Roadside Magic

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Patience, Crenn. Patience.

  Few of them took any notice of the rain except a few burning-hobs covered in layers of burlap, their footprints steaming, adding to the white veils. No wyrmkin, and no aetherists at all. No cloud-hoolins, or canine spirits.

  That was strange. What was even stranger was the lack of Unseelie. In the markets, most violence was set aside.

  His patience, as usual, was finally rewarded.

  A tall shadow wrapped in a dark cloak hurried along, his boots noiseless and his manner bespeaking familiarity with the markets. He stepped firmly but not heavily, the lightfoot used as a warrior would, the broad shoulders familiar-strange.

  Predictable. Still, he couldn’t underestimate the cursed man. Gallow slipped away oily-quick from trouble, and had even in those days when neither he nor Crenn knew of the sideways realms—only that they both bore a mark, perhaps of the Devil himself. The orphanage hadn’t been able to hold them both, not once Gallow figured out how to whisper locks into opening. Alastair learned by watching, but it simply hadn’t occurred to him that the locks were not immutable. It had taken the other boy to spark their rebellion.

  He had followed Jer’s lead, then and afterward.

  That was when the trains were the chariots of foulmouth princes reeking of harsh cheap tobacco and too-few baths, when a man had to get drunk on possibility if he couldn’t pay for moonshine, or he could get rich running barrels of corn liquor across the ridges, dodging lightning and the blue serge bulls. When the deputies with their shiny badges could catch you, shooting, stamping and kicking until you fled consciousness, then douse you with bubbling pitch and foul tar and set you afire . . . and all your buddies, the men who called you friend, ran away. Except one who came back and could only work a halfhearted healing because he knew no chantment other than opening locks or sweet-talking a mortal woman or two.

  Like schoolteacher Sarah, in her faded blue dress. You never forgot your first, even if she was mortal. Even if she was nothing more than a pipe dream.

  So we’re thinking about Sarah now? Cut it out.

  Crenn’s true prey had vanished. Gallow had some means of locating her, and he was going to some trouble to do so.

  My lady Robin.

  There had been talk, in Summer, of Gallow leaving his post of privilege. A long while ago, a whisper had surfaced that he’d done so for a mortal doxy. Rumor wore many shades, most of lie but some of half-truth, and Robin Ragged was a Half. It had something to do with the breaching of Summer’s borders, and Summer herself taking time to send him after the girl—stipulating that not a feather of the Ragged’s plumage was to be plucked.

  Certainly Summer had sworn, so there were two possibilities: The Queen had a further use for the Ragged . . . or vengeance. And while Summer had uses for all who came into her snow-white, grasping hands, only the latter would move a queen to spend such attention on a small, nagging detail when her wider realm was in danger of rotting on the vine.

  The cloaked stranger passed through the age-blackened door, too tall to do so without bending. A slice of dimpled, golden light widened, filled with his shadow, and narrowed to oblivion again.

  Crenn took another few steps, staying within range as the door drifted. The sign above it was two doves, one singing, the other broken-necked, both being swallowed by a fanciful, greedy-mawed snake, and a more fitting sigil for the sidhe who squatted toadlike in that hole and dispensed high-priced solace to the desperate could hardly be devised.

  It seemed the Gallowglass was owed a favor by none less than the linchpin of the Markets himself, old Medvedev the goblin prince. Crenn’s smile, toothy and ruinous, vanished as his head came up and he sniffed, rolling the air over his tongue on the exhale to gather the new tang.

  Interesting.

  Somewhere else in the Markets’ pile, a new ferment had been added.

  The Unseelie had arrived.

  A-HORSE AND A-HOUND

  25

  Oh, go away.” A round, white, bald-shaven pate barely rose, reflecting mellow light from the forest of pierced-tin lanterns hanging from a low, smoke-blackened ceiling. The mountain of flesh held a head that had sunk forward, round chin resting on a billow of chest covered with expensive acid-green silk, its sheen of constant greasy sweat collecting in creases. The fishbelly cast of a creature that never saw daylight might have turned the stomach, if the sheer bulk of the goblin didn’t. Size meant status among them, and wealth. “Whoever you are, you reek.” Slightly nasal, the words were breathed in an asthmatic wheeze.

