I watch until I'm sure that the old man makes it to the harbor unobserved, then take my leave. The bulk of the action will take place a few days hence, when the king makes a great ceremony out of the tributes' walk into the labyrinth, so I don't need to focus on this world in the intervening time. I leave a few fragments of myself scattered around to warn me if anything changes, and remind myself to return in a couple days.

Then I cast the majority of my attention back to Ben.

He's currently engaged in a chat with our erstwhile guide, who seems puzzled by Ben's willingness to hang around the castle for days on end. Ben, in his turn, doesn't seem to understand why most mortals. – indeed, most fae – quickly grow bored with the unchanging life in the staid high court, and wish to venture to more adventurous parts of Underhill.

As it happens, I can sympathize with both points of view, but right now I'm on the elf's side. I have a thousand questions I want answered, and none of them will be answered here.

When the elf asks, for what's probably the fifth time, if the huntsman would like to go anywhere, I make a sound that approximates the clearing of a throat. Both men jump. The elf, who recovers from his surprise first, frowns at me. "Yes, cousin?" His tone, though barely within the bounds of politeness, holds a wealth of skepticism. I suspect that he's bored chaperoning us around, and fears that anything I say will only increase, not alleviate, that boredom.

I'm rather pleased to surprise him. "If it's no trouble to you, I'd like to visit the Goblin Market," I declare.

Ben pales. "Didn't ya say that that was dangerous?" he asks incredulously.

The elf nods, looking dour. "It is not a safe place for mortals," he warns.

I tell my mask to frown. "However, it's the best place to find answers to questions, even the questions you don't know to ask," I reply. "And really, it isn't too dangerous if you follow the rules." Or at least that's what I'm told. I've never actually been able to explore there, though one of my wielders took me there once, so I hope my information is accurate.

The huntsman's expression clears. "Alright, well, I think I can do that." He pats my mirror, turning it around in his belt to make sure I have a clear view. "Besides, Mary's not mortal, so we should be fine."

Our guide sighs. "On thy head it be." He gestures towards a small door set into the wall. "Follow me." As the huntsman does so, I feel an unusual quiver of excitement dart through me. Am I finally going to get some answers about this tangle slowly closing in around us? If I had a body, I would smile. That would be wonderful.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll even hear word about my elusive creator.

* * *

The golden gates that lead to Goblin Market are kept perpetually open, and a steady stream of traffic passes through them at any hour of day or night – not that day and night mean much here. The sky above the market is tinted with violet and illuminated by a trio of stars scattered across the heavens. The words 'Buyer Beware' are emblazoned on the banner welcoming travelers to Goblin Market, spelled to be readable in any language. The words flicker back and forth in my vision as the spell attempts to figure out which language is my native one; it's not having much luck. I reluctantly pull in the scattered fragments of myself, completing the uncomfortable task as the spell finally settles on Latin: 'Caveat Emptor.' I hate being confined to one point of view, but the strictures of the market necessitate it.

Our guide comes to a halt in the packed dirt just outside of the marketplace. "Here is where I leave thee." He bows to the huntsman with one hand pressed over his heart. "To return to Lord Oberon's court, thou may enter the portal there." He indicates the shimmering portal that had disgorged us moments before. "Think hard of Lord Oberon and it will deliver thee safely to his demesne." I notice that he neglects to mention that it might dump us into the chaos lands if the huntsman fails to muster the proper willpower, but I suppose that doesn't matter much to him.

The huntsman bows in return. "Thank ya, milord, for the assistance." As the elf vanishes into the portal, he pulls my mirror from his belt and taps the frame. "Mary? What now?"

I shape the mask in the mirror into a smile. "Now we enter the market."

The entryway to the marketplace is pandemonium given flesh. Horses, camels, deer, and stranger mounts jostle for space against carts of every possible shape and size. A massive, six-legged rat, ridden by a figure swaddled in a long cloak, nearly tramples the huntsman; the rider calls an apology that gets lost in the din. Nearby, a sleek creature eerily reminiscent of a spider oozes through the crowd like an eel, followed by indignant cries. A rotund human man chases after it, screaming imprecations. The huntsman tenses, like he wants to do something, but the crowd closes behind them and they vanish from view.

An icy waterfall douses me the moment we enter the market proper, and I flinch. I know what's coming, and all I can do is accept it. I have a nanosecond to steel myself, and then the market's power snaps into a rigid cage around me. A mortal might interpret the sensation as claustrophobic, which isn't a bad metaphor. I'm still connected to the rest of my mirrors, but the connection feels tenuous, and I can't reach beyond it. The trillions upon trillions of fragments of myself recoil into the space between the worlds like rubber bands that have been stretched to their limits. It's a singularly unpleasant sensation.

