“See that post there?” Mead says. He points to a dark smudge off to the side of the road just ahead of us, peeking up out of the snow.
“Um, maybe?”
“That’s the end of the city limits,” Mead says. “Congratulations. You’ve now left both the city and nation of Ruhia. This is as far west as it goes. We’re nearly in the foothills.”
“So, if we’re not in Ruhia anymore, then where are we?”
“Exactly,” Mead says, nodding. “We’re nowhere. Like the Guild, the Night Market operates on land that doesn’t belong to any city, to any country. There aren’t any protectors out here; as far as they’re concerned, there aren’t any people out here to protect. Not their jurisdiction, not their problem. We still move the location around a lot, just in case anyone gets any ideas, but it always operates in the middle of nowhere.”
“So how much farther till we get to nowhere, exactly?”
Mead turns around suddenly, facing me. “I need you to understand something,” he says, using that tone he has for the rare occasions when he wants to be serious. The tone that makes me pay attention. “There are no laws at the Night Market, Rosco. No rules of any kind. The Guild is very influential here, but even we have limited authority. Even if I wanted to, there’s not much I can do to protect you. Like the Guild, it’s every person for themselves. So be very careful. Don’t cross anyone. Don’t touch anything. And please, for the love of all the saints, don’t open your mouth.”
“I—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t. Speak.”
I sigh.
He waits for a moment, then nods. “Better. Okay, now just stick close to me, and you might get through this.”
“But you haven’t told me what we’re doing,” I say, and Mead throws his hands up in exasperation. “I mean, what is it we’re doing for the Shadows right now?”
“We’re selling, obviously.”
“Selling?”
“The Shadows are taking their stolen goods—goods from Guild thefts that should’ve been handed over to the Guild—and selling them here. This is how they’re funding their little operation. This is how they’re getting the gold to bribe other members into joining them, and it’s how they get the currency that gives them their power.”
“But if the Shadows are selling, who’s buying?”
Mead smiles a little. “You’ll see. Oh, and one more thing. There may very well be Guild members who aren’t Shadows here as well, since the Guild uses the Night Market to sell their goods too, of course. So it’s very important that no one recognize us, and it’s even more important that we don’t mention the Shadows at all. We can’t risk a Guild member overhearing, or figuring out who we are.”
“What happens if they do?”
Mead shrugs. “Like I said, there are no laws here. A particularly loyal Guild member might decide that something like, say, a knife in the back is fair punishment for traitors.”
I gulp. “Well, then, let’s maybe try to avoid that.” I pull my scarf higher over my face and tuck my hair up under my hat. It’s not much of a disguise, but not many Guild members know me by sight anyway. Mead raises his coat hood over his head, casting his face in complete shadow.
“All right,” Mead says with false cheer, “time to go into the Night Market.”
Chapter Sixteen
Up ahead, I see the lights.
Unlike the fiery yellow of Ruhia’s lanterns or the green of Beck’s enchanted matches, the spots of light glow blue, shimmering like dark beacons in the night. Dozens of little bursts of color dot the landscape.
“What are those?” I ask Mead.
“Magic,” he says. “Lots of magicians set up shop at the Night Market, to sell enchantments and objects that are . . . less than legal.”
“But why are they blue?”
“How should I know? I look like a magician to you?”
I look at his long, hooded cloak and dark clothing. “Um, yes.”
“What did I say about not talking?”
I glare. “We’re not even in the market yet!”
“Well, let’s extend that rule to the entire trip, shall we?”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I am not a big fan of rules,” I say.
“Believe it or not, I’ve noticed.” He sighs. “Just stick to the plan.”
“Also not a big fan of plans,” I say brightly.
“God help me, how did you and Reigler ever work together?”
“Not very well, as I recall.”
Mead is silent for a second. “He managed to pull off one of the most difficult trials I’ve ever heard of for someone his age, and came back to the Guild with a necklace snatched right out of a heavily guarded noble estate. Sounds somewhat successful to me.”
