Q's Key

Q's Key

By Ursula Kathrine Spiller

Copyright 2017 Ursula Katherine Spiller

2nd Edition 2018

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue – Quicksilver Smith

Chapter One – A Lake to Cross

Chapter Two – Weaving the Pattern

Chapter Three – Change of the Wind

Chapter Four – Trail of Old

Chapter Five – A Path Shared

Chapter Six – Moving Currents

Chapter Seven – Barrel of Words

Chapter Eight – Winter Fold

Chapter Nine – The City of Lights

Chapter Ten – The Forest Cave

Chapter Eleven – Behind Mirrors and Pools

About the Author

Prologue – Quicksilver Smith

It's not actually her key. Yes, it says 'Q's Key' in the title, and you could rightfully claim that it's misleading. It might yet prove to be not quite as misleading as it seems. Q only has two keys, and both of them are entirely ordinary. One of them opens the front door to her parents' cottage, and the other is for their smithy. She carries both of them on a ring tied to her belt, and apart from a little jingle whenever she walks, they don't do anything special. This sorts out the 'key' part of the title. Let's look at the 'Q' part now. Q is short for Quicksilver, which is the most ordinary of first names, and Q had to grow up with at least five kids in her dusty street turning their heads when her parents called her in for dinner, before they soon decided to just call her Q. She's always been told that Quicksilver was the only name for her, because she is hard to get a hold of, much like the metal she's named after. Which is ridiculous. How could anyone have known what she would grow up to be like, back when she was just a baby? She couldn't have been harder to grasp than any other baby. Babies are babies. Some cry more, and some cry less, but none of them slip through your fingers and run into the gaps between the floorboards. But, alas, such are the stories children are told by their parents. At least Q actually has quicksilver-coloured eyes.

As ordinary as her first name is, as odd is her last name. You see, her parents love their work so much that they decided to call themselves 'the Smithes', causing quite the stir with their families. One does not simply adopt something as lowly as a profession as a name. Where would we be if Mirageians would just name themselves after whatever strikes their fancy? We'd have Millers, Carpenters, and Spinners. Well, they do have quite a lot of spinners in Q's town, but you're not going to call yourself that, now, are you? So, Q's name is – quite oddly – Quicksilver Smith. 'Oddly' because her surname is odd in and of itself, and because you can't forge quicksilver. You can keep it locked in a casting mould, but all it takes is a crack, and there runs the precious metal. Q's parents have long since stopped trying to mould their daughter, accordingly. She never needed much moulding and only occasionally stepped out of line. Q is a decent blacksmith, and she has a particular knack for more delicate work, and her parents let her. When she's lucky, she even gets to work with a spot of gold. The family isn't noteworthy in terms of wealth, but they get by comfortably. Thinking about it, it's probably not all that unusual that they would. There are several smithies in town, but were you to, say, look for a smithy, the first name that would pop into your head would be 'Smith'. So perhaps the name is useful if not usual. Of course, the Smithes are also very good at what they do. It takes passion to name yourself after one. Q is... well, she's not dispassionate about her family's chosen profession, but she hasn't yet convinced herself that she wants to do it for the rest of her life either. Forging gold is a treat, and forging the ornaments of an expensive balcony railing is satisfying, but then, Q is young, and the young need to see what there is in the world, so they can learn what they are, and Q hasn't seen a lot of anything, much less the world. She doesn't think about it much either, because she hasn't grown up wanting for anything, which is a good situation to be born into. However, not wanting for anything leads to not asking questions... and sometimes all it takes is but a single one.

