Chapter 8
Eight
The nightly activities of the mortals are in full swing as we step out onto the street, the lamps glowing faintly, leaving shadows amongst the cobbles.
The distant sound of music wafts from the tavern a few streets away, and the scent of cinnamon makes my mouth water as the bakers next door prepare their loaves for the morning.
Stryx peers hopefully through their window at the sight of the bread baking in the big ovens, but I gently grab her arm and tug her along, steering us towards the rickety sky bridge that leads out of Dhakira.
The bridge groans under our boots, the wooden planks warped by mist and time, the iron chains straining as the wind hisses through the gaps.
Below us yawns the lake, black and endless, its surface so still it looks more like dark glass than water.
I try to avoid looking down. Beneath the surface, the Voyd waits, hungry to claim any drunken mortals unlucky enough to fall in.
Halfway across, Stryx slows, her head turning to stare down through the gaps between the planks. The glow of the lanterns strung along the bridge flicker against the pale hair that peeks out from under her hood, her expression caught somewhere between awe and unease.
I bite back a curse and catch her wrist. “Don’t linger. You fall, you’re gone. The Voyd doesn’t let go, there’s no way back.”
Her eyes dart back to me and she swallows hard before quickening her pace. I keep us moving, boots drumming a steady rhythm against the swaying boards until the bridge ends and we step into Eidravelle, the distant spires of the Memosyne rising towards us.
The heart of Velmora hums as it always does at night, the tiered walkways crowded with merchants and messengers, banners fluttering between towers, the faint shimmer of the moon through the Veil overhead casting the city in its ever-present silver-blue haze.
The Division looms ahead of us, but we turn the other way, weaving through the arteries of the central quarter, heading for the next bridge.
By the time the gates to Aethermere appear, Stryx is stiff beside me.
The iron arches leading to that quarter are blackened with soot, the lanterns cracked, and the guards posted there don’t bother to hide their apathy.
The bridge to Dhakira has no need of guards, but this entrance is always watched, and for good reason.
Beyond, the bridge stretches into shadow, its lanterns few and far between, leading to a sprawl of leaning rooftops and broken stone.
Aethermere––the underbelly of Velmora––hosts our prison, the black market and its endless rot. The place where the seedy, unfavourable citizens linger and live by their own rules.
Stryx lingers at the threshold, her jaw tightening as she grinds her teeth. “Do we really need to go over there?” she murmurs, her voice low.
I glance at her, then back at the bridge. The air carries the smell of smoke, spice, and blood all tangled together, and I can feel the weight of eyes already on us, even from this distance.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “And no one here will hand us answers with a smile. So keep your head down and keep moving.”
She purses her lips, but she nods, following me as we step onto the second bridge, the one that leads us into the shadows.
The streets of Aethermere fold in on themselves the deeper we go, alleys narrowing, shadows lengthening, the smell of smoke and sweat thickening until it clings to my clothes.
The hum of Eidravelle behind us fades, replaced by a different kind of rhythm––drums from taverns, coin clinking in greedy hands, the low thrum of dangerous whispers haunting street corners.
Ahead, the quarter ends in a sheer wall of stone, the southern cliff that cradles Aethermere like a jagged hand.
Carved into it, the dark mouths of numerous caves gape wide, their entrances lit by guttering braziers.
A queue of figures winds toward the largest opening; cloaked merchants, shrouded buyers, faces hidden behind masks or smeared with paint to disguise features.
The Maw––Velmora’s black market.
It’s cruelly beautiful in the way it flaunts what the rest of the city denies.
Stryx shifts uncomfortably beside me, her hand brushing the hilt of a blade I know is hidden in her coat. “It smells wrong,” she mutters.
She’s right. Even from here, the air seeping from the caverns is too rich, heavy with incense and charred meat. We step inside with the lingering crowd and the world darkens.
The caves sprawl into a labyrinth of chambers linked by dripping tunnels, each space alive with the pulse of trade all the while facing the looming threat of the spiked stalactites dangling dangerously from the ceiling.
Stalls huddle against the rock walls, their tables spilling with wares both dazzling and profane; apparent bottled starlight corked in crystal phials, weapons that hum, imbued with magic, cages filled with creatures that blink with too-mortal eyes.
Candles flicker in sconces carved into the rock, their smoke curling like restless spirits.
The air sparkles faintly with glamour, cast by merchants eager to gild their goods.
Coins change hands in rapid bursts, the clatter of deals punctuated by laughter that never quite reaches the eyes.
We pass a narrow ledge where an apothecary offers powders ground from bones, the jars stacked precariously high.
Another cavern glitters with silks dyed colours that don’t exist in nature, fluttering like the wings of poisonous moths.
Further still, the market deepens into a pit where auctioneers cry out over the roar of a crowd, offering anything and everything, relics from before the Veil, maps inked in blood, even Echofae slaves.
The tunnels weave endlessly, each chamber stranger and more dangerous than the last. The deeper we go, the more the rock itself seems to press down on us, the ceiling low, the air stale with secrets.
Stryx keeps glancing over her shoulder and I can’t blame her. In the Maw, everyone’s a predator, but tonight, so are we. I have questions, and I won’t stop until I get the answers.
I approach a stall guarded by a merchant cloaked in shadow, a hood hanging heavy over his face as smoke from his pipe slowly spills from the darkness and hovers over the many glittering bottles of tattoo ink.
I pull out the drawing of the tattoo I made yesterday and unfold it, offering it to him.
He puffs out another cloud of smoke before stepping forward and taking it from me with a gnarled hand, studying it with a tilt of his head.
“What is this fanciful scribbling?” he growls, turning the parchment as he looks closer at my drawing.
