The Seven Markets (17 page)

Robb nodded again. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders. He might have fallen if the old bat—who couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds soaking wet—wasn’t holding him up.

“You knew,” Robb said. “Didn’t you?”

“And told you all. But don’t worry, sweetie. Can you help Mister Collins back?”

He nodded and she released him. Robb swayed in place but did not fall. He knelt to where Hart and McBride were working to settle down Collins, pushed them aside, and fought Collins to his feet.

“Wait by the SUVs,” he said in a robotic voice, and began shuffling back the way they’d come.

While all this was happening, Major Presley had stood silently by. As two of his men—who were clearly having some serious and uncharacteristic difficulties—started leaving, he snapped out of his fugue and shouted after them.

“Let them go,” the old bat said. “They’re useless to us now.”

“Useless? Those are my men!”

“They’ll still be here when we get out. It’s just, well, the Market can be hard for some types of people.”

Hart watched as Presley threw up his hands. He wanted to lay it all out on the table. He’d give the money back if that’s what it took, but he was sick to death of this madwoman and her ridiculous stories.

“Major! Major!” It was Docherty. He’d come back through, past the stone pillars, and was shouting for their attention.

Presley waved to the man and mimed a
cut it out
gesture by slashing his hand sideways across his own throat. Instead of returning to his partner, Docherty ran across the street.

“Major, come on! You’ve got to see it!”

“See it? Docks, are you losing it too?”

“No way, sir!” Docherty shook his head hard, like a dog coming out of the rain. “Come on! You’ve got to see!” He seized Presley’s sleeve and pulled at it, trying to drag him to the stone pillars and the gateway.

Hart knew Presley well enough to know the major wanted to stop, to wait. There seemed to be no fighting Docherty, however, and it wasn’t long before the two of them passed back between the twin stone guardians.

McBride exchanged a look with Hart, shrugged, and in his big, lumbering way, crossed the street to enter the Market. That left Hart alone with the old bat. But she was gone, standing by the left-hand pillar, looking up at it as if lost in memories. A wild thought came to Hart’s mind then:
she’s thinking about horses, and riding.

It was impossible, of course. Another of the madwoman’s tricks.

But Hart had to give her credit; it was a
good
trick. She was really pulling out all the stops. Was this what rich, crazy folks did with their cash and spare time? Never mind their little game of tag with the old bat’s husband; he wanted to know how she’d managed the trick with the wall. Must be mirrors or some kind of illusion, like a magician sawing a woman in half.

And it was hot in here. Not uncomfortably so, but hot enough to make his fingers and toes tingle as the cold left them. Cleveland was rough this time of year, but it might have been the tropics inside the old bat’s market. No, that wasn’t exactly right. It was hot, sure, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Even in full combat gear and under her silly Ren Faire cloak, he wasn’t sweating.
Bottle this and you’re set for life.

Hart gathered himself, watched the others doing the same.
Time to get into character here. She’s paying a lot for this show.

Presley took immediate command. “Okay, let’s move like we’ve got a purpose. Docherty, where’s Vulgari?”

“In the pub, Major. Can you believe it?”

“Pub?”

“He just took off. I couldn’t stop him.”

Hart scanned the rows of storefronts on either side of the dirt road. He saw it on the right, past several racks of colorful, wispy clothing, a wooden cart covered with candles, and what he took to be a kite shop. Vulgari was seated outside, at the head of a long, high table piled with food and drink. He had a beer stein the size of his head in one hand and a monster of a salty pretzel in the other.

“Go fetch him,” Presley said. When Docherty didn’t seem to understand, Presley jabbed a finger at Hart and gave him the same order.

Hart trotted off to the end of the street. He and Vulgari exchanged a few words and then Hart double-timed it back.

“He says he ordered for us, sir.”

“Ordered for—you must be joking?”

“No sir.”

Presley scowled down at the old bat, training a killer stare at her. Hart had seen strong men wither under the major’s evil eye, but hell if she didn’t seem bothered in the least. Ah, money.

“It’s not a bad place, Mister Presley,” she said. “Though it can be dangerous. Let’s try and snap him out of it.”