  Really, the wonder was that such a fat-swathed creature could speak at all, that he didn’t expire from his own weight. When was the last time the great doge had bestirred himself?

  Who knew?

  “It’s a lack of bathwater.” The door swung closed behind Jeremiah, nipping at his heels as if it sensed his weariness. He pushed his hood back, wrinkling his nose slightly—the cloak, while waxed and reasonably effective at keeping him dry, was still full of the musty earthsmell from its former owner. It would take more than a few yards of cloth to throw pursuers off his trail, but the rain might help.

  For anything else, though, he’d need more.

  “There’s much of it falling, tonight.” Tiny black eyes, almost lost in great slabs of cheek, traveled over Gallow from top to toe and twinkled a little, perhaps even merrily. “Wellnow. By woodland and by brook, what’s come along to cook?”

  So you know I’m hunted. “A fish too spine-boned for most, oh my gracious host.” Any amusement Gallow might feel at exchange of greetings drained away. Normally there were pixies crawling over every acre of Medvedev Dadalo the Builder’s satin-and brocade-robed bulk as he lolled on his cushions. The contraption behind him, its silver belly bubbling and its pipes emitting steam-jets of various colors and fragrances, was hushed, and one of his secondary sets of hands, wasted and thin, only toyed with the silver mouthpiece. No movement behind the screens of dark, heavy, carved wood, either, lesser seam-headed and ungainly goblins scurrying to carry and fetch, currying favor and bringing rumor or tribute.

  The markets were a goblin affair, the Vene Venesa Clan’s doges—and those who found it profitable to seek alliance with them—jealously guarding their fiefdoms and renting out stall and building space, stitching the disparate pieces into a whole, performing whatever strange, ancient chantment was necessary to keep such a cobbled-together heap going. Technically, the doges were all “equal”—but Med was first among them. The linchpin of the Markets, they called him—or, less complimentarily, the Head Gobbler, which could have been anything from a comment on his sexual proclivities to a warning about his preferred snack.

  “The sweetest meat,” Medvedev wheezed, “may rest inside the sharpest shell. Greetings, Armormaster. To what do I owe this honor?”

  As if you can’t guess. “Perhaps I am lonely for your excellent company, O worker of wonders.”

  The shuddering, heaving, cracking sound that rumbled on and on was Medvedev’s laugh. Faint pinpricks of foxfire glow twinkled around him—pixies struggling to coalesce, perhaps sensing some mischief they were not a part of. The Veil behaved strangely in the Markets; sometimes it was whispered that Summer and Unwinter both did not precisely fear the doges, but held them in some caution. The market-folk held themselves nominally among the free sidhe, but even Puck Good-fellow, the closest thing to a leader the free folk had, was not often seen in the noisome alleys and patchwork stalls, crowded shops and throbbing taverns.

  Could it have been Puck who spirited Robin away? Cheating the Fatherless of something he had his claws in was no small proposition.

  Finally, Med’s chuckles ceased. He blinked, heaving his bulk from side to side a little, the entire room groaning and swaying as he did so. The lanterns danced crazily, the chantment-steadied candleflames inside sputtering and belching black smoke. Gallow had seen Med laugh before, but it was . . . disconcerting, each time. “I wondered how long it would be before your shadow darkened
my doorstep.”

  “Did you now.” Exhaustion hung on Jeremiah. Even highborn fullbloods needed rest. How much wearier would Half flesh and blood become before he committed some stupidity?

  If he hadn’t already.

  “Oh, yes. I have heard rumors, and I thought to myself, Now, what would make most sense for Gallow to do?” Another burbling laugh. “Then I thought, Certainly he would avoid me. That would be wisest.”

