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

Sal could only imagine what powerful magic-wielding people could come up with for a forfeit.

“Lastly, anyone violating the secrecy of the Market will be permanently banned, along with their cadre.”

The penny dropped. “That’s why you couldn’t give me any information earlier?”

“Yes.”

Sal considered. “So if I piss someone off badly enough, I could get the entire Catholic Church banned?”

“In theory, yes.”

“I’m not gonna lie. That’s just a little tempting.”

Sal wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she heard Menchú mutter, “You have no idea.”

The sun was only a finger-width above the horizon when Sal and Menchú reached the castle. The Maitresse waited at the gates, flanked by two immense statues of armored men carrying stone swords. If the Maitresse had been anyone else, Sal would have pegged her age as somewhere between her forties and her sixties, an indeterminate maturity where experience, strength, and sex appeal came together and women with the standing to back it up could wear their power without even a whisper of apology. Something about her bearing, however, made Sal suspect that this woman had not apologized for her authority for a very, very long time.

“Maitresse,” said Menchú with the barest nod of respect. “Thank you for inviting us to the Market once again.”

The woman did not return the courtesy. “Bookburner.” Her eyes flicked to Sal. “And this is?”

Menchú blinked, but took the hint. “Our newest member, Sally Brooks.”

The Maitresse swept Sal with a penetrating stare. “Is she, now? How lovely for you.”

Sal took Menchú’s lead and nodded. “Ma’am.”

The Maitresse’s gaze lingered for another moment, and then, to Sal’s relief, transferred back to Menchú. “Do you claim a debt outstanding from the last Market?”

“We do not.”

“Very well.” At her gesture, the two statues stepped forward and away from the doors. Apparently, the Maitresse had figured out how to use magic without being consumed by madness, supernatural backlash, or a demon she sought to control. Which was…not a reassuring thought, actually.

The artificial men reached out and opened the huge wooden doors leading into the courtyard of the castle proper.

The Maitresse’s smile was anything but welcoming. “Welcome to the Market Arcanum.”

The courtyard was lit by sconces along the walls and illuminated orbs that floated overhead, unconnected to any visible tethers or power sources. Among the crowd already gathered, Sal could pick out at least half a dozen different languages being spoken, and guessed there were probably that many more that she couldn’t distinguish from the general murmuring.

“Does the Market supply translators?” Sal whispered.

Menchú grimaced. “This is just opening night posturing. Everyone keeping to their own group and proving how esoteric and mysterious they are. Once the Market officially opens, everyone switches over to a lingua franca.”

“Please, tell me that’s pretentious-speak for “English.’”

“These days, yes. It used to be Latin, then French, and some of the old families who insist on doing business ‘traditionally’ will use those for official documents and transactions, but English is the world’s second language, even here.”

“Oh. Good.”

Putting aside for the moment the part of her brain that kept trying to understand all of the words floating around her, Sal concentrated on what her eyes were telling her instead. Now that Menchú had pointed it out, she could see that all the people in the courtyard kept to small clusters of four or five. Apparently, not every group was limited to the Society’s two invites.

One group of men wearing wolf pelts draped over their shoulders like hoods looked like they had hiked in out of the Alps. The pelts had heads still attached, artificial eyes staring glassily from above their wearers’ own faces. It was disconcerting. Especially when Sal saw one of the wolves blink.

On the opposite side of the yard, a group of men and women in jeans and black T-shirts had apparently not gotten Menchú’s “dress for company” memo and were all busily bent over some piece of equipment. Support staff? As Sal tried to get a glimpse of just what they were working on, one of the men looked up and met her gaze. Sal felt suddenly cold. Then he looked away, turning back to his work, and she wondered if she had imagined it.

“Who are they?” she asked Menchú.

“Techno-cultists.” Sal wasn’t sure she had ever heard him sound so disgusted. “They believe that magic, like information, ‘wants to be free.’ And that by combining human technology with the supernatural, they can bring about the singularity, not just of artificial intelligence, but of all human knowledge.”

“What does that even mean?”

“That they’re a bunch of anarchists who have no respect for the power they’re playing with.”

Sal’s stomach clenched. “Are these the people Perry was mixed up with?”

“Philosophically, maybe, but we never had evidence that your brother and his friends were working with anyone except themselves.”

Before Sal could pursue the subject any further, the loud bang of a wooden bar falling across the entry doors reverberated through the courtyard. The assembly fell silent, and in that pause, the Maitresse stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Market.

“Tonight begins the Market Arcanum. For three nights, from sunset to sunrise, all debts and grudges are to be set aside within these walls. In the outside world we are friends, rivals, enemies. Here we are equals.”

The Maitresse clapped her hands once, and the air throughout the castle vibrated, as though they stood inside a giant bell. On the stone wall above her, a clock face appeared. It had only a single hand, creeping from sunset on the far left edge of the circle toward dawn marked opposite.

The courtyard instantly erupted in conversation once again.

The Market had begun.

One of the men with the wolf pelts examined the contents of a lacquered wooden box held by a woman wearing an elegant evening gown, but whose exposed skin was completely covered in tattoos. The techno-cultists went back to their equipment. And a tall man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Sal earned in a year was striding toward her and Menchú.

When he arrived, his voice dripped with false cordiality. “Excellent. I had hoped that the Bookburners would deign to make an appearance.”

Sal wondered if everyone at this gathering hated them, or if they just kept running into the ones who did.

“We don’t burn books,” said Menchú, gently.

“Of course not. You take them. Even when they don’t belong to you.”

Sal frowned and glanced at Menchú. Did he have any idea who this man was or what he was talking about?

Menchú’s expression was impossible to read. “There are no debts or grudges within these walls. If you have a problem with the Society, I suggest that you take your quarrel elsewhere, Mr…?”

The man smiled. “The name is Mr. Norse.”

Mr. Norse. Owner of the Fair Weather . Sal was mildly impressed that he was more upset about the book than his burned yacht, but maybe he didn’t know Team One had been behind that. Maybe his yachts spontaneously caught fire all the time. With hobbies like his, it had to be a risk.

“Since you took something of mine,” Mr. Norse continued, “now I’m going to take something of yours.” He was practically leering. On instinct, Sal placed herself between the two men.

“You heard the lady on the balcony. This is neutral territory. But if you want to step outside, I’d be happy to kick your ass three nights from now.”