2. Leah
Leah
“I’ll give you five strats for it,” says the dealer, stroking his full beard.
“Come on, Tivolt, it’s worth ten at least!” Hodges argues, leaning in closer to Tivolt’s stall as a man pushes past us carrying a cage of colorful birds. One of them clicks its beak against the bars, its yellow-ringed eye surveying me.
“I’ve had four vials of demon blood already today,” Tivolt replies.
“Unless the price is right, I don’t need more.
Now, if you had some of the silver stuff…
” He holds out his hands to indicate that would be a different matter.
“Ephilium blood’s the hotter commodity lately.
” Hodges murmurs quiet complaints under his breath but still accepts the five coins Tivolt offers with a begrudging nod.
The dealer quickly ushers us away when a group of well-dressed, masked customers come along.
Most decent people pretend they’ve never been to the market at the Three Bridges, but the truth is they swarm here on the sly to get a taste of the extraordinary—exotic animals from the remote northern regions, bootleg ephilium wine smuggled off a cart coming through the official government rift and, yes, black market goods scavenged from the plains.
“Hey, cheer up,” I say, clapping Hodges on the back as we turn toward the rest of the market.
“At least we got good money for the axe.” The dealer we sold it to was a locksmith and very interested in the runes on the handle.
I didn’t ask why. All I know, and all I care to know, is some runes open rifts.
In Strata, only Assembly officials are allowed to do that.
Anything else—like using runes to make an unbreakable lock box like the ones the smith sells—would be terribly illegal.
And well above my pay grade to care about.
“You got good money for it,” Hodges corrects me.
I push my hands into my pockets and pull out a pair of crisp notes, presenting them to him. “And here’s your cut.”
He backs away, hands up. “No, Polaris, you nearly died getting that thing.”
“And a deal’s a deal,” I say, cornering him by a jewelry stall and shoving the notes into the front pocket of his coat. “I know your mother’s license renewal is coming up soon, so don’t bullshit me saying you don’t need it.”
We’d been working together a few months when Hodges told me how his father was a lumber mill worker killed in a factory accident.
The Carpenter’s Guild was decent enough to offer his widow, Hodges’s mother, continued access to his license—provided she could keep paying the annual fee, of course.
That’s what made Hodges take up scavenging.
A family without a guild license is a family that’s considered a “public charge” and shipped straight off to the workhouse.
Nothing like desperation to motivate you to make money fast. I give Hodges a firm shake of my head when he tries to hand the notes back to me.
“If nothing else, take the money so you can rub it in Oxel’s face next time you see him. ”
Hodges’s jaw tightens. “That snake. You can bet the next time I see him I’ll—”
“Do nothing to get yourself into trouble,” I finish, glancing down at the jewelry stall, distracted by the faint glow of a tray of lockets. They must be imbued with ephilium feather to shine like that. I make a mental note to come to this stall next time I have some to sell.
Half the stuff available here is contraband, but it’s difficult to stomp out such a thriving industry. Plus, the wardens tend to lose interest in said stomping if the dealers bribe them enough.
“How’s your leg?” Hodges asks, catching me rubbing the fabric of my pants. I grimace.
“Itchy. I think that demon got some of her blood on me.” I pull my pant leg up to show him the rash forming on my skin.
He smirks. “Better a rash than a missing limb. Is there anything you’re not allergic to?”
“Yes,” I say pointedly. “Nice young men who don’t annoy the shit out of me with stupid questions.
” Hodges barks out a laugh as we weave our way through the crowds of people toward the medicine woman’s stall.
Most scavengers avoid touching demon stuff directly for fear of bad luck.
Everyone knows demon magic can bring misfortune if handled too carelessly.
But my long list of sensitivities means I try to steer clear of the green stuff altogether.
It’s far from the only thing that causes me to break out into a rash, but it’s one of the more annoying.
I barter with the market’s best medicine woman, Martha, settling on offering her my jar of shadow mist in exchange for the drops that nip my allergies in the bud before they become full-blown flare-ups.
“Thank you, my dear,” she smiles as she stores the jar under her stall. “This stuff helps make the best cough syrup, but it’s so pricey.”
