by Anthology
He caught her looking and smirked.
“You come to work out, or just window shopping?”
“I can’t do both?”
“I’d hate for you to get hurt because you were distracted.”
Well, she couldn’t just let that pass, could she?
Despite being in a genuine roped-off ring, their sparring was more mixed unarmed combat than straight-out boxing. (Liam was scandalized to learn that New York police did not generally engage in recreational fisticuffs, at least, not since handlebar moustaches had gone out of fashion.) But they both had enough training to make for an interesting bout, and if one or the other of them periodically wound up flat on their back against the canvas, Sal wasn’t complaining. From the press of his body against hers, Liam didn’t object either.
Liam was helping her to her feet, and Sal was just about to suggest that they hit the showers and then continue their conversation in a less public setting when she was cut off by Father Menchú clearing his throat behind them.
Caught engaging in sparring-as-foreplay by a priest. There was an effective mood-killer for you.
Sal covered her blush by scrubbing her face with a towel.
“Father,” said Liam, his form of address betraying the depth of his discomfort. There was one advantage to being a lapsed Presbyterian who just happened to work at the Vatican: Sal might not be familiar with Catholic politics and hierarchy, but at least she didn’t have to fight years of childhood conditioning every time her boss walked in. Most of the time, Liam did pretty well at ignoring the fact that Menchú was a priest. This, apparently, was the line.
Menchú nodded to Liam in acknowledgment, then turned to Sal. “I need you to go home and pack a bag. We’ve got an assignment. Our train leaves in two hours.”
Sal snapped into ready mode, tossing aside her embarrassment along with her used towel. “I’ve got a go bag here. We can leave now.”
Menchú raised an eyebrow. “We could, but the train still leaves in two hours, and you need something you can wear in upscale company for the next three days.”
Sal wasn’t sure she had anything in Rome that she could wear in upscale company. Depending on how upscale he meant, she wasn’t sure she owned anything appropriate at all. “What's the assignment?”
“I can't say.”
That apparently caused something to click for Liam. “Is it Beltane already?”
Menchú gave him a quelling glance.
“What’s going on?” Sal demanded.
Menchú shook his head. “Can't say.”
“Can’t? Won’t? Or aren’t allowed to?”
“Does it matter?”
Well, when he put it that way, Sal didn’t suppose it did.
***
The train took them to Zurich. Once there, Menchú rented an economy car, and they drove north through the mountains. Through it all, he wouldn’t say a word about where they were going, what they would be doing there, or why they were the only members of Team Three involved. Although Sal had come to accept that answering questions was not the Society’s forte, it was troubling that Menchú didn’t want to talk about anything else, either.
Finally, after hours of silence and crossing the border into Liechtenstein—of all places—Sal asked, “Are you mad at me?”
Menchú glanced at her in surprise. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”
“I don’t know, but I’m starting to feel like the cat you’re planning to abandon three states away, hoping that I won’t be able to find my way home.”
Menchú looked pained. “I’m sorry, Sal. I’ve been a bit distracted.”
“No shit.”
He glanced at a passing kilometer marker and came to a decision. “All right. We’re close enough now. Let me tell you about the Black Market.”
Somehow, Sal had a feeling he wasn’t talking about tax-free booze and cigarettes.
***
“It’s properly known as the Market Arcanum, or more commonly, the Market. The Society was first invited in the 15th century, thanks to the connections of certain members of the Order of the Dragon. From what we can tell, however, the Market dates back at least another half-millennium before that. In any event, every year at Beltane, covert practitioners of magic gather for a three-night conclave. It’s part auction, part high-level diplomatic conference for every power player who uses magic to rig the game.”
“Wait,” said Sal. “There’s an annual clearing house where people buy, sell, and trade the objects that we’re supposed to be hunting down and destroying?”
“Yes.”
“And Team One hasn’t nuked it from orbit?”
Menchú gave her a sardonic look. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that individuals within our organization do not always agree on matters of policy.”
“Yeah, but this time you’ve managed to stop team trigger-happy. How?”
“The Society leaves the Market alone for two reasons. First, it was pointed out by one of Asanti’s long-ago predecessors that even if we could destroy the Market, it wouldn’t eliminate magic from the world. At least this way, we can keep an eye on things.”
“That seems surprisingly sensible,” said Sal. “What's the second reason?”
“In an open assault against the Market, The Society isn’t sure they’d win.”
“There are going to be people at this thing who could take Team One?”
“It’s highly possible that there are people at the Market who could take Team One without breaking a sweat.”
Sal wasn’t sure she wanted to contemplate that. “Who are these people? World leaders? Guys who go to Davos? The Illuminati?”
“The members are…rather eclectic,” Menchú said. “The backbone is made up of representatives from the old noble European families. Though there’s been an influx of new money and technologists in the last hundred years, much to the disgust of the old guard. You’ll also see practitioners from Africa, Asia, and the New World, but we believe most of them have core gatherings in their own regions.”
“I’m sure the Society would love to have invites to those.”
