Chapter Text
DON’T OPEN, FIXER INSIDE
The words glared at Kit from outside the weird balcony thing on the Boarshead Inn. (Why was a chunk of railing missing? Someone could trip and fall. It would be good for dramatic effect, though. Ooh, that was going in his notebook.)
Ever since Declan Glenfinnan had tried to have the place demolished, Kit had become more aware of the untapped potential of the place which had to be used before someone else attempted to destroy this wellspring of beauty and inspiration. He had already been using the space for his acting company, under the impression that while he was in London it had remained under the ownership of Don Gibs, God rest his soul (But not his skull - that was a prop opportunity).
Signing this off as a nature preserve had partially been for selfish reasons. This was a public space, dammit, and it would remain so if he had aught to do with it.
However, the nature preserve brought him to the real treasure of the Boarshead - the living man(?) residing in the building. Upon consulting his usual sources (cough cough, the thieves’ guild, cough) he had discovered the man to be something of a local legend. A man so simple that he shocked everyone with his martial prowess, but that same simplicity being his downfall. His moves were so unpredictable, they said, that you could never be sure what he would do when threatened- slap the weapon from your hand or the grin of skullduggery from your face.
Shakespeare was still trying to craft a new phrase with which to describe the man’s fighting style, though ‘bitch slap’ was a popular option. (Marlowe failed to see how the man resembled a female dog, but who was he to judge another man’s fictional words? If anything, he would be the one to popularize the new phrase!)
Marlowe contemplated climbing up to the balcony, but quickly discarded the notion. As fabulous as it would make him look, there was no one around to appreciate the view and his little legs were not made for strenuous activity.
He walked around to the front bar area, only to find the man he had sought…enshrouding himself in plant matter once more. Water dripped off the green stuff, pooling around his feet. A stray minnow fell out and flopped around.
Maybe on second thought, Marlowe should just go…
The man-creature abruptly lifted his face into the air and snuffled. His head whipped towards Kit; he dropped everything to charge him.
Kit turned tail and ran up the stairs to the second story of the inn. The chandelier was close at hand, and it presented as being mobile.
He grabbed the outer edge of the decoration and swung toward the other end of the hallway. He hit the end of the line, his feet swinging up with enough momentum to hook on the chandelier.
The man-creature was fast approaching him from behind.
“Aw, I was gonna use that!”
Kit quickly scrambled up to lay on top of the chandelier, curled around the chain.
When the man-creature reached him, he tugged at his clothes and poked at his stomach to try and get him down. He was getting dangerously close to his ticklish spots. Kit squirmed out of reach, wiggling his foot to disengage it from the chandelier, but only getting more hopelessly stuck.
“Wait, waitwaitwait, I can pay thee!”
“Eh?”
“In exposure!”
“Not interested!” The man-creature returned to pulling at him with more gusto than before, slowly dragging the chandelier to the other end of the hallway where Kit was sure to get a good thump on the head - repeatedly.
In a last ditch effort, he cried, “I’ll give you anything you desire!”
“Really?”
He partially uncurled his head from where it rested against his knees to stare down at the man-creature. “You can speak?”
The man-creature only shrugged.
“But someone had to have written that note outside. ‘Twas it thee or someone else?”
The man-creature pulled the chandelier back as if to slam it and the extremely attractive playwright atop it into the exposed beam.
“Wait a minute, you’re Fixer aren’t you? Artie Fixer!”
Kit was slammed into the exposed beam, moving at the last moment so his back took the brunt of it. Artie brought the chandelier back for another slam.
“My name is Christopher Marlowe!”
Slam.
“Renowned poet and friend of Old Gibs!”
Another slam.
“The one who signed this off as a nature preserve!”
A pause.
“You?”
Kit cracked open an eye, trying to focus on Fixer through the roar of blood in his ears and the swinging of the chandelier. “Uh…aye?”
Fixer stepped back and pointed to the ground at his feet, all the while doggedly maintaining eye contact.