“It’s a tattoo,” I reply, my voice low. “Do you recognise it?”
His hood sways as he shakes his head in answer.
“You’re in the trade. Has anyone requested ink like this recently? This same tattoo has been found on two murder victims,” I press, but he grumbles his refusal to answer.
I huff a sigh before snatching the parchment back and marching to the next tattoo stall without bothering to expense with farewells.
“What are you doing?” Stryx hisses in my ear as she hurries to keep up with me, tugging her hood further over her face.
“Where best to figure out the meaning of a tattoo than the place where everyone comes to get them?” I whisper back, gesturing towards the surrounding merchants, most of whom are uncloaked and covered in swirling patterns of ink across their limbs and faces.
I wander up to the next stall. Like the previous merchant, the man refuses to answer, barely looking at my drawing before waving me off. Over the next hour, I get the same treatment at each of the stalls before I eventually give up, leaning against the rough stone wall with a sigh.
Stryx gives me a lopsided smile as she lets her head fall back against the stone. “Shall we get out of here, then?” she asks hopefully. “I don’t think the people here are too keen on outsiders asking questions.”
I make a noncommittal sound. I refuse to be thwarted at the first hurdle, but I’m not exactly sure how to proceed from here either.
“Come on then, let’s go,” I grumble, pushing off from the wall. “I just need to stop at one of the stalls quickly first.”
Stryx gives me a knowing look which I choose to ignore, pushing my way through the growing crowd of hooded buyers and scanning the chambers for what I need.
It’s not my first time here, nor will it be my last, but the Maw has an annoying habit of rearranging itself most nights, making it very difficult to seek out specific vendors.
I finally spot a familiar coloured silk hanging from the entrance of a small chamber, and dive out of the flow of the crowd, tugging Stryx along close behind me.
We duck under a huge chest being heaved along on the shoulders of two very sketchy looking men, and emerge into the small opening in the rock, finding a modest looking stall filled with various golden trinkets.
I nod a greeting to the wizened woman standing behind the wares, her thin, papery skin creased and wrinkled across her stern face.
She returns my nod subtly, pretending not to know my face, as is the usual custom here.
“I have a piece I think would suit you, my dear,” she says with a rasp, maintaining the charade that we are unacquainted.
She shuffles a few boxes around behind the stall before retrieving a tiny carved wooden box and placing it in my hand.
A familiar glint of gold catches the light as I open the box to find a new talisman, the runes etched into it glowing with power.
I snap it shut quickly, pocketing it as I retrieve my money from my cloak, but as I pull out the funds to pay her, my drawing is knocked free, floating to the ground at her feet.
She bends to pick it up before I can grab it and she studies it with a frown.
“What is this?” she says with deathly quiet. My heart stumbles as I read her body language––shoulders tightening, her lips pursing as her eyes widen almost infinitesimally.
She knows something.
“It’s a tattoo. Have you seen this before?” I ask in a hushed tone, leaning in closer to avoid being overheard.
She looks at me hesitantly, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to divulge the information.
My Shadow, who has been noticeably absent since I awoke, decides now is the appropriate time to materialise, his black mass forming just out of sight.
I try to ignore his presence and focus on the vendor, but I have a sudden overwhelming sense of urgency flooding my veins.
Run.
The word envelops me and I mentally curse at him, tapping my fingers repeatedly as it becomes harder and harder to fight his command.
The woman makes no mention of my sudden discomfort other than a cursory glance to my fidgeting fingers, but also remains silent to the question I need answering.
She looks down again at the drawing and her face pulls into a deep frown, her jaw clenching.
Run now.
My heart starts to palpitate as I continue to ignore my Shadow, flexing my toes in my shoes as my feet urge me to move.
Without warning the woman crushes the parchment into her curled fist and lobs it at me.
I barely catch it before her finger is pointed in my face, her features contorted into a snarl.
“You play with things beyond your ken, Detective Wren,” she hisses. “Do yourself a favour and leave before the wrong people see this. It may already be too late.”
My heart stumbles and my breath catches in my throat at the sound of my name. She knows my face, of that I am certain, but my name? The implications of that are harrowing to say the least.
“How–”
“Go!” my Shadow and the woman rasp in unison as she shoves me back, causing my ankle to roll painfully as I stagger to stop myself colliding with Stryx.
I don’t need to be told a fourth time.
I grab Stryx’s hand and flee, throwing the money for the talisman behind me to the floor at the woman’s feet.
She lurches for it greedily, scooping it into her bony hands and clutching it to her chest as we join once again with the crowd.
The people flow along like a steady river, the current of the footfall pulling us further into the Maw.
I crane my neck to see above the sea of heads and spot a faint pinprick of light shining through a small side tunnel.
Hastily, I pull Stryx out of the throng of people and into the dark tunnel, grabbing a lit torch from a brazier at the entrance and holding it above my head to light the way.
We stumble along the uneven floor, the fire sending dancing shadows along the roughly hewn walls as we make our way towards the growing light at the end.
A waft of fresh air hits my face as we exit the tunnel into the streets outside, the glowing amber light we’ve been following emitting from a half collapsed lamp post ahead.
I breathe in a large lungful of air as my nerves begin to settle, though we are far from danger yet. Ahead to our right, the gaping cavern at the entrance to the Maw looms, and I plan to get away from it as quickly as possible.
“And there was me thinking the morgue was my least favourite place,” Stryx muses, her eyes darting about nervously.
I huff an anxious laugh, my breath releasing in a cloud as the cold of the night draws in on us. I tighten my cloak around me before taking her hand once more and leading us back to the sky bridge. “Well, if we linger here any longer, we won’t be going into the morgue by foot, that’s for sure.”