Chapter 3

There was a doctor down the street we occasionally saw. Zin didn’t want to go — she just wanted to hide her disfigurement — but I talked her into it. He wasn’t much of a doctor, but he was cheap and faster than the clinic, which was always overcrowded.

He didn’t hesitate when he saw Zin. “Vornauld’s Syndrome. It’s pretty rare, only about a hundred cases in the city. Most people with the condition will abruptly lose pieces of their body over time just like you lost part of your finger. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t offer much hope for you. We don’t know its cause. We don’t have a cure or a treatment for it. We don’t even have a good idea of how it progresses. It seems to progress very quickly for some people, much less so for others. For some people it seems to stop altogether, but we can never be sure —“

Zin interrupted. “So you’re saying I could continue to just disappear like this, and there’s no way to stop it?” She leaned forward in her seat, her hands in fists.

The doctor nodded sheepishly. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry —“

“Never mind sorry. Fuck. Is it fatal?”

“Often. If it continues to progress, it will eventually affect parts of the body that are essential for supporting life.”

Zin had her head in her hands. She seemed like she’d had enough for the moment. 

I spoke up. “How long, best case, worst case?”

The doctor shrugged. “The literature indicates anywhere from eight months to several years, depending on the progression. We just have no way to tell. The best news I can give you is that it’s not contagious.”

When we left the doctor’s office, Zin was fuming; I thought maybe the visit wasn’t such a waste of time. After all, we knew the name of the disease or syndrome or whatever, so maybe we could find someone in the upper districts who could help us. The problem was Zin couldn’t go uptown. I had papers that would get me into a lot of the upper districts; Zin didn’t, so we needed money to get her some, not to mention for a doctor. I thought I knew how I might make some cash quick.

So let me explain something about me and money: I never had much in those days. When I said earlier I was a small-time grifter, emphasis was on the small-time. Most of what I did wasn’t even illegal, or at most in a gray area. If upper-class ladies wanted to over-pay for faux antiques, no crime there. If a parcel I was carrying happened to contain something illicit, well, I didn’t know. I had gotten arrested before, but I never had to serve any time. So, lower risk, lower payout. But now I needed some serious money, so I needed to do something serious. Luckily I had spotted just the opportunity the day before.

Zin decided to go into work despite her condition — work is how she coped. I went back to the book stall in Upper Stekson and asked the bookseller about the lady who had been there the day before.

“Yeah, she’s here a lot, don’t know her name. She always pays in cash, carries a lot of large bills most of the time. She’s mostly interested in old science books, especially rare expensive ones. Good for her too, ‘cause if she didn’t earn me so much money I’d kick her out of the store. Some of the other customers find her a little aggressive.”

After that I spent a while hanging around Thistle Street asking people what they knew about the stone house with the tower. Most people wouldn’t talk to me, of course, but there are always a few. One person told me the owner was a drug dealer. Some kids told me the house was the home of a sorcerer and her minions. A few different people believed the owner was a mad scientist. 

The best help I got was from an old lady named El who had lived in the neighborhood since she was a child, and who happily shared the life story of Cassia Jeks, resident of 19652 Thistle Street.

I won’t subject you to the whole story here, just the salient parts. Jeks, it turns out, was a scientist, but not the mad kind, or even the romantic kind from stories who solves the problem that saves the world; she was the drab sort who solves the problem that makes the rich richer.

She hadn’t always lived in the tower house. When she moved into the neighborhood, twenty-or-so years ago, she lived a couple of blocks up from there, with her husband and son. They lived there until the boy was maybe seven, and then tragedy struck. 

The husband and son died in the space of a year, from what my friend El didn’t know. After that Jeks earned a reputation in the area for being an eccentric.  She also bought the empty lot at 19652 Thistle Street and built the house that’s there today. El had visited her a few times collecting for charity, and found Jeks to be quite generous.

By the time my source had finished her story, it was late afternoon. The old lady had given me some ideas. Now it was time to go back home and plan.

I didn’t always call the Hollow home. Once I was respectable. Even went to college. Not exactly Royal University, you understand, but one of the small city colleges, Ducton, which as its name implies lies in Ducton District. You may not have heard of the district, which isn’t surprising, as nothing interesting happens there. Which is probably why I never graduated — I was always off finding interesting things elsewhere. On the other hand, I never formally withdrew either. What that means is that I was still officially a student at Ducton, even though I never attended classes or paid tuition. Which means I could claim residence in Ducton and get the corresponding papers. Which, since Ducton’s a pretty nice place, was more than enough to get me into districts like Upper Stekson. I just prayed they wouldn’t close that loophole, or I’d have to move uptown. Either that or carry forged papers.

Zin didn’t like the idea. She thought it was too risky. But she generally didn’t like my choice of livelihood, so this wasn’t surprising. 

“Break into her home? Do you really want your son to grow up without a father?” she demanded to know.

