The name along with his weird speech finally made me recall why the surname Pendragon was familiar. The “Merl” Verte mentioned must have been short for Merlin. The man-hungry head “Gwennie” short for Gwenevere.
Kato and Dorthea were from the land of Fairy Tales and wouldn’t know. But I was a child of the forest that separated Myth and Fairy Tales. And these trees were steeped in legends.
But legends were called that for a reason—because they were stories that had already been penned into the compendium, passed down from a different age.
My father used to sit in these treetops with me and tell of how the ironwoods of the Sherwood Forest came to be—born from a battle that littered the forest with blades and blood. A battle where Mordred, the young dark prince, the traitor, the usurper, was killed.
The moon moved out from behind a cloud, and as its light shone down and cast a shadow behind me, Morte’s inky voice whispered, “You should know best of all, little hero. Not all who die stay dead.”
“Rule #9: Dysfunctional families are a cornerstone of fairy tales. If you want to be a happy ever after, it’s imperative that you get an evil stepparent. If your parents are perfect, try getting cursed by an evil fairy and raised by strangers.”
—Definitive Fairy-Tale Survival Guide, Volume 1
8
Hoodwinked
I wanted no part of this. I was ready to run as far and fast as I could in the vain hope I could get clear of whatever had brought back Arthur’s bane. But before I could leave these woods forever, I had one last task to perform for the House of Emerald.
In my experience, rich men became that way because they miserly lorded over their treasures, or they took whatever they wanted to replenish their stores. The Pawnbroker of Nottingham was both, apparently.
This late, I expected him to be fast asleep—just not in the back of his own shop, wearing velvet jammies and drooling on a pile of glittering inventory that would make Aladdin squeal in delight. Pressing my nose to the window, I could just make out some of the open boxes on a nearby table. They said things like “Recall,” “Expired,” and “Sample: Not for Individual Sale.” There were also brand-new, plain, brown boxes nearby for the old goods to be repackaged in.
“Well, that explains your defectiveness,” I said as DumBeau bumped into my back. Including lack of brains, he seemed to have a personal space issue. This was particularly problematic since his ears now stuck out about as far as his shoulders, whacking things as he went by. “There’s no way I can sneak you in there without waking up the Shyster of Rottingham. So you are getting doorbell ditched.”
Just without the doorbell part, I thought and tied his leash to one of the posts supporting the roof. I took my pack off him and laid it by the exit in case I needed to make a hasty getaway.
After reaching into the bag, I felt around for something suitable to pick the lock. I had bread crumbs, an ivory comb with wiry hairs stuck in its teeth, a little black dog figurine I’d swiped from Kato, and my newest addition—a pewter button that had fallen off Mordred’s ax holder. Finally, I found one of Dot’s hairpins.
Something sharp bit into my finger. I pulled out the fairy frog messenger with a little squeeze to keep it from biting me again. First I’d get in, then I’d rely on the fairy frog to get the body out.
Charming that you think it will be so simple, little hero.
With a quick suck of breath, I shoved the frog into the pocket of my Hunstman coat and knelt down in front of the locked door. I tried to remember all the things the Sherwood thieves’ guild had taught me while I was growing up—details far more useful, in my opinion, than Dorthea’s junk lessons on princess slaps and manners.
“First jam the pick to the upper left,” I said quietly to myself. I didn’t make it to the next step because the door swung open under that slight pressure. No, I wasn’t that good. The broker had left the door ajar. Odd for a guy who felt the need to outfit his front perimeter with guarding gnomes. But they’d all been asleep too.
Ugh. I had a bad feeling this was going to end like the palace heist. That door had also opened with ease. How could I have known that blasted emerald dragon would come to life and start shrieking like a milkmaid when I swiped it?
I shook my head. No. This time would be different. In and out. And while the pawnbroker and his snoring were somewhat intimidating, he was no Verte. Thank Grimm she was one of a moldy kind.
Going slowly, I pushed open the door enough to slip inside, ready to scram in case the bolts creaked. Silent as the swan princess, not wanting to linger, I went straight for the shelf labeled “Miracle Grows.”
Near the sole lit candle, a capsule in a vial lay out in the open. No box. No label. I kept looking for one that I could be sure would be the right fit, but the unlabeled vial may have ended up in my pocket. I couldn’t really say. It was dark, and I was busy skimming the ones with boxes.
Grow a Pet. Grow a Heart. Grow a Conscience. Grow a Pair. Ah…Grow a Body. This time I picked the box that had the actual picture on it instead of the cheapo stuff. I couldn’t remember which model I was supposed to grab though.
“Eh. Anything would be an improvement over the last one,” I mumbled, thinking about the lumpy, humpbacked body Hydra used to have. I reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the fairy frog, pinching its lips before it started ribbit cursing me. “You wanna get paid, don’t you?” It stopped trying to glitter bomb me, so I took that as a yes. “Then fairy-ferry this back as fast as you possibly can.” I used the ribbon to tie the box to the flying frog and pitched it out the door for a head start.
And with that, my debt to the House of Emerald was paid. I was free.
“A pawn is never really free.”
I blew out the candle on the shelf, effectively banishing Morte and my shadow with it. “Now, just one last thing.” I pulled the bow and arrows off my back and blindly felt around for the empty corner.
I had a soft spot for unwanted things, so I usually only took small trinkets that had been discarded or that no one would miss. I don’t know what had possessed me to take the bow earlier. Homesickness caused by temporary insanity of repeatedly croaking probably. But I had no need for them. As Mordred’d pointed out, I wasn’t good with a bow; I’d been lousy at archery growing up, despite practicing until my fingers bled. And the years in the palace kitchens had made me handy with a knife but had done zero for my bow work. With a sigh, I placed the bow set back where I’d borrowed it from.
“Now, this is a first. You’ve got some raw talent, boy, but the basic tenet of thieving is taking rather than returning.”