But there was no removing Vulgari from his table, not without calling undue attention to themselves. Whenever they came close enough to grab hold and drag him away, he’d force one of the enormous steins into their hands and burst into song. When Presley signaled for Hart, Docherty and McBride to seize hold of Vulgari and haul him off, he shrieked as if they were tearing him limb from limb, biting and scratching, and would not relent until they allowed him to return to his feast.

“Let that boy alone, why don’cha?” a tall man with a high, sloped forehead and squat cauliflower ears told them. Hart was drawing on the man before Presley could stop him; thank heaven the old woman was there to rein him in.

“No fighting, remember? Ease off, Mister Hart.”

He felt the blood pounding in his ears, war drums calling him to battle. She diffused him with a few soft words and a gentle touch of his arm.
How’d she do that?
Hart shook the cobwebs off and felt supremely foolish. If this whole fantasyland was one big playground for the old nutter, it made sense she didn’t want her big, scary soldiers perforating the natives. They were just actors, after all. He didn’t like to imagine what the insurance would look like if a couple of them got put down.

“Remember what the lady said, boys,” Presley said, his lips tight. “No fighting. Harsh language and rude gestures only.”

They left Vulgari to chow down while the rest of them earned their paychecks. Presley adjusted their line, slotting McBride into Vulgari’s abandoned position beside Docherty. He’d fill in the middle position while Hart filled in the rear with the old bat. Out in the real world, saddled with a civilian, that was a two-man job. Here in the Magic Kingdom, Hart was confident he could one-man it just fine.

He drew her attention. “Any other surprises?”

“Probably,” she said, the thin line of her smile all that was visible beneath her cloak.

He swore to himself, then fell in beside her as McBride and Docherty led them up the road. It wasn’t long before blacktop replaced the dirt, and the rickety carts and shimmed tables were taken over first by low stone buildings that were little more than huts, and finally, as they approached the center of the market, by multi-story structures and shining crystal towers like buildings out of a dream. Staring up at one, searching the sky for its apex, Hart felt his heart suddenly leap up to his throat.

“Major, you see that?”

“Captain?” Presley said, stopping in place.

“Look.”

Ellie MacReady was, by all accounts, a rich woman. A
wealthy
woman. The quarters she provided for Hart and the rest of them were top of the line. Every amenity was provided for. He didn’t want to think about how much the private jet they’d flown in that morning must have cost. And this market, all the actors she had working here, plus that weird special effect when they walked in—it just seemed to go on and on forever—all that must have cost a bundle of money.

But no matter how much she had, there was no way she could hang a pair of extra suns in the sky.

“What’m I looking at, boss?”

“Tell me so I don’t think I’ve lost it.”

Hart scratched his head. “Think I’m seeing three suns up there. Big one looks too close to be right. The other two are tiny, I think. Can suns have moons? Or sun-moons? How’m I doing, boss?”

“Better than me, I think.”

The old bat caught up to them. Old as she was, she still moved at a good clip. Seeing how fast she could run when she felt like it, Hart decided she’d been holding back. Taking her time. Acting the part of a doddering old fool. Now he saw she’d been lying in wait until they realized they really, truly weren’t in Kansas anymore.

“It’s a shock, isn’t it?”

“Where—where are we?” He wanted to say,
You lied to me! You lied to all of us!
But of course she hadn’t, unless telling people things you know they won’t believe counts as lying.

Everything she’d told them was true.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Ask one of the locals and they’ll tell you it’s the Market. That’s the only answer you’re likely to get, though you’re willing to take it for a spin yourself.”

“But . . . there are three suns?”

She nodded.

“It’s impossible. Cleveland doesn’t have three suns.”

“Today it does. Or today it has the Market and the Market does. Tell me, Major, are you and your men all right?”

Major Presley looked straight at Hart. He didn’t utter a word, but he didn’t need to. They’d served together so long, in so many different places, it was second nature to communicate in silence.

Thoughts?

Crazy as a bedbug.

Still, opportunity here, no?

Opportunity for what?