“More than I want him to watch his mother slowly dying. If I end up in jail, I’ll get out some day. Vornauld’s will kill you.”

Eventually she backed down. I went about putting the plan together. In a couple of days I was ready.

I was nervous but confident as I walked up Abyssal to Chethurst to catch the train to Upper Stekson, with a leather carrying case containing my kit. I was dressed smartly in a brown suit and grey wool tie — respectable but unassuming — with a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses. In my carrying case I had a collapsible cane.

I took a detour down to Ganyon Street to rent some transport for hauling stolen loot. It was a street glider with a trailer — a levitating vehicle relying on velocimancy, it was slower than a horse, but much more practical. I didn’t want to drive it across district lines, so I would unload it at a friend’s warehouse there in Upper Stekson.

It was bright and sunny that morning as I pulled up a few doors down from number Jeks’s.  I sat for a minute in the cab, collecting my thoughts and reviewing the script. The time was about 9:30 by then, good time to go knocking on doors. Feeling prepared, leaning on my cane, I knocked on Jeks’s door. 

Cassia Jeks opened the door without even asking who I was. Good sign. She smiled amiably and asked, “Good morning, how can I help you?”

I began my bit. “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Bentus Avastyon, and I’m with Sarcanth Childrens’ Charities —“ At this point I made a show of fumbling with my cane and bag as I tried to undo its clasp.

Jeks interrupted. “Mr. Avastyon, please come in and have a seat. No point in tiring yourself out like that.” 

Her front room was all I expected. As I had guessed, the predominant feature was books: books in bookcases, books in piles on the floor, books stacked up on the ornate — and valuable — antique desk in the corner, books spread across the sofa — also antique, probably from the Imperial Era — that she ushered me to. If Jeks made it a habit to buy two hundred crown books, there could be a fortune in just this one room.

The fireplace was closed off, and above the mantle was a portrait of what must have been Jeks’s family. I hate to be insensitive towards the deceased, but by god that was an ugly painting. “What a lovely painting. Is that your family?” I said.

“Yes, those are my two boys. Both passed on many years ago, I’m afraid.”

“How sad.” I paused for a moment and continued, “Now as I was saying, Ms…?”

“Jeks.”

“As I was saying, Ms. Jeks, I’m with Sarcanth Children’s Ch“ — and here I coughed loudly — “um, Children’s Charities. I’m not here asking for money, just for a little of your time. Are you familiar with our organization?”

She admitted she was not, and I continued, “Well, then, we’ve been in operation for twenty-five years, mostly in the lower districts, Beetle Hollow, Anglers Terrace, those sort of places — by the way, did you know that child mortality is up almost twenty percent in Upper Stekson over the past ten years? That’s why Sarcanth Children’s Charities is planning to open a local branch office in Upper Stekson within the next year.” 

I started coughing violently. She leaned forward with a look of concern. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Oh yes” — cough — “just some water” — cough, cough.

She went off to fetch a glass of water, and I seized my opportunity. I opened my case and took out a featureless white cube about three inches on a side. I carefully hid it behind a tall stack of books. I sat back on the couch, dislodging a couple of books as I did, and took some brochures out of my case.

A word about Sarcanth Children’s Charities. They really existed. In fact, they were the relief organization that Zin worked for. I had just picked up some old brochures from around the apartment. Easy.

Then she was back with the water, and I continued with the spiel. She seemed convinced with the whole thing, and it all went smoothly. She made some noncommittal statements, I said I’d be back in touch with her, she showed me to the door. Smashing success.

Once I was out on the street again, it was just a matter of waiting for her to leave. I ducked down the alley between two brownstones and quickly changed into casual clothing and removed the glasses. I mussed my hair a bit, dumped the case where it wouldn’t be noticed, and went back on the street. I took up a position on a corner where I could see her place and not look too suspicious. To complete the transformation, and to calm my nerves, I smoked some syzaro weed cigarettes. They’re expensive, and I had been saving them for a special occasion, but I figured I’d have enough money after this job to buy syzaros in pallets.

It was about two hours later that she left, walking up the street toward me. I put on my best nonchalant air. She walked past on the other side of the street, not so much as a second glance. Sigh. She was such a pleasant-seeming lady that I almost felt bad about what I was up to. 

Once she was out of sight, I hurried to her door. I rapped out a very specific seven-knock sequence. Then I waited and hoped. About thirty seconds later I heard the sound of the door unlocking. I opened it and went in. 

There behind the door was a strange little device, a bunch of metal appendages protruding from the white cube I had hidden earlier. A Shupkin Automaton — a brilliant little machine. Fits in a 3-inch cube but you can make it do just about anything — if you can program it, that is. I reset the device and it retracted back to its cube configuration.