I laugh. “I suspect that Beck’s version of events may have left out a few key details. There was the time he got captured, for example. And the time we were locked in a prison cell. And the time a protector nearly caught us in a shop. And several near-death experiences. And—”
“Point taken,” Mead interrupts. “But—”
Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by a high-pitched whistle in the distance. Mead whistles back, in three short notes. I look around for the source of the sound, but all I can see in the darkness is snow and shadow.
A woman appears right in front of us.
She literally appears. I blink, and she’s still there. One second nothing, the next second there.
She wears a dark, heavy cloak with a hood that obscures her face, just like Mead. Her hair is in long braids that hang past her shoulders. She cups a glowing blue prism of light in her hand.
“Not all may come,” she intones. “Not all may go.”
“Not all will prosper,” Mead says in a bored tone. “But no rules must they follow.”
The light in her hand glows brighter, making me blink and look down at the snow. “Welcome to the Night Market,” she says.
Mead gives a curt nod and walks past her. I scramble after him. A few steps later, I turn and look back, but the woman is gone.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“The Guard,” Mead says. “One of the magicians who help organize the market. Her enchantments keep people out. Wouldn’t want anyone stumbling into this place accidentally. Now, what did I say about no talking?”
I’m barely listening. Ahead of us, a street has appeared out of nowhere, just like the woman did. It’s a long, winding path made of cobbles, completely cleared of any snow. Streetlights dot it here and there, their lanterns filled with that strange, shimmery blue glow. And all the way down the street, on both sides, are the vendors.
They’re using a combination of Ruhian-style carts and Azeland-style tents, a jumble of signs and wares and people and structures. It resembles the chaos of my home marketplaces in Azeland more than the neat orderliness of Ruhia, but with one major difference: the colors. Every tent and cart and stall is white, as if someone had seized one of Azeland’s markets and leached it of all color and pattern.
“Why’s everything white?” I whisper as Mead strides forward. “I would’ve thought the Night Market would be, like, black or something.”
Mead sighs. “You can see white more easily in the dark, Rosco.”
“Oh.”
“Now shut up.”
“Who put you in charge?” I mutter.
We’ve reached the first few vendors. To my right is a long stall with a flat surface displaying what looks like a selection of pastries. A banner hangs down from the top, proclaiming THE SWEETEST DELIGHTS. As we pass, I’m overwhelmed with scents of cinnamon and fresh bread and something that smells amazing.
I take a step in that direction, inhaling deeply, but Mead tugs sharply on my sleeve. “Don’t even think about it,” he says.
“I just want to look,” I protest. “It smells so—”
“It’s magic,” he says. “Those sweets contain all kinds of enchantments. And the smells entice you to eat them.”
/>
“What kinds of enchantments?” For a second I think I might want to risk it. There’s a massive breaded pastry slathered in chocolate that looks like it might be stuffed with cream . . .
“Bad ones.” Mead tugs my sleeve harder.
“How do you know they’re all bad?”
“Otherwise they wouldn’t have to be sold here, now, would they? Plenty of magic shops in Ruhia sell things like these to the rich, with all kinds of pleasant little spells. But the nasty curses, the ones illegal in Ruhia? Those come here.”
The word “curse” gets my attention. No way I want to go down that road again, even if that chocolate pastry does look delicious. I sigh and turn away.
“Getting into trouble already?” asks a familiar voice. Approaching us from a nearby tent is Beck. His face is mostly obscured by a dark, hooded cloak like Mead’s, one that I most definitely didn’t bring him. He must’ve gotten it from Rosalia.
“Always,” Mead replies, giving Beck a cordial nod. “Ready to go?”
“Sure,” Beck says. I want to ask him if he’s had a chance to look around for the coin yet, but I don’t dare say anything in front of Mead. I don’t know how much Mead knows about the coin, and I wouldn’t trust him with that information for a second.
