02. A Day at the Market (Vaye)¶
Vaye awoke with a gasp, surrounded by the charred remains of her goddess’s last temple. Her heart was racing along at a gallop and her mouth tasted like she had put out a candle on her tongue. Truly a lovely way to start the day.
She sat up, working her aching jaw and waiting for the nightmare to fade. In the dream, she’d been flattened beneath a vast blue darkness, paralyzed by the profound, grinding cold. With the odd logic of dreams, she knew she’d somehow endured that state for a dozen lifetimes. Still, it was better than the grinning demons and blood-spattered stones that populated her usual nightmares. At least this time she hadn’t felt responsible.
Nine years had passed since her mother’s death and the terrible journey that had followed, and she hadn’t gone a single day without thinking about it. The screams still bounced around her skull, accompanied by that single Anashic word hissed by an inhuman tongue. The memories were bad enough on their own, but the guilt also clung to her like cold grease. Grandchildren had killed the Dzharians, not Vaye, but deep down she knew it had been her fault, just like her mother’s death.
Far above, dim light filtered down through the soot-covered glass in the ceiling. Like all Anashi temples, this one was topped with a conical spiral that was supposed to represent a windstorm, although Vaye had always thought it looked more like a snail. Most Anashi temples hadn’t survived the Conflagration, but the Anashi of Thelenza had been relatively wealthy, and the metal and stone construction had survived the fire that consumed the interior. Long, curving slivers of stained glass, still glowing vibrantly in red and yellow and purple, nestled between the spiral arms, too high up to be smashed by vandals. Grimy as they were, the windows gave mute testament to the building’s former beauty. The way things were going, it was possible that they would outlive the Anashi altogether.
Vaye swung her legs off the lip of the alcove that served as her bed. It had once held the temple’s collection of High Anashic holy books, along with various ritual and liturgical implements. The nooks where those items had once hung now provided convenient storage for her meager belongings. She’d initially felt bad about occupying the sacred space, but it was the coziest spot in the temple, relatively dry and protected from drafts. And Vaye was the only Anashi thing left for it to shelter.
A dusty shaft of morning light angled in from a crack in the far wall, striking her pipe in its alcove. The raw witchglass, blackened and fraying from use, glowed with false holiness. Vaye’s fingers twitched, starting to reach for the pipe on their own. It was as though Grandmother herself were tempting Vaye to pick up the pipe and light it, to let the nownow fill her lungs and escape reality for a while.
She shook her head and hopped down onto the dais to get dressed. Today was Market Day. She didn’t have time for distractions.
Grabbing her bag of merchandise, she peeked through a crack in the blackened door, which had been stout enough to survive the blaze. The Cantereians of the surrounding neighborhood believed the temple to be haunted, a rumor she had gleefully exploited. She still grinned when she recalled the night she’d hid in the rafters while a pair of local teens had explored the ruin, terrifying them with whispered Anashic chanting. Since that night, the neighbors had left the temple alone, but it was still best if no one saw the “ghost” emerge.
The way was clear, and she stepped outside and squinted upward, fine droplets of mist settling on her face. The temple was situated in a tiny courtyard, hemmed in on all sides by crumbling stone walls. A thin slice of swirling gray was all that was visible of the sky. The burned-out temple was like an ingrown hair, the neighborhood having formed around it without getting too close, its isolation a perfect fit for Vaye’s illicit lifestyle.
As she descended the hill, the narrow path to the market grew wider, one of many tributaries joining the main road. She glanced up as she entered a quiet courtyard, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Far above the thin, spiralling veil of mist, the Eyewall rose into the heavens like a moving cliff face, its surface slowly churning as it rotated around the city. Feathers of mist floated off the top, dissolving into an incongruously blue sky above. From such a distance, the Eyewall seemed almost tranquil, but where its shadow slanted across its own inner curve, veins of lightning flickered beneath the roiling clouds, setting them ablaze from within.
