Wesley only shrugged, which was the closest thing he ever gave to an answer. “Then let’s just call it something old that’s been repackaged,” he said. “Either way, it’s in your best interest to pass it on.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’ll cut your life debt short and give you enough money to leave Creije for good.”
Tavia bristled.
Like every busker in Uskhanya, she owed a life debt to the Kingpin. He saved kids from the streets and in exchange they gave him their childhood, because children made the best crooks, lulling anyone into anything.
Sweet faces with deadly magic.
It was only when a busker turned eighteen, became an adult and aged out of their childhood debt, that they were given two choices: leave and never come back, or take everything they’d learned and use it to become a career criminal, swell in coin.
Most buskers went for option two, but Tavia was counting the time until it was over.
Just seven more months to go.
She’d already spent six years under the Kingpin’s thumb, forced to do his dirty work as payment for not starving to death. Forced to jump when she was told and ruin lives on the whim of a power-crazed crook. Never free to do the magic she wanted, when she wanted. Trapped in the city her muma died in, unable to leave and explore the charms the rest of the realms surely held.
As far as Tavia was concerned, she was little more than a captive of the Kingpin’s command.
“That’s not funny,” she said. “You don’t just wipe out a life debt to Dante Ashwood.”
The crowd hissed as one of the fighters fell to their knees.
“It’s not a joke,” Wesley said, though even he didn’t sound sure. “The Kingpin’s consort just told me there’d be a day less on your debt for every vial you sell. Make sure you give it to the good kind of customer though, will you? The people who can afford to keep buying when we officially bring it to market.”
“So not the good kind,” Tavia said. “The wealthy kind.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Tavia resisted the urge to glare.
There were plenty of wealthy folk in Creije, but these days most of them were also wide-eyed romantics, or tourists who wandered from the floating railways with thirsty hearts and idealism ripe on their tongues. Creije was a place for dreamers and Tavia stole enough from people that she thought she ought to draw the line at dreams.
Though if she were to say that to Wesley, he’d laugh and tell her that a mark was a mark and could never be something so complicated as innocent. Even so, Tavia had decided that the best way to survive after Creije—which was an important distinction to surviving in Creije—was to cling to any morality she could salvage.
“People have been bottling happiness for decades,” Tavia said. “You haven’t told me what’s so great about this version.”
“Don’t fix what isn’t broken,” Wesley said.
Tavia cast a meaningful glance in his direction. “There isn’t a thing in this realm that isn’t broken. Including the people.”
Which meant her, too, she supposed. After all, buskers weren’t exactly the poster children for sunny upbringings.
For a second, Wesley paused and Tavia half-expected him to call her out for being sage in a place like the Crook, in front of a person like him while two people pummeled each other with tricks and fists in the background.
Tavia expected him to give her a look that said she was too serious sometimes and not serious enough every other time.
Instead, Wesley brought another clover to his lips and turned his attention back to the fight.
He didn’t look at her again.
“If that’s all,” Wesley said, “you can see yourself out.”
“YOU’RE A CHEAT,” SAXONY said, throwing a small pouch against Tavia’s chest.
Tavia grinned as she caught it. The pouch was a little charred around the edges and carried the distinctly woody smell of a fire charm.
A solid win for the day.
“You’re such a sore loser,” Tavia said.
Saxony gave her the finger by way of reply. Her ring, emblazoned with leaves, curled over her knuckle and then circled in brightly colored vines up to her wrist. It was a fascinating piece of jewelry, equal parts delicate and deadly, just like most things in the realm.
Tavia threw her new fire charm in the air, letting the magic jingle each time it bounced back into her grasp. The two of them had been making nonsense bets for half an hour and she was up by three.
“Victory is sweet,” Tavia said. “You really can’t have too much of a good thing.”
“There’s nothing good in there,” Saxony told her, and then, a little resentful, “That’s why I’m so put out for losing it.”
Saxony let out a wistful sigh and tipped her head back against the temple wall, her tight black curls splayed across the brick, threaded with gold coins, which was all the rage back in Rishiya, where Saxony was from.
Tavia smirked and leaned beside her, letting the walls of the old temple scrape across her jacket.
She liked it best when the days ended this way, with a friend by her side rather than an enemy, which was so often the case. During days like this, Creije smelled of magic and endlessness, and Tavia got a giddy feeling in her chest when she set up her stall at the magic market. When the hustle and glow of Creije streamed across her skin and she could close her eyes and hear the cogs of the city churning.
Tavia liked that it was never too quiet and never too repetitive, and there was beauty in the streams of water that curled through the city and played host to the floating railways. In the sprawling marketplaces, surrounded by pathways that served as portals from one stretch of the city to another in a glorious labyrinth, or the jugglers who performed against a backdrop of street art as bright as the buildings.
If Tavia wasn’t forced to stay here, she might just find it wonderful.
“Don’t make bets you can’t win,” Tavia said. “I think I’ve pretty much cleaned you out.”
Saxony shoved her hands into her pockets, in what Tavia assumed was the only way to stop from throwing her another filthy gesture.
