wish they'd left alone." She's clever.

I'm keeping an eye on the trees at first. I'm pretty sure the ones Gelack was turning into porcupines with my boys are going to shake off her hex and come looking for us. When we get clear of the trees, I give her the once over in the snooping moonlight. She's coming around already. Elves. You'd think they'd be too delicate for the rough stuff. You'd be wrong. "When you think you will never catch so much as a cold, real disease gives your head a twist. We've got lots of gods. Maybe too many. It's hard to pay attention in a crowd.

Lately, I think the rogues in charge only worship power. It disguises itself as gold or magic or war or gossip around the table, but in the end, they just want control. They don't seem to care what happens. They just want to be the ones who get paid when it's over."

That's a song I've sung to myself, now and then, when I was pretty sure no one was listening.

"I caught the plague a few years back. It takes a while to get the better of us, but I won't ever be the same, and I won't be anything at all, soon enough. I've got to tell you, I'm glad. You can only eat a dull breakfast and go back to work you know is pointless so many times. I kind of envy kids like you. You're ready to walk out before the curtain falls on the first performance. Imagine if you had to follow the same, mediocre play on tour. For years."

That does sound grim. On the other hand, I've had some sensational breakfasts, and given enough time, I think ordinary arrows will worship mine like gods. She doesn't know how lucky she is. Maybe I don't either.

The sun starts winking at us. We were riding through a nice, quiet bit of farmland, for a while. Neat and organized. No trees. I could see things coming a good way off, and none of them gave me a start. Farms just go on giving. I grew up on one.

I miss the smell of lots of things growing at the same time. Goats and gourds and grandchildren. Lots of life.

We're back in the trees now, though. I think we're in her neighborhood. Houses in some of the trees. They grow larger, finer and fewer the deeper we get. Same as our neighborhoods, that. I wonder how popular a strong wind would be around here?

"It's not far now," she says. She looks brand new. I feel like I've been sitting on my arrows for a few days. I don't like long rides. Never have. "I can give most of the sentries the slip, or tell them what they want to hear. The cur, his name's Pelendur, he'll be with the local lord when we show up. Always is. You should let me do the talking." She pulls the goblin package out of her saddle bag and slips it under her robe. "I've got a plan. Don't spoil it."

Well, how do you like that? I'm learning. I think elves are pretty crazy. I like it.

We come to the base of the grandest of the trees, with a real penthouse up top. Some elves in fancy armor take our horses and any, menacing gear. They're cordial to her, though they give me some fishy eyes. She talks them into leaving my boys, though they get my sword and bow. The pair of daggers at the back of my belt, they miss. Always look there. Up we go.

So. Many. Stairs.

At the top of the stairs is a tall, ornate door. On the other side, we find what an elf with more gold than sense would call home. How many different idiots do you have to study, before you can spot one right away in the wild?

The lord's an idiot, though a pretty one. The cur is less pretty, and has the restless eyes of a professional boot licker. He knows my face, but if he's surprised to see it, he doesn't let on. They're waiting for us on a grand balcony. They serve us wine in fancy cups. I'm not surprised that it's sickly sweet and fruity.

"My lord, these arrows belong to this fletcher. How do you suppose some goblins came by them, after he sold them to Pelendur a fortnight ago?" She hands my handsome lads to the poncy lord. He's got the wide, white smile of someone who is used to getting his way.

"Goblins. They are mere vermin," says the elf lord. "Do you know that Pelendur has visited what they call their 'temples', in the swamps and caves not far from here? They worship bats and rats and toads! As your lord, it is my duty to keep the peace and ensure that elves like yourself can enjoy their prosperous lives, unmolested by ugly nuisances. They steal. They harass travelers to and from our lands. They are noisy and obnoxious. They do not bathe, and they multiply like mold on bread."

"It sounds like they need soap and water, not my fine wares," I say. She gives me an angry look. I hold my tongue.

The elf lord laughs. It sounds a bit mad. "Look, these matters are easily dealt with. When one of their ridiculous little factions gets too loud and lousy and numerous, Pelendur pays the rival tribe a visit by night, and gives them an edge. When weeds grow too numerous, we pull them up or cut them down. The same logic applies to goblins. Why does this trouble you? Study your spells and leave real power in the right hands." He pauses for a sip of the awful wine. I'm beginning to reconsider my vow. The cur starts chuckling.

"My lord, goblins are living beings with minds of their own. How can you be so cruel? All of our gods are unanimous in their love for one law: we must treat all of the many peoples they have made as our kin. Do you not see how this cruelty breaks that ancient compact?" Her dander's up, that's for sure. The cur's got two, glamorous scimitars on his belt. I'm keeping an eye on him.

"Goblins are no more our kin than frogs or fleas! If you are too squeamish for pest control, leave it to me. Ask a priest, if you wish to bother the gods. I have business to attend to, if you will grant me time." He starts ushering us off the balcony, toward the ornate door.

She looks like she's surrendered, but then she shrugs his hand off her shoulder and reaches under her cloak. She drops the small package at the lord's feet. Her eyes flash violet, and she whispers a few, nasty words. The package opens, and out pops Gelack.

"MERE VERMIN!" he shrieks, and lunges for the ponce's neck. My first dagger catches the cur in his elegant neck. I'm rusty. The second finds his left eye. I'm not that rusty. The last thing he'll hear is Gelack making a snack of his lord.

That trick cost her, but she's still on her feet. She gathers the cloak and hangs it on the ornate door. She collars Gelack, says something to him in what sounds like his native tongue, and motions me toward the door. "They'll be here soon," she says, giving me the sort of smile that I won't soon forget. "I promised Gelack proper food and drink. Let's be off." Her eyes flash violet at the draped door.

I open it and, sure enough, walk through it into the inn. The ugly kid is so surprised to see us, he's almost handsome. I order Gelack some ale and stew. The innkeeper's eyes are saucers.

Elves.