I’ve had ample time since that day to regret my amateurish mistake. Instead of immediately moving valuables out to the trailer, I let my curiosity get the better of me. The winding staircase up to the tower was right there, right outside the front room. I had to take a look. Just a quick look.

The tower was circular, roughly fifteen feet in diameter. The second floor looked like a research office. There were lots of books, but here they were neatly arranged. There was a large, orderly desk, too. 

I didn’t have time to linger so I sprinted up to the third floor, which was a tangled mess of electrical cables. There were a bunch of machines I didn’t recognize. The fourth floor looked like a chemistry or biology laboratory. 

The fifth floor, by contrast, was a menagerie of nightmares. There, in cages, were creatures so strangely warped they almost defy description. A giant centipede-like creature, headless, end connected to end, racing round in a circle. Some distorted rodent with the head of a lobster making a high angry chitter. A lizard, but made of a gas, confined under a bell jar. A large flatworm, which as it crawled, split lengthwise again and again, joining and redividing in continually evolving patterns. More, each stranger than the last.

I spent far too long amongst the cages, absorbing the horror of it. I had to go. Only, as I descended the stairs, it was like moving through cement as it dried around me. I went slower, and still slower. Soon I wasn’t moving at all. 

I tried moving each part of my body in turn. Fingers, mouth, eyes, legs, and so on, all stuck. Involuntary muscle movements like blinking and breathing still worked, but I couldn’t will any movement at all. So I stood there, for a minute, or an hour, or a day, feeling like a fool. The job could have been so easy. I could have had several thousand crowns by then.

After a long while, I heard the front door open. A voice called out, “Mr. Avastyon… You’re still here, aren’t you? I see your trailer out front.” 

 Footsteps. Soon Cassia Jeks came into view on the stairs below him. She said with a smile, “Good afternoon, Mr. Avastyon.”

Chapter 2

We found our way out onto Abyssal Street.

Zin found her voice first. “What the fuck was that?”

“The most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but what was it? I mean, I’m not really familiar with how Guardians operate, but I kind of thought the law still applied.”

“Are there laws restricting the Guardians? ”

“Well of course there are. Be serious. This is not okay. We can’t have the police running wild in the city killing who they want, even if we knew how they were doing it, which we don’t.” 

We eventually found our way to Fournic’s, the disreputable but very convenient drinking establishment under our apartment. We still had a little time before we needed to be home.

Fournic’s wasn’t exactly dirty, but neither would I eat anything from their kitchen. Its usual clientele was not always the polite sort; fights were a rare occurrence but I wouldn’t have wanted to be a woman there alone. Most of the Humans there seemed like low-income working folks; the local Skioti also preferred Fournic’s as a regular meeting place.

Our friend Gustam was there before us. He was with a woman I didn’t recognize, but this was more common than not; he didn’t see any woman for terribly long, or usually for more than one evening. As he had explained, his relationships all suffered from a mutual lack of interest.

He looked happy to have some company. “What do you know, it’s Anton and Zinnia. You two look horrible,” he said, by way of hello.

Zin groaned. I said, “We saw someone get killed tonight in a back alley.”

Gustam’s eyes widened. “What the? How’d it happen?”

Zin jumped in. “Fucking Guardians cornered some street performer and just shot ‘em dead.” 

“No explanation?” asked Gustam.

“None at all,” she said. “It was summary execution. The guy hadn’t been doing anything except making pretty colored lights. And the really weird part was how it killed him: it seemed to just rip his heart out, without even leaving any blood.”

Gustam’s eyes got even wider. “Um, what? How is that even possible?”

“No idea,” I said. “None of it makes any sense.” 

“He must have been dangerous.” That was Gustam’s date. The three of us swiveled to look at her. She was an attractive, petite woman, probably over thirty, not remarkable in any way, but she looked friendly. 

“Um, maybe,” said Gustam. “By the way, guys, this is Mariçal. She works down at the Beetle Hollow Guardian’s Office,” he said, with a warning in his eyes.

I decided to ignore that warning. “Yeah, I suppose he must have been dangerous. So what’s it like working for the cops?” I asked Mariçal.

“Well, really, I just work a desk, record-keeping and that kind of stuff.”

Gustam was tapping his fingers on the table. Still ignoring him, I decided to push harder. “Don’t you think the Guardians are a little bit heavy-handed?”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I wish we had more officers down here. A lot of times I don’t feel safe on the streets. I mean, look at all the bugs in here tonight.” She indicated a group of Skioti across the bar. “That’s got to be a security risk if anything is.”

I imagine at this point poor Mariçal could feel the temperature drop. But maybe not. Her type can be remarkably oblivious when they step in it.

I furrowed my brow and acted puzzled. “Bugs?”

Mariçal looked confused. “Yeah… bugs…” and gestured toward the Skioti again.

“Oh!” I said. “You mean Skioti! ‘Bugs’… clever! Insulting and incorrect at the same time! Brilliant!”