Today, Q is working on a stairway railing for Magistrate Flummadiddle. Now that is a respectable name. Good, strong animal. Not that Magistrate Flummadiddle has any flummadiddles to call his own. There are some rumours that the empress has one, but capturing and keeping them is insanely expensive and takes a lot of space, food, caretakers for the extensive scale grooming, language mages or tutors to overcome the language barrier between a Mirageian and whatever distinct flummadiddle dialect the flummadiddle is shrieking... and so on. Ah, yes, I forgot. Q is a Mirageian. I could try to describe them to you, but I don't think your language has the necessary components to do so. Mirageians have two legs with feet, two arms with hands as well as a head and something you could call nose, mouth, and eyes. It gets complicated from there. For ease of communication, I shall use expressions that are familiar to you. But, really, they're not that different from Humans at all. Why, just the other day, one of Q's neighbours has – in a fit of rage – called her grandfather a 'dog'. Not that she knew what a dog is or why it would be an insult (lovely animals, dogs, or so I'm told), but sometimes such odd little things happen. Like that creature you saw in a dream once. It looked quite Human, didn't it, but you were still certain that it wasn't. Might have been a Mirageian. The boundaries can get a bit thin, and some pieces trickle through, but the thing is... it doesn't matter. All the worlds are just floating like leaves on a lake, between blessed Skies above and the chthonic Netherdomain below, if one believes in such things. We all know of the leaves on the lake, of course, and we all just try to somehow get by, don't we? Some of us try to get by by making stairway railings for magistrates named Flummadiddle in a small but practical smithy with a purring, sleeping seelite by one of the fires that are warming the room full of candles and torches on surfaces and walls. Whenever possible, there are no spells to light the Smithes' workplace, even if Q is both fond of and talented with letting light spells dance at her fingertips. ('Fingertips' is the right word, isn't it?) Spells can interfere with the metal that needs to take shape on its own. Magic swords are rubbish and will let you down when it counts, no matter what the stories would like to tell you. It just sounds more dramatic to have a magic sword rather than a plain sword. As if doing magic with an ordinary sword wasn't extraordinary.

I hope you realise what an honour it is that he picked you, says Q's mother Bismuth, who is working on her pet project. An invention of her own that she has decided to call a twocirclet. It's a contraption with two wheels and some sort of side-arms to put your feet on to drive forwards. Q is quite fond of it – having been allowed to test-drive an earlier model – though she still thinks that three wheels would be easier to handle.

Yes, Q says, never looking up from her work. "But I am good at this."

And ever so modest, Bismuth adds, moving one side-arm of her twocirclet (the other moving along with the first), making the metal chain connecting the side-arm with the wheels rattle.

Well, he wouldn't have known that I'm the best if I hadn't sent him a letter to tell him so, and he wouldn't have believed me if I hadn't been convincing.

You certainly are that, her mother agrees, her lips twitching with amusement.

Hm, Q hums, but she is already engrossed in her task again. There are wavy flummadiddles worked into the railing, with interspersed blue scales and all their eyes in glowing red. The magistrate is the one who should feel honoured.

Bismuth watches her daughter work. Both she and her husband are well aware that it's not just an honour but also an opportunity to work for the magistrate. And, given Q's limber fingers, this work would be a success. It could possibly turn out to be the kind of success that would lead Q out of this smithy and perhaps even out of the town. But such is life and so the stories go. And parents don't know their children's stories; most Mirageians never even know their own, and that is quite alright. Stories go on whether you are aware of them or not, but neither Q nor her parents have any idea that Q's story will involve a quest. A storybook kind of quest. The kind where you most inconveniently need to get up and out of the house and leave town.

They work in silence after that, waiting for Q's father to return from his errands. That is, Bismuth waits, Q tends to forget what there is to wait for. They're interrupted by a booming voice when the door opens, startling the sleeping seelite out of its slumber and making it caterwaul and hiss and disappear into the next room.

Quite the claim, Enamel, the voice says and enters the hot and sombre smithy ahead of Q's father who holds the door open.

Q looks up from the shiny flummadiddle she is working on and notices how her father holds his head slightly lowered as if trying to not appear taller than his guest. She frowns. Smithes aren't the cowering sort, but since their guest has quite some financial and political influence and is most likely here to see her, she swallows her distaste, leaves the flummadiddle to cool, and stands, wiping her hands clean. Well, in reality, the financial and political influence has nothing to do with it. Her mother's steely look, however, does.