Vaye rarely noticed the sound of the Eyewall anymore, but she remembered what it had been like to first set foot in Thelenza, the rumble vibrating in her chest like a crowd of giants seated around a table above her, arguing over who would get the juiciest piece. As vast as the city was, Thelenza was but a small bubble of calm in the center of a massive, perpetual storm, one that stretched outward for a three-day march in all directions. Like Sarmala itself, the Eyewall was sometimes beautiful, but its true nature was one of overwhelming violence. The sorcerous storm gave the Vorkyrda direct control over rainfall and sunshine and wind, and thus trade and agriculture, for the entire empire. The Eyewall was both the mechanism and the symbol of Sarmalan power. And its architecture had been stolen from Vaye’s people, the first betrayal that had ignited the Conflagration.
As she left the narrow side streets and entered Daybreak Yard, the muted roar of the Eyewall was subsumed by the scrape and clatter of merchants setting up their booths and fighting to be heard. Morning sunlight slanted down to glare off the damp flagstones and the polished armor of the city watch, who pushed through the crowd with malignant boredom. Stocky Dzharian caravan traders in garish striped vests and jingling silver jewelry sidled past grinning, angular Hoshinese troubadours. Patchwork-skinned Cantereian urchins brandished skewers of questionable snacks at wide-eyed Sarmalan tourists from surrounding cities. In the center of the square, the crowd broke against a semicircle of tall statues depicting The Refractions: Dawn, Day, and Dusk, the three Sacred Aspects of the Sarmalan Sky Mother. Each statue held aloft a large witchglass sun, their glittering beauty belying their grim purpose.
The market was a permanent fixture of the Cantereian Quarter, blanketing the square and pushing its tendrils into the surrounding alleys. But it grew significantly more crowded on the twice-yearly Market Days, when an army of opportunists with something to buy or sell invaded the narrow passages. The spring caravans had arrived the night before, disgorging a crowd of traders eager to load up their wagons. Since they’d soon be traveling beyond the reach of Sarmalan law, some would even be willing to buy counterfeit goods from an Anashi, if the price was sweet enough.
Skirting the edge of the market, Vaye headed toward the section designated for witchglass vendors. The finest shops were located in the buildings along the edge of the square, but the back alleys immediately behind them were littered with con-artists, counterfeiters, smugglers, and hucksters of all sorts. The Fringe, as this outlying district was known, was tolerated by the authorities because the rich, too, sometimes required the services of the unsavory. Vaye fit right in.
She wound her way past the ramshackle carts and lean-tos that had sprouted like mushrooms that morning, headed for the alley behind Feather and Vine. She’d never been inside the posh shop, but often peered into the display windows, since a good counterfeiter had to know what was in style. Feather and Vine’s products were all made from virgin witchglass with near-perfect transmittance, so expensive that the prices weren’t even listed. She frequently daydreamed about what she could make with that grade of raw material.
The alley was crowded, Cantereian vendors humming softly to each other as they prepared for the influx of Market Day traders. A few nodded to her as she made her way to the collection bin near the shop’s back entrance. Distribution of refined witchglass was tightly restricted, since it could also be used to create weapons, and the authorities required shops like Feather and Vine to recycle their scraps. Crouching to obscure the bin with her body, she produced a thin sliver of raw witchglass and inserted it into the keyhole, pouring her will into the material. The tip wriggled up and down like a tongue as it found each of the tumblers, and the mechanism opened with a soft clunk.
There wasn’t much in the bin today, just a few thin sheets with large holes cut out of them and what appeared to be a broken teacup. The fragments wouldn’t be of much use. Once witchglass had been cured to its maximum hardness, it was extremely difficult to coax back into a new shape. She grabbed the bits anyway, careful not to cut herself on their sharp edges. She might be able to work them into a trendy animal sculpture, perhaps as a beak or a talon.
As she set the lock back to its original state, a cold voice dripped down her neck. “Doing some shopping, stain?”
She closed her eyes and exhaled, calming herself, then turned with what she hoped was an expression of withering indifference. “I don’t have time for this shit today, Fihro.”