“Another round,” Saxony said. “Winner takes all.”
Tavia laughed. “I’ll pass.”
“Sugj,” Saxony said, which Tavia was pretty sure was Rishiyat slang for coward.
She elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Don’t insult me in your farm lingo,” Tavia said. “I’m not scared, I’m just busy.”
She pointed to the sky, where the sun was low enough for night to crawl into view, and the clouds had already started to spill across rooftops, obscuring any chance of moonlight.
Creije was such a city of juxtapositions and though the day was full of wonder, when night came it welcomed the shadows with open arms, delighting in the wicked things it could hide.
“Everyone’s busy,” Saxony said. “Everyone always has a job to do.”
“You have a job to do,” Tavia said. “Unless you’re going to march into the underboss’s office, look him straight in the eye, and quit.”
Saxony scoffed. “The day I look Wesley in the eye is the day I lose my mind.”
“Afraid you’ll fall madly in love with his baby browns?”
“I’m afraid of what I’ll see in them,” Saxony said. “Haven’t you heard that eyes are the windows to the soul?”
Tavia pushed herself from the wall and gave Saxony a smile that was as criminal as she was. “Wesley Thornton Walcott doesn’t have a soul,” she said.
“Speaking of.” Saxony nodded uneasily into the distance. “There’s your first customer of the night.”
Tavia followed her gaze to a man lingering at the edge of the temple steps. His face was obscured by a large top hat that hid everything except his mustache, but Tavia took note of his suit and how his broad chest puffed out, like just standing was something he excelled at. Tavia hated men for a lot less than standing like that.
She glanced back at Saxony,
giving her a small salute.
“Duty calls,” she said.
Saxony didn’t offer her a smile in return.
For someone who was always so curious about magic, who seemed to love it as much as she did, Saxony never quite liked watching it being sold on the streets, given to the desperate and the dastardly.
“I need a little luck,” the strange man said to Tavia, once she had approached him.
He thrust out a handful of coin.
“That’s market magic.” Tavia was surprised at the innocence of the request. “Come back when the sun’s up.”
“Not the good kind.” The man looked over his shoulder, checking they were still alone in the darkness. He was clearly not used to crossing over to the wrong side of the bridge. “I know someone who needs to be taught a lesson.”
Tavia’s surprise faded, along with her smile.
Not so innocent after all, then.
Maybe such a thing didn’t exist. Wesley told her once—told her constantly, actually—that there wasn’t a person alive who couldn’t be corrupted by power.
There are no good people, he said. Just ones who haven’t made bad choices yet.
Tavia really hated it when Wesley was right.
“I’ve got two vials left,” she said, her voice low.
Not that there was anybody around the derelict temple to hear them. Except maybe the gods.
“Everything in your hand.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “For two vials? Can’t we slice another arrangement?”
“Sure,” Tavia said, ever accommodating. “Give me half of what you’ve got and I’ll arrange for you to have one vial.”
The man sneered, but kept his hand out.
Tavia reached into her backpack, which held the mix of dark elixirs and charms never sold during the magic markets, from seeds that grew indestructible blades to voodoo dolls with a set of pins included. Some were not even magic to be used, but collected and put on shelves for people to admire alongside trophies.Magic made to collect dust, destined for a life inside finely crafted cabinets, too valuable to bother using.
In the darkness, Tavia had to rely more on the shape of the magic than what she could see: the different cuts of the vials, the smoothness of charms and how some of the loose trick dust felt like liquid in her hands, while others were as gritty as she was.
When she handed the luck to the man, he sloshed the liquid inside to check the quality. Which was a little ridiculous, because with bad luck the worse the better. That’s what happened when you fermented clovers for long enough. It was kind of the point.
“Don’t you worry about getting caught with all this?” he asked. “Doyen Fenna Schulze is looking to have you lot thrown into a cell.”
Tavia took in a breath. She should have known this man was the government type. Nobody outside of politics had a mustache like that.
“Our fearless leader is cracking down on the criminal element,” Tavia said, all faux innocence. “I’m more than lawful.”
Though Tavia spun crap better than most, even she had a hard time selling that line. Everyone knew that a busker at night was up to no good, and since her election to Realm Doyen, Fenna Schulze was on a crusade to prove it.
Tavia was kind of rooting for her. Maybe once the Doyen was through, no more kids like her would be pulled from the streets and taught to be crooks.
“Is there anything else you might be interested in?” Tavia asked.
Her hand grazed the new elixir in the corner of her backpack and an odd feeling of dread cast over her.
Happiness, Wesley had said, his promise like an echo in Tavia’s mind.
One day less on her life debt for every piece she sold.
And as soon as Tavia was free, she’d leave Creije and all of this behind. It didn’t matter if she had a single coin to her name; she’d travel the realms and give offerings to gods she couldn’t remember the names of. Sail across the Onnela Sea, only ever laying anchor to steady her feet. She’d travel to her muma’s home realm of Volo and the city of Gila she was born in, and maybe find a family or a purpose.
Tavia pulled out the vial. It felt oily and slick, like she shouldn’t even be touching it.