For a moment, the magistrate swallows all the light standing in the doorway with his flowing robes. Of course, he is not wearing the customary and practical trousers everyone wears in the town of Kastonur or even probably the whole of Besernun. Oh, no. Wide, long, festive robe it is, topped by a hat.

Enamel holds out his hand, inviting the magistrate further into the room and towards Bismuth, saying, Of course you remember my wife.

Naturally, booms the magistrate and holds out a hand for Bismuth to take. Q notices that he doesn't seem to remember her name. Always a pleasure, he says, in lieu of having to remember. The interest is fleeting anyway, as the magistrate spins on his heel and now towers over Q.

Q refuses to bow her head and instead holds it high, deciding that a respectful tilt of her head should be enough. Magistrate.

And this must be the conscientious youngling I've heard so much about.

Quicksilver, yes, Excellency, Enamel says – and not in a tone of voice Q appreciates – and scurries after his guest.

Very good, very good, the magistrate mutters distractedly and walks around Q's workbench, eyeing the results. Yes, indeed. Quite promising.

Q knows that the expected reaction would be pride to be deemed worthy to work for his Excellency the Magistrate Flummadiddle. Accordingly, she resolutely sits on the reaction that really wants to burst out of her. Something along the lines of, 'Yeah, right, promising. You can search high and low in this town and won't find a blacksmith who can give you work this filigree on a railing that is still sturdy enough to hold your weight, you lethargic, plebs-leeching loaf of a...'

... seems to be well advanced, the magistrate finishes whatever he's been going on about.

Quite, Excellency, Q says, boldly assuming that he's talking about how much longer it will take for him to be able to lean his valued self against his new railing. It will be ready to be installed in a matter of days. She can see her father release the breath he's been holding. Oh, good.

Yes, yes. Very good. Auspicious. The magistrate taps a flummadiddle with a finger, and Q rather wants to bite his hand. Her teeth would be adequately sharp, too.

Enamel, the magistrate booms again (he doesn't seem to think that he needs his booming voice with a young woman). I do believe I would like the artist herself to install her work.

Of course, Excellency.

Since the magistrate has his back turned on Q, she narrows her eyes but relaxes them just in time for when he deems it necessary to ask her, as well.

If the young artist has no objection, of course.

Ah. And there is the smarmy voice she's heard on market places so many times. She musters up a smile and tilts her head. I have no objection. Just distaste.

I will send for you and your work within a week's time, then.

I will have it ready, Q confirms and lowers her head. She suddenly finds that this position has the added bonus of not having to look at him.

Enamel respectfully leads the magistrate out the door, and when he closes it, he has to lean his forehead against it for a moment to breathe.

Q grins, and her mother tries very hard not to.

Do you think anyone would mind, Q asks, if I were to loosen some screws on that railing?

Her father turns around with wide eyes as if he's not quite certain enough that she's joking.

No worries. Q rolls her eyes. My professional integrity and alacrity are worth more than my ego, she recites what she has been told many, many times.

Enamel points a finger at her. And don't forget it.

Q returns to her work and wipes the flummadiddle the magistrate has touched with a rag. They're supposed to outlast him, she says absently.

They will. By quite a lot, in fact. But it doesn't matter as much as she thinks right now.

One week later, Q is escorted to the magistrate's house at first light, all elements of her railing wrapped in soft cloth and safely stacked on a wagon pulled by the magistrate's guards.

Only once she can see her workplace for the next few days does it become clear how important this work could be for her reputation. She knew that it was a large double-winged stairway, leading up both walls of some large room. What is news to her is that this large room is the entrance hall, and everyone entering the house would see it. Private guests, business partners, politicians...

His Excellency is out of town this week, she is being told by a stern staff manager. And he expects the work to be completed when he returns.