Kit scrambled to untangle his feet and fell to the ground in a heap. He stood hastily, brushing himself off. “Thank you kindly-“
Artie shushed him.
“Are you shushing me? Are you shushing playwright Christopher-“
Artie flung his arms out wide, then swung Kit into a tight hug.
Kit stiffened. That was one way to shut him up. This was quite an invasion of his personal space! Plus, his height meant his face was crushed into the man’s chest, which was providing an obstacle to breathing. He hit the creature on the back several times over to communicate this point.
The strange man disengaged and held Kit’s stick-stiff shoulders at arms’ length. “You can stay.”
Marlowe recovered his breath. “Hold a mome. This be a public space!”
Artie raised his pointer finger. “Oh! Almost forgot, you need to give something, too.”
Marlowe sputtered. “Really?”
Artie nodded adamantly.
“But what could I possibly give you?”
Artie shrugged.
Kit gave himself space to think for a moment, shaking off the grip Artie had on his other shoulder. He rubbed his chin.
What to get the man who needed nothing? Tools? No, he’d been seen wearing a toolbelt around town. There had been one moment at the Tournament of Arms when a particular thief found out his weakness…
“Aha! What if I brought you something from the outside, a thing which you cannot possibly refuse?”
Artie cocked his head.
“I could bring…apples?”
Now he bounced on his toes, intermittently clapping his hands. Something green and goopy slipped out of his sleeve. It slightly resembled…an egg? Never mind, they could come back to that later.
“So, that’s a deal?”
Artie stuck out a pruny hand.
Marlowe examined his own hand for snatch-able rings and, finding none, clasped Artie’s. “I’ll probably regret this later.”
Artie slowly nodded, a grin stretching across his face.
Kit sighed. “Alright, I accept that. Who’s to say? This could be great fun.”
If only he knew how right he was.
~~~
So, the deal was struck.
Over the next few weeks, Kit kept his promise without fail. He would come over, leave his offering on a table that was ever conspicuously cleared. From there he explored the inn at his leisure, thinking up scenarios for his new play. It was going to be about a dashing spy, based on no one in particular, performing daring feats with sword and conveniently placed crossbows.
As he explored the inn, he noted passageways that had a tendency to shift at inauspicious times. Many a time Kit had wandered away from the main hall and found the way behind him sealed with bricks, and only by ludicrous circumnavigation was he able to make it out. He had not been privy to these details during the brawl, courtesy of running in (heroic) terror.
Something was occurring in this inn, and he intended to find its root.
Enter Artie Fixer.
While on the surface a flailing, screaming man of chaos, underneath it all he was still all that, but with purpose behind it. Most of the time.
Some of the time.
…
Alright, so Marlowe had no idea how often Artie’s actions were purposeful; he was still going to figure him out, one way or another.
He was set on this as he strode toward the condemned building. Upon his entry, he espied Artie close at hand.
“How art thou today, my dear man?”
Artie clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Goin’ out.” Then he waddled past Kit without a second glance.
“Wait, thou dost mean out upon the shire?”
“Yeah?”
“Nay, nay, nay. What am I to do if the inn swallows me whole? I require a navigator. Am I never to see the light of day again?” He splayed a hand against his forehead.
Artie shrugged. “Should be fine.” He walked off without a backward glance.
Marlowe stood still for a beat, then a contemplative look stole over his countenance. The playwright backpedaled out of the inn and pursued Artie. “If thou art not staying at the inn, might I accompany thee?”
“Don’t see why not.” Artie kept up his brisk pace, with Marlowe struggling to keep up.
“Couldst thou refrain from walking so quickly?” he puffed.
“No.” There was no break in Artie’s stride. In fact, he may have sped up.
After a minute of Marlowe stubbornly following the tinkerer, the playwright was out of breath. “Prithee, where art thou going?” he gasped.
“Dunno yet. Might find some spare parts.”
“Oh, I know just the man for the job. LaForge is always looking to get rid of some scraps; they’re just down this- Where art thou going?” Instead of following Marlowe’s most helpful directions, Fixer had stubbornly gone in the opposite direction, toward the fountain.