The lanky Cantereian ran his thin fingers through his greasy beard and flashed a cruel grin. His skin was mottled like a dirty dishtowel, his teeth proudly displaying the remains of something orange. Musab, his lackey, stood behind him nodding like an enormous chicken.
Fihro was the only nownow dealer with a supply Vaye could afford. Unfortunately, he was also an infuriating, condescending bottom-feeder. Lacked other targets lower on the social ladder than himself, he made it his personal mission to insult and humiliate Vaye at every opportunity. Musab, who was thick of both body and mind, seldom spoke, simply grinning at his master’s meager wit.
“I would think you’d be happy to see us,” Fihro drawled. “Stains don’t have many friends.”
Vaye snorted, crossing her arms. The slur was a reference to her skin, which faded from smoke-gray to charcoal on her hands, feet, lips, and around her eyes. The insult would have stung more coming from someone who didn’t resemble a half-digested rodent. “I might be Anashi, but I still have standards.”
Musab frowned and started to move toward her. She licked a bead of sweat off her lips, almost hoping the big thug would take a swing at her. She had trained in Kravadi, the Anashi fighting art, since early childhood, and despite his size, she reckoned he was no match for her. But Fihro put out a hand to stop the lout, his grin growing wider. “Now, now, let’s not get upset. She probably just wishes she could be with both of us. You know how they are.”
Vaye forced her mouth into a dismissive smile, refusing to let him rattle her. Group lovemaking was sometimes known as “the Anashi vice,” one of many smear campaigns leveled against her people. The practice, which Sarmalans dubbed circamo, was punishable by death. She’d thought about it, of course, but she’d sooner walk into the Eyewall than let him know that, and her fantasies had damn well never involved him or Musab. “Careful, now,” she said sweetly. “You don’t want to get in trouble with your masters.”
Fihro scoffed, but Vaye didn’t miss his nervous glance over his shoulder. “You’re one to talk. Your kind isn’t even supposed to be in this neighborhood. Maybe I should report you to the Sihiri.”
He wasn’t wrong. If she drew the attention of the Sihiri, the elite sorcerer-soldiers of the Vorkyrda’s personal guard would suck the secrets out of her like the juice of a ripe plum. Fortunately, Fihro’s threats were as empty as Musab’s skull. “Sure, go ahead. And when they ask what you do for a living, what will you say?”
“Maybe not the Sihiri, then,” Fihro said, undeterred. “But Binhoça also won’t be happy to learn that you’re going behind his back.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, but he likes money, and I bring him a lot of it.” Anashim were prohibited from gathering or selling witchglass, which meant she had to go through Binhoça, a weathered old Cantereian middleman she trusted about as much as a paper stove. He provided her with bags of witchglass trimmings, and she turned them into counterfeit items to sell to less-reputable traders at a significant markup. Despite her insistent requests, though, Binhoça had proven incapable of getting her a supply of refined, virgin witchglass, thus forcing her to seek it out herself. But even if she did succeed in procuring some, she’d still need Binhoça as a fence, and the resulting profits would quickly make the old slug forget her transgressions.
“We all have our secrets, Fihro. For example, the Rilão Cartel would be very upset to learn that you were working their territory,” she said. “And unlike them, Binhoça doesn’t strangle people with their own hamstrings.”
At the mention of the ruthless Cartel, Fihro’s grin finally vanished. Even Musab turned a bit pale. “You think you’re better than us, stain?”
“No,” Vaye said. “I’m just not any worse.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Fihro said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Musab and I are moving up in the world.”
“Sure,” Vaye said, shrugging. “Even turds float to the surface sometimes.”
Fihro bared his predatory smile again. “You should be more polite. I have something you want.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a ball of iridescent red fibers, holding it out in his palm. Even in the dim light of the alley, the nownow sparkled like dew-covered grass. Vaye tried to keep her expression neutral, but the truth was that she had never seen nownow of such quality. Watching Fihro bounce it in his palm was like seeing a street dog wearing the Vorkyrda’s witchglass headdress. Grandmother only knew how he’d gotten his hands on it.