We head up the path, pushing past clusters of cloaked and hooded figures. The blue light from above casts cold, flickering shadows onto everyone. Unlike regular marketplaces, where people shout and laugh and chat, this one is eerily quiet. Most people walk alone, keeping their heads down, going about their business. Vendors call out to passersby, and an occasional shopper will chat with a seller, but otherwise most conversations happen in whispers. The whole market is hushed, like the sound of an inhaled breath.
Mead doesn’t have to remind me to be quiet anymore. I don’t dare say a word.
We come to a fork in the path and continue left, winding deeper and deeper into the heart of the market. We pass so many strange sights and smells that I hardly know where to look, but Mead’s quick pace doesn’t allow much time for sightseeing.
Beck was right about one thing: If you wanted to hide a magical object, this would be the ideal place to do it. The coin could be anywhere here. It wouldn’t even stand out among all the other strange sights. I don’t know how we’re supposed to find it.
We pass a large canvas tent, its whiteness almost blinding in the dark. A single sign out front, illuminated by a low blue lantern, declares: ALL THIEVES WILL BE TURNED TO STONE.
Mead leans closer to me. “I forgot to warn you,” he whispers. “Most vendors here protect their wares against theft with magic. So don’t get any ideas.”
Despite the hush surrounding me, I’m tempted to laugh. “Are you serious? You’re warning me about stealing?”
He just gives me one of his lazy, mischievous smiles. “Wouldn’t want you picking up any bad habits from me.”
We pass a cart that seems to be made entirely of sharp steel knives, a juggler tossing glass balls of white flame outside an open tent, and a man sitting beside a stall bedecked in white roses that are arranged to spell out FORTUNE-TELLING: OMENS ONLY.
A woman passes me carrying what looks like a large bird in a cage. A stall to my left seems to be selling nothing but ticking clocks. A vendor shouts to me as we pass: “Potions, potions, get yer potions!” Another stall seems to be a perfectly normal herbalist, until I realize they have a whole rack filled with jars containing what look suspiciously like eyeballs.
“Here,” Mead says, gesturing toward a nearby cart. “I need to stop here for a second.”
This cart is unadorned, with no sign to explain its purpose. Its shelves are covered in ordinary-looking objects: a comb, a scrap of cloth, a key, a locket, an empty porcelain bowl. It’s probably the most boring cart we’ve seen so far, and I’m a little disappointed.
“Do you know what this place is?” I whisper to Beck.
He frowns, examining the cart. “No idea.”
“Buying or selling?” the man behind the cart asks.
“Selling,” Mead says. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out . . . a book?
Wordlessly the man takes it. He examines the cover, runs a finger down the leather spine, cracks it open, and inspects the pages. “Genuine?” he asks gruffly.
“One hundred percent.”
“Source?”
Mead’s response is so low, I can’t hear what he says.
The man frowns. “I’ll give you two hundred for it.”
Mead smiles in a way that seems benign but definitely isn’t. “I won’t take less than five hundred. In solid gold.”
The man just shakes his head. “You won’t find a better buyer.”
“Then I won’t sell. Five hundred.”
“Two fifty.”
“Four fifty.”
“Three.”
I get the feeling that they could go on like this awhile, so I stop paying attention. I gaze across the street, and a stall catches my eye. Propped upon it are three large glass cases, lit with that eerie blue light, and inside are rows upon rows of glittering jewels.
I tug at Beck’s sleeve, nodding in the direction of the stall. He follows my gaze, and his eyes widen.
Mead doesn’t notice as we cross the street and take a closer look. I inhale sharply. These gems look as real as any I’ve ever seen, and there are dozens of them. Red and blue and green and yellow and orange and white; amethysts and rubies and emeralds and sapphires and diamonds. I’ve never seen so much wealth at once in all my life.
It makes sense, I suppose. Ruhia was founded as a mining town after they discovered rare gems in the mountains. Of course a black market for jewels would exist, and of course this is where you’d expect to find it. But the sight of them all laid out at once like this is stunning. I bet the queen of Ruhia doesn’t have this many jewels in her whole crown. Even Beck looks a little awed, and he’s seen more of this kind of thing than me.