Of course, madam. She has spent the past week working as much as listening to her parents warning her to behave and make connections if at all possible. She can behave if she must, but she's not so sure just how many connections she would be able to make with the master of the house nowhere to be seen. Who would want to come by when the magistrate wasn't around?

The staff manager gives her a look saying that she has her doubts that such a young thing would be able to work well, but Q ignores her and starts setting up her tools. Really, she's not that young anyway. Old enough to technically go to war and vote. Not that either is practiced around Kastonur. Now, if the magistrate were to suddenly decide to go to war, there probably would be a vote; the plebs are halfway there already anyway. Villagers are meeting with the magistrate or representatives for discussions at the town hall. It's only a matter of time before the first elections are held.

Delicious meals and water are brought to Q all through the first day, but it's never the same Mirageian twice, as if she isn't supposed to get to know anyone. Well, except for the staff manager, that is, and Q could go without that one. Not that she interacts with Q, she's just another shadow among the shadows, probably making sure that the guards know what they're doing. And the cook. And the servants. Honestly, you can't trust anyone, these days.

A young (marginally trustworthy) servant shows her to her quarters late in the evening (with the staff manager hovering in the distance).

I hope it is to your liking, he says.

Very much, Q replies, looking around. Though liking is a terrible understatement. It almost makes her forget for a moment that it's the magistrate's home and that she's not supposed to like it. Thank you.

The servant bows and closes the door as he leaves. She cautiously steps through the small side-door in the hopes that she might find a bathroom and...

Wow. Yes. Bathroom.

It is brightly lit by several floating glow sparks (not light spells; they don't last without the conjurer), the whole room is made of reflecting sunstone, and a steaming, salubrious bath is waiting for her, swirling and colourful steam rising from it.

Well, I suppose it would be a shame to waste the work of the servant who set this up, she murmurs, drops her clothes where she stands and then sinks into spicy, warm water.

If the sunstone wasn't already a sign of wealth, the spells within the bath oils definitely are. Q can feel all her muscles and tired joints relax and unwind, as if a soft hum was coursing through her, singing her a song. Simple spells are easy enough, but these are exquisite and... specific. They almost feel – she sighs – personal.

It takes quite some effort to stop floating in warmth and think of doing some actual washing. Once she's done with everything, she feels both relaxed and refreshed and ready for that lovely bed. She puts on the night gown that has been laid out for her on the bed and buries herself under the covers.

Just as she is about to fall asleep... the door to the balcony clicks and opens, and someone slips in.

Annoyed, Q huffs and props herself on her elbows. It's been a very long day, and the next day would be no less so.

Don't be frightened, the woman says, lighting the lamp at the ceiling with a wave of her hand, and Q rolls her eyes.

"I'm not. I saw you watching me all day, hiding from me and everyone else who was already watching me." She is bluffing just a bit. She has noticed an even more skittish shadow in addition to the others, but she couldn't make out a whole lot. Her intruder does seem to be the most likely choice. Intruders usually are a shady bunch.

The woman lowers the hands that were raised to make her appear inoffensive. Q takes that gesture to mean she's right with her assessment of the situation and adds:

I guess the fact that you're able to walk freely around here, even when you're trying to hide, means you're not dangerous, or someone would have caught you by now.

I see, the intruder woman says, at loss for more revealing words.

Or I'm wrong and you're about to kill me, Q adds nonchalantly.

The woman grins. I would have waited for you to fall asleep, she assures Q.

Q lets herself drop back onto her pillows and rubs her face. No offence, but what do you want? If you're here for a romp in expensive sheets, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I don't indulge when I have a deadline to meet, and I certainly don't indulge with strangers who break into my room at night.

Iris. The woman laughs.

Quicksilver.

I know. Iris nods. And my sources tell me that you might be interested in the resistance.

Q groans and sits. Resistance? No, she can't say she's interested in the bloody resistance any more than she's interested in the ruling upper class.