Thankfully, the crowds thin once we're past the initial crush. The huntsman lifts my mirror up and turns it in a slow circle; I tell my mask to give him a grateful smile. My knowledge of this place is more than a century old, and belongs to a sibling universe anyway. Who knows if any of it is relevant in this time and place? Plus, even when my former wielder took me here, she never showed me around; I only saw a few tents. Right now, I'm nearly as blind and ignorant as a mortal.

A young woman with emerald skin, wearing strategically placed chains and nothing else, slips out of the crowd. "Looking for something?" she calls, sidling up to the huntsman. "That's a pretty mirror you have." She wets her lips, and I catch a glimpse of pointed canines. "I can help you with whatever you need or desire."

He blushes hotly. "Um, no thanks." She pouts, but another easy mark quickly catches her attention, and she slinks away.

"Just ignore her," a slender man near us advises. "She'll suck you dry if you let her." He flicks one of the furry, foxlike ears sitting on top of his head, and gives the huntsman a sharp-toothed grin. "Though, she's right on one thing. You do look like you need help." As he turns slightly, I notice his trio of auburn tails. That, combined with the gi top and hakama that he's wearing, make me think that he's probably a kitsune. I haven't had much contact with the race, but from what I know they're basically honest tricksters, as contradictory as that sounds.

"Yeah?" the huntsman asks cautiously. He's clearly paid more attention to old folk tales than that idiot princess.

The kitsune shrugs. "I know this place like the back of my hand. Whatever you're looking for, I can find it."

The huntsman shifts his weight from foot to foot. "And what'll I owe ya?"

"Chocolate?" The kitsune licks his lips with a startlingly red tongue. "You're human, right? Got any chocolate?" A dreamy look creeps into his hazel eyes, and he runs his tongue over his upper lip again.

The huntsman blinks in confusion, then tips my mirror to face him. "Chocolate?" he asks.

I run through a quick mental calculation. I'm fairly sure that the kitsune is referring to the spicy beverage formed from ground cacao seeds, though I can't be positive on that. Language shifts so much between universes sometimes, and I have no idea what time or world the kitsune hails from. If he means what I think he does, the huntsman doesn't have access to it – the seeds only grow in lands halfway across the world from his country. "We don't have it, sorry," I tell the kitsune, whose eyes widen.

"So... what's this?" He reaches towards my mirror with a black-nailed hand before making an apologetic face and pulling his hand back. "Sorry, that was rude of me." His expression seems torn between disappointment at our lack of chocolate and curiosity about my presence.

The huntsman smiles. "This is Mary." He holds out a hand to the kitsune. "And I'm..." I guess he's assuming that the kitsune isn't fae, or he's forgetting that it's a bad idea to give out his name.

I wince and hastily start to speak up – Goblin Market is not a place to be even slightly forgetful – when the kitsune holds up a hand. "Don't," he warns. "I'm a nice guy, I don't do any of that black magic crap with names. But Goblin Market isn't a great place to bandy that around, if you get my drift. I'll let you know that for free." Propping a hand on his hip, he grins invitingly. "So, you've got a magic mirror. I like it. What are you looking for?"

"Ah..." The huntsman holds me out in explanation.

"Have you heard of any time mages around here?" I ask. A time mage is most likely to have answers for me, or at least be able to point us in the right direction. "Or possibly any artifact craftsmen? Someone who makes sapient objects, maybe?" I want to thank him for saving Ben from himself, but thanking the fae is simply not done. Mortals can do it without worry, as they don't have the same concepts of debt and repayment, but for other fae, it'd be almost as bad as giving them a real name – a thank you often implies debt in the fae courts, and no fae want to be indebted to each other without cause.

The kitsune taps the side of his nose in a gesture that's probably supposed to look knowing. "Something like you, you mean?" I tell the mask to nod, and he shrugs. "Not that I can think of, but my friend might know." He whistles shrilly, and an androgynous figure slithers out of the crowd. 'Slithers' is definitely the right word; instead of legs, they've got a powerful serpent tail. Their top half is relatively human, complete with a pair of arms, though plastered with scales in varying shades of brown.

"Yesssss?"

The kitsune claps them on the shoulder. "These lovely folks are looking for a time mage or an artifact maker, like the one who made the lady in the mirror. They don't have any chocolate," he pouts briefly, "but they seem like good people."

"I'm not a lady," I grumble, but it goes unheard.

The naga – I assume they're a naga – tips their head to the side. A forked tongue darts out of their mouth, tasting the air, and they smile thinly. "No tempussss wielderssss that I know, but..." They tip their head to the other side. "Oh, of coursssssse. I know the ssssscent of thisssss one'ssss power, I think. But she'sssss not around here anymore."

