She spent her day off as she always did, combing through stalls and trinket shops, salvaging anything that struck her fancy. Some trinkets she would simply fix, but others she would take apart, pry the threads of magic loose and use them somewhere else. Take something that was and make it better. Other workers focused on inventions, but she preferred improvements.
A bag of the day’s spoils rattled on her shoulder as Tes made her way through the crowded market. As she went, she murmured softly; not to herself, but to the owl tucked in the front pocket of her coat.
“… still looking for an iron key. And I need a bit more copper, don’t you think?”
Vares rattled his bones in agreement, the feeling like a second heart against her shirt.
It helped, having someone to talk to, even if that someone was more of a something and that something was technically dead. Tes felt on edge, her nerves jangling as they always did when she’d left the safety of the shop. It was probably the pot of bitter tea she’d downed before setting out, or the sugar bun she’d eaten in two gulping bites at the last market.
She reached the end of the stalls, but instead of continuing on, she turned, and slipped through a curtained fold between the tents, into a second, hidden line of tents.
One of the first things she learned was this: most good markets have two faces.
The first face was bland and unassuming, filled with the ordinary fare, but the second, the second loomed just behind it, back-to-back, like a coin turned edgewise, or the high priest in Sanct—the only card that had two sides.
Here, the magic shone a little brighter. Here, the cost could be sorted out in trade as well as coin. Here, you never knew what you might find.
The second side wasn’t a forbidden market—Tes always avoided those out of her usual caution—simply one that preferred to conduct its own business, unbothered by the royal guard. Like the back room in an antiques shop, reserved for those who knew where to look, and also knew better than to ask any questions.
Tes slowed as she reached a table covered in different element sets, their lids yawning open to reveal their contents.
Five elements: water, fire, earth, wind, bone; the last included even though the use of it was strictly forbidden. Some of the sets were large, ornate chests, each of the elements contained in glass orbs the size of summer melons. Others were small enough to fit into a child’s hand, the elements trapped inside glass beads.
Pouches crowded the front of the table, each filled with spare beads, the elements pooling in the bottom, as if resting. They sat like a dark spot in her vision, the power dormant, the magic unconjured.
There was no sign of the seller, but Tes let her fingers drift to one of the sets, a small, gold-edged box, the elements in a single row. But as she did, the bag on her shoulder slipped, and caught the nearest sack of beads, spilling the contents across the table.
“No, no, no,” she hissed. She lunged, caught the pouch in time to right it, but not before a handful of glass beads had gone clattering over the side, hitting the cobblestones like hail. Tes flinched as heads turned toward her, and dropped to her knees, collecting the fallen beads, drops of tinted water sloshing inside each.
She grabbed two as they tried to roll away, missed the third as it disappeared beneath the table. She knelt to retrieve it, but as her fingers skimmed the glass, it rolled farther out of reach. At the same time, she saw the shift of boots behind the stall, heard the voices of two men.
“… days are numbered.”
“You know something I don’t?”
A low chuckle. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t invest in crimson and gold.”
Tes went very still. They were talking about the crown.
“Does it really matter, which royal ass sits on the throne?”
“It does, when the body in question has no power.”
Tes frowned. Everyone said that King Rhy had no magic to speak of, but she didn’t see how that had anything to do with ruling Arnes, until the voice went on.
“It matters when the magic’s drying up.”
It wasn’t the first time Tes had heard talk about the shortage of power, the tide of magic pulling back, but if the threads were dimming, she didn’t see it. And if they were, well, who was to say it was the king’s fault? The Antari were supposed to be the pinnacle of magic, and they’d been dwindling for centuries, while Rhy Maresh had only taken the throne in the wake of the Tide. The Tide, which spread like a plague through the London streets, infecting those who didn’t fight, and killing most who did. If the power really was ebbing now, why not blame that? Didn’t it seem more likely that the empire’s magic had been damaged by that chaotic event, and not a magicless king on a man-made throne?