“I have everything I want,” the man said. “Unless you’re offering yourself.”
Tavia’s jaw tightened.
Usually she could handle just about anything people threw at her, whether it was charms or punches, but the notion of being bought and sold—passing through hands like magic and whatever else the rich liked to collect—was different. It was different because Tavia didn’t belong to herself yet. Not like the man in front of her, in his fine suit, with his fine, fine mustache.
He had enough money and freedom to go where he liked and treat people how he liked. He thought he was better than her. That she was just some petty criminal who’d be stuck selling charms forever.
Tavia clenched the vial.
“This elixir is the latest thing to hit the market,” she said, letting her features fall into practiced complacence.
What was that line Wesley liked to feed her?
The customer is always right.
Except in this case, of course. When the customer was clearly a bastard.
She hoped the magic came with awful side effects.
“It can make all of your fantasies come true,” Tavia said. “Think of it like a wish-granter. A dream-giver.”
She shook the vial and the magic glowed purple. It felt lighter than any elixir she had handled before, like if she popped the cork it might just carry through the air.
The hunger in the man’s eyes was fast, transforming him from trite arrogance to the kind of curious Tavia could make use of. This was what she did best. Lied and conned people. Got them hooked on dark magic and prayed to the Many Gods not to hold it against her. Prayed that her muma would forgive her for sullying her memory.
“You’d be the first person in all four realms to have it,” Tavia said.
The man pulled out more coin, enthralled. “Would this cover it?”
Tavia nodded and only moments after she passed it to him did he scurry away like an insect, afraid she might change her mind. She almost sneered at his retreating shadow, hoping with all her might that the magic would give him a hangover to rival any other.
“What was that?” Saxony asked.
Tavia tried to avoid her gaze. She hadn’t told Saxony about the bargain to ease her life debt and if she did, Saxony would surely rip her a new one for trusting Wesley.
“Some new magic from the underboss,” was all Tavia said.
“New magic,” Saxony repeated, eyebrows flaring.
“Different magic,” Tavia corrected, because they both knew the former was impossible.
“You’re acting weird.” Saxony peeked into Tavia’s backpack. “What’s it really?”
“Whatever they want it to be.”
Saxony gave her a look, but Tavia only shrugged.
“It’s harmless. Wesley said to think of it like happiness.”
Though she suspected there was more to it, Tavia tried not to care. Caring in Creije never ended well and the more magic Tavia sold, the sooner she could escape and never have to think about it again.
Saxony held out a hand. “Give it over.”
Sighing, Tavia pulled another vial from her backpack.
Saxony was always intrigued by the magic Tavia dealt, especially the kind of magic she dealt after sunset, and Tavia had gotten used to her many questions. If she was honest, sometimes she liked being seen as the library of knowledge for magic, offering her friend answers and explanations as though it wasn’t just her job, but her calling.
“Did the underboss say it was new or different?” Saxony asked. “What were his exact words?”
Tavia arched an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about anything Wesley has to say?”
Saxony examined the elixir, moving it from side to side as the magic swarmed. “Did he say it was dangerous?”
“J
ust that it tailors to the customer. I haven’t got specifics. You know how vague Wesley likes to be. He just said to sell it.”
Saxony nodded, the disdain curling her top lip. “The underboss loves a good secret.”
“A bad one too,” Tavia said.
“New magic, though,” Saxony mused. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
And then she popped the cork.
Tavia blanched.
Selling a strange elixir to a strange man was one thing, but she didn’t trust the Kingpin nearly enough to give it to someone she loved.
“Saxony, don’t,” Tavia said, making a grab for it.
But before Tavia could get out another word, Saxony put the vial to her lips and tipped her head back.
In moments, the whole thing was drained.
Saxony blinked as the vial fell against the stone, a single spark of magic left hanging from her lips.
“Are you okay?” Tavia asked, panicked.
Saxony swallowed and her head lolled, eyes fluttering and then sharpening to near-black pits. She swayed a little, not unsteady, but like she thought the world had tilted and decided to follow suit.
“Everything is fine,” Saxony said.
Her words were pronounced and purposeful, the Rishiyat inflection nearly gone from her voice.
Tavia felt cold.
There was a new emptiness around Saxony’s eyes, inside her eyes, shooting straight through her, making every part of her still and blank. Leaving only a smile, halved and ghostly.
“Are you sure you’re good?” Tavia asked.
“I feel good,” Saxony said. “Don’t I look good?”
Tavia wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“Though now you mention it.” Saxony pressed a hand to her temple. “I think there’s someone …”
She wavered on her feet before grabbing a hand around the back of her neck.
Tavia thought instantly of a puppet on a string, trying to hold itself up.
“It’s too loud!” Saxony yelled, and in the time it took for Tavia to blink, she had a charm in her hands.
Tavia didn’t know anyone other than Wesley with hands that fast.
“Saxony!” Tavia looked around to make sure nobody was in sight. “If the amityguards catch us flashing dark magic around like that, then we’re done for.”
Into The Crooked Place Page 2