“Like the blacksmith,” Wren concluded.
“Aye.”
Wren caught Shrike’s gaze and held it in expectation.
Bewilderment flickered through Shrike’s eyes for a moment before he drew the same conclusion as Wren. He didn’t seem to take any satisfaction in it. If anything given how he shifted his gaze, Wren supposed him embarrassed. Trust Shrike to remain modest despite the evident strength of his reputation amongst the fae host.
Shrike strode past many a peddler which drew Wren’s attention. A fae with tufted ears had filled their booth with every sort of stringed instrument imaginable—many beyond Wren’s imagination—and demonstrated a dulcimer for another fae with damselfly wings. The resulting tune tugged at something within Wren he hadn’t realized had been left wanting his whole life. Shrike’s hand on the small of his back kept him moving along, past another booth piled high with armour and armaments, some gleaming, some rusted, and others with fresh scarlet spatter glistening amidst the silver. But not until they reached a particular painted wagon did Shrike halt his stride.
The first thing that caught Wren’s eye was not the goods proffered, but the seller. Specifically, the seller’s eyes. They were not an unusual shade, nor an unusual shape. There were, however, six of them; two on the brow, and two high on the cheek, with the more typical pair arranged between. Wren hadn’t felt afraid for his own sake before in the fae realms—how could he, when Shrike stood at his side—but nonetheless a cold spike of alarm drove through him as he locked eyes with too-many-eyes and watched them blink out of turn. Then they turned away to barter with a fox-tailed fae. Wren, no longer pinned down by the tripled stare, found himself able to breathe again and to notice other details about the peddler. Such as their spindly limbs with too many joints shifting beneath their tunic sleeves. Or the stringy green hair hanging down over their pointed ears.
Wren forced his gaze away from the fae altogether. Their wagon proved almost as interesting and far less alarming. Wine-red pomegranates spilled forth from wicker bushel baskets, alongside heart-shaped persimmons and tangerines and something that looked rather like a tangerine except as small as an olive and—if Wren were to believe the example set by the fox-tailed fae who bartered for a palmful ahead of them—they were to be eaten whole, rind and all.
As the fox-tailed fae wandered off eating their prize, the peddler turned their peculiar gaze on Shrike. Shrike dug into his satchel and brought forth the eyeless mask. In exchange, the many-eyed fae gave him three pomegranates that, while plump and bright, seemed hardly sufficient payment for the quality of Shrike’s craftsmanship.
Yet Shrike slipped them into his satchel with a nod of thanks and continued on his way. Wren followed him and tried to ignore the feeling of six eyes watching his retreat.
Shrike next halted before a stall both formed from and filled with beast pelts. The furs presented for sale included at least one tiger, as Wren assumed from its fire-and-coal striped hide, and several shaggy bears, though others proved more difficult to identify. One particular specimen that began with feathers, continued into fur, and ended with scales gave him considerable pause. Some were merely skins tanned into leather.
The fae who hung the skins from the branches was a peculiar little creature with a tufted tail and a hat with a wide brim that flopped down over their face. They greeted Shrike with a queer chirruping sound. Shrike gave them the patchwork mask. They took it from him without handing over anything in return. Shrike didn’t seem to expect it of them. He took his leave with a nod. Wren followed suit.
“Do they not pay you for the masks?” Wren asked when he thought they’d passed out of earshot.
“They do,” said Shrike.
“They didn’t just now,” Wren pointed out. “Are the masks given out on credit? Or have they paid in advance?”
“The masks will grant me their service for a year and a day.”
“Which begins tonight,” Wren concluded. “For the pomegranates, at least.”
Shrike smiled. He brought forth one of the pomegranates from his satchel. A swift twist of his strong hands sufficed to break its ring and reveal the glistening jewels within. He held it out to Wren.
Wren accepted with unaccountable fluttering in his heart. He plucked out one particular fruit and popped it into his mouth. It burst all the sweeter for Shrike having given it to him. “And what will you receive for the patchwork mask?”
“The services of the tannery. For a year and a day I may leave my hunted hides in a particular hollow stump and expect to find them returned there cured. The air of Blackthorn has improved much since we came to that arrangement.”
Wren, who had the misfortune to walk through the reek of a tannery once or twice in his time in London, readily agreed. “Why a year and a day? Why not simply a year?”
“Most contracts run thus in the fae realms. They have done so for centuries. I know not why.”
“I suppose,” Wren conceded, “it’s no more odd than a Bond Street tailor giving his price in guineas rather than pounds.”
Shrike furrowed his brow in confusion.
“A guinea is worth one pound and one shilling,” Wren explained.
“Ah,” said Shrike, though he didn’t quite look satisfied, and indeed appeared as if he might enquire further.
Before he could, a sudden silence descended on all the Moon Market like a fog falling over a moor.
Wren feared he’d done something to try the patience of the gathered fae. But a glance across the mute crowd showed no eyes fixed on him in turn. Some, he noted, looked to Shrike.
Most looked down the winded wooded market path to a figure which loomed over all.
A grey horse, some fourteen hands high, strode through the crowd, at a languid yet deliberate pace despite the lack of reins. Its rider was a lady whose gown fell like a waterfall over her steed’s flanks, whereupon its moon-white folds faded to a blush, then crimson, and finally, as it dragged over the moss and tree-roots beneath her, to a dark ragged hem like lace burnt black. Even Wren, who did not oft take note of women’s beauty, felt awe-struck by her ethereal grace.
The grey horse halted before Shrike.
