Vine posts littered the valley like grave markers, stark against the lush grass that had all but swallowed the vineyard. They were blots of shadow too dark to hide, and too many in number to fell, and so they had been left as stains on the landscape to fade and forget. Bare of leaves and stems, the rotting wood drank in the sunshine as if to spite the pleasant morning. Insects flocked in clouds around the posts, searching for fruits that had not been tended in years; most had died off in the spring frosts, and what vines had survived had not escaped the undergrowth, smothered by wild grass and poppies. The sheen of their waxy leaves flashed in the sunshine, throwing up little flickering points of light. Hidden treasures, left behind when this place had been abandoned.

The vineyards were the first of the many things to fall in the wake of the Empire’s collapse. People did not drink wine in Monadnock; most alcohols outside of wheat-ale were heavily regulated, and nowhere near worth the effort to obtain. But the Empire did – they were gluttons for the stuff – and with fertile soil and a moderate climate compared to their neighbours, the tiny, landlocked nation had quickly found its footing in the trade. Vineyards had sprung up like summer daisies along the border regions. All heavily regulated of course, but even the lawmakers had readily agreed that the opportunity presented was one not to be passed up. Perhaps with more time, wine would have become more popular, and the restrictions placed upon it eased. Perhaps, with more time, this and many other places would have survived.

The only good thing that came out of the end of the Empire, and the subsequent implosion of the wine industry, was that now he had his pick of places to conduct his business.

Aesop leaned against the stone wall, the warmth of the rocks leeching through his linen tunic. He hissed out a curse, running his palms over his sweat-drenched forehead. His fingers snaked through his hair, swiping damp strands of silver up and away from sticky olive skin. He had tried to find a good spot, but this early in the morning, there was very little shade. He glanced over his shoulder, back up the overgrown path.

The wall behind him followed its steps, a field of wildflowers on either side, and hives swarming with bees. Past those fields, an old homestead sat at the crest of the valley, perched on stone foundations to sit level against the sloping ground. As Wineries went, it was nothing extravagant; a two-story main building, with single story left and right wings that – judging from the change in brickwork from red to grey – had been added sometime after. The windows were dark, and even from a good five minutes’ walk away, he could see the front doors were missing. It had crossed his mind to venture inside, but he had quickly decided against it. He knew an unsteady roof when he saw it, and the thatch was beginning to sag across the left wing. If one beam was rotting, all of them were. He wasn’t about to risk being squashed for the sake of a little shade.

He sighed, bare feet tracing trails in the dust as he tried to get a little more comfortable. Aesop shrugged the leather satchel from his shoulder and gave in to his aching legs, easing himself down in the dirt. Maybe he’d reconsider when midday bore its full weight upon him, but if he had been waiting for his client for that long, then she probably wasn’t coming. They were supposed to meet just before dawn, but given the nature of their arrangement, he had been generous and agreed to wait if she was late. It would be just his luck that another deal would slip through his fingers once he had already done the hard work.

Aesop grimaced. He hated taking advantage of someone in a tight spot, but he needed the coin. He could stomach sleeping in the woods and foraging like a dog, but there was only so much silence a man could take. His bones itched for the capital, where the buildings swallowed the sky, and there wasn’t a lick of quiet to be found. He longed to be surrounded by people, but the kind of work he did no longer existed in civilized society. Front loading with enough funds to see him through the colder months was the only way he survived. He had to remind himself his clients sought him out, and no matter how desperate they were, he didn’t work for free. His hand slipped into his satchel, fingers finding a mercifully cool, smooth surface, reassuring himself it was still there. Hopefully this would be the only sale he’d have to make this side of the new year.

It was an hour or so more of sitting in the sunshine and sweating like a pig before she finally arrived. Well, technically, they; a trio of silhouettes flitted into existence over the crest of the valley. They were indistinguishable as they wound through the vine posts, just pale splashes of blue against the verdant hillside. But only one of the three figures continued towards him, the other two setting themselves down in the grass.

His joints popped as he clambered to his feet. He patted at his tunic, double checking the position of his dagger’s hilt. There was no point advertising he was armed; he didn’t want to invite a fight. But if things did go south the last thing he wanted was to be fumbling for his blade. Aesop paused, then brushed himself down. Usually, he couldn’t give two shakes of a rat’s ass what he looked like in front of his clients. After all, they came for his skills, not his appearance. Maybe it was out of what little respect he held for her, or maybe it was just the flicker of disgust which curled across her lips.

