“Don't exist, is what I'm trying to say.”
Granny reached a dungeon door. It was mainly age-blackened oak, but with a large barred grille occupying some of the top half.
“In there.”
Verence peered inside.
“Good grief!”
“I got Shawn to unlock it. I don't reckon anyone else saw us come in. Don't tell anyone. If the dwarfs and the trolls find out, they'll tear the walls apart to get him out.”
“Why? To kill him?”
“Of course. They've got better memories than humans.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Just keep it locked up. How should I know? I've got to think!”
Verence peered in again at the elf. It was lying curled up in the centre of the floor.
“That's an elf? But it's . . . just a long, thin human with a foxy face. More or less. I thought they were supposed to be beautiful?”
“Oh, they are when they're conscious,” said Granny, waving a hand vaguely “They project this . . . this . . . when people look at them, they see beauty, they see something they want to please. They can look just like you want them to look. 'S'called glamour. You can tell when elves are around. People act funny. They stop thinking clear. Don't you know anything?”
“I thought . . . elves were just stories . . . like the Tooth Fairy. . .”
“Nothing funny about the Tooth Fairy,” said Granny. “Very hard-working woman. I'll never know how she manages with the ladder and everything. No. Elves are real. Oh, drat. Listen. . .”
She turned, and held up a finger.
“Feudal system, right?”
“What?”
“Feudal system! Pay attention. Feudal system. King on top, then barons and whatnot, then everyone else . . . witches off to one side a bit,” Granny added diplomatically. She steepled her fingers. “Feudal system. Like them pointy buildings heathen kings get buried in. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Right. That's how the elves see things, yes? When they get into a world, everyone else is on the bottom. Slaves. Worse than slaves. Worse than animals, even. They take what they want, and they want everything. But worst of all, the worst bit is . . . they read your mind. They hear what you think, and in self-defence you think what they want. Glamour. And it's barred windows at night, and food out for the fairies, and turning around three times before you talks about 'em, and horseshoes over the door.”
“I thought that sort of thing was, you know,” the king grinned sickly, “folklore?”
“Of course it's folklore, you stupid man!”
“I do happen to be king, you know,” said Verence reproachfully.
“You stupid king, your majesty,”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it doesn't mean it's not true! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing.”
“I know my granny had one over the door,” said the king.
“There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you're poor, it's probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find.”
“Ah.”