I could mention I’d pay ten jars of mist to keep from being an itchy, sneezy mess all the time, but that’s just bad negotiating.
Instead, I turn around to see Hodges eyeing up a dark tent tucked tightly away in a corner, underneath the sagging trusses of one of the bridges that earns the market its name.
“What do you want with him?” I ask, my voice wary.
Hodges unclasps his own satchel, pulling back a pile of rags to reveal something nestled beneath.
A skull. A demon skull from the shape of sharp teeth curved between its jaws.
“I found it half buried in the riverbed,” he murmurs to me. “It must be why no one else snagged it before now. You think Ingold will be interested?”
“I know he will,” I reply, glancing back at the tent. “But be careful, all right? That guy gives me the creeps.”
Ingold isn’t like Martha or Tivolt. They take apart the things we bring them, melt or grind them down, and reuse them. It’s all about making the beer you brew that much tastier, your jewelry that little bit shinier, or your medicine that bit more effective.
But there’s repurposing items scavenged from the plains, and then there’s harnessing their power for something entirely new, carving your own runes, and chanting spells in the demon language Cyrax.
Black magic. People don’t like to talk about such things, but I’ve heard vague rumors about shadowy folk who like to dabble in the occult for fun.
Rumor also has it, it’s those kinds of people Ingold sells to.
It’s why he can pay the prices he does. But I don’t like him.
He has this hungry way of looking at me, like I’m something to be scavenged, which means I avoid him whenever I can.
So I’m relieved when Hodges exits the tent just a few minutes later and we can get going.
As usual, I stop by Hodges’s to dump my scavenging gear and change clothes.
When it comes to our partnership, this is one of the advantages I value most. It’s good to have someone to watch my back, but what I really need is a base to hide this part of my life away in.
I was more than glad to offer Hodges a cut of my earnings in return, even if he feels bad about taking money from me.
The day is slipping away by the time I cross over the river, passing the imposing structure of the Assembly.
The afternoon sunlight glints off the windows of the grand government building.
Built with heavy bricks of sand-colored stone, it sits on the south side of the river, with stained-glass windows in the towers located at either end.
One window is decorated with a white circle, the other a black triangle.
Back when he took an interest in my education, my father explained that they’re meant to depict the collateral, the sacred objects given to Strata by Infernum and Aradis when the Concords were signed—the leverage that forces them to keep their word and leave our cities and citizens alone.
Truth be told, the icons have always just looked like shapes to me.
My steps grow a little heavier each minute I get closer to my destination. I know I’m taking too long to walk the route. I’m only putting off the inevitable, but I can’t help it. Slowly, the houses get bigger and a little grander as I pass servants hanging out laundry and washing windows.
I reach the back gate to my father’s house and let myself in, making sure to close it carefully so the metal latch doesn’t clang. Then I quickly upturn an empty flowerpot hidden beneath a row of pansies, stuffing most of my scavenging money into the trinket box housed inside.
When I straighten up, I have to stop to process an attack of sneezes.
The pollen of the gaudy blooms that fill the flower beds has stuffed up my nose instantly.
Damn it. I should’ve taken the medicine before heading back, but my mind was elsewhere.
Now I glare at the flowers in a way that’s probably unfair to them, but every time I pass through this place, I’m reminded of what it used to look like.
This was my mother’s garden once, and instead of flowers, she filled it with all kinds of wonderful plants—creeping purple vines and strange spiky bushes.
I don’t have many memories of her, but lots of the ones I do have involve us walking through here as she rattled off their long, fascinating names.
When Ada married my father, one of the first things she did was pull up every single one and replace them with these flowers. Flowers she knew set off my allergies. She always relishes every little way she can make my life harder.
A sudden surge of anger lashes through me, and my hand darts out toward one of the nearest blooms, ripping off its head and crushing it in my fingers.
“And where have you been?” Ada’s voice cuts through the garden like a scythe.
I snatch my hand behind my back, discreetly dropping the flower head on the ground as I move forward to meet Ada where she stands imperiously on the back step.