Misfortune Market: A HASEA CHRONICLES STORY (BOOK 1.5) (3 page)

Gabriella gave me almost imperceptible signal.

In a split second I was standing next to the guard, a silver knife resting on the narrow space between two of his ribs. “You seem to have trouble with words, so maybe this will help translate. We
really
want to see the mayor,” I whispered.

The Guard’s eyes went wide and he looked around for help, but the rest of the team had tightened around him like a noose, blocking him from view. I pushed the blade tip into his side a tiny bit, making my point. There was a ripping sound and his skin started to peel open as if the knife were a key, sending blood pooling over the blade. The guard sucked in air through his teeth as the pain hit him.

“Decision time,” said Gabriella. “You can take us to the mayor, or my colleague can make sure you spend the next month working out how to piece yourself back together.”

The guard glared down at us for a moment and then his lip curled into a snarl. “Fine.”

He turned and walked up the stairs. We followed, me placing one hand on his back in a seemingly friendly gesture, but the other hand keeping the blade firmly digging into this side. My hand was still and I was focused, ready to do what I had to without hesitation.
If he shouts to any of his friends, our day takes a turn for the worst in seconds.
  

We reached the balcony, which was little more than several sections of rebar drilled into the wall and layered with sheet metal. The makeshift floor sagged and snapped out of shape at our weight as we moved towards the door, and for a moment I thought the whole thing might collapse. 

The guard stood by the door and glanced at me.

“Go ahead,” I urged.

He growled and then knocked hard on the door - which had a ‘salvaged from a rubbish tip’ look to it. His huge knuckles even widened a crack that had zig-zagged its way down the centre of the wood.

“What?” said a tired voice from inside.

“Visitors,” rumbled the guard back.

“The market is in motion!” barked the voice back.

“A bunch of free speech in this city ain’t there?” quipped Delagio.

“Open it,” ordered Gabriella. The guard looked down at her and I pushed the blade in a tiny bit more, feeling blood poor over my knuckles. The guard pulled a key out of his pocket and turned it in the latch, before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

“What the…” said a voice.

Everything became a flurry of movement. I shoved the guard forward. Delagio flicked his wrist and a silver marble he’d discretely lifted from his pouch and charged with kinetic energy slammed into the back of the guard’s head, knocking him out cold. The Skinshifter’s heavy frame slammed against the metal floor with a thud, showering up dust and dirt. Scarlett used a set of silver cuffs to bind his hands and feet. She threw the key to Grey who locked it after Gabriella slammed it closed. I wiped the blade and sheathed it on my belt.

The small room we had found ourselves in was dimly lit by a freestanding lamp that had seen better days – wired into a dangerous looking setup of plugs powered by a small generator. Everything in the ramshackle room looked like it had been salvaged from skips. Cramped shelves made from old signs. A large mirror, fractured into a mosaic of sharp edges and skewed reflections. An old chalkboard – dusty and filled with the ghostly markings of what had once been written, and a desk that had an entire leg missing - replaced by damaged paperback books. Hanging on the far wall was a picture of a flowering field seen through a cross-framed window. There was something achingly sad about the way its emulation of the real thing spoke of a world so far beyond the reach of those in this place.

But the most interesting thing in the room was the person sitting on a wooden swivel chair behind the desk.

The face that stared up at us was not one I expected. The name Albert had conjured up images of a spectacled, wizened face and an unkempt beard in my mind – all of which had been correct. But behind the glasses were piercing red and blue eyes, and below them two vertical red lines that ran from lower eyelids to cheeks, like tribal war paint that would never fade. Heterochromia and maturity markings…

Mayor Henwick is a Shaman.

Shamans were rare. Little Tommy of Moon’s Edge was the only one I had ever seen in my time with the Alliance – and as far as I was aware, he was one of very few in England. A Guardian could go their entire career without ever meeting a Shaman in the flesh.  And here was one, right in front of us. 

The mayor had been holding a tumbler of whisky, its open-bottled counterpart sitting on the desk, label peeling away from the brown glass. Now the tumbler was on its side and the contents leaking over the table. As he looked at us, his shock dissolved into the deflated resignation of a man who has spent a lifetime waiting for karma to knock at his door.

“I’m assuming from your dramatic entrance that you’re here to kill me,” he said with a sigh, as he picked up the glass and set it back upright. His voice was deep and slow, filled with apathy that was slowly giving way to misery. “Before you do, I would ask that you allow me to have a final drink. I’d much prefer to die pissed.” He wiped the desk with a sleeve of the grubby white shirt he wore and then refilled his glass with whisky. Sighing, he took a deep, slow drink.

What has to happen to a man in his life to make him this despondent?
It was strange. Mature Shamans were powerful hybrids – more than even the most competent Witches. Instead, sitting in front of us was the husk of someone who had likely been very powerful once, but had long since faded – like the dying embers left in the wake of a roaring inferno.

“We aren’t here to kill you.”

Gabriella switched off her Kapre belt and gestured for us to do the same. There was no moment of confusion for the Shaman, no second before recognition kicks in. He simply blinked and said, “Oh.”

“Do you know who we are, Mayor Henwick?”

Albert took another long sip of whiskey and pointed the index finger of his glass-holding hand towards us. “You’re Guardians. From the HASEA.” I could tell from his heavy mannerisms that he was tipsy, leaning towards drunk.

“Yes we are. And do you know why we’ve come here?”

The Mayor scratched a thumbnail of his other hand against the wooden arm of his chair and gave a few heavy nods. “The kidnapped girl.” He looked up. “But before you do whatever it is you came to do, I want you to know I had
nothing
to do with any of that. I might be an old fool, but I am not a criminal.” He gestured out sharply, sending bit of whisky sloshing over the glass. “I don’t want a part of
any
of this depraved lunacy. I never did.”