  “It might.” Gallow let the cloak slip from his shoulders. The material made a soft whispering sound before landing with a sodden thump on the parquet flooring, and it was almost worth the sudden chill to see Medvedev’s nose wrinkle. It wasn’t quite an insult, but then, neither was Med’s roundabout threat to sell him to the highest bidder. “I have not long been known for wisdom, sagacious one. Unlike yourself.”

  “For blood, and for a certain rough charity, but aye, not wisdom. I shall ask outright, what brings you here?”

  Rough charity? “Can you not guess?”

  “Unwinter seeks thee, and Summer is weakened by recent frolics. A marvelous moment. Much profit to be had, if one makes the right decisions.” His primary hands spread, seven extra-jointed fingers on each, their orange-tinted nails long-curving and scraped clean daily by lesser goblins. Medvedev scratched at part of the mass of satin, a slice of quivering pale skin briefly visible. The orange veins crawling through it matched his nails, and writhed just under the surface.

  Those weren’t the same as Jeremiah’s markings. Iron would burn through that flesh and sicken the fat beneath, and just thinking about it made his arms tingle-burn. Medvedev had elected to meet him alone, balancing out the risk of Jeremiah’s suspicion.

  Everything even, tit for tat, just like a sidhe.

  His shoulders relaxed a trifle. Medvedev lifted the hookah-pipe and took a long, bubbling draft. Another good sign.

  “Unwinter’s coin may not be to a purse’s liking.” Gallow let his hands hang loose and easy.

  “Oh, it rarely is.” The left of Med’s primary set of hands flickered, digging deep in folds of clothed fat. “Ah, here it is. This is what you left with me, lo those many seasons ago.” A flicker, and it whizzed through the air. Jeremiah’s hand flashed out and he caught it, feeling the tingle of the simple chantment to ease the weight of the round black carrying-boll. Just as heavy as he remembered, its wizened surface running with foxfire gleams as it recognized him. “Should you tire of playing catch-and-hide with the twins, there is always room for another Enforcer in my markets.”

  Jeremiah placed his hand at his heart, bowing slightly as his fist compressed the ball and he stowed it, safely enough, in his pocket. As soon as he found a quiet corner, it would be time to open it up and change. “You honor me, oh greatest of doges. I presume the salary would be adequate.” Not that I ever want to go back to enforcing. Leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

  The doge did not have a chance to reply, for the door behind Gallow was wrenched open, a burst of rainy air and the peppermusk of danger breathing through. Jeremiah found himself spinning aside, the lance resolving between his palms and the leafshaped tip swelling with red light as iron crackled into being.

  It was Crenn, soaked to the bone and wearing a wide, white, fey smile, disconcerting on his ruined face. “Unseelie! They are riding the Markets, a-horse and a-hound!”

  Med’s piggy little eyes narrowed still further, and Crenn struck the lancetip away from its pause near his throat, a contemptuous little slap.

  “Are you moontouched, or—” Whatever else Gallow would say was lost in a breathless rolling static unsound, the hairs all over his body trying to stand straight up in response.

  Dimly, from outside, the silver huntwhistles stitched together the roil of falling rain.

  “In my market?” The room quaked afresh, Medvedev’s bulk rising. He rocked from side to side, velvet and satin tearing, and pixies blossomed into being around him, their chiming little cries adding to the creak-groaning din. “A-horse and a-hound? In my market?”

  Chitterings, bangings, squeals. Shadows moving behind the carved screens. A lamp fell, its sides crumpling as one of the goblin’s fists flashed out, and Jeremiah ducked the sudden missile. He stepped aside, the lance vanishing as he grabbed Crenn’s jerkin, leather slipping under callused fingers. The door hadn’t managed to close itself yet, and it wanted to, but Gallow drove a shoulder against it, and they both tumbled out into slashing rain, rolling in a puddle; Gallow gained his feet more through luck than skill.

  The long line of cobbled-together architecture holding the nerve-center of the Markets flexed, an undulating snake uncoiling itself for the first time in a century or so. Distant screams echoed with the huntwhistles, their silver net thrilling through the ultrasonic, scraping sidhe skin and freezing the heart of each pelting raindrop. “You idiot!” Gallow yelled as Crenn rose, water and ice sluicing from every edge and surface. “Did you have to?”

