SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Liam was helping her to her feet, and Sal was just about to suggest that they hit the showers and then continue their conversation in a less public setting when she was cut off by Father Menchú clearing his throat behind them.

Caught engaging in sparring-as-foreplay by a priest. There was an effective mood-killer for you.

Sal covered her blush by scrubbing her face with a towel.

“Father,” said Liam, his form of address betraying the depth of his discomfort. There was one advantage to being a lapsed Presbyterian who just happened to work at the Vatican: Sal might not be familiar with Catholic politics and hierarchy, but at least she didn’t have to fight years of childhood conditioning every time her boss walked in. Most of the time, Liam did pretty well at ignoring the fact that Menchú was a priest. This, apparently, was the line.

Menchú nodded to Liam in acknowledgment, then turned to Sal. “I need you to go home and pack a bag. We’ve got an assignment. Our train leaves in two hours.”

Sal snapped into ready mode, tossing aside her embarrassment along with her used towel. “I’ve got a go bag here. We can leave now.”

Menchú raised an eyebrow. “We could, but the train still leaves in two hours, and you need something you can wear in upscale company for the next three days.”

Sal wasn’t sure she had anything in Rome that she could wear in upscale company. Depending on how upscale he meant, she wasn’t sure she owned anything appropriate at all. “What’s the assignment?”

“I can’t say.”

That apparently caused something to click for Liam. “Is it Beltane already?”

Menchú gave him a quelling glance.

“What’s going on?” Sal demanded.

Menchú shook his head. “Can’t say.”

“Can’t? Won’t? Or aren’t allowed to?”

“Does it matter?”

Well, when he put it that way, Sal didn’t suppose it did.

The train took them to Zurich. Once there, Menchú rented an economy car, and they drove north through the mountains. Through it all, he wouldn’t say a word about where they were going, what they would be doing there, or why they were the only members of Team Three involved. Although Sal had come to accept that answering questions was not the Society’s forte, it was troubling that Menchú didn’t want to talk about anything else, either.

Finally, after hours of silence and crossing the border into Liechtenstein—of all places—Sal asked, “Are you mad at me?”

Menchú glanced at her in surprise. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m starting to feel like the cat you’re planning to abandon three states away, hoping that I won’t be able to find my way home.”

Menchú looked pained. “I’m sorry, Sal. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

“No shit.”

He glanced at a passing kilometer marker and came to a decision. “All right. We’re close enough now. Let me tell you about the Black Market.”

Somehow, Sal had a feeling he wasn’t talking about tax-free booze and cigarettes.

“It’s properly known as the Market Arcanum, or more commonly, the Market. The Society was first invited in the 15th century, thanks to the connections of certain members of the Order of the Dragon. From what we can tell, however, the Market dates back at least another half-millennium before that. In any event, every year at Beltane, covert practitioners of magic gather for a three-night conclave. It’s part auction, part high-level diplomatic conference for every power player who uses magic to rig the game.”

“Wait,” said Sal. “There’s an annual clearing house where people buy, sell, and trade the objects that we’re supposed to be hunting down and destroying?”

“Yes.”

“And Team One hasn’t nuked it from orbit?”

Menchú gave her a sardonic look. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that individuals within our organization do not always agree on matters of policy.”

“Yeah, but this time you’ve managed to stop team trigger-happy. How?”

“The Society leaves the Market alone for two reasons. First, it was pointed out by one of Asanti’s long-ago predecessors that even if we could destroy the Market, it wouldn’t eliminate magic from the world. At least this way, we can keep an eye on things.”

“That seems surprisingly sensible,” said Sal. “What’s the second reason?”

“In an open assault against the Market, The Society isn’t sure they’d win.”

“There are going to be people at this thing who could take Team One?”

“It’s highly possible that there are people at the Market who could take Team One without breaking a sweat.”

Sal wasn’t sure she wanted to contemplate that. “Who are these people? World leaders? Guys who go to Davos? The Illuminati?”

“The members are…rather eclectic,” Menchú said. “The backbone is made up of representatives from the old noble European families. Though there’s been an influx of new money and technologists in the last hundred years, much to the disgust of the old guard. You’ll also see practitioners from Africa, Asia, and the New World, but we believe most of them have core gatherings in their own regions.”

“I’m sure the Society would love to have invites to those.”

“The Society would like to be able to send more than two representatives to this one, but wanting and getting are two very different things.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but why isn’t this a Team Two job? Aren’t they the diplomats?”

Menchú snorted. “They are, but objects and texts are our jurisdiction. Also, the members of the Order of the Dragon who secured the original invitation were part of Team Three, and so, by tradition, we’re the ones who go.”

Sal had a sudden suspicion. “Are you a member of this Order of the Dragon?”

Menchú actually rolled his eyes. “The Order of the Dragon was founded hundreds of years ago to protect Christendom from encroachment by the Ottoman Turks.”

“That is not a denial,” Sal pointed out.

Menchú quirked his lips, but said nothing.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Balzers, a town tucked into a valley in the middle of the mountains, which—as far as Sal could tell—was a fair description of most of Liechtenstein. Spring came late to the Alps, but the hills behind the small B&B where Menchú had booked their rooms were definitely greening up, and Sal took a minute—after she had changed out of her travel clothes into the black pants, black button-down shirt and black jacket that were as formal as she had managed—to appreciate the smell of clear air and growing things. She was getting used to Rome, but even after all her years in New York, Sal wasn’t a city girl at heart.

The Market Arcanum was to be held in Gutenberg Castle. Compared to the Papal Palace it seemed like more of a big stone house than a castle, but Sal supposed that if you ran a country, you could call your buildings whatever you wanted. It was outside of the town proper, and she and Menchú walked together up the hill from their inn.

“The Market is run by a woman known as the Maitresse,” Menchú explained. “She sets the rules, and for the next three nights, her word is law.”

“What are the rules?”

“The Market is considered neutral territory, which means that no member is allowed to offer violence against another.”

“What constitutes violence?” asked Sal. “Harsh words? Assault? Murder?”

“During the Market, violence is whatever the Maitresse and her Guardians say it is.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Any bargain struck at one Market must be fulfilled before the beginning of the next. If not, the owed party can demand a forfeit of their choosing.”