“Um, well…” she stammered.

I looked over at the crowd of Skioti. “Hey, there’s Iskitik. I’ll be right back.” Gustam had his head in his hands. I got up and hurried over to the Skioti. There were ten or so of the mantis-like people mingling among themselves. 

Skioti aren’t actually mantises at all; in fact they’re from an entirely different branch of the phylum Arthropoda — you know, things like insects and lobsters, and so on. They’re more erect than mantises, with a purple overtone to their exoskeleton. They also have three-fingered grippers for hands, and two additional smaller gripping appendages descending from their mouth region.

I picked a Skioti at random and said, “Hi there, I’m Anton, how are you?” 

The Skioti looked at me for a second, then answered, “Can I help you?”

“Just pretend we’re talking for a minute.” 

“Oh, is that it, are we cool now?” His friends responded in that high oscillating buzz that passed for Skioti laughter. I turned away, red-faced.

As embarrassing as that was, it had its intended effect. When I got back to the table, Mariçal was gone. Gustam was sipping his beer, looking dejected. “Hey, thanks, Anton, now I look like an asshole.”

Zin laughed. “To some girl you’ll never see again.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, Gus, you’ll find the right one. Hey, An,” — meaning me — “we need to get home. The sitter will be waiting for us.” 

“Do you mind if I talk to Gustam for a few minutes? If you go up to the apartment, I’ll be there in a little while.”

Zin looked at me dubiously. “Okayyyy… just please only be a short while. I want to go to bed soon.” I kissed her and she left.

Gustam was an artist. Not a very successful one; he made most of his money doing fairly ordinary commercial work, but he still tried to pursue the independent life of a painter. I thought he was pretty good; Zin and I had a striking abstract watercolor of his in our apartment. That night I wanted to propose a not-entirely-honest scheme to sell some of his unsold art uptown. He wasn’t having any of it, but we got to talking about other things, and time kind of got away from me.

When I slipped in the apartment door several drinks and nearly two hours later, Zin was curled up on the couch asleep. I woke her up. She looked at me bleary-eyed and said, “Dammit, An…”

“I’m sorry —“

“Fuck it. I’m going to bed,” she declared, stomping off to the bedroom.

I slunk after her.

The next morning Zin was up and out of the apartment before I’d even opened an eye. She worked as a legal aide to a local relief agency there in Beetle Hollow. I did eventually have to get up, though. I had plans.

I suppose that I should introduce myself. My name is Anton Dinzeni, and I am… well, I don’t know what I am anymore. I was one of a million small-time grifters in the city of Sarcanth, or as I would have termed it, an “independent operator”. 

Picture me then: late twenties, tall, dirt poor but dead handsome, loud, quick to laugh, not really taking much very seriously. My job was staying free.

So that day I traveled up to Upper Stekson district. From Chethurst I rode uptown to Orgent Station and walked the remaining mile to the Stekson Market. The Market was four city blocks of everything a scrounger like me could ever want. It was located in what was said to be the ancient remains of an arena, gone for a millennium or more. The ruins had long been cleared away, but one remnant of the old city still remained: the same old light columns as in Mardenol Square in a huge ring around the outer reaches of the Market. Here they were used as lamp posts and notice boards.

Spreading like lichen across this expanse was the most diverse collection of vendors you could hope to find in Sarcanth. None were more numerous than the lowly junk dealers, my personal favorites. If I was looking for something more upscale, I might try one several dozen antiques shops. Other places I might be found were in the book stalls, second-hand clothing shops, and Drog’s, the most marvelous cheesemonger I could actually afford. Finally, you might have found me in any number of fine drinking establishments the Market boasted. 

As usual at the Stekson Market, I was looking for anything interesting I might be able to buy low and then sell at a profit in some more fashionable neighborhood. I had already picked up a very pretty stained glass glow bug lamp for next to nothing that I was sure I could pass off as a valuable antique to the ladies uptown.

After the junk shops I ended up at a book store. It’s hard to run the antique scam with books, because you can’t fool an antique book buyer; they’re generally experts. Instead, I would wait for a junior employee who knows nothing about books to be minding the store. Then I would switch price tags between a cheap and a valuable book. You get the idea.

A woman came up next to me while I was looking through a crate full of books. I didn’t think anything of her at first. But when I realized she was looking at the books I was sorting through, I stopped to take a look at her. She was middle-aged, skinny but not emaciated. Her clothes were slightly ragged, and her greying hair unkempt. Probably not homeless, but not completely alright.

“You okay?” I asked her.

“What? Oh yes, yes. Is that Fendrak’s Compendium of Venomous Plants you’re holding there?”

Sure enough it was. “Yeah — you want it?”

She didn’t respond, but grabbed the book out of my hands. Okay fine.

“Boy! Boy!” she shouted to the bookseller, who looked at least ten years older than her. I was still watching; this lady was strange. 

