Toys

Dip, wave, admire. The bubbles last longer than most adventurers.

Comes with a basket. The basket comes with ants.

Three strings, one of them in tune. The crowd is kind.

The closest most people ever want to get to a dragon.

Blue and gold, and very slightly singed from the last siege.

The rangers use it to talk to the birds. The birds mostly talk back.

The Outriders keep one for awkward silences.

Smith Oda made it for her nephew. The nephew has lost his eyebrows twice.

Packed by the Rimegate Watch in the year of the Long Frost. It never melts, and never misses. Mostly.

Lanternwatch sends one up for every sailor still out on the fen.

The Last Pilgrims light them for the ones who did not reach the Crown.

The Compact settles its quarrels at the end of a plank. Bring a towel.

Stitched by Mildred Tabbard. Your colors, and only a little crooked.

Old Barnaby swears it has never been washed. The fish agree.

The crowd is not included. The crowd comes anyway.

Every Wayfarer carries one. Most of them say "Was here".

Very convincing. Other wolves have started to follow you home.

Someone was using these. They will want them back.

Two eye holes and a strong smell of damp.

Nobody knows why the rare elites carry these. Nobody asks.

It always comes back to the jar. It likes the jar.

A size 38. Your feet grow into them.

The poachers took it from a windowsill. It is still warm, somehow.

Forged in the Foundry to test helmets. It failed every test.

Shake it and it snows. On you. Everywhere.

They glow brighter when you hum. Try it.

It smells of mushrooms and bad ideas.

For celebrations. Also for starting them.

Smells of pine and Mama Rook's stew. Sit down, warm your hands.

It is a very good rock. It stays. It follows. It has googly eyes.

X marks the spot. The spot marks nothing.

Three corners, one feather, no ship. Found at the bottom of the twenty-fifth hole.

For days when you want everyone to know how you feel.

Everything you have ever read, stacked by height. The one you want is always at the bottom.

Moonpenny's neighbor hands them out by the crate.

Better luck tomorrow! Squeeze it when you are sad. Squeeze it when you are not.

The oldest joke in Sunderkeep. It still works.

Baked by Madame Moonpenny. The fortunes are all true, eventually.

Mirror, mirror. Whatever you do, do not ask it who is the fairest.

It writes the question beautifully. Nobody has ever got it to write the answer.

Every scrap a dead end. Every dead end a celebration.

An X on the front and an X on the back. People keep digging near you.

For when you want everyone to know exactly where the treasure is. It is you.

Lid, latch and hinges. Teeth sold separately.

Squid ink, they said. The squid say otherwise.

Light it, make a guess, let it go. It always comes back with the answer, but never to you.

Real gold, beaten thinner than a rumor. Do not try to spend it.

Bought from a man who was not there. The receipt vanished too.

One size fits all pockets. Fence swears he has never worn it.

Washed, pressed and folded by the quartermaster himself. Do not spill on it.

Two blasts for friends at the gate. Three for trouble. Nobody remembers what one means.

Starched by Sister Julie. It crackles when you kneel.

Bottled at dawn on the cathedral roof. Do not open indoors, or at night, or near Ding Crosby.

It has been through three wars and one very long arm-wrestle.

One blast means rally. There is no second blast. Warriors do not retreat, they advance the other way.

Fireproof, mostly. The Bursar keeps a list of the exceptions.

Fizzwick's. It is not dangerous. It is merely unstable, which Fizzwick says is different.

Woven from nettle fiber. It does not sting. It thinks about it.

Every seed in it is a different plant. Steve Irwood says a few of them bite.

Reversible. The other side says "Honest Merchant".

Painted lead, every one. They have bought the crew three ships and a tavern.

One long note, and something enormous answers from very high up.

Woven by Hob Thatcher, who has been wearing the same one for forty years.

Red, gold and brown, and somehow there is always one more in the bottom.

It glows from the inside. It is better not to ask with what.

It drifts up and away, and somewhere far off, someone finds their way home.

Knitted by Greta Hollyberry. The bobble has a mind of its own.

Just add winter. Carrot included. Hat sold separately.

Woven from the first blossoms of the year. It smells of sunshine.

For weddings, for sweethearts and for anyone who needs cheering up.

Hammered from an old brass pot by Brand Emberly, who swears it is real gold.

Write your name in the air. Write it quickly.

Smells of salt, rum and parrot. Mostly parrot.

Loaded with confetti. Mostly. Meg is not entirely sure.

Dory Brine wore it the day she was made captain. She has been made captain four times. The plume is new each time.

Not Peg Tallis's. She checked. Twice.

Wind it up and a tiny crew hauls a tiny rope. Shanty Parton says it is flat. Shanty Parton says everything is flat.

Swept up off the floor of the night sky. The floor is very clean now.

Cut from the northern lights on a cold night. It is still a little cold.