The Eighth Court (The Courts of the Feyr - By Mike Shevdon Page 0,1

to the dark he nevertheless began to think he recognised the person lurking there. There was something familiar about them, the way they hunched their shoulders and cocked their head on one side as if listening. A suspicion formed in his mind, just as the figure stepped out into the light that striped across the grass between the hall of mirrors and the candyfloss stall.

It was a facsimile of himself. Marshdock’s pulse began to race as he wondered why anyone would be impersonating him. It wasn’t as if he was a regular at the fair – he couldn’t recall when he had last been here. That meant that someone knew that he was going to be here. He’d told no one where he was going, so unless he’d been followed – no, more likely someone had heard about the meeting from Carris. One of the go-betweens must have blabbed and now someone wanted to get the jump on him. Someone was trying to steal his prize.

He considered confronting them, right there, but caution was ever his watchword. He would see what they did and make his judgement then. His hand slid to his belt and eased the long knife from its sheath. He held it down behind his leg so the blade would not catch the light and give him away. Better to be ready.

“Marshdock?” The call came from the shadows beyond the waiting impersonator.

“Well who else would it be?” his twin asked, impatiently.

“Were you followed?” asked the voice.

“Certainly not!” said his twin, with conviction.

Carris edged into the light. Since he’d last seen her she’d lost even more weight. Her stick-thin legs in skinny jeans looked too spindly to bear her and she moved in short bursts like a frightened cat, ready to dart into the shadows at the first sign of trouble. Her skin took on a sickly tone in the coloured lights from the fair that no amount of face powder and black eyeliner could disguise. Her black hair hung lank around her face. Marshdock thought he could smell her.

“You know the price?” said Carris, peering into the shadows so that Marshdock was obliged to keep rigidly still or give himself away.

“We can negotiate on that,” said his twin. He even sounds like me, thought Marshdock.

“No negotiation! I want the wraithkin Warder dead! Understand?” Her anger was fierce, but short-lived. “I want my life back,” she said, quietly. “I want some respect.” She faded fast; it was hard to imagine anyone giving her regard in her current state.

“Then you’ll have to produce something worthy of blood-price, won’t you?” said his twin. “A favour for a favour, you know how it works.”

“How can I trust you?” she asked. “This didn’t come from me, understand?”

“Who else can you trust?” said his twin. “And my sources are always anonymous. Now, either you tell me something worth knowing, or I’m leaving. Which is it to be?”

“It concerns the High Court,” said Carris. “That’s gotta be worth something?”

“That depends,” said his twin, cautiously.

“The Seventh Court, they’re here,” she said. “Not just one, there’s a group of them.”

“That’s news indeed,” said his twin, “but hardly a surprise. You’ll need more than that to be worth a blood-debt against a Warder.”

“I’ve seen them,” she said. “They didn’t see me, though. They were meeting someone from the High Court – the who and the why, that’s worth the price, isn’t it?”

Marshdock was close enough to see her fingernails were scraping her palms as she spoke. The need in her was like an addiction. She badly needed this and the negotiator in him saw that the time was right. Now was the moment to strike a deal.

“Well,” said his twin, “that’s interesting information. I’d love to know how you came by it.”

“I told you, I saw it myself,” she insisted. “This is the good stuff – it’s first hand.”

“And who else knows of this?” his twin asked.

“No one except me,” said Carris, “and you, if you agree the price.”

“Good,” said his twin. It was indeed good stuff, thought Marshdock, if no one else knew of this.

His twin turned away for a moment, as if weighing up the worth of the offer. Then he twisted in the air, spinning on the spot. Something flashed in the light and Carris gave a soft, “Uh!”

Standing before her was no longer the hunched figure of himself, but a tall figure with dark hair and sharp, pale cheekbones in a long Edwardian coat. In his hand was a bright blade, the end