“The Society would like to be able to send more than two representatives to this one, but wanting and getting are two very different things.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why isn’t this a Team Two job? Aren’t they the diplomats?”
Menchú snorted. “They are, but objects and texts are our jurisdiction. Also, the members of the Order of the Dragon who secured the original invitation were part of Team Three, and so, by tradition, we’re the ones who go.”
Sal had a sudden suspicion. “Are you a member of this Order of the Dragon?”
Menchú actually rolled his eyes. “The Order of the Dragon was founded hundreds of years ago to protect Christendom from encroachment by the Ottoman Turks.”
“That is not a denial,” Sal pointed out.
Menchú quirked his lips, but said nothing.
***
They rode in silence the rest of the way to Balzers, a town tucked into a valley in the middle of the mountains, which—as far as Sal could tell—was a fair description of most of Liechtenstein. Spring came late to the Alps, but the hills behind the small B&B where Menchú had booked their rooms were definitely greening up, and Sal took a minute—after she had changed out of her travel clothes into the black pants, black button-down shirt and black jacket that were as formal as she had managed—to appreciate the smell of clear air and growing things. She was getting used to Rome, but even after all her years in New York, Sal wasn’t a city girl at heart.
The Market Arcanum was to be held in Gutenberg Castle. Compared to the Papal Palace it seemed like more of a big stone house than a castle, but Sal supposed that if you ran a country, you could call your buildings whatever you wanted. It was outside of the town proper, and she and Menchú walked together up the hill from their inn.
“The Market is run by a woman known as the Maitresse,” Menchú explained. “She sets the rules, and for the next thr
ee nights, her word is law.”
“What are the rules?”
“The Market is considered neutral territory, which means that no member is allowed to offer violence against another.”
“What constitutes violence?” asked Sal. “Harsh words? Assault? Murder?”
“During the Market, violence is whatever the Maitresse and her Guardians say it is.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“Any bargain struck at one Market must be fulfilled before the beginning of the next. If not, the owed party can demand a forfeit of their choosing.”
Sal could only imagine what powerful magic-wielding people could come up with for a forfeit.
“Lastly, anyone violating the secrecy of the Market will be permanently banned, along with their cadre.”
The penny dropped. “That’s why you couldn’t give me any information earlier?”
“Yes.”
Sal considered. “So if I piss someone off badly enough, I could get the entire Catholic Church banned?”
“In theory, yes.”
“I’m not gonna lie. That’s just a little tempting.”
Sal wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she heard Menchú mutter, “You have no idea.”
2.
The sun was only a finger-width above the horizon when Sal and Menchú reached the castle. The Maitresse waited at the gates, flanked by two immense statues of armored men carrying stone swords. If the Maitresse had been anyone else, Sal would have pegged her age as somewhere between her forties and her sixties, an indeterminate maturity where experience, strength, and sex appeal came together and women with the standing to back it up could wear their power without even a whisper of apology. Something about her bearing, however, made Sal suspect that this woman had not apologized for her authority for a very, very long time.
“Maitresse,” said Menchú with the barest nod of respect. “Thank you for inviting us to the Market once again.”
The woman did not return the courtesy. “Bookburner.” Her eyes flicked to Sal. “And this is?”
Menchú blinked, but took the hint. “Our newest member, Sally Brooks.”
The Maitresse swept Sal with a penetrating stare. “Is she, now? How lovely for you.”
Sal took Menchú’s lead and nodded. “Ma’am.”
The Maitresse’s gaze lingered for another moment, and then, to Sal’s relief, transferred back to Menchú. “Do you claim a debt outstanding from the last Market?”
“We do not.”
“Very well.” At her gesture, the two statues stepped forward and away from the doors. Apparently, the Maitresse had figured out how to use magic without being consumed by madness, supernatural backlash, or a demon she sought to control. Which was…not a reassuring thought, actually.
The artificial men reached out and opened the huge wooden doors leading into the courtyard of the castle proper.
The Maitresse’s smile was anything but welcoming. “Welcome to the Market Arcanum.”
***
The courtyard was lit by sconces along the walls and illuminated orbs that floated overhead, unconnected to any visible tethers or power sources. Among the crowd already gathered, Sal could pick out at least half a dozen different languages being spoken, and guessed there were probably that many more that she couldn’t distinguish from the general murmuring.
“Does the Market supply translators?” Sal whispered.
Menchú grimaced. “This is just opening night posturing. Everyone keeping to their own group and proving how esoteric and mysterious they are. Once the Market officially opens, everyone switches over to a lingua franca.”
“Please, tell me that’s pretentious-speak for “English.’”
“These days, yes. It used to be Latin, then French, and some of the old families who insist on doing business ‘traditionally’ will use those for official documents and transactions, but English is the world’s second language, even here.”
“Oh. Good.”
Putting aside for the moment the part of her brain that kept trying to understand all of the words floating around her, Sal concentrated on what her eyes were telling her instead. Now that Menchú had pointed it out, she could see that all the people in the courtyard kept to small clusters of four or five. Apparently, not every group was limited to the Society’s two invites.