“Sure grandma, whaddya need?”

She waved the book in the man’s face. “What are you charging for this book?”

“Two hundred crowns.” Wow. That must have been some rare book. To my surprise our friend whipped out two hundreds on the spot, bought the book. My mind raced with the scams I might run on someone with that kind of cash.

So I followed her home. She led me down a street of old row houses to a lone detached house. It was, well, strange. For one thing, it was built of stone; nothing’s been built of stone in the city in centuries, since the rockrot. This house must have been built in the last twenty years. And it had a tower. A big one, looked six stories tall, attached to a two-story house. It was weird, but it did make me wonder if there were a lot of valuables in that house.

I crossed the street to get a closer look. I got the name and address from the mailbox: Jeks, 19652 Thistle Street. By that time, however, it was getting late. I resolved to come back the next day and do some more research. For the time being it was back to Beetle Hollow.

Beetle Hollow was the lowest point, physically and metaphorically, of Sarcanth. The Hollow swarmed with desperate people, fitting for a place named after the teeming insects living below and sometimes among them. The Beetle Hollow Beetle, properly called the Purple Ground Beetle or carobus terram violaceus, survived  underground by hunting — in packs — the rodents that were foolish enough to wander into the district. So there’s that: we had no rats in the Hollow. On the other hand, during quakes, which were fairly common in the city, the bugs would swarm to the surface in a panic, creating a purple flood in the streets and around meat vendors. Long-term residents took it in stride; newcomers and visitors, unless they were entomologists, were usually horrified.

All kinds of person, except the beautiful people of the upper districts, were represented in Beetle Hollow. A degenerate aging aesthete would rub shoulders with ex-convicts fresh out of Racken Prison. An inscrutable insectile Skioti, of the professional class but too little trusted to live uptown, might live next to a newly impoverished widow made to move downtown when the money ran out. A legless man, cast out of the upper class for his deformity, played Dukket in Mardenol Square with the daughter of a prostitute. I found something beautiful in all those crazy people mixed together.

But ultimately what was most appealing about the Hollow, a stinking mass of poverty, crime, and hopelessness? In a word, freedom. There was only one District in the city where you could walk without papers. There was only one district where Humans, Skioti, and Enjuri all lived together. There was only one district where a person could go without fear of judgment, and that was Beetle Hollow. 

By the time I got to my building, I was thirsty, so I stopped in at Fournic’s. No sign of Gustam, so I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer and then another. When I finished and headed upstairs, I was really very late.

Zin was sitting on the edge of the couch, tense, watching Raz play. “I put the rest of dinner in the fridge,” she said.

Shit. “Oh damn, it was my turn tonight wasn’t it? I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“Yeah, whatever, how’s Gus?

“Didn’t see him — how’d you even know I was down there?“

She sighed. “I’m the world’s greatest detective. I mean, what the fuck. After last night you think it’s a good idea to get a drink on the way home?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were so mad about last night…”

“Really. You hoped I wasn’t —“ 

She looked at Raz, who had stopped playing and was looking at us. “Damn,” she said, and put her head in her hands.

Twenty minutes later, after we’d put Raz to bed, she started again, quietly and calmly. “An, half of the time you’re apologizing to me for not paying attention to me the other half of the time. I hate it.”

“Oh c’mon,” I said. “I was paying attention to you last night at the festival —“

“Which comes once a year, An. I think I deserve better than once a year.”

And so it went. A couple of hours later we went to bed; Zin wasn’t happy with me, and I felt alternately pissed and ashamed. Sleep was a long time coming. 

…

I wake to the sound of screaming

Oh shit, Raz — No, it’s not Raz

Zin’s sitting up in bed, staring at her hand, whimpering

I can’t see, what is it?

She turns, holds up her hand

My eyes don’t understand what they’re seeing

Then they do, and I recoil

The first finger of her left hand is one joint too short

The tip is gone, not cut off, but

Forgotten 

Like a transcription error between one frame of reality and the next

As if it were never there

The finger, not healed,

But as if it has always been this way

Zin says, “Where is it?”

I don’t know

Zin repeats, “Where is it?”

I don’t know

Raz is in the doorway crying

I go to him, gather him up, bring him to his mom

She hugs him without seeing — she can only see her finger

I take Zin’s left hand, hold it between my own two hands

I tell her as if I believe it, “You will be okay”

She asks, “What’s happening to me?”

I don’t know

And she screams

Chapter 1

Let’s start on the first day of spring, in the 1532^nd year of the City of Sarcanth. Spring weather had come right on schedule. Rose District blossomed with life as its residents swarmed the weekend market, buzzing with anticipation of the night to come. Festival happened every year; festival on a Saturday was a happy conjunction that came only once roughly every seven years. With no work that day and no work the day after, the festival was bigger, livelier, and drunker than in other years.