Marlowe was glad for the emptiness of the fountain square, for there surely would have been cries of alarm as Artie vaulted over the fountain’s low wall and splashed around in the water.
Marlowe stood back and looked on not with outrage exactly. It was more a mildly inflamed curiosity. Questions had gotten him nowhere. He was going to follow Artie around, if only to figure out what made the man tick, whether he liked it or not.
He watched Artie fish a handful of coins out of the fountain and methodically bite each one. Then, after pocketing his shinies, climbed the structure and, balancing in the uppermost bowl, reached into the fountainhead.
Marlowe cocked his head, bemused as to whether he was about to witness vandalism and was already debating how he would respond. On one hand, he was known for being a roguish character, which allowed him a certain amount of irresponsibility. On the other hand, he was one of the queen’s spies, so he should not sit idly by while government property was defaced…
Fixer pulled back, having hit upon what he sought, and began unspooling a length of copper wire from the fountainhead. On and on it went, reaching ridiculous lengths, but Fixer just kept looping it around his arm, gently teasing the metal out from its hidey-hole.
It was when the copper strip had reached ludicrous lengths that Gwendolin Speck entered the square.
He jogged over to her. “Pardon, but do you know what Artie’s up to? I cannot surmise what it could be.”
She shrugged widely, nearly hitting him with her crook. “We mostly leave ‘im to ‘is own devices,” she explained in her thick Welsh accent. “Thou art not bothin’ ‘im, are ye?” She eyed him suspiciously, repositioning her grip on the crook to make it more like an instrument for beating up nosy playwrights.
He idly flapped a hand at her. “Oh, nay, merely wondering. Is that not the nature of writers, to forever wonder and never truly know?” He got a dreamy look in his eye as he gazed into the horizon. It was his pose for when he was sure he’d said something brilliant.
Gwendolin was not impressed. “I wouldn’t know abou’ that, but leave ‘im be. He’s part of the Boarshead Nature Preserve, you know.” She clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go.
“Yes, of course I know he’s- I drafted that- You were there! I think?” But Gwen was gone.
Fixer chose that moment to conclude his business with the fountain. He splashed back out, the copper strip wrapped around his neck like an extra shiny scarf.
For the first time, Marlowe noticed that Fixer wore no shoes, only a kind of thick black stocking. It was getting on in autumn; did he have no sense of self-preservation?
As the man walked past him and down yet another side road, Marlowe fell into step with him, practically working at a jog to keep up. “Where next? Perhaps the puddle drainer, to complement thy apparent love of water features?”
Artie’s eyes remained forward. “Not telling.”
They entered the mercantile district of the shire, encountering plenty of people. Still, no one looked askance at Artie. Rather, their gazes seemed to linger on Marlowe. It must have been for his good looks.
They came across a modest building bearing a hand-painted sign outside. It read ‘Sable Siskins: the furriest furrier to fulfill and furnish for all your fur needs forevermore.’
Marlowe glanced over it. “That seems like someone’s compensating.”
He heard a bell jingle and looked back down to find Artie already disappearing inside. He caught the closing door with his foot and ducked in after him.
A man stood behind the far counter, wearing a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Bits of gristle flecked the edges of the sleeves, where they must have gotten into whatever he was working on, but either he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.
Kit took one look at the man’s face and decided it must be the former. The way he looked at Artie with fear and uncertainty in his eyes told Marlowe that this man was made of worry.
The man behind the counter, one Sable Siskins, stood stock still as Artie approached, only moving when the blue-clad man stood right in front of him. By then it was a little late to commit to any retreat, so he ended up doing a shuffle back and forth, toward and away from his two customers.
“You got furs?” Artie requested.
Siskins ceased his shuffling to timidly answer. “Aye, like the sign says.”
“Could that be a blanket?” Artie jerked his head toward a considerable stretch of fur hanging on the wall.
“Sure it could. It’s all cured and joined pro’ply. Just take it, in fact!”
