The Realm of Affinity. An old land, worn by epochs of existence. Timeless hills crushed by the weight of time. Rivers gouging their endless way through plains scoured by immortal dust devils. Vegetation heavy with years, forgotten in the march of new life elsewhere across the world. Old stuff. Even the clouds seemed senile in their wandering ways amid a sleepy sky.

Yet always would appear things in Affinity shiny and new, brought from afar, tinkered with and returned. For the Realm of Affinity was the land of the Tinkers. A people seemingly as old as the world itself.

Somewhere in the deep past the Grid had been laid, framing and controlling the great forces of a living world as it struggled within itself against titanic gravity. It was a masterpiece of engineering and served its purpose in protecting the tiny little creatures settled upon the surface. With the great moon Serenity, known by many another name among the Winkels of the world, acting as a dynamo, using that selfsame gravity against itself, energy was accrued, stored and released within the Grid so that the almost perpetual motion of orbital forces generated inexhaustible supplies to power everything from city lights to a child's toy. A blessing.

Except the storm barriers spoiled this paradise for all.

Trogon Yield had studied Tinker lore for decades, as was his birth right, being a child of Affinity. He knew the five fold ways to bypass those barriers when they were at their most potent. A Tinker could travel anywhere. It had always been so. The established order of things. Why should only they have such a privilege? Why could not everyone do as he?

Every system has a flaw. Every safety device an override function. Trogon's mind was shaped like a mechanism, for he lived and breathed such things. He knew the great Grid protected Winkel World from itself. Yet the great mechanism was susceptible to smaller devices that overrode it without jeopardising its main function. Such a device was the Triple Shield.

Ironic name, Trogon mused. It was not a shield at all, but a weapon. A blade capable of cutting through the Grid, shifting the framework of reality so that the wielder could step from one place to another effortlessly. In the hands of silly little school girls it was a toy to play with. In the hands of a Master Tinker it could change the very fabric of time and space itself. This he was certain of. Except of course he would have to get his hands on the device to see if the theory which fermented in his wayward brain had its equivalent in the land of reality.

Once he had confirmed the location of what he sought from those identical imps, Trogon Yield had doubled back from Cherryball Flats, allowing time to dim the day into twilight so he could hover among the itchy and noisy rhododendron bushes that flanked an obscure gateway into the grounds of the exclusive school. He waited and watched and found his little informants were truthful in their words. The great building was quiet, the grounds were empty and the gateway unguarded.

The man was genuinely disappointed when he found the gate unlocked. Thus he replaced a curious little box thing back in his pocket with a sigh. He had so looked forward to using his omnikey, a device he had tinkered with and perfected over the past five years. Rarely had he an opportunity to test its merits since then, though on one occasion, confronted by a curiously elaborate lock upon a pale blue door at the back of some building back in Portangel, having not long been in Frangea, he could not resist its challenging complexity. When he found what the barrier protected he ran for his life amid well thrown missiles, for it was an emergency exit to a ladies' bath house.

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No such dangers in a half deserted school during the summer holidays, thank goodness. There were pupils still there, staff as well, idle folk without homes to go to no doubt, but they would be absorbed in whatever trivial little things that governed their lives. They would not be expecting a Master Tinker to glide into their world like a shadow, deep into the very midst of them, only to glide out again like a whisper barely heard. How long, he chuckled, would it take for them to notice something was missing, something priceless, yet so casually on display but yards from so accessible a main entrance? Foolish creatures. Yet they would thank him in the end for his tinkering.

Crash!

Where did that flower pot come from? It seemed to jump out at his elbow like an irritating child whining for attention.

Trogon remained deathly still in the shadows, hoping no one had noticed the accident. With stealthy movements he toed the scattered soil and pot fragments behind the pedestal upon which the accursed plant had sat moments before, waiting to interrupt his grandiloquent musings upon his ability to blend in and remain undetected. Also his world changing brilliant plan.

Where was he? Ah yes. Glory.

Frangea would honour him as a saviour of civilisation for he would be the one who opened the Winkel World, to let the fruitful nations expand beyond their squared off borders and lay down settlements based on the true topography of the land. No longer storm barriers curtailing endeavour, but high mountains acting as natural breaks between peoples, wide rivers shaping territories yet also routes for great trading missions. It was the true way of things. The better way.

Clatter!

Why must these old school buildings conceal metal implements of inexplicable purpose just inside the door?

Trogon had skittered across the space from the garden wall, making only the slightest of crunching sounds upon the annoying gravel, scattered some odd looking pigeons that cooed and wobbled with but a slight disturbance, before he skipped lightly up the steps with barely a patter of footfalls. No one could have heard him. He was safely in the building, but then a flutter of dark robes engendered by his swift and decisive move caught upon a rack of metal rods hidden in shadow, shadow he wished to occupy so as to remain undetected.

Again the man froze, listening for a reaction to the clattering noise. All remained serene, dim lights and dark corners unchanged by the disturbance. Deftly he picked up the scattered things, dropped only one on the marble floor before retrieving it again, and sighed when they were all out of sight and out of his way.

Carpeted stairs before him posed no obstacle to such stealth and in a flash he was up the first flight, then turning he saw that which would change the world. Exactly as was described, the Triple Shield sat upon a velvet stand within a cabinet of glass, proudly on display in a landing that overlooked the foyer. A quick glance to confirm the continued emptiness of the entrance way, and he leapt the remaining steps to bring him level with his prize.

A sneer of disappointment appeared on his shadowed face, for even this container that protected such a precious thing had no lock upon it.

With a trembling, and it must be said, a rather clammy hand he reached for the pretty golden latch and pulled the glass panel open. This close he could see the trophy, gleaming in artfully arranged subdued lighting. A silvery thing it was, like a mysterious giant flower of three decorated petals with a centre of bevelled rings marked with symbols. He paused and examined the legendary device, musing on its origins and the influence it had upon past history. The clammy hand, still trembling, reached forward.

"Two little identical birds told me you might appear," a soft girlish voice broke the heavy silence.

There sat upon the polished floor, crosslegged and very still, was the figure of a small girl with long black hair, a benign expression of gentle concern upon her round face, and a powerful electric stun wand in one hand, thumb upon its activating button.