The morning market stalls, erected amongst the festival decor, the lights, and the viewing stands, would be torn down early to make way for festival booths and stages. Buyers and sellers alike quickened their paces ahead of the early deadline.

Despite the rush, I took my time reeling in Dav, my mark for the morning. I had spotted him sitting alone on a bench between two market booths. He was forty-ish, balding, a little round in the middle, looking less tired than unfulfilled, like he’d come out to the market looking for inspiration but hadn’t found it.  I figured I’d give him that inspiration.

I stopped next to his bench. “You mind if I sit here a minute?” I smiled and did my magic, the undefinable thing I did to get people to like me. I didn’t know how it worked; I just knew I could do it and other people couldn’t.

The magic worked. He smiled, made space for me, and said, “Be my guest! Nice to meet you, my name’s Dav.”

Beautiful. I sat down and extended a hand, which he shook. “Rivik,” I lied. “So what’re you up to at the market, Dav?”

“Looking for something interesting.”

I looked conspicuously at his empty hands. “Looks like you haven’t found it. But I know how it is, sometimes I just wander from one place to the next, but nobody’s got the thing I want.”

Dav nodded emphatically. “Exactly! Even though you don’t know what it is. You do that too?”

I gave my most empathetic nod. “All the time. What are you looking for?”

Dav shrugged. “A lot of things, but I guess mostly books, collectibles, that kind of thing.”

“Great! I’m interested in collecting, but I don’t have a clue where to start. Say, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“That would be great.”

“I’ve got a friend at the Green Magpie who will set us up with some. Coming?”

I took him to my reserved table at the coffee shop. My associate, on cue, moved in to take our order.

I asked Dav, “Ever try a Dorusian?”

Dav shook his head. “No, what’s that?”

“It’s a kind of coffee made on the island of Dorus. It’s made with espresso, cardamom and arriset, and if done well it’s a revelation. It’s done very well here. Try one?” 

“Sure.”

In reality, the “Dorusian” was a drink my coffee shop friend and I had made up. It was actually pretty good, but I had neglected to mention the key ingredient: a dose of ossiva, which is a sedative known for increasing the subject’s suggestibility. Ossiva is easy to grow in low-light conditions, hence it is pretty cheap throughout the city.

Once we had our coffees, I focused on reeling him in. This is the part you can’t rush. The important thing here is to get the mark talking about himself. Flatter him. Make him feel smart and important. I started off with some questions, and pretty soon he was chattering away about books: novels, authors, genres, and so on. It turned out he was a voracious reader; it was all I could do to keep my eyes from glazing over.

Once enough time had passed for the ossiva to take effect, I went to the endgame.

I made a show of counting my bags. “Damn! My leather satchel’s gone!”

Dav’s face screwed up in sympathy. “That’s terrible! Do you suppose someone stole it?” He looked genuinely upset.

“Could be. The problem is, it had all my money in it.”

At this point, a mark would always hesitate. That was okay. I just had to ease him past the problem.

“Hmm…” mused Dav. “What’re you going to do?”

“It’s okay, I’ll ask my friend to let me owe it to him.” 

My associate saw all this going on and on cue showed up with the bill. Dav was a little taken aback; the Dorusians were forty crowns apiece — your typical fancy coffee cost about three crowns. I needed to distract attention from the check.

I begged the waiter, “Hey, I’m having a little trouble here; the bag with all my money was stolen. Can I run a tab until next weekend?”

My accomplice sighed and looked dubious. “You and everyone else today. Sorry, maybe you can get your friend to cover you. I’m trying to run a business.”

I acted stunned for a moment. “Fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Dav was hesitating in reaching for his money. “Well…”

“No way, Dav, no way. Look, I’ve got something here that’ll more than cover the bill.” I rummaged through my bags until I found what I wanted. “Here. A set of signed Ranus Vorth novels. The whole Haunted City tetralogy, autographed right before his death last year. Cool, right?”

Dav had confessed earlier that he was a fan of horror fiction. “Yeah, definitely.”

“I picked this up earlier today for fifty crowns, but I know for a fact the real value is at least a hundred.” I had gotten the set for a crown each. “If you bring it down to the Stekson Market, you’re sure to find someone who’ll give you that much. Can I give this to you?”

Dav thought for a moment. “Sure. That’ll work. I’m real sorry about your bag.” Some people, it seems like they’re just waiting for someone they like to come along and like them back. I offer them this service, and they pay me well. In this case, my new friend Dav would pay me by overpaying for coffee and a set of signed third editions. 

 After Dav had gone on his way, I met my associate in back of the coffee shop. We split the proceeds thirty-seven crowns each, with six crowns to go to the shop for the two espressos we used. He grew the ossiva for his own personal use, so that was his expense. Subtracting the four crowns I had paid for the books, I made a profit of thirty-three crowns.