I start to ask for more information, when a gigantic lizard-like creature lumbers past, tail swinging. Hundreds of faces protrude from its flanks, mouths gaping in silent wails. "Hey, watch it!" the kitsune snaps, jumping out of the way. The monster, whatever it is, ignores him, and he scowls. "They'll let anything in here nowadays." As the creature turns down a nearby row, his expression brightens. "Well, anyway, there's your answer. She's not here." He turns to the naga. "Who's she?"

"She goesssss by the name of Quicksssssilver, lasssst I heard."

"Do you know where she is now?" I ask, coaxing the mask into a pleading expression. "I'd love to find her." I can't believe that I've got a name now; I wasn't expecting this at all. It's more than I've had for centuries, even if it's only a pseudonym. I wonder what she's like? Mages run the gamut from friendly grandmothers to bloody nutcases, and you never know which end of the spectrum a given mage will fall on. The powerful ones are almost always crazy in some way, though.

The naga shrugs fluidly. "Assssk at the Golden Boar, they might know more." Apparently deciding that their job is done, they slither back behind a tent without so much as a goodbye.

The kitsune rolls his eyes. "Sorry, folks, I guess that wasn't too helpful. Maybe the guys at the Golden Boar will know more, though; they know everything." He gestures down the main lane of the marketplace. "Just follow this until you come to a tent that looks like a pint-sized castle. Turn left there, then turn right at the stand selling the fuzzipoofs – miniature balls of fluff with eyes. The Golden Boar will be straight ahead, you can't miss it."

"Thank ya, milord," the huntsman replies.

The kitsune waves his hand dismissively, flicking all three of his tails. "Don't mention it. Though if you get the chance, I won't say no to a little chocolate..." The dreamy look is back in his eyes. I wonder if any of my current wielders have access to the Goblin Market as well as chocolate? None come to mind immediately, but maybe someone in a pocket universe might. Or I suppose we could ask Lily; the servants of the high court can create basically anything.

"I'll keep an eye out," I promise. That much is safe. There's no way to trap me into any unpleasant bargains with such an open-ended pledge, though I don't think the kitsune is the sort to play those sorts of games in any case.

"Wonderful!" The kitsune bows, dodging neatly out of the way of a man with a long blue beard striding angrily towards the exit. "I hope to see you folks around, then!"

The huntsman nods and gives him a smile. "Your help is much appreciated. If I can find some chocolate, I'll bring it to you."

I wince again, as the kitsune beams and departs. "You probably shouldn't make promises like that," I murmur, scanning the crowd around us. "He seemed like a good sort, but promises are dangerous." Ben seems so comfortable here most of the time, it's easy to forget that he's just a mortal – he doesn't know the myriad fae customs. If I'm not careful, he might get in serious trouble here, as we aren't protected by guesting laws like we were in Oberon's court.

Ben frowns. "That wasn't... was that a promise?"

I tell my mask to nod, though much of my attention is caught by the blue-bearded man. Though I can barely see him through the crowd, I can see that he now has a harsh grip on the wrist of a terrified young woman in a nightgown, and is dragging her towards the exit. I hope the huntsman doesn't see – one of the rules of Goblin Market is 'mind your own business.' Interfering with others while within the grounds of the marketplace is cause for immediate expulsion, and no one knows where you get expelled to. But I've got a sinking feeling that Ben would ignore any such warnings.

In some ways, I wouldn't blame him. That girl is unlikely to survive this encounter, unless she has some stalwart brothers or cousins to rescue her, and that's rare. Often, men like the one currently striding out of the market manage to kill five or six women before finally being stopped. They pick the unwanted ones, the ones who won't be missed, and mortals, who only care about the people close to them, never bat an eye. Death and suffering are such omnipresent parts of their lives that they hardly notice when such ills occur among strangers; there's no reason to care in those cases. A murder in full view of witnesses might get stopped, but I've seen dozens of passerby ignore the screams coming from a nearby alley until it was too late to do anything but pick up the pieces. Mortals call fae cruel, but the fae have nothing on mortal cruelty.

I sigh. Unfortunately, Goblin Market is not a safe place to try to change that, and I don't want Ben to get hurt when he realizes that. So I give him my best carefree smile, and suggest, "Let's go. The Golden Boar can't be too hard to find."

Ben smiles back. "Sure. Let's see... we're looking for a tiny castle, right?" When I nod, he begins to work his way through the crowd.

Behind us, the man with the blue beard vanishes out of the gate, dragging the girl in the nightgown with him.