Seriously? Q demands, incredulously. You walk around in Magistrate Flummadiddle's house, break into a random blacksmith's room, and try to recruit someone for the resistance that is trying to topple the very magistrate whose house you apparently live in. Never mind that the so-called resistance is an unorganised band made up of not-quite criminals, all-out bastards, and blinded idealists, usually put together in Amerax or at least directed from there, because their local governments are as reliable as using a game of speckles to tell the future. Not that she says so out loud, because even if this one doesn't look like options one or two, one can never know. And you expect nobody to ever get wind of it if you talk to every hired worker who comes and goes? is what she finally says out loud. Because, really, this Iris should have thought of that.

I'm not breaking into a random hired worker's room, I'm specifically breaking into your room.

Q rubs her eyes. Look, madam, I trust the troublemakers from Amerax about as much as I trust the governments, even theirs. A rock and a hard place, if you ask me, but whatever failings our magistrate has, at least he's the first one to not start another silly war in well over six hundred years.

"And who pays for the records and books that claim that there have been wars for six hundred years prior to this miraculous era of peace?"

Q tilts her head. Good point, and if I was more awake and not accosted by a stranger, I would make it myself. The fact remains that the last four magistrates did start wars, and my grandparents remember all of them.

Their minds could have been altered. There might be spells...

"Then what makes you think your mind wasn't altered?" Blinded idealist then, Q concludes. She has heard that line of reasoning before, and it only ever leads to petty crime executed by Mirageians who are in over their heads and think they are the only ones 'seeing the light' and all that rubbish. "That's a circular argument. Go away. I'm tired and not in the mood to be dragged into illegal shenanigans." She lies back down, demonstratively turns her back on her guest and pulls up the blanket.

Q expects that Iris is probably still amused – and believing that she has insight – but she can hear her return to the balcony door.

Just think about it, will you? Iris says, amusement decidedly absent from her voice.

Think about what? You haven't told me anything. But when she turns, Iris is gone. Annoyed, Q frowns, drags herself out of the bed, and pushes a heavy ornamented chair in front of the balcony door and locks, all the while muttering about the nerve of cryptic burglars with an unnecessary flair for the dramatic.

Despite the tiny adventure, the hard work of the day and the relaxing bath allow her to fall asleep the moment she lies back down. Accordingly, it takes her a while in the morning to even remember the odd encounter, and she almost shrugs it off as a dream, except that the heavy ornamented chair is still in front of the balcony door.

Now that she does know what to look for, the additional shadow is clearly her nightly visitor. And her nightly visitor knows this house extremely well. Possibly even better than the trained guards who are there specifically to keep every nook and cranny safe. Iris can probably even hide from the frightening staff manager.

During a break to drink some water, Q sardonically raises her bottle in a toast in the general direction of her barely visible shadow which promptly disappears, making Q snicker. Unbidden, one of her favourite childhood nursery rhymes pops into her head, and she sings under her breath:

"Run, run, monster mine,

Hiding in the dark.

For my teeth too, they shine,

And I don't fear your bark."

She giggles and returns to work, but the hum of the words stays with her for the rest of the day.

In the evening, Q is not surprised to see that the chair in her room is once more in its rightful place, and she foregoes the inviting bath and instead settles for a quick wash. She supposes that she could just return the chair to block the balcony door, but curiosity has always been one of her greatest failings. She is glad that she thought of taking her nightgown to the bathroom with her, because once she leaves it, her guest is waiting for her, sitting in that infernal monstrosity of a chair.

Q nods her head. Lady Flummadiddle. She was right with her last guess, so this one is probably worth making. Iris can roam the house freely, is only a few years Q's senior, she looks vaguely familiar, and she is used to getting her way.

Iris's expression freezes, and she visibly attempts to control her features. Lady Flummadiddle was my mother.

Correct. Q remains standing where she is. "She was. And her passing has made the daughter of the house the new lady, Beryl. Iris narrows her eyes, and Q continues: And your name is not Iris."

