Exactly One Pie

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These glow.

• ClownClowns love WAP: a pie in the eye. Each wants so much pie, shown as pips over its head: a whole slice fills one (more, the richer your aura), a Perfect twice that, a slice short of crust or filling half, crumbs a quarter. Satisfied, it goes home delighted and tosses back whatever your aura is shortest of; wanting more, it follows the pie. Step into one, or throw along the needle from the pie. It holds where you leave it: turn it with Q and E, point at a face, drag it round from the pie, or tap right where to throw. When it lines up with a clown’s face the ring turns gold. Dead centre, off a wall, off the glass, or off a ramp is Perfect and counts twice. WAPs close together are a combo: the pie steadies, and from three a slice is ready at once.
• A wonderOne of the land’s own, from this chapter: it waits a moment up the lanes, then goes about its business. Step ahead and into it to keep it in your almanac, and it does in the lanes what it does in the book, keeping you company while it lasts. Torch-ants light your lane the way they light the roots, and the furrows ahead come up warm; echo-wrens perch on the pie and say your throws again; the lag-stag’s prints land a beat late, and so does the land; remainder-moths lead the needle to the nearest face; pane-snails forgive the panes ahead. Every gift is a Spw spell you can read and change on the bench.
• Baneberries · they foretellPlum-black, a cold violet sheen: what Mr. BaneWAP is made of, and a prophecy that keeps itself. Let one past the pie and it foretells something for its lane (wasps, a spool, a stone), posted at the top in violet, and it comes because it was said; one foretells a flinch, and whoever waits for it in that lane flinches. Step on one and it never says. Pass a thrown slice through one to sweeten it: then it foretells boonberries. Mimes gather them for Mr. BaneWAP, and each makes his scheme last longer.
• A slow beaverIn no hurry. Steer into one and for a while the land goes at its pace, and you do not, and everything sounds a little muffled, as if heard through slow time. Boonberries it planted come up behind it.
• A warm furrowIn the field. Something keeps it warm from underneath: a little crust, a little filling, a little steadier.
• Something warm, egg-shapedNow and then, at the very top of the lanes. It is not for taking. Pass close, and the pie settles faster for a while, and the next knock is forgiven.
• Boonberries · they foreseeTeal and amber, lit from within: the filling, and a kindly foretelling. Step through them and for a moment the clear way up the lanes shows in teal, before you need it. Whether the berry showed it or you remembered it, the lane does not say.
• Boneberries · they feedBone-white, a dusk-red blush, a faint smoke. Savoury: they taste of the place they grow (burnt ends in Bonk City, rib tips in Bone.land, falafel at the parcel gate). Grown, not raised. Crust and filling both, and for a while your steps tilt less.
• An arrow on the track · from FourStep on it and the needle points where it points, and holds: every throw while it holds is Perfect.
• A weathercock · from FourBy the lanes. Pass close and your needle swings the way it points.
• A brass horn · a gameStep into it and a game begins: Vane Alley, The Parade, or (from Ten) The Long View, where the road recedes.
• Pile of flourA little crust underfoot. And a ramp: a slice thrown over a pile is lofted clean over whatever is next. Piles in a row loft it further.
• BoofCrosses the lanes on her own business. Brush past her and the pie steadies.
• Off switchMr. BaneWAP always leaves one. Step on it, or hit it with a slice, and he is foiled. His rented wind drifts slices too.