THE OLD WOMAN LIMPED through the streets for a long while. She cut through back routes crawling with scuttling vermin and misbegotten, yowling felines. The city’s unfamiliar sounds varied from clangour to crowds muttering and a heavy thudding of boots in rhythm, but the firm grip never did. Allory breathed as best she could through the foetid layers of cloth. She listened and waited for a chance to escape. Ah, this place was warmer now, almost sultry, and the din correspondingly louder. She scented notes of sour fermentation upon the air. Beer? Ale? Fae legends had supplied her with a vague idea of something called a Human drinking hole.

Just when her pointy ears throbbed with pain caused by the city’s commotion, this place managed to achieve a whole new level of raucousness. Was everyone shouting at one another or singing in unruly disharmony? Yaarah’s battle roar was more tuneful than this. So, a drinking hole must be some kind of communal cocoon for carousing?

In her vast experience – cough, wince – of such places.

A shocking explosion of laughter preceded a rough voice yelling, “Ol’ Falki! Thought I smelled a rat. What brings ya here, ya skanky old hag?”

After several muffled comments and replies, a rough hand dragged her out of the pocket and the cloth shifted. Allory groaned at the woman’s uncaring grip, then gasped as the stench of the place hit her at the same instant as sallow lamplight spilled across her face.

Her eyes watered and her antennae threatened to drop off. Gross!

Stunned silence.

“ ’Tis Fae then, as I said,” the old woman hissed.

“No word of a lie,” breathed one of the bearded faces gaping down at her. Allory nearly gagged at the sour waft of breath. That man had not just been drinking, he was practically pickled in alcohol. Suggids!

“Beautiful butterfly,” whispered another, staring at her in a way that made her cringe. Greed. Naked greed.

She wanted nothing more than to hide beneath a wide jungle leaf and never come out.

“Cap’n, ya have to take it to Durc.”

Falki snapped, “Oi’ll be having my reward, Oi will.”

“Fetch ya a clout around the earhole myself,” suggested one of the soldiers. “That’s reward enough.”

They roared boorishly.

Allory cried out in pain as the old woman squeezed her hard, up against her chest. This earned her the predictable, ‘It speaks!” Aye, even to unwashed Humans. Who was she to think any other creature beneath one as benighted as her?

“Pretty lil’ thing,” observed another sweaty-faced man. He saluted her with his wooden tankard. “Ho, pretty … butterfly? Thing?”

“Bottoms up, ya drunken clod,” another man interrupted, elbowing the sweaty one in the chest. This male looked more presentable than the others, who were clearly well beyond their first tankard of some nasty, foam-topped yellow brew. “That’ll be three silver marks, woman.”

“Three gold.”

“No more than five silver.”

The crone shook her head. “Fetch me a good price, this booty will. Pretty little she. Pay up or Oi’ll twist ’er little head off, Oi will.”

“One gold. That’s more money than ya’ve ever seen in ya miserable life,” offered the Captain, unmoved by the threat. “One – and shut ya flapping lip, crone, or I’ll shut it for ya permanently.”

With a couple more rounds of imprecations and complaints that one party or the other was being robbed, a heavy, gleaming gold coin duly changed owners and Falki was sent on her way with a skip in her step. One of the Men muttered that he hoped she survived the night to enjoy her bounty. Clearly, Durhelm Castle was a place of utter serenity. How delightful.

Tied in a clean purple handkerchief for variety’s sake, Allory found herself concealed beneath the Captain’s crimson uniform coat and taken on another enforced jaunt about the city.

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The Captain sold her to his superior, called the Dark Overmaster, for four gold.

The Dark Overmaster sold her to the Junior Chamberlain for ten.

About an hour or so later, the Junior Chamberlain attempted to sell her to the Senior Chamberlain for twenty gold coins and received a firm buffet behind the earhole accompanied by a caustic reprimand. This instantly adjusted her price to a more acceptable fifteen, whereupon she was locked inside a tube-shaped metal birdcage with a rounded top – complete with white dollops on its floor proclaiming recent, stinky avian occupation – draped with a sapphire velvet cloth for concealment, and carried still farther, this time through the cool hallways of the upper parts of the Inner Castle itself.

Allory perched on the small swing inside and sulked.

Pepper-cheeked parrot pout.