Narelle was not a woman. Just a girl, even if he knew plenty of people who would argue that – at seventeen – as a citizen of the Empire she should have long been married. She was short and slender…starved, her cheekbones too prominent, her blue silk dress limp around her frame. When last they had crossed paths, some three or four years back, her hair had been long, a blanket of curly black locks. Now it was cropped short around her pale freckled face. He had thought her eyes pretty then, soft with an unspoken warmth. But without the mantle of black around them, the green was cold. Tired.

“Narelle Blythe,” he said, “I see the free life is treating you well.”

“Don’t, Aesop,” she snapped.

“What? The glorious revolution not all it was cracked up to be?”

“I said don’t.”

Aesop clicked his tongue, but didn’t push it any further. If he was honest, he pitied her. To lead an insurgency against a force so large, when she had been so, so young…and now here she was, a fugitive from the people she had once fought for. Everyone had turned their backs on her; he had heard as much while hunkered down last winter in one of the Capital’s many casinos. ‘Posters are out, largest bounty I’ve ever seen; Bloody Blythe they’re calling her now; Good riddance, the trouble she’s caused.’ He had agreed with most of them. While Narelle had felled a rotting tree, she had done so without regard for the plants that would be crushed beneath it. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people had died in a war she had started for reasons he didn’t understand. He doubted he ever would. So he had laughed at their crude jokes and snide comments about the insurgency, and the fall of the Empire, and he would do it again when he returned this autumn. And while he would do so with a quiet guilt, he would move on. Because from the moment she had first come for his help, he had sealed her fate.

Most of his clients ended up dead, eventually.

“Do you have it?” she asked, hugging the loose fabric tighter around her. She fidgeted, eyes darting between his face and his waist, searching for a weapon. Expecting him to double cross her, maybe. He huffed.

“Relax, Blythe. I’m not stupid. My jobs would dry up if I turned any of my clients in.”

He stooped, fumbling through his satchel until his fingers once again found that cold, smooth surface. Almost immediately, the world fell still. The buzzing of the insects and the whisper of the breeze quieted as, slowly, he offered it out to her.

An amberstone.

They were illegal in Monadnock. Illegal anywhere the Empire’s sticky fingers had managed to reach. They had good reason, he supposed; an amberstone was a conduit, a way for mortals to play with forces they would otherwise have no hope of accessing, let alone controlling. He had seen them used to burn cities, and make the lame walk. Seen them in the right hands and the wrong hands. Sold them to the right hands, and the wrong hands. Aesop licked his lips; they tasted of salt. A twinge of guilt rose in his chest, but he was quick to stamp it down. Vetting his clients had never helped him decide whether or not to sell – not since his early days, when he had been blinded by youthful ignorance. All it did was make it more difficult to sleep at night. It didn’t matter whose hands he passed this amberstone into, so long as those hands held enough coin.

It was the largest he had cast so far, settling neatly in the palm of his hand. She had told him that she needed it to be strong, after all. The stone was a perfect circle of tempered, foggy rock, its surface flashing with yellows and whites as it caught the sunshine. It grew darker closer to the centre, deepening to an orange, then a bronze and then, finally, a rich brown as it met the creature encased within.

Most of the pixie’s features were obscured by the stone. It was just a curled little ball, really. If he focused, he could pick out its tiny, stick-like arms, hugged tight around bony knees. He had snapped its wings off, leaving just two little spikes protruding from its back. When he rolled it up into his fingers, the sunlight poured through. Its wide eyes and gaping mouth flushed a warm gold, before he tipped it back further still, letting it fall neatly into Narelle’s waiting hands. The girl stared down at it. Her eyes were glassy. She let out a shaky breath.

“Was it dead when you cast it?”

“Of course.” The lie dripped from his tongue like honey.

Usually, this would have been the point where he gleefully explained that – technically – it was still alive. It needed to be for the stone to work. And then he would grin and nod as they realised he had not lied when he had warned them that they wouldn’t like his methods. And though his memory was foggy, he had done exactly that when Narelle had come to him for her first stone at just thirteen years old. Back then, he supposed, she had stared down at the little neith grub, no bigger than his thumb and young enough its skin was still the same scarlet as fresh blood, and decided the fate inflicted upon it was worth it. A pixie was far harder to justify. Far too human to ignore.

“Did it have a name?”

“Probably,” he replied without thinking, and when she let out a little choked sob, a pang of regret struck his lungs. He tried to stamp it down like he had before, but this time it caught his foot, pushing back with a pressure that spread through his chest. Aesop sighed. “Just a little gallows humour.” He cleared his throat. “We agreed on the price. I notice that – unless you’re hiding it somewhere – you’ve no coin purse on you?” He jerked his chin back down the valley to where the two figures waited. “They have it?”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she hissed.  She turned those glassy eyes on him. Narelle pulled the stone close to her chest.

