I dressed and sat down by the fire to eat my breakfast and plan my next move. On to the city, to be sure, but now that I was not dead, nor invisible, I would need to be careful. Blacktooth and his watch would be looking for me, and my having dirked his leftenant in the ham would not help in making my case for Drool’s release. No, I would have to find my way to the gendarmerie and see if I might free Drool by way of stealth, trickery, and cunning, the tools I’d learned as a cutpurse, and, failing those, subterfuge, guile, and duplicity, the skills I’d acquired at court.
I finished the fairy’s fare. What forest magic she had employed to shell so many nuts in the night without waking me, I could not say, but for the first time in a week my gut unknotted and I could turn my attention to other tasks undistracted. But which way was west and the city? The sun lay well below the forest’s canopy, and I could not remember which side of a tree moss was supposed to grow on, nor why moss was supposed to have a better sense of direction than I in the first place. Then I spotted it, three straight sticks laid out upon the ground in the pattern of an arrow. Good Cobweb, called by her night queen’s horn, had thought to leave me directions. Perhaps I had been too harsh with the haglet for simply succumbing to my prodigious charm.
I slung the waterskin around my shoulder, hitched up my cod, and set off in the direction in which the arrow pointed. I set a stuttering pace, picking my way through the ferns and deadfall until, perhaps after an hour, I encountered a path, where I, at last, felt my sea legs slip away and marched steady and fast until I heard a squirrel-startling scream from ahead.
“Help!”
Wisdom would suggest the best route would have been away from the shout, but having been only recently rescued from the sea by a stranger, the spirit of human charity bubbled high in my heart, so I ran toward the call. (Which also happened to be the direction in which I was headed, anyway.) I broke out of the trees and came onto a grotto with a shallow stream running by it, and there, not twenty yards away, at the water’s edge, by an enormous boulder shaped like a turtle, stood the fairy trickster Puck, clutching desperately at a sapling, as if he could not catch his breath.
“Puck,” said I.
“Oh, alack, alack, alack, good Prince Pocket of Soggy Dog, I am slain! I am slain!”
“You are not,” said I. He was standing right there, wearing my hat, decidedly un-fucking-slain.
Then the Puck loosed his grip on the sapling, gasped, and turned as he slid to the ground, facedown. I could see the shaft and fletching of an arrow jutting from his ribs just below his right arm. Blood coursed down his side with each beat of his heart. By the time I splashed my way to him, the coursing had slowed to oozing. I crouched and rolled the Puck onto his side as best I could, careful not to disturb the arrow, but my concern was for naught, the fairy was quite dead. I held his head in my lap and scanned the banks of the stream for the archer—listened for kicked rocks or rustled brush, but heard none. The blood trail in the sand ran only a few steps back. The Puck had fallen nearly where he’d been when the bolt struck, which meant that I, in the open streambed, would make an easy target for the next bolt. Hairs bristled on my neck with the thought of the murderer taking aim.
“Rest in peace,” said I, pulling back his hat and crossing the fairy’s forehead with a quick drawing in his own heart’s blood. I had not been on speaking terms with the god of my nunnery in many years (in my defense, he started it) but the passing of this Puck, this magical, perhaps ancient, magnificently annoying creature, deserved some reverent observance, even if done only to irony, the god of all fools. That done, I leapt to my feet and sprinted for the cover of a stand of bushes in the direction from which I’d just come, bracing for a bolt between the shoulder blades that might come any instant. I scrambled under the bushes and peeked out at Puck’s body, one of my throwing daggers already in hand. Not a movement in the trees, not a sound but the gentle jingle of the brook. The only direction I knew not to contain the killer was the one from which I had come, so after a quick three-count, I was on my feet, running back down the path with urgent stealth, only a squirrel chittering away above betraying my presence. Yes, it was away from the direction in which I thought the gendarmerie and Drool to lie, but I could trace a wide arc to my destination later if it meant avoiding a murderer now. This wasn’t the work of a random cutthroat or highwayman. The Puck’s name had been on the lips of every person I’d met since landing here, a favorite of kings and court, and who knew how old he might have been, how many half-marmot sons he might have fathered who would be seeking vengeance? No, the death of Robin Goodfellow would not go unnoticed, and whoever had done it would think nothing of murdering a charming wisp of a fool to cover his crime. And then . . .
“Fuckstockings,” I said to the trees, to the sky, to the sodding squirrels. “My hat.”
And I turned and padded back again toward the stream and the scene of murder most foul, to retrieve my coxcomb. My hat, which had been made to match my motley. My hat, which had graced my noggin in the company of nearly every random Greek I’d met. My hat, which now rested like a pillow beneath the head of the dead Puck.
Puck looked like a sleeping child, lying there on his side against the turtle rock, his feet in the water. From the spot behind my shrubbery, I scanned the streambed up and down, and, seeing no one, made my way to the body.
“Sorry, mate,” I said as I retrieved my hat from under the Puck’s head. Poor creature, not even a hat to his name. The fairy’s feet, washed clean by the brook, still lay in the water. Perhaps having been so recently a dead fool myself, I could not leave him thus, his feet to be eaten by prawns and snails and whatever other watery creatures lived in a Grecian stream. I arranged the Puck’s arms over his head so as not to disturb the arrow in his side and dragged him a few feet away from the water. Perhaps his people would find him before the woodland creatures made their supper of him. I saw now the arrow in his side was not an arrow at all, but a bolt from a crossbow, some heavy black wood, perhaps even metal, composed its shaft, the fletching made from stiffened leather, not feathers. Just so, the arrow from a proper English longbow would have been three times the length. This one appeared to have pierced the Puck to his heart or nearby, only a handbreadth protruded from his ribs.
“Halt!” came a voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder to see a watchman stepping out of the forest behind me. I dropped the Puck’s arms and turned to run.
“Hold there, or die on the spot,” said a different voice. I glanced over my other shoulder to see Burke, leftenant of the watch, lowering a cocked crossbow at me. I stopped. Three watchmen at his flanks lowered their spears, then Blacktooth stepped from behind a tree.
“Oh, good captain,” I said. “Look, I’ve found the Puck for you. I trust there will be a reward.”
* * *
“Pocket! My friend. My friend,” called Drool through an iron grate in a heavy cell door as we entered a wide, round antechamber lined with cells. I was slung by my bound hands and feet from a pole being carried by two watchmen, which was how I’d made my way through the forest and then the walled city into the tunnels of the gendarmerie—Blacktooth feeling that was the safest mode of transport after my previous disappearance into thin air. Likewise, the dead Puck was slung from a similar pole between two other watchmen. At the stream, Burke had argued that dispatching me on the spot would ensure my secure delivery to the city, but Blacktooth countered that my continued presence among the quick might mitigate to the duke their colossal cock-up in retrieving the Puck.