I wasn’t gullible; I didn’t really believe in magic. But ever since I was a kid I’d been able to make people like me and want to make me happy. Like me a little, for a little while, that is. It was enough to make me an income.

It was enough that my wife and son and I were reasonably comfortable, by Beetle Hollow standards, as long as both of us worked. That’s something. 

After getting my cut of the earnings, I hopped on the elevated train back home. Gazing out across the rooftops of Rose district I was struck by the impeccably attractive sameness of it all. Rose had upper-middle-class in its soul. It was rows and rows of aesthetically void, monstrously large, vomitously expensive houses crowded one against another, in a constant cycle of being torn down and rebuilt in the latest style on the bones of the previous generation. 

The track descended as it went, and the districts got poorer and meaner. That was the way of Sarcanth, where social status followed the landscape, from the kingly Royal district at the peak of Vonyan’s Hill, to the slums and ghettos of my home district, Beetle Hollow, at the bottom of its eponymous depression.

Getting home from Rose District required a change of trains in Vorham, which coincidentally was the dividing line between what I considered a nice district like Rose, and a not-so-nice district like Beetle Hollow. I dashed from the comfortable, quiet train from Rose to the squealing cacophony that was the Chethurst line. There was nowhere to sit; the festival traffic had started early. A man in a fraying black suit did sleight-of-hand tricks for whoever would watch; he called himself a cryptomancer, a profession I thought he probably invented. Here and there a person would give him a coin or two. It seemed to me like an awfully tiring way to make a meager few crowns.

As we pulled away from Vorham towards Chethurst, the train passed a prominent sign of the old city. Arrayed throughout the city were a dozen or so ancient towers, known as Formyn’s Towers after the ancient emperor thought to have built them. They were constructed of a green-black, lustrous substance of unknown composition, beyond the powers of today’s scientists to replicate. Nor was it known how to enter the structures, if indeed one could. They prevailing theory as to their purpose was the generation of electricity, but by what principle no one could say. The electricity that powered the Chethurst train, as it sparked and screeched down and down into the bowels of the city, came from huge thermal generators buried deep in the rock below by the great geomancers of King Emmuel II, some seven hundred years ago. Formyn’s Towers were much older, some said fourteen hundred years.

By the time the train approached Chethurst Station, the character of the city had changed considerably from the antiseptic order of Rose. Chethurst was a riotous mixture of the ramshackle, the rundown, and the ruined, punctuated by the occasional renewal project, with its rows of identical, anonymous, but livable, communal housing.

No train led into Beetle Hollow. I got off in Chethurst and walked the rest of the way down Abyssal Street. Beetle Hollow was similar to Chethurst, only the renewal projects hadn’t reached that far yet. As I walked the mile or so down Abyssal I passed pawn shops, drug dens, corner stores with the cashier behind a metal grill, dubious-looking massage parlors, boarded-up storefronts — countless signs of rampant poverty and crime.

When I got home Zin was on our little two-seater sofa reading to Raz. I stood for a minute and watched the two of them. Zin gave me a wink but kept reading.

Raz was a four-year-old all over, smart, funny, curious, silly, and always full of energy. He got his dark hair and skin from his mom, and his cool blue eyes from me. 

He noticed me after a minute. “Daddy!” He raced over and gave me a hug. “Whaddya bring me?” Aha, fortunately I had that covered. At the market I had found and quietly pocketed an ingenious ball that changed color as it rolled. It wasn’t too bouncy and wasn’t too noisy, so there was a chance Zin wouldn’t hate me for bringing it home.

Zin lay back on the couch. “Hey, An. There’s some dinner on the stove.”

“Ooh thanks. You didn’t forget our date tonight, did you?” I wandered into the kitchen and stuffed the thirty-seven crowns I’d made into the house money jar.

“Nope. Mrs. Argyre will be down here in half an hour to watch Raz.”

“Excellent. I just need a few minutes to eat and clean up.”

Everyone loved the festival. All over the city of Sarcanth the people crowded the streets, enjoying the festival lights, gawking at the street performers, sampling the street vendors’ wares, and celebrating the new year. Even in the poor little district of Beetle Hollow, the forgotten, dirty basement of the city, we had our share of entertainment and merriment.

Zin and I went out to see the people and whatever acts struck our fancy. We held hands and shared a hidden flask of some lousy local whiskey, pleased to be out on the town with no kid in tow. 

We strolled to Mardenol Square, the cultural center of Beetle Hollow, inasmuch as it had any culture. The ancient, defunct light columns of the old city, their once-luminous glowspots now dark, marked out an octagon along the edge of the square, each post ringed by tiered seats erected for the occasion. The makeshift stands were crowded with the drunk, the rowdy, and the disreputable, some watching the performers, some just sitting, and here and there an incongruous family trying to catch their breaths and finish their orange ices before moving on to the next attraction. 