“Look, Musab, she’s like a fish after a worm,” Fihro said with a smirk. Musab smiled, nodding his massive head, although it was unclear whether he understood anything other than his master’s tone of voice.
Vaye felt the blood rush to her face. Embarrassingly, she had indeed begun salivating. She clenched her fists, letting her nails dig into her palm. “How much?”
“Very reasonable,” the hoodlum said breezily. “Three silvers for a pinch. Seven aurei gets you the whole ball.”
She sagged. She barely had three dozen coppers to her name, much less any silver or gold. Fihro knew that, of course, and was dangling the nownow in front of her just to watch her beg. She hated that she still had to try. “I don’t have the money right now, but I’ll be good for it soon. If you can float me a pinch, I can pay you back after—”
“After you were so rude?” Fihro shook his head sadly. “I think not. Maybe if you apologize and ask nicely.”
Vaye managed to restrain herself from jumping atop him and biting his face off. Instead, she clenched her jaw until her teeth creaked, shoving her anger into the pile she’d packed into her chest over the years. “I’m sorry I was rude,” she choked out, each word scraping her throat like a sticker burr. “I swear I’ll pay you back after the market.” She wasn’t sure how she’d afford food, but she’d figure that out later.
The Cantereian nodded solemnly for a moment, but suddenly broke into a loud guffaw. Musab startled, confused, although Vaye immediately understood. The Cantereian had never intended to sell her the nownow, no matter how she abased herself. He’d just wanted to humiliate her. “Sorry, stain,” he chuckled, “but I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t be seen with someone so desperate.”
Rage slid down her spine, comfortable and familiar as an old shirt. Fihro thought she was just another addict, and she didn’t dare correct him. Her position in society was precarious enough without anyone suspecting why she really wanted the drug. But if there was one thing Vaye was good at, it was suppressing her emotions. She stilled herself with some Kravadi breathwork and straightened her spine, trying to recover at least a bit of her dignity.
Fihro frowned and opened his mouth for another insult, but was interrupted by a wave of silence that swept along the alley. Among Cantereians, the sudden absence of sound was as attention-grabbing as a trumpet blast, and everyone turned to look at the source. A pair of armored figures had just rounded the corner, their shoulders draped with arm-length capes of glimmering witchglass, helmets topped with white plumes of the same material. These were no ordinary city watch, but Sihiri. In a heartbeat, the crowd scattered, banging their carts over the bumpy stones, heedless of the damage.
The back door of Feather and Vine swung open and a young Sarmalan woman popped her head out, looking first toward the Sihiri and then turning in Vaye’s direction. Vaye had seen the shopkeeper a few times before, from a distance: once as she unlocked the front door of the shop in the morning and a second time as she departed across the square. The girl was flawless, her sand-colored skin glowing with the faint iridescence common to aristocratic Sarmalans, her mass of coppery waves pinned back from her delicate face. She seemed far too young to be the shop owner, so she was probably a daughter or niece. Her beauty was alienating, putting her as far beyond Vaye’s reach as the objects she sold.
Fihro dropped the glimmering ball of nownow into its pouch and stuck his pinkie in his ear, flicking it at Vaye hatefully before bolting down a side street, Musab lumbering after him. Vaye glanced back at the shopkeeper, who was staring at her with an oddly eager expression. The rich girl had probably summoned the Sihiri to expel the rabble behind her shop, and was doubtless excited to watch them crack Vaye’s skull.
Having no intention of giving them that opportunity, Vaye scowled at the Sarmalan and ran. She headed the opposite direction from Fihro, conscious of her increasing distance from that luscious ball of nownow. Her thoughts clung to it, dwelling on its sticky texture and the way it had dripped with light. Fihro didn’t deserve to possess such a thing. One way or another, Vaye was going to relieve him of it. And once she had, she would converse with the divine.
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