One group of men wearing wolf pelts draped over their shoulders like hoods looked like they had hiked in out of the Alps. The pelts had heads still attached, artificial eyes staring glassily from above their wearers’ own faces. It was disconcerting. Especially when Sal saw one of the wolves blink.
On the opposite side of the yard, a group of men and women in jeans and black T-shirts had apparently not gotten Menchú’s “dress for company” memo and were all busily bent over some piece of equipment. Support staff? As Sal tried to get a glimpse of just what they were working on, one of the men looked up and met her gaze. Sal felt suddenly cold. Then he looked away, turning back to his work, and she wondered if she had imagined it.
“Who are they?” she asked Menchú.
“Techno-cultists.” Sal wasn’t sure she had ever heard him sound so disgusted. “They believe that magic, like information, ‘wants to be free.’ And that by combining human technology with the supernatural, they can bring about the singularity, not just of artificial intelligence, but of all human knowledge.”
“What does that even mean?”
“That they’re a bunch of anarchists who have no respect for the power they’re playing with.”
Sal’s stomach clenched. “Are these the people Perry was mixed up with?”
“Philosophically, maybe, but we never had evidence that your brother and his friends were working with anyone except themselves.”
Before Sal could pursue the subject any further, the loud bang of a wooden bar falling across the entry doors reverberated through the courtyard. The assembly fell silent, and in that pause, the Maitresse stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Market.
“Tonight begins the Market Arcanum. For three nights, from sunset to sunrise, all debts and grudges are to be set aside within these walls. In the outside world we are friends, rivals, enemies. Here we are equals.”
The Maitresse clapped her hands once, and the air throughout the castle vibrated, as though they stood inside a giant bell. On the stone wall above her, a clock face appeared. It had only a single hand, creeping from sunset on the far left edge of the circle toward dawn marked opposite.
The courtyard instantly erupted in conversation once again.
The Market had begun.
One of the men with the wolf pelts examined the contents of a lacquered wooden box held by a woman wearing an elegant evening gown, but whose exposed skin was completely covered in tattoos. The techno-cultists went back to their equipment. And a tall man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Sal earned in a year was striding toward her and Menchú.
When he arrived, his voice dripped with false cordiality. “Excellent. I had hoped that the Bookburners would deign to make an appearance.”
Sal wondered if everyone at this gathering hated them, or if they just kept running into the ones who did.
“We don’t burn books,” said Menchú, gently.
“Of course not. You take them. Even when they don’t belong to you.”
Sal frowned and glanced at Menchú. Did he have any idea who this man was or what he was talking about?
Menchú’s expression was impossible to read. “There are no debts or grudges within these walls. If you have a problem with the Society, I suggest that you take your quarrel elsewhere, Mr…?”
The man smiled. “The name is Mr. Norse.”
Mr. Norse. Owner of the Fair Weather. Sal was mildly impressed that he was more upset about the book than his burned yacht, but maybe he didn’t know Team One had been behind that. Maybe his yachts spontaneously caught fire all the time. With hobbies like his, it had to be a risk.
“Since you took something of mine,” Mr.
Norse continued, “now I’m going to take something of yours.” He was practically leering. On instinct, Sal placed herself between the two men.
“You heard the lady on the balcony. This is neutral territory. But if you want to step outside, I’d be happy to kick your ass three nights from now.”
Mr. Norse only smiled. “I’ve already stepped outside, Ms. Brooks.”
He laid a particular emphasis on her name, rolling it on his tongue.
Sal felt her phone vibrate against her thigh. Incoming call. She ignored it.
“Congratulations, you know my name. Am I supposed to find that intimidating?”
“You’ll want to get that,” said Mr. Norse.
Behind her, Father Menchú's hand slid toward his own ringing phone.
“Why?”
“It’s the part you’re supposed to find intimidating.”
Sal pulled out her phone and glanced at the caller ID. Liam.
***
Liam and Asanti stood at the center of a maelstrom. A fierce wind roared through the Archives, picking up books and sending them flying off their shelves, hurtling through the air like mad birds.
“What’s going on?” Liam shouted.
Above them, the towering shelves swayed, metal creaking like an old barn in a storm. Liam wondered just how many tons of paper loomed above their heads, and how long it would take to dig out their bodies if it all came tumbling down.
And then something was falling toward them: Grace. No, she wasn’t falling. She had slipped through the lattice surrounding the central stairs and was skittering down the supports like they were a giant, swaying jungle gym. She landed lightly on her feet, not even out of breath.
“Are you insane?” Liam asked.
She shrugged. “Faster than walking.”
“Did you find the monsignor?” Asanti asked.
Grace shook her head. “Couldn’t get out.”
“We’re sealed in?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Grace nodded. Liam reached for his phone.
“I tried,” said Grace. “No signal.”
Liam didn’t look up. “I've got some boosters built into mine. I might be able to get through whatever’s causing this so we can warn the other teams.”