No, she was not a bird! Nor were her wires any use at all on the stiff lock. They simply bent. Probably the wrong kind of wire. If she had been violently pink and sparkly to boot, with a ridiculously positive outlook on life, she might have considered that she had succeeded in penetrating the Castle’s defences with ease. Being on the wrong side of a set of bars had not figured in her plan, however. Nor had she counted upon meeting the actual Durc himself – hmm, was that a name or a title?

She touched the soul locket. A troubling miasma of heaviness clung about the amulet today, yet below in her chest, outrage balanced the fear. Caged! How could they? Filthy barbarians!

Rat-tat-tat. The refined voice called, “Mozgi, my Lord Durc.”

“Enter.”

Time for a dagger? She had taken out two Ripper Baboons all on her own. No. Play it cool, maybe try to look stupid and dispirited? Then … the great escape!

Marvellous plan. It came bearing all the hallmarks of strategic genius.

The cage waved in the air as the man presumably bowed. Allory grabbed the cord holding her swing to keep her balance. “My Lord, at great expense, I have succeeded in procuring a matchless gift for your daughter of Ahm-Shira.”

“Ah, I am intrigued. What is it?”

“Behold, a true Faerie.”

The cloth lifted.

Dark brown eyes deep-set in an astute face widened as the leader of Durhelm Castle took in her appearance. He wore black chainmail armour with a light crimson cloak slung across his broad shoulders. A neat beard and a perfectly coiffed head of silver hair suggested a man of refinement, but the sword at his belt was well-worn in the hilt and his muscular figure carried not an ounce of spare flesh. Behind the instantly impressive Durc Durhelm, who filled her world with subtle menace, stood a great chamber furnished with tasteful hangings, landscape paintings and ancient weapons displayed upon the walls, but the space was dominated by a table at least twenty feet in diameter. Its entire surface appeared to be covered in a living, moving magical map.

Allory briefly considered spitting in Durc’s face but decided that the wilful shortening of her life was not worth the occasion. Instead, she glowered at him. Prettily.

The lips quirked as if enjoying her response, yet with a devious twist that proclaimed his cruel pleasure at her captive situation or the nature of this gift. Perhaps both. “A living jewel indeed! Senior Chamberlain Mozgi, you have outdone yourself. She is exceptional.”

The words rang in the chamber in a way that suggested high praise was not often earned in this place.

“My Lord.”

“How much did you pay for her?”

“Fifteen gold.”

“You may sign fifty out from the treasury and accept my grateful thanks. This time, even the Elven cunning of Zinueli Sylvanchild shall be moved to approval and our Elven alliance shall thus be strengthened. As for my daughter, the Princess –”

A bell tinkled somewhere nearby.

Dropping the cloth over the cage with a smooth, swift swoop, Durc said wryly, “I’d swear those pointy Elven ears can hear right across the realms. Here is Ashueli now. You may withdraw.”

“My Lord.”

His soft steps padded out of earshot and a door creaked shut.

A Princess? Ugh. These Humans and their silly affectations of royalty. Probably some giddy little thing who would be delighted by a gift in a gilded cage. Allory resolved to introduce her cepril tusk dagger to the girl’s left nostril without delay. Probably do the spoiled brat a world of good.

Did I just think that?

Clearly, she had positioned herself advantageously in pursuit of the Golden Purrmaine. Stinking marvellous day.

“Ashueli of Ahm-Shira, eshmau-tarli ehm aril,” Durc said smoothly.

“Father, eshmau-tarlu ehm umbra noril,” came the reply, sweeter than jungle honey. Fake? Or could any two-legged creature alive possibly sound that nauseating? She chirped playfully, “What are you hiding from me?”

“Only a small celebratory something for the apple of my eye.”

Oh, now a high-pitched giggle. Even a Faerie girl could produce an eye roll for that effort; however, she must keep her guard up. Opportunity to sneak away would surely arise if this pollen-head’s voice was any clue to her personality.

“You remembered my birthday. How sweet!”

“Would I forget?”

“Of overflowing gratitude this heart gives you thanks, o father.”

“I am honoured in the giving. Behold.”

The cloth swept aside a second time. Arresting light green eyes, the more brilliant due to being set off by a dark, finely-boned face framed by dramatic waves of ebon hair, fixed upon her.

Allory froze.

For an instant, nothing short of murderous fury flashed in the Princess’ striking gaze.

Then, the girl’s rich forest-green dress swirled as she spun to embrace Durc Durhelm. Tall as he was, she shaded him by at least a couple of inches. The girl gushed, “Oh father, you are a wonder! My very own pet Faerie! She’s exquisite. My joy knows no bounds.”