Can you trust a trickster?

 “What,” I tapped the stick against my hip, “Are we forgetting?” The stick echoed strangely, even though the dampening cloth, against the odd material of my leg.

 “Something obvious.”

 “Always is.”

 “Terrible but true.”

 “Rhetorical question.” I shot them a glare. The Tricksters were never any use.

 The four of them – inseparable as chair legs – smirked and giggled to themselves, and one tossed a ball made of glitter across the two in the middle to the one at the other end.

 Hahrí and Orseh, what madness was this.

 “Madness true and dear.”

 “No one asked…”  I glanced at them again. “Stop doing that.”

 The four of them cracked grins.

 Creeps.

 Concentrate. I needed to move on.

 “Is this it?” A bag jumped out in front of me, spilling bright materials across the ground.

 “No.” I shoved them back in and sealed it shut.

 “Is this?” Wind whirled away dust, revealing a line of symbols on the ground, symbols I’d carved the night before.

 “No.” I dragged my false foot over them, blurring them from existence.

 “How about this?” My crutch – my staff, bound in ribbons and string and rope, patterned with beads and etchings and so much dye that I couldn’t remember what wood it had been originally.

 “No, but thank you.” I took it, leaning on it.

 Everything was packed and in its place.

 “Then this.” The last of them giggled and grinned and held out a gilt box. “Or its contents, in any case.”

 “What is that?” I took a step towards them, holding out my free hand. Something I knew. Something that was achingly familiar.

 Something I’d never seen before.

 As one, they hopped backwards.

 “Ah-ah-ah.” One wagged a finger, while another juggled the box.

 “Bargaining chips,” the third whispered, grinning.

 “You never really noticed it gone, did you?”

 “Maybe it isn’t worth all that much.”

 “Maybe we should keep it.”

 “What do you…” No. I took a shifting grip on my staff. “What bargain?”

 “How much,” said the one holding the box, turning to its fellows, “Do you think this is worth?”

 “Two nights and a day,” said one.

 “The stars,” said another.

 “Maybe a life?” suggested the third.

 “Maybe our freedom.” The fourth grinned. “What say you, keeper of… what you keep?”

 “Tell me what it is.” I took another step. “What could be worth two nights and a day?”

 “In the same breath as the stars?” They tossed the box between them, and I tried not to gasp as it jolted. As it tugged.

 “Something we never had.”

 “Something you never deserved.”

 Oh. Oh, hells.

 “Put it back.” I swung my staff up to point at them. “Now.”

 “Tell us what it’s worth?”

 “What will you give us to return it?”

 “What,” said one, creeping over my shoulder, “can be done to make us?”

 I shuddered away from its dry-root cold, and it laughed itself away to its friends. “Give me it back and you’ll find out.”

 “Shouldn’t that be or?”

 The one holding the box grinned. “It cannot, can it?”

 “What peculiarities!”

 “No harm while we hold it.”

 “No stars, neither.”

 They held the box out. “Tell us, keeper of what you keep. What is the value of a soul?”

 What was the value of a soul? I remembered the response.

 Arbitrary.

 As much as someone valued it.

 Negligible.

 A life.

 “Two nights and a day,” I replied.

 They could not go for longer.

 “Not this one, I think.” They gave it a careful shake, as if listening for value. “Longer.”

 “A week.”

 Two capered, dancing. One wasn’t impressed. The fourth watched and picked at the places where claws should be.

 “You didn’t miss it much, then.”

 Oh, but I missed it now. How I missed it now.

 “Miss it more. Go on.”

 “Two.”

 “Explain?”

 “Two weeks.” I licked my lips. “No more.”

 “I… think not.” They considered the box. “No, this one is worth more.”

 “What would you say?”

 “The worth of this soul?”

 “Freedom.”

 The Tricksters. Free.

 “No.”

 “Then we are trapped, you and us. Bound to you and owned by us.” They grinned. “Such fun.”

 I couldn’t – couldn’t let them go.

 Couldn’t live like this. Now I knew it gone, I couldn’t…

 “A year.” I hedged my bets.

 “A lot can happen in a year,” whispered one to the three.

 “Such possibilities!”

 “Not endless.”

 “But a start.”

 “This is the worth of your soul to you? A year?”

 I licked my lips again and nodded. “No more, no less.” The contract we had would not be void.

 “We have a year.” They tossed the box, gracelessly.

 I lunged to catch it and hit the ground as it burst, inches from my fingers.

 Nothing.

 “Oops.” They cackled, and were gone in an instant as the rain started like sequins.

 The Tricksters were loose for a year.

 Much more would be missing.

 But nothing so important again.

 I pressed silvered fingers to my throat and felt the colours mesh and fade. Not yet.

 Not… quite yet.