“I feel quite like a minnow, Scruff, about to swim against a tide of spawning salmon.” Even so, she paid the bridge toll-keeper a copper penny, then plunged into the mass, trying to master the intricate ballet.
Camille made her way along the teeming street, foot traffic flowing about her, and though she did not know the dance, it seemed the others did, and so she progressed slowly along the way without crashing into anyone, or rather without them crashing into her. And as she went, instead of a faceless mob, she began to see individuals: tall, short, rotund, slim, breathless, sweating, rushing, casually ambling, standing still, elegantly dressed or wearing rags, some selling goods from carts or open-air stands.
“Oh, Scruff, that must be a Dwarf.” Camille paused and watched the bearded, short, broad-shouldered being cross athwart the street to disappear down a byway. “I think he was no taller than I am.”
Camille continued onward, and she came to a footbridge arching across to another island. Ahead, she saw a group of Dwarves-five or six-coming her way, and she stood aside to study them as they passed. Indeed, she was nearly a full head taller than any, each of them somewhere in the range of four-foot-six or so. Yet they were very broad of shoulder, and they all wore leather vests with small, overlapping plates of bronze affixed thereon. Oh, ’tis armor they wear. Is this a warband, or do all Dwarves go about accoutered so? At their belts they wore daggers, but no other weaponry did they bear. All were bearded, and all seemed to be male. And they spoke to one another in a rather guttural and harsh-seeming tongue.
After they passed, Camille continued onward, her gaze now on faces and forms. Most were Human- “Common salt,” Louis would say — while others were Fey. She saw someone child-size, three foot tall or so, brown and shaggy and quite ugly. Spriggan? Her heart gave a lurch. No, not a Spriggan, but what? Mayhap one of those Alain called Pwca, yet then again, mayhap not. Onward she went, making her way along the crowded street, passing across bridges, progressing toward the big island, where Girard had said the inn would be. As she came nigh the midmost isle, she encountered two bearers carrying a small, silk-curtained litter, and Camille heard high-pitched giggling coming from within, sounding much like the giggles she had heard in the Springwood an eternity past, or it seemed that long ago. Still, she did not see who or what made the laughter.
Finally, as the sun lipped the horizon, she came upon the Crown and Scepter, a rather modest but quiet inn sitting a bit back from the sheer drop to the water below. The clerk looked somewhat askance at Scruff riding on Camille’s shoulder, and he shook his head and grinned, saying, “We get all sorts here, ma’amselle.”
“Maps?”
Camille nodded.
“Of Faery?”
Again Camille nodded.
It was the next morn, and Camille had decided to start the day speaking with any mapmakers in the city. And so, after breaking fast, she had asked the serving maid, who referred her to Huges, the desk clerk.
“Well, now,” said Huges, “I’m not certain there is such a thing, the way Faery keeps changing, and all.”
Even as Camille’s heart sank at this news, a second man, sitting at a desk behind the counter, quill in hand, looked up from his ledger sums. “Huges, that’s an old wives’ tale. Faery doesn’t shift about like a tassel in the wind.”
Huges raised an admonishing finger. “I only repeat what I hear, Robert.”
“Well, then, let me ask you this: how long have you lived here in Les Iles?”
Huges turned up his hands. “Why, I’ve been here almost as long as has the Crown and Scepter.”
“Ah, then, a good long while, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed.”
Robert smiled. “We agree. Now answer me this: how often has this part of Faery changed in all that time?”
Huges frowned. “Why, not at all.”
Robert touched his temple with the feathered plume. “And what would you conclude from that? — I mean about Faery changing and all.”
Huges’s jaw jutted out stubbornly, and he snapped, “Perhaps the ’scape of Faery doesn’t change much around here, but elsewhere, now.. well that may be a different story altogether.”
Robert sighed, then looked across at Camille. “Ma’amselle, I suggest you visit the docks, for perhaps they know of mapmakers and chartsmen and other such.”
“Merci, sieur. I shall do so.”
A fortnight later, her legs weary from climbing up and down ladders and stairs on the sheer-sided steeps of the isles, Camille had located many folk who had charts-boatsmen; traders; merchants, three of whom did sell maps-yet none knew of the place she sought.
Then she began seeking out minstrels and bards, visiting the parks where some played or orated, stopping on street corners to talk to others, walking alongside strolling musicians, and haunting taverns and theaters and music halls to speak with any she found. And she asked if they knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, and she also asked after Rondalo.
And all those she queried shook their heads or turned up their hands, though one had heard of the Elven bard, but had never met him.
She continued to visit the docks, for every day boats and travellers came and went, but it seemed a hopeless cause, for none knew of such a place, nor of a bard so named.
And another moon elapsed, and more blossoms withered away.
Oh, my Alain, one hundred ninety-nine blossoms remain; one hundred sixty-seven gone. Will I find you ere all are faded away?
In the lanternlight, Camille, having taken a late meal, trudged up the steps to her chamber. But at the top of the stairs, she heard Scruff chirping frantically even though it was night and he should have been well asleep. Fearing fire or some such, Camille rushed to her door and inside. Light from the hallway lantern shone dimly into the darkened room. “ Chp! — chp! — chp!.. ”-Camille could hear Scruff chattering from the direction of the bed, and in the dimness she could faintly see his wee form fluttering and flopping about on the covers. Swiftly, Camille lit a lantern and then quickly stepped to the agitated bird. “What is it, Scruff?” Camille knelt at the side of the bed, eye level with the sparrow, and she held out a finger, but Scruff ignored the offer and, fluttering awkwardly, he hopped to the floor and toward an open window, where a faint breeze stirred the curtains.
Camille frowned. I do not remember leaving the sash ajar.
Now she looked about the room. Oh, no! The chifforobe stood open, the drawers pulled out, the contents of her rucksack were strewn about, her cloak lying on the floor. As Scruff chattered up at the open window, Camille rushed to the scattered goods. The rucksack was empty, the secret pocket lay open, all the contents gone. She turned to her cloak; the lining was slitted; the jewelry and coin that had been therein was gone as well. And her money belt no longer lay in the bottommost drawer.
“Oh, Scruff, we have been robbed.”
The clerk called the city watch, and two men showed up, but there was little they could do, except take a description of the stolen goods-coin, jewelry, money belt. They did, however, tsk-tsk and admonish her for not taking better care of her valuables; and when she replied she thought the inn quite safe from thieves and such, they smiled and told her she was nought but a gullible girl.