he could see the faint characters carved in the bottom. He recognized the character for magic and another character that had to do with stopping or subduing. Why had a girl like that one carried this toad? And why had she been in a hexshop in Lowtown, a place where no girl of good breeding would go?
Only one way to find out.
Rackham was at the far end of his shop, arranging books and other curiosities when Syrus entered. He came real quick-like when he saw Syrus’s patched coat. Hexshop owners like this were all the same—they wanted whatever a Tinker brought in, but didn’t want Tinkers lingering too long with their light fingers. It was a false prejudice for the most part; Tinker grannies always told cautionary tales of what happened when you stole an item without knowing its workings. Syrus guessed he was a victim of one of those tales even now.
“May I help you, young sir?” Rackham asked, dusting his hands on a dirty rag. Beside him, an ugly jar gaped and gurgled. Rackham put an uneasy hand on it to quiet it.
Another thing these hexshop owners knew—it paid to be polite, at least on the surface.
Rackham slid behind his counter, and Syrus faced him across it. Syrus hadn’t been here in a while; all his family’s trade had been honest trade the last few years—whatever they’d found in their Gathering, mechanical bits they fixed for those who liked such curiosities. That fact made Syrus all the angrier about the Cull. Used to be the Raven Guard would come and Cull a family who were known dealers in hexes and magic, but his family had been clean for many a year.
“May I help you?” Rackham said more forcefully.
Syrus blinked.
He brought out the three-legged toad and sat it on the counter. Its carnelian eyes glowed.
“What do you think of this?”
Rackham arranged a tattler across from him. The device whirred, its arched gears spinning until the needle pointed to the upper end of the magical potency register. The dealer looked up at Syrus as he screwed his monocle into place.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Syrus asked. The tattler confirmed what he’d already known. This thing had enough forbidden magic in it to draw a goodly sum, at the very least. And it certainly should be good enough for the information he sought. Now it just came down to the bargaining. Luckily, his granny had taught him that, too.
Rackham’s left eye was gigantic as he looked at Syrus. He shrugged. “Suppose not.”
Rackham bent to inspect it, but Syrus snatched it off the countertop.
“Eh?” Rackham asked, looking up at him. The careful expression on his face melted into something darker, more harrowed.
“I’m interested in coin,” Syrus said, “but a fair trade for this toad also involves information.”
Rackham frowned. He sat back from the counter, trying to feign nonchalance. But his brow was sweating, and he mopped at it, mussing the wispy hairs across his pate into disarray. He reminded Syrus a little of Truffler, and the boy frowned at the memory.
“What kind of information?” Rackham asked.
Just then, the shop bells chimed, and a bearded man entered. He seemed young, though beards were not generally fashionable among the younger set. He wore plain fine clothes, but the way he carried himself meant that he must come at least from Midtown, possibly Uptown. There was something about his eyes that looked familiar, something decidedly unpleasant that Syrus couldn’t place. Syrus glared at him. What was with all the Uptowners invading Lowtown today?
The young man smiled with the same look one might give a growling bear cub and drifted to the back of the shop.
Syrus leaned closer to Rackham.
“A girl. A girl was just in here with a Pedant. I want to know who she was and what she wanted.”
Rackham’s eyes went opaque, almost black. He seemed about to change his mind regarding the toad.
“You know how rare this is,” Syrus said. “Even I know, and I don’t know nearly as much about it as you do. The more you tell me, the less coin I’ll ask. I’m giving you a fortune and you know it.”
“But . . . I maintain a respectable relationship with all my clients and correspondents. I couldn’t possibly . . .”
Syrus suppressed a laugh. He swept one hand around the shop. “You call this respectable? A hexshop in Lowtown?”
Rackham’s chin wobbled. His glance flitted to the other customer.
Syrus drew back, shoving the toad into his pocket. He half-turned toward the door. The bearded man was just at the edge of his vision, perusing a wall of antiques. It was probably an illusion; Rackham had to be hiding his contraband behind one somewhere.
“I suppose I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere, then,” he said. He went to the door, his hand faintly stirring the bells on the latch.
The young gentleman looked at him. The bemused smile was plastered on his face, but his eyes were sharp.
“Wait,” Rackham said. “Wait.”
Syrus turned, careful not to smile. The fish wasn’t quite reeled in yet.
“Let me see it again.”
Syrus nodded and put the toad on the counter again. The tattler needle stood at attention.
Rackham bent over it, careful not to touch the toad for fear Syrus would snatch it away again.
“Vespa Nyx,” Rackham whispered. He said her name casually, as though he was speaking of something else—the weather or something he’d found at market. “Daughter of Malcolm Nyx, Head of the Museum of Unnatural History. He was seeking”—he lowered his voice so that Syrus strained to hear—“a Manticore lure.”
Syrus frowned. “A lure?”
“Yes, something to trap the Manticore. To take the Heart of All Matter, presumably,” Rackham said.
Syrus knew what he was talking about, but he wanted to be sure. “What is that?”
Rackham gazed at him sidelong, his giant eye making Syrus want to shrink from the