McBride and Docherty had sussed that something was going on behind them. They’d doubled back as casually as they could and were now standing off to one side. Any pretense that the five of them were strangers had been abandoned.

“You guys okay?” Presley said, unable to peel his eyes from the sun-filled sky above.

Hart mumbled something about getting the job done. McBride said he needed a drink but was otherwise good. Docherty, perhaps already shaken by the loss of his partner, simply nodded his head and waited for orders.

“Good,” the old bat said. “Because we’re almost there. Time to earn your money, gentlemen.”

They found an empty table by the dormant fireplace, ordered a pitcher of ale and several plates of food.

“You said not to eat anything,” Hart said, after the serving girl had left.

“I said
you
shouldn’t eat anything. It’s far too late for me.”

“And why shouldn’t we eat?”

The inn was packed with a noisy lunchtime crowd. Visitors happy to be returning home? If the old bat was to be believed—something he was becoming more and more convinced of—they’d been away from home going on two centuries. Long time to let the mail pile up.

“You saw the suns, right? You’re not in the human lands anymore. The food can . . . well, it can have an adverse affect on you. It was in your briefings.” A playful smile crossed her face. “You’re only just asking now?”

Hart scowled. He didn’t like being taunted, even if she was right.

“What else did you tell us that was real?”

She turned to Presley, who had asked the question.

“Everything. Don’t eat the food. Don’t drink the water. Don’t tell anyone your real names. Don’t, under any circumstances, try to hurt anyone.”

“Is the food poisonous?” McBride said. He was drooling over a hank of meat the man at the next table was shredding with teeth that had no business appearing in a human mouth.

“Not poisonous, no.”

“Will we—will what happened to Vulgari . . .”

“That was a new one for me, actually. I’ve heard tales of visitors falling headfirst into the Market. Guess we know what that looks like now.”

“But aren’t we good this far in?”

“Told you to eat before we left,” Presley said, almost growling. Hart didn’t think he’d meant it as a joke, but all of them, including McBride, laughed just the same. When the food came and the old bat dug in, Presley ordered them all to stand down. “You can wait until we get back home. We’re already down three men, remember?”

McBride grumbled but didn’t press the issue. Docherty stared at the head of the old bat’s ale with obvious longing.

Hart didn’t care one way or the other. “So we’re just going to wait here for your husband to show up?”

She shook her head. “He’ll be busy in the Market until nightfall. Business, affairs of state, that sort of thing. I don’t actually know much about that, I’m afraid.”

“So he might not come here at all?”

“He always stays here. They hold the entire sixth floor for him.”

“The sixth floor,” Hart said. “That was in your briefing. I thought I was remembering it wrong when we got here. Ma’am, begging your pardon, but this place is only five stories tall.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Presley sat up in his chair. He might have been paying attention for the first time since they saw the three suns. “Five stories?”

Hart nodded. “I counted out on the street. One, two, three, four, five. Didn’t take but a second. Always excelled at math, I did.” He watched as the major glared at the nutty old broad. Dinner and a show.

“What do you have to say about that?” Presley asked her.

“I don’t doubt Mister Hart’s powers of observation, but the Market . . . it’s not like the world you know. Trust me when I tell you there’s a sixth floor and that’s where my husband’s rooms are.”

“Your husband,” Presley said. Hart recognized the brilliant gleam in his eyes. His engine might have stalled but it was humming now. He almost felt badly for her if the major had his head screwed back on straight.

“Yes. Major, we’re not going to have a problem, are we?”

“You know, kidnapping isn’t very nice, ma’am.”

“Neither is my husband. Trust me, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“And you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Presley gesticulated wildly with his hands. “I’m sure he’s a proper bastard, but what about you, Miz MacReady? Who hires a gang of rough men like us to nab her husband? Not exactly landing yourself on Santa’s ‘nice’ list, are you?”

“I only need him for a little while,” she said. Hart shivered at the sudden chill in her voice. “I might not even have to hurt him. Much.”

“Catch him with another woman? Hell hath no fury, right?”

“Not exactly.” She pushed her plate back and refilled her mug of ale from the pitcher.