We flitted from one act or vendor’s stall to another. I bought us sticks of gwozim, an Enjuri food that Humans actually find palatable made from an imported desert succulent. Zin pointed out the mathematical intricacies of a lumomancer’s light display. My arm around her waist, together we marveled at the talents of a group of Skioti rizizizi, the rough equivalents of Human acrobats. 

I whispered something suggestive in her ear and she laughed. “Sure babe, you want to explain it to Raz when he wakes up and comes into our room?” she asked.

“You have a point. What were we thinking having a kid anyway?” I responded with a chuckle. I ran my fingertips up and down her side and she shivered.

“Stop that. Don’t worry, a year or two and he’ll be old enough to sleep over his sitter’s place.” She kissed me, then something caught her eye. “Ooh, magic!”

Zin had a child’s enthusiasm for magic shows. I appreciated them, but with more of a professional interest. I was always looking for methods of misdirection, and I enjoyed trying to figure out how a trick was done. 

There was one trick I couldn’t figure out at all. The magician, a woman dressed in a tuxedo comically formal for the occasion, started by asking for a volunteer. After she had one – his name was Paul – she instructed him to secretly select a Dukket token from a bag and reveal to the audience what letter was on the token. It was the letter kip, an Old Empire letter no longer used.

“Now put the token in your pocket,” she said and the volunteer complied.

“Turn around one full turn.” Paul did as she asked.

“Now jump up and down,” and he did.

“Bark like a dog.” He obeyed again.

She grinned and said “Just wanted to see if you’d do it.” The audience laughed.

“Actually Paul,” she said, “I think I have your letter right here.” She pulled a token from a pocket in her tuxedo. She showed it to him and asked, “Is this your token?” It was an f. 

“No,” replied the audience member, with a sheepish smile.

“Really?” she said, clearly chagrined, and throwing the token on the pavement. “I could have sworn I did the trick right this time. I’ll try again.” 

She pulled an x out of her pocket, and Paul shook his head. She threw the x on the ground and pulled out an l. Then a q, a laf  — another Old Empire letter, and a t in rapid succession.  

She stopped, stamped her foot, and said “Ugh! I really thought I could do it this time. I really feel like a nut.”

The audience stared. There was just the hint of a murmur.

Paul looked confused.

“Why don’t you look in your pocket?” the magician said.

Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. 

“Show it to everybody, Paul. What is it?”

Paul held the object up for everyone to see. “A walnut,” he said to the crowd.

The audience was quiet for a second, and then burst into applause.

“But wait wait wait! Paul, could you open the nut for me?” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a nutcracker, which she handed to him.

Paul gave the nut a good crack. His eyes opened wide. The magician said “Is that your token, Paul?” 

Paul pulled a Dukket token from the shell of the walnut. He held it up to crowd. It was a kip.

The audience went wild. Zin grabbed my hand. She was laughing and bouncing up and down.

Several minutes later, the magician was just finishing her act when there was a disturbance in the crowd near us. I was turning toward it when someone pushed past us in a hurry. I recognized him — it was the lumomancer from earlier in the evening. He kept going and I lost sight of him in the crowd. Strange, I thought.

Zin and I were getting thirsty, so we decided to go to Fournic’s, our local. Getting from Mardenol Square to Abyssal Street turned out to be difficult through the crowd. So we decided to duck down a short alleyway to cut a few minutes off our trek. 

Once in the alleyway we heard voices nearby. Another alley branched to the right just ahead. The voices were coming from there. 

I don’t know what we were thinking. Foolishly, Zin and I crept to the corner and peered around it.

The second alley was a dead-end about thirty feet long. Three Guardians — Sarcanth’s police officers, recognizable by their distinctive blue and orange uniforms, had a man backed against the wall. The lumomancer.

He cringed as he spoke. “I’m not the guy you want. I don’t know what you think I have, but I don’t have it. I just make pretty lights, I don’t hurt anyone!”

One of the Guardians answered. “Bullshit, Horx. We’ve been watching you for weeks. Where are the plans?”

Horx the lumomancer stood up straight. “Fuck you. Fuck you and the Angels straight to oblivion. Even if had them, I wouldn’t give them to you. I’d die first.”

The Guardian chuckled. “Oh, you will. Grayvil, do it.”

Another Guardian raised his arm and pointed towards Horx. There was a high whine, and then without spectacle, Horx fell where he was standing. 

Zin and I sucked in our breaths. By rights the Guardians should have heard, but the two of us got lucky. We turned and ran out of the alley the same way we had come.

We didn’t go far, though. We stood by the entry and kept watch — we could see the second alley. Soon the Guardians appeared, walking away from us. We could hear laughter; Zin whispered “fuckers…”

As soon as the Guardians were out of sight, we re-entered the alley and hurried to find the lumomancer. He had been left where he had fallen.

There was no sign of violence, no blood.

But he was dead. We knew, because where his heart should have been, was a neat, bloodless hole.