But I can’t stop and gape for long. Two sellers stand behind the stall, gazing sharply at us. One of them has a row of knives in his belt, and I don’t doubt he’s eager to use them. Beck backs away, inching toward the next display, and I follow.
We bypass a tent that smells heavily of perfume; the sign declares it to be the SHOP OF SCENTED ENCHANTMENTS. Below that, a smaller sign promises, BEWITCH, ENSNARE, BEGUILE.
I’m pretty sure that’s a tent I don’t want to go into.
“Have you had a chance to look for the coin?” I whisper to Beck.
“Not really. The thing with Keene ran pretty late, so I haven’t been here much longer than you.”
“Where do we even begin?” I ask, making a wide gesture with my arm to indicate the many wonders surrounding us.
Beck frowns and doesn’t answer. We keep walking, looking for the next stall.
“Maybe I should take one side of the street, and you can take the other?” Beck suggests. “We can see more that way. Keep an eye out for anything that seems like it has to do with the Shadow Guild.”
That could be anything, but I don’t argue. It’s not like I have any better ideas.
Beck crosses the street, and I keep walking, peering ahead at the next attraction. Maybe there’s something else fantastical here, something magical, something—
There’s nothing but a mirror.
It’s a large mirror, sure, but otherwise it’s perfectly ordinary. No fancy frame, no elaborate markings, nothing. Just a big square of reflective glass, standing by itself at the side of the road.
Well, not completely by itself. A single wooden sign hangs by a cord from the corner of the mirror. In elegant script, it reads: MIRROR OF WISHES.
I look into the mirror, but there’s nothing special about the reflection staring back at me. In the dark, I’m just a vague shape, with a scarf covering half my face and my coat covering the rest. Flickers of blue lantern light dance in the background, but otherwise there’s nothing to see.
“You have to make a wish, girl,” drawls a voice from behind
me. I turn. A young woman sits on the ground nearby, her legs crossed beneath her. She’s wrapped in a cloak but wears no hood, leaving her face uncovered. Her hair is the color of sawdust, and her eyes are strikingly green.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Does this mirror grant wishes?”
She laughs. “It does better than that. It tells you how to achieve them yourself.”
I scowl. “How is that better?”
“Because,” she says, smiling, “then you can see what your wish will cost before you attempt to attain it.”
I consider this for a moment. “I don’t get it.”
She just keeps smiling. “Magic never comes without a cost. Decisions never come without consequences. Suppose you have a magic mirror that will grant wishes. Suppose you wish to be, say, the queen of your own country. And then, poof, you snap your fingers and the mirror grants your wish. You’re the queen. You have what you wanted. There’s just one problem—in order to give you the land to rule over, there first had to be a great war. And during the war, your entire family was killed. So you make your wish, you close your eyes, poof, you’re the queen, but also everyone you love is dead. You see? Consequences. That is what comes of magic that grants wishes.”
“So if this mirror doesn’t grant wishes, what does it do?”
“As I said, it’s much better.” Her smile is starting to look strange, somehow, like it’s contorting itself into something else. “If you declare your wish while looking into that mirror, it will show you not your current reflection but instead your reflection as it will be, should your wish come true.”
“Wait. So if I just wished I were the queen, for example, then it would just show me a picture of myself being queen? How is that helpful?”
She shakes her head. “No. It shows you the reflections of all that will be should your wish come to pass. The woman who wanted to be queen would see images of everything it would take to get there. She would see herself fighting in the battle. She would see the war tearing her home apart. She would see herself holding her dead family members in her arms. She would see herself burying them. And so on and so on and so on, all the consequences, all the reflections, until at last she would see an image of herself coronated as queen, with her wish fulfilled, but with her beloved family members nowhere to be seen. Then she would know the cost of her wish. She would recognize its foolishness, its impossibility, its consequences. And then, of course, she would pick a new wish.”
The Shadow Thieves Page 18