It was night and the Hedge was lit by the silvery light of an unseen moon, warmed by balmy airs of a summer forest. Beyond the stockade, the Hedge waited in a perfumed profusion of shadows; within the stockade the night was marred by the ruddy glow of fires, the cries of the damned, the chatter of business and the calls of entertainment. For Sal’s Fleshmarket never slept; as day turned to night, it was only the variety of transactions on offer that changed.

Green entered the market when the night was fullest; when activity was at its lowest and when the guards who watched the gates were at their dullest, after the spiced summer wines had flowed, just before the shift was set to change. The Spymaster had learned much during his month’s of quiet investigation; he chose his moment and quietly slipped passed the stockade. His goal was the scriptorium deep in the shadows at the far end of the Market, lost amid the empty stalls.

The scriptorium: curious extendable contraption that was both cart and bookcase; interlocking pile of tents curiously abandoned at the far end of the market, where the shadows lay thickest and the only watcher was a self absorbed bug creature and its perfumed wares. The scriptorium promised secrets of madness, forgotten lore of nothing, and something of everything else. Like everything else it was a brand, one Green had spent days attempting to understand. Within its cavernous canopies was the person the mountain sought to meet.

Green padded quietly through the Market, hunched low in his worn greatcoat. He made no sound in his Token boots; the Dead Man's boots were excellent for sneaking, even though their whispers clawed at his mind. He accepted that with granite-born stoicism, for tonight he could not summon his usual Contracts to disguise himself. He had to meet this contact truthfully and in person.

"Mister Green? He is within!" The feathery hob who tended the Scriptorium twittered restlessly when Green's huge shadow fell across it.

"Good. Anyone else know? I gave you Goblin Fruit from my own hand, yeah?" Green paused, stood taller, now that he was within the Scriptorium's protective circle of light. He was "in the stall" now, and what little he knew of the Market's laws ensured some measure of protection.

"Ah no. I was quiet-quiet. I paid handsomely for my berth and none questioned it." The nervous creature cringed, hopped on curiously bird-like feet, rubbed rat-like hands nervously. Without waiting much more, the creature darted under the Scriptorium's tent-like canvas.

Green followed.

“Magistrate Remy, ah Mister Green.” The feathery hob twittered and bobbed.

Behind the beaked hob with its massive horn rimmed glasses, the mountain loomed. Remy paused at his reading, laid down the heavy book and stood slowly. He bowed slightly, his gesture a movement of awkward beauty; the wizened had trained rigorously to adapt his stretched and stringy body to the task. “Mister Green. I trust this neutral venue is to your satisfaction.”

“Yeah. Gotta admire your pull... uh... Monsignor. Never expected Sal’s Fleshmarket to host a place where our kind could be safe.” Green inclined his head and stepped forward to the table.

“We Magistrates have our ways, Mr. Green. The Scriptorium is bound to us through the years and countless relationships, ties of trade and hospitality. Sometimes even of alliances, pledges made and kept. Please.” Remy extended an arm, boneless, and gestured to the seat. There was a long pause while the mountain sat and the hob busied itself with an extra lantern. Warm colored light lit the shadows and revealed the canvas folds of the Scriptorium’s cavernous tent. “Leave us.” The hob withdrew.

In the silence the two Changeling’s regarded one another. Green was an elemental, an Earthbones of great height and built like a mountain: all hard rock and harsh planes; for hair he had moss and lichen; eyes gleamed like gemstones. A mantle of winter hung heavy on him, a zone of cold that froze into frosty epaulettes at his shoulder. Monsignor Remy was a wizened, pallid of skin with an impossibly thin trunk and limbs; fingers long and nimble; ears like knives. What gave Remy his mystery was the shapeless wax mask that completely obscured his face. Green could discern nothing from studying it; indeed he could barely see Remy’s eyes - two sunken pits in the uneven and featureless landscape of his face.

Green doubted he could outstare the faceless Magistrate.

"I need answers, yeah? My 'hold has been a long time since it was... whole. You see? So I need to know more. I need to know how it works. The wheel of the year. The Courts. I need to know why. And I hear its your Order..."

"Entitlement..."

"Order. Entitlement. Whatever. I hear you have a... good... understanding on how it all fits together, see."

"I see. Your sovereigns..."

"Well. See. The old one's upped and left, right? The new ones are just getting their feet wet. And the only one's who probably new the secret lore and the old laws that made the whole thing work died when a great dragon burned the house down. You have heard about it, right?"

A pause. "We have heard tales of your little Freehold, yes."

Green paused, took a breath. Now was not the time to get indignant at the truth.

"Well thats good. This little hold was enough to get one of you out here when I put out the call. Its small, yeah, we get that. And someone still needs to tend it."

In the warm lamplight, the waxen mask seemed to shift, flow and crack. Good. Got your attention, Green thought.

"And you think you are... up... ahem. Worthy for this task?"

"I am one of the oldest residents left. I've seen a lot. And I was tasked to look out for the Freehold. Some oaths you keep even without the Wyrd watching over you."