The hairs on the back of his neck shot up, and Aesop threw himself down into the dirt without a second thought. Not a moment too soon; as his body hit the ground a roaring torrent of fire burned through the air where his head had just been. The earthy stench of mold and leaf litter washed over him as the last embers fizzled out. Aesop didn’t miss a beat. He rolled, narrowly avoiding Narelle’s fist, now cloaked in that same fire.

He was older and slower than he once was. He could not avoid her next strike; her fist cracked against the bridge of his nose as he rocked to his feet. Ash clawed at his eyes, worming its way into his mouth to coat the back of his throat. Aesop stumbled, biting down hard on his tongue to stop himself from screaming. The stink of fire gave way to charred meat. He had put a little distance between them, Narelle’s chest heaving as she drew in greedy breaths. He swore; he should have known she would do something like this. He snatched at the hilt of his dagger, brandishing the short blade directly at her.

“Don’t try it,” she warned, though her voice was trembling.

“Whatever you’re thinking, girl, I suggest against it,” he spat. “I’ve faced far tougher folks than you.”

“I can’t let you live. You’ll turn me in. I’m…I’m sorry, Aesop, I-”

He didn’t let her finish. Aesop snarled, launching forwards. He may have been older, and he may have been slower, but he had something she didn’t have as much of; experience. She wasn’t the first client to try to avoid paying him. Her eyes widened, and her fist tightened around the stone. She brought her arm up, wreathed in fire. Her fingers closed around his neck as he slammed the point of his dagger into the back of her hand. She screamed. The amberstone dropped, and with all his strength, Aesop kicked it away. It was swallowed by the undergrowth.

The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it felt as though it had been hours. Aesop staggered, clutching at the blistered skin on his throat. The flesh was still warm. It twinged beneath his fingertips. It would need treating, but right now he had bigger things to worry about. He cursed, stumbling over to where the girl had collapsed.

Narelle had curled into a tight little ball, just like the pixie in the stone. And like the pixie had when he had laid it out on his worktable, she whimpered and curled up even tighter as he loomed over her.

“Just do it,” she sobbed.

He should have. He should have, for even daring to entertain the idea that she could steal from him, let alone kill him. He had, many times before. But again that pain in his lungs returned, stirring kindling embers of pity and guilt.

When he had first sold her a stone, she had been so young. So misguided. But there were adults around her who should have known better, people she had probably outlived despite her best efforts. And he had been one of them. He had given a weapon to a girl and told her he couldn’t care less what she did with it. Whatever path she was on, he was just as guilty of setting her down it. He had burdened her with an amberstone when she was just a girl.

She was still just a girl.

“Get up,” he spat. “Go get your stone and leave.”

“I don’t have-“

“I’m not repeating myself, Blythe.”

Narelle did not move immediately. He couldn’t blame her. Were it not for the adrenaline still pounding through his veins, he probably would have collapsed in a heap too. But gradually she picked herself up with shaking arms. The ground where she had fallen was tinged red, the blood already half-dried in the summer heat. He watched her as she fought to keep a brave face, stumbling over to the place where the stone had fallen. Narelle inched down, wincing as red leaked from her injured hand, but still, she retrieved the amberstone. Then, without turning her back to him fully, she started down through the vineyard. In the chaos, Aesop hadn’t even realised her companions had moved, running to meet her with the telltale flashing of drawn blades. They wrapped their arms around her, casting vicious glares back at him.

His skin crawled, but Aesop just straightened his back. He raised his dagger a little, reminding them it was there, and he was armed, and if they tried anything he wouldn’t hesitate…even though now he was certain he would. That little twinge of guilt had clamoured into a cancer, a tumour pressing down on his heart. But he had a reputation to uphold, and uphold it he would – even as the guilt thrashed and seethed in his chest. If more ruin befell that girl, would she truly only have herself to blame?

He waited until they left, the shapes and colours fading until the vineyard was empty once more. Gradually, the hum of insects returned. Aesop sighed. If something like a little guilt could do this to him, then he doubted his time in this line of work would make it past autumn. He ran his fingers through his hair and stooped to gather his satchel. No coin. No stone. Injuries he hadn’t anticipated but should have. He was getting too old for this.

Aesop staggered up the path, the shade of the crumbling homestead suddenly infinitely more appealing. He would rest, but not sleep. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He tried to put the thought of what Narelle would do with the stone out of mind, tried to bury the guilt that bloomed like a flower in the pit of his stomach. He may have helped to show her the path, but she was the one who had walked it. He was just getting soft in his old age. A stone in the wrong hands. A stone in the right hands. It didn’t matter which Narelle’s were.

So long as his were clean.