Artie grinned, slapping down a portion of the coins he had purloined from the fountain. He liberated the fur he had indicated from the wall, hoisted it on his shoulder, and turned to leave, saying, “Pleasure doing business with you!”
Marlowe shot an apologetic look at the poor shopkeep and slapped a couple extra gold pieces on the counter to cover any extra inconvenience. Then, he was off to continue pestering Artie Fixer.
“A new furnishing for the inn, perhaps?” he queried. “Thou hast finally found someone thou wishest to impress, and the only way to do it is with a warm bed. Fur blankets can be quite fetching, you know.” He wiggled his shoulder suggestively.
Fixer only looked askance at Marlowe, as if he were the one going mad. “Nay.”
Marlowe didn’t realize they were at their next destination until Fixer cleanly cut in front of him to veer into the post office.
An employee spotted Artie and the wet footprints he was leaving and scowled. “No cobblery, no dublet, no service.”
Artie followed their gaze to his feet in their strange socks. “No cobblery, but I have got a dublet.” He cocked his head coyly. “I still meet your requirements.”
Marlowe smiled. “A technicality! Nice one.”
Even the post person looked uncomfortable with Marlowe’s presence. “What message didst thou wish to send, master Fixer?”
“One to the queen, please.”
Marlowe laughed out loud. Then, when he realized he was alone in the sentiment, looked up at Artie. “What, thou art serious? But Her Majesty has never mentioned thee before!”
Artie shrugged and smirked. “Just a small shire tinkerer.”
He continued rattling off his message to the queen and paid the page, but Marlowe’s head was elsewhere. His contacts in the thieves’ guild had not told him that Artie was a favorite of the queen’s. She had seemed amused by him at the Tournament of Arms, but he assumed that was all it was. This, on the other hand, was a personal friendship. It seemed to have lasted years as well, so perhaps the secret to its longevity was how far out of the public eye it was. But that was simply impossible! When one cares about someone, one should shout it from the rooftops like the heroes of old! Granted, rooftops were a bit too high for Marlowe’s liking, but the spirit of the point still stood.
The walk back to the Boarshead Inn was silent for how preoccupied Marlowe was with his observations that day. If the queen herself found friendship with this strange little man, and all the shire folk knew him and cared about him to an extent, then maybe there was something to be said for simplicity.
Artie stood in the main room of the inn. “Well, bye.” Just like that, he strode off into one of the halls.
Marlowe called after him. “I shall tarry a moment more, if it suits thee.”
Artie threw a thumbs up around the corner.
The playwright leaned against a table in quiet contemplation, occasionally muttering to himself. Fixer’s return finally brought him out of his stupor. The man had the fur blanket bundled in his arms, but now it trailed the copper wire from one of its seams. He offered it to Marlowe. “Here. Feel.”
Marlowe hesitantly reached out. (He was no germaphobe like his cousin Verance, but he was still slow to touch a piece of wild animal that had been newly bought without cleaning it first.) Yet, what he found befuddled him. The blanket exuded an unnatural warmth which was concentrated on the copper wires that Artie had embedded within.
The tinkerer took in Marlowe’s stunned expression with pride. “Made it myself. I knew I would get an invention to work one day.”
“But, prithee, how-” Marlowe stopped himself. “Nevermind. I need not know.”
“But thou wert asking all kinds of questions all day?”
“Sometimes the world is a more magical place when some questions remain unasked and unanswered.” He perked up. “That would sound excellent in a play. Let me write it down!” He produced a utilitarian quil and notebook from his dublet and scratched it down. “In fact, I warrant there may be room for a few mundanities in this one. This is good. This is better than good. I must take my leave to go think of the right words.” He hastened from the inn, tapping his quil against his chin and notebook in succession.
When he was out of earshot, Artie made his way back to his own room up the stairs with his heated blanket in tow. He settled into bed, prepared to curl up for the winter if he could remain this warm.
“Thanks for powering it,” he muttered to the empty room.
A single porcine squeal echoed through the inn to answer.