Misfortune Market: A HASEA CHRONICLES STORY (BOOK 1.5) (2 page)

“So that’s what Clockwork Orange on acid looks like,” muttered Delagio, staring behind him.

“What are those weird costumes about?” asked Scarlett in a hushed voice.

“God only knows,” replied Gabriella.

“Guess we’re on the right track,” I whispered, as the crowd’s bellowing voices shrank in the tunnel like the roll of passing thunder.

I was right.

Moments later we reached a towering arch in the brickwork that was covered by an ivory drape emblazoned with a decorative ‘MM’ in royal purple. The material had seen better days - the matching trim frayed and hanging down like gnarled fingers. From just beyond came an almost deafening cacophony of noise.

Gabriella nudged the drape aside and peered through the narrow gap. She turned and nodded at us. “You ready?”

We all nodded.

Gabriella pulled back the drape and we emerged into one of the most chaotic scenarios I had ever seen.

A cavernous space that likely served as the city’s main hub had been transformed into a carnival of hedonism. In every direction there was something or someone demanding attention – a storm of garish colours and rowdy voices. Countless species barged their way past one another – all of them dressed in the garish overalls and ghastly masks –stopping to look at ramshackle market stalls filled with all manner of bizarre items. A dizzying array of smells came from charred and unidentifiable meats, which were cooking on upturned metal bins fashioned into makeshift grills. They jarred against the underlining stench of urine, sweat and homebrewed alcohol, making for a nauseating cocktail. As we waded through the vast but crowded space, we were hit by the rhythmic chants of hawkers as they advertised their wares.

“Eight quid for two Alliance Boosters. Use them to kill an Umbra or heal a wounded human!” shouted a Dwarf with a glass eye from a stall filled with a range of liquids in grubby glass jars.

“Swarm Rifle for sale! Got a problem with Venenum? Swarm is your solution! Clear a hive in ten seconds flat!” yelled a female Bloodseeker with three fingers missing on her right hand. She used her remaining index and thumb to point a fingergun to an array of Alliance weapons that hung on hooks behind her. “Silverkiss Revolver now half price. Got issues with a Skinshifter? Not anymore!”

We pushed through the hordes of people, politely refusing all manner of odd and highly illegal items from shady looking Pandemonians.
‘Fancy an incantation created by the Three Fates themselves?’ ‘Interest you in a Concentrated Whiteore Bomb? It can level an entire building in seconds!
’

Unlike the customers, the merchants were all mask-less and dressed in ill-fitting suits and dresses stitched together from garish materials. In addition, Top hats, monocles, leather gloves, gold watches, broaches, pearls and a plethora of other adornments were spread among them all in what seemed like a completely arbitrary method. It was as if there was a competition running for who could look the most bizarre.

This place is mental.

We kept moving through and I could see Gabriella gritting her teeth as she tried her best to ignore the countless number of Alliance violations that were being thrown in our direction by the garish traders.
If there weren’t the huge issue of a kidnapped Chosen to worry about, these guys would be ending their day in handcuffs.

“We don’t know what Albert looks like, so keep an eye out for someone who looks…in charge.”

We looked.

A band was set up to one side of the market, using a variety of instruments crafted from scrap metal to play an upbeat medley. The sounds they produced were far from exquisite and I was thankful that the clamour of the crowd did a pretty good job of drowning them out. Still, a handful of market-goers were dancing to the ‘song’, throwing their limbs and writhing their bodies with the type of abandon reserved for the seriously intoxicated or mentally ill. The answer to this inexplicable and almost tribal devotion to a less than soothing sound lay with a nearby merchant, who was selling multi-coloured capsules of something called Rapture. According to his deafening shouts they would
‘guarantee a life-changing high for any species!’

All in all, the whole thing was like the bastard child of a Brazilian carnival and a Victorian sideshow attraction.

“Don’t think the Guild of the Arcane would be happy about what old Elsa is up to,” said Scarlett pointing a finger. I glanced in the direction she was aiming at. A purple-hooded Witch I’d never seen before was hunched over a rickety table - eyes closed and muttering as her withered hands caressed a crystal ball. A female Pixie with a feathered mask was leaning forward, listening to the Witch speak with fervent interest. Above the table was a grubby sign that read:
“See your future with ex Moon’s Edge sister, Elsa Fury. Will you live a life of happiness or be struck down by the Alliance? Find out for only £5.”

“So this is where t’ old hag ended up,” said Delagio. “Ah wondered what happened to her after she got excommunicated.”

“If she’s excommunicated why would the Guild care what she does? Its just an old lady, surely she’s not harming anyone?” countered Grey with a shrug.

“Premonitions are taken very seriously,” I explained. “They’ve become the lynchpin of our organisation. It’s how the Alliance stay ahead of the SOS and other criminal Pandemonians, how we stop them from committing murders or something similar before they do it. What that
old lady
is offering seems harmless enough, but if someone knew how to ask the right questions and she was able to drag the answer from the Ether, it could be far more dangerous.”

“Such as?”

“Such as where we might be on a certain day, or where a target is. That kind of thing. For all we know, it could have been her who led the Rogues to Andrea.”

“Okay yeah, that’s pretty bad.”

“We better keep away from her,” said Gabriella. “Elsa could ID us pretty easily, even with the Kapre belts active. And she’d love a chance to ruin our day.”

“Why?” asked Grey.

“Because I found out she was selling spells to the highest bidder and turned her over to Selene.”

“Oh.”

We moved to the other side of the market and kept pushing through the reveling crowd. As we moved through the chaos, an ancient-looking Imp sitting on a crooked stool bound with furs beckoned to us. His hair was as white as paper and his eyebrows so long, they stretched out beyond his face - like whiskers. He had been using a monocle to study a gleaming ruby that sat among a number of oddities on his stall, but abandoned the precious stone as if it were a pebble when he caught sight of us.

“Hai, you’s lot! Does yah fancy some of me wares?” he shouted above the cacophony of noise in a thick West Country accent. “I’ve stuff you’ve won’t find ‘newhere else. Things that’ll make ye spine tingle n’ lips salivate.”

“No thank you,” said Gabriella politely, raising a hand.

“What sort of things?” asked Grey wandering over to the stall, oblivious to Gabriella’s death stare.

The Imp leaned forward, smelling a sale.
“Rare
things.”

“Go on…”

“Grey!” hissed Gabriella.

The Guardian spun around, an innocent expression on his face. “Oh, come on. You have to admit he has good sales patter.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Around me I could see that others were trying not to laugh themselves.

“Grey get back here
now
!”

“Got yeh on a tight leash that one,” the Imp said with a wide grin, exposing yellowing teeth. “But afore ye go and get yer scoldin’ feast yer eyes on this beauty.” He ducked down behind the stool and appeared a moment later, clutching a tube of parchment tied with old string in his gnarled claws. He pulled one thread with his long fingers and the package sprung open, unfurling to reveal a painting of a vase with yellow and red flowers in it. I drew in a sharp breath.

That is Poppy Flowers by Van Gough.

Grey turned around slowly and stared at us, his eyes so wide they threatened to consume every other part of his face.

“This would look gorjus above a fireplace…if that’s ye kind of thing.” He rubbed a finger over the surface. “Or it would make lovely kindlin’.” He shrugged. “Depends on yah appreciation of th’ arts I guess.”

I stepped forward. “How did you get hold of this?”

“This thing?” The Imp gave an evasive smile, waving a hand. “An associate of mine found it in Cairo a few years ago.”

“Thank you sir, but we aren’t interested,” said Gabriella.

“Now come on dear…”

“Not interested.”

The Imp scowled and started to gather the painting back up.

“Hold on,” said Grey, raising a finger. He turned back to face the vendor with a big grin. “How much?”

“Unbelievable,” muttered Scarlett.

The Imp smiled and leaned forward, glancing over both shoulders as if about to share a secret. “Do ya have any White Hart meat on you?”

Grey slapped his hands around his uniform for effect. “Fresh out, I’m afraid.”

The vendor held his finger and thumb close together. “Not even a teeny, tiny bit?”

“Not even.”

The Imp sighed and slumped back in his stool. “Fine then. Call it one hundred pounds,” he said with a dismissive gesture.

Grey’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Sorry…you want one hundred pounds for this paining?”

The Imp raised his hands. “Okay you got me, fifty pounds.”

Grey stuffed a hand in his jacket pocket and the Imp rubbed his together in excitement. Gabriella appeared next to the Guardian and seized his arm in a crushing grip, speaking low in a flat tone. “
Giuro su dio
Paul Garrison, if you try and buy a bloody
painting
while we are on a mission to save a Chosen’s life, I will sell you to one of these traders myself.”

“But it’s worth like
fifty million pounds
!” he whispered back. “Isn’t it like our civic duty or something to take this back, you know…for preservation purposes?”

Delagio rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Perseveration purposes? Man, you are as transparent as polished glass.”

Gabriella kept staring at Grey and we all kept watching, trying not to laugh.

“I seriously can’t buy it?”

“Tell me if this looks like my joking face.”

Grey sighed and turned back to the merchant. “Sorry, I’ve decided against it.”

The Imp grit his teeth together. “Fine…forty pounds, ye cheap bastard. But that’s me final offer. I ‘ave younglings te feed ya know.”

Grey gave Gabriella a pleading look. She squeezed his arm harder until he looked physically pained.

“Sorry…no.”

“Bloody timewasters,” hissed the Imp, wrapping the painting back up in a second and hiding it back under the stall. He waved a hand angrily. “Be on with ye. And next time, I’ll report ye for not wearin’ masks. It’s against market rules for revelers to be bare faced.”

As we all moved away, I saw Grey turn back and mouth the words ‘later’ at the stall owner. It was pointless; we would slip from the merchants mind in a matter of minutes. One of the few benefits a Kapre belt had on a Pandemonian.

We kept on moving through the market, searching for signs of the mayor.
How do you find someone who stands out, when everyone around you stands out?
It was like looking for a specific star on an unmarked astronomy map. As life has a way of doing, it was while still thinking the thought that I found what I was looking for.

“There,” I said.

The team spun their heads to the direction I was pointing in. A Skinshifter in the form of a human who could easily have been a cage fighter – tattooed, bald-headed and deep frowned – was standing cross armed next to a makeshift spiral staircase that lead to a balcony area and a warped door beyond.

“What about him?” asked Scarlett. “There’s no way that’s the mayor.”

“Of course it isn’t. But isn’t that a bit odd? There’s other security around,” I said, gesturing to various other unmasked Pandemonians, who were shoving their way through the crowds with the authority of those who have the power to do so. “But none of them are guarding anything in particular, apart from that one guy.”

A small smile slipped across Gabriella’s face. “Good eye.”

She gestured for us to follow her. “Standard request then intimidation plan,” she whispered. Everyone nodded in agreement. We reached the guard and he stared down at us with the interest of someone who has just noticed a brick in a wall.  Gabriella gave her most pleasant smile, which was not reciprocated.

“Good evening sir, we are looking for Mayor Albert Henwick. Might we find him-”

“Market is in motion, the mayor will take no visitors,” he interrupted in a bored monotone voice.

“Oh I see. Well the thing is-”

“Market is in motion, the mayor will take no visitors,” he said, louder.

“I know you said that…But-”

“Market is in motion, the mayor will take
no
visitors,” he growled, unfurling his crossed arms and reaching for a blade at his side.