  “How do you think they knew you were here?” Crenn yelled back. “The moment you started bargaining for that stupid cloak, the goblins started scurrying!”

  “They scurry all night, and half the day, too!” His arms ached, ached with the desire to let the lance free and end this stupid bastard once and for all. “Now I’ll never . . .” Shut up, Jeremiah. Just shut up.

  “Cry me upriver later.” Crenn’s hands flicked up, the twin swords shirring free. Their blades ran with water, and the moss was back in his hair, threading the draggled mop with verdant green. “For now, Armormaster, we are to run. And fight.”

  “Why should I follow you?”

  “Because,” Crenn replied, reasonably enough, “I won’t have Unwinter robbing me of the pleasure of killing you myself. Now run.”

  A MEMORY ATTACHED

  26

  The best thing she found was a long black velvet cape-coat in what must have been a fortune-teller’s tent, dusty and motheaten but large enough to blur her outline. With the hood up and a thin black dust-stiffened scarf, embroidered with itchy tarnished spangles, wrapped around the lower half of her face, she could be safely anonymous—obviously sidhe, but perhaps a nymph of any drier sort, since a naiad would drip-damp through the alleyways.

  It didn’t matter, because as soon as she approached the slice of the Markets holding the edge of this place moored to both sideways realms and mortal, she heard a pattering of raindrops.

  She took her time, examining the border from the shadows in the lee of a deserted cotton-candy stand. Wherever the rain touched, puffs of dust splattered up, ghost-outlines of open mouths before an uneasy breeze whisked them away. When the border shifted they dried quickly, leaving strange ringed ripples in the dirt. A long time ago, maybe mortals would see those dapples in a forgotten corner of the world and know the Folk had been about.

  No more, though.

  The sleeves were long, so she could cover her hands once she stepped over—gloves would be necessary, and a kerchief for her hair, and perhaps a pretty bauble to anchor a glamour to, since her locket was gone. That would be the most expensive article, since all the rest could be stolen if need be, and she would have to trade something significant for anything shiny and sidhe-wrought. The ring in her pocket would do, perhaps. It was bright and tawdry and had a memory attached.

  Could she attach a glamour to a bright piece of mortal plastic? Not a very good one, and the hour or so required to do so suddenly didn’t feel like one she had the luxury of spending. A nameless tension bloomed under her ribs, her heart beating fast and thin in her ears.

  Pepperbuckle squeezed against her side, his warm, solid shoulder against her hip. She found her hand lying on his ruff, caressing absently as he leaned into the touch. What did this beast eat? Could she afford to feed him?

  “Are you hungry?” she whispered. “What on earth do you eat, little one?” Little one, as if he wasn’t a beast large enough to be ridden.

  His tail wagged once, but his ear-perked attention didn’t waver. He regarded the Markets with cocked he
ad and tense hindquarters.

  Robin took a deep breath, glided out of the comforting shadows. The hound moved with her, pacing regally, but slowed as they drew near the shifting, dancing border. He whined, and perhaps she simply imagined it, but there were words buried in that low, worried sound.

  “I know,” she soothed. “You don’t have to come with me.” It’s probably best if you don’t.

  That earned her a single reproachful look, his head barely turning. Then he focused on the border, slowing still more.

  Robin halted just at the very edge of the curtain of dapples, one of her heels striking a pebble loose in the dirt and sliding sideways a fraction before steadying. Her head tilted, and for a moment she and Pepperbuckle stood in exactly the same attitude of listening, her pale hand lost in the slowly rising hair between his shoulderblades. A shudder rippled through her, crown-to-toes, and its twin worked down through Pepperbuckle. His nails lengthened slightly, digging into bleached-bone dust.

  What is that?

  Commotion strained through the shifting border, faraway shouting. The Markets were a cacophony at the best of times, but this sounded . . . wrong.