“You run Inferus.” I stated. “If you don’t like the market, then stop it from running here.”

The Shaman threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a sound of humour, but one of anguish and despair – the sort of laugh someone makes when they realise they have lost everything. “You state that as if I have some say in the matter. I haven’t run this city in over a decade.” He held up his hand and stared at it as if it held the secrets of the universe. “I’m nothing more than a puppet with invisible strings.” He sighed. “That and the scapegoat people look to with disgust and hatred while this once great city falls apart around them.”

We all frowned at each other.
We are looking at a man dangerously close to the edge.

“So if you’re the puppet, then who is the puppet master?” asked Gabriella.

The Shaman stared down into his glass. “That would be the Overseer.”

“The Overseer?” asked Gabriella.

The Shaman looked up. “You’re part of the Alliance. Surely your organisation knows of him.”

Gabriella pulled out her Biomote and tapped a few keys. She paused for a moment when a question mark came up on the screen where a photograph or drawing should be, followed by only the smallest bit of information. She gave an awkward cough. “Actually it seems we know remarkably little about him.”

“How lucky for you.”

“Does he have a real name?”

“If he does, I don’t know it. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

We exchanged glances again.

“Surely you’ve seen the guy,” said Delagio.

“Of course, far more than I’d like to. But he is always wearing his hideous mask.” The Shaman gestured to the door. “Like what everyone out there is wearing.” He widened his hand expression. “All of this is his creation you know. Misfortune Market started with him. That orgy of hedonism and crime evolved from his original ideas. It’s like a glimpse into the corners of his sick mind. And the worst part of it is everyone eats it up…they
enjoy
it.”

“If I’ve learned one thing from my line of work,” said Gabriella, “It’s that given an opportunity to misbehave without fear of consequence, most will do it.”

“We are but talking animals,” said the Mayor staring into the side of his whisky glass. 

“Something I don’t understand,” I said after a beat of silence. “The market only comes around once a year and Inferus isn’t always the venue, so what has the Overseer got to do with the city the rest of the time?”

Albert took another sip of his whisky and seemed to steel himself in preparation to answer. “About twelve years ago I made a deal with the devil. What you need to know about this city is that although the election process is…
was
democratic, Inferus has always been run on communist ideals – communal work in exchange for equal shelter, food and safety for all.  But the city was beginning to struggle, too many new arrivals and not enough resources to go around. Inferus was forced to acquiesce and allow the market to enter our doors - we made the majority of our much-needed profit during those times, but it still wasn’t enough.” He shrugged. “I guess the Overseer knew that. He arrived unexpected one day and offered to help, said he needed to expand his operations. I had no choice but to accept. We started illegal trading on a permanent basis – I wasn’t happy about it, but it brought in much needed wealth and for a while everything was good. But then one day a small army of his goons stormed Inferus by force. They took me by complete surprise and wrested control from me. I was locked in here – this room has since become my prison. I’m only allowed to visit specific parts of the city and never allowed to leave. The Overseer abandoned the democratic election vote and turned this place into a harsh dictatorship – with me as the face of it. The worst part is everyone thinks
I
did this. That bastard makes me do speeches – ones that speak of intolerance to disobedience and harsh punishments for any crimes. If I refuse I am beaten…badly.” The Shaman took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging downwards, as if the weight of the world had been shifted onto them. “He made me seize the citizen’s homes from them – he turned them into storehouses for his goods or accommodation for his followers. He forced everyone into the awful parts of the tunnels – made them live like dogs. They are miserable and desperate - if people try and leave, then he has them hunted down and killed. He doesn’t want the word spreading.”

Gabriella gave a horrified expression. “Mayor Henwick, I am so sorry. If the Alliance had known…”

The Mayor gave a weak smile. “I have no doubt that someone somewhere in the Alliance knows everything. Inferus has always been a glaring reminder to your organisation of what happens to those who slip through the cracks. We are a problem best left alone.” He lifted the bottle and topped up his whisky. “Of course that is until the problem can no longer be ignored…say one of your own being unwillingly brought here.”

An awkward silence filled the room. The mayor chuckled to himself and then bought the glass back to his lips, his eyes closing as he drank.

  “So this Overseer, he actively runs the city now?” I asked.

The mayor nodded. “He does. Although he’s rarely ever here these days. He leaves his right hand man Zaris to tend to things and ensure his operations keep moving smoothly.”

“Operations?”

Mayor Henwick gestured towards the door. “Pretty much everything that is happening out there right now. Drugs, contraband weapons, all of that illegal stuff. That has become the city’s defining economy. It’s only during the market that they get loud about it.”

“So we won’t find him here today?” probed Gabriella.

“Actually you will. He never misses a market.”

Gabriella nodded. “Good to know.”

The mayor looked suddenly hopeful. “Are you going to kill him?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Our orders are simply to extract the kidnapped Chosen. I’m not sure engaging the Overseer and his forces is the wisest move.”

“Sounds about right.”

Gabriella stepped forward. “But we know now, mayor. We can ensure something is done about all this.”

The Shaman gave a weak smile. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

What a pathetic creature, crying out for help when he is too weak to do anything himself.
The sudden, harsh thought was coupled with an odd fizzing in my skull and took me by complete surprise. I blinked and shook it away.

Grey stepped forward, expressing aloud a similar opinion to that of my disquieting internal voice. “You want us to kill him for you. You’re a Shaman. I haven’t been with the Alliance long, but I thought you guys were supposed to be really powerful. Why haven’t you stopped him yourself?”