You will not call me by anything else.

Q shrugs and climbs into her bed. As you wish. It is her name to give, after all. Are you tired of your golden cage? she asks sarcastically, making herself comfortable and sitting up against the headboard.

Don't mock me.

Q laughs a bit. You expect me to take you seriously? You enter my room without having been invited, you let me know that you can come and go as you please and that there is nothing I can do about it, you give me orders, and then you're surprised that I wouldn't trust you more than your father and his ilk?

Iris blinks for several long moments, then breaths out a shaky laugh. Yes, I can... see how that would appear less than favourable. I apologise.

Now it's Q's turn to blink. Couldn't you just tell me what you want? she all but begs. Because this is getting tiresome.

Have you thought about it, then?

"About what? You told me nothing."

About the resistance. I know you must have spent some time today thinking about it.

Q can't argue that point. Even though she wasn't given anything specific to think about, having someone break into your room does tend to get you thinking. Her thoughts towards the resistance have not particularly improved. She had come to the conclusion that the mysterious Iris must be the daughter of the house sometime in the morning, and then it only went downhill from there.

Yes, Q agrees. I have. And at this point, I have to say that they look quite disorganised and... prevaricating. She catches Iris's eyes, thinking that it's probably safe to say so. I'm not sure I like your involvement, either.

I'm just a lowly cog, and all we want is an election.

Which your father will win. Honestly, don't those Mirageians think? Even if a vote is all the not-so-lowly cogs want – which Q doubts – it takes decades for ordinary citizens to adapt to a new system.

Maybe the first time and the second, Iris agrees. Mirageians need to get used to having options.

Q tilts her head. True. Still... Are you that option? Q challenges her.

Iris snorts. "I'm no more interested in a political career than you are. No. I'm involved now, because they want you, and I could get close."

"I'm sure they are in desperate need of a blacksmith who still lives with her parents to bring an election about."

Iris hesitates. Oh, that does not bode well. There may be a... uh... prophecy...

"A prophecy?" Q all but shrieks, incredulously and bangs her head against the headboard. Q being part of a prophecy has got to be the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, and that includes hearing her father role-play a ghastly pirate through her parents' closed bedroom door, something that she has since managed to not think about and that could only be conjured up in her mind by something rivalling it in scarring ridiculousness.

Iris sighs, clearly having expected that reaction. She also has the sense to let Q rant for a bit to get all her ire out.

"You do know that so-called 'prophecies' are a quick way for a scam artist to get you to do what they want and pay them for having told you about it?"

There are real prophecies, Iris says in a long-suffering tone.

I'm sure there are. Q huffs. And what am I supposed to do according to your prophecy?

Iris's eyes flicker to the side, and she clears her throat. We... don't know.

Q laughs out loud. The hallmark of a true prophecy, Q says, nodding, sagely. It doesn't tell you what it wants, so whatever happens will have been foretold. She waves her hand in a grand gesture.

Iris's look sharpens, not impressed by the criticism. It was definitely about you, she says, her eyes boring (or trying to) into Q's.

Was it a flattering description? Q snickers.

Yes. Iris's tone is serious.

Awe-inspiring too, I bet. She rolls her eyes. That's what they're supposed to be like. Nobody would listen to a prophecy without a little added drama. You know the prophecy about Mirage the Great, of course? Nobody would name an entire species after Mirage the Barely Adequate.

You are the key to everything. We don't know why or what you have to do, but we know that we need you to join us.

That seems convincing, Q says, smiling as pleasantly as fake.

Aren't you bored? Iris asks, apparently having decided to change her tactics. "We want to travel. Cross the Lake of Choices first, talk to Mirageians in the south of Besernun who already have a say in their local governments, who have a voice. Travel further and cross the border to Amerax and find others who want to achieve it in Firtway. Learn, see, make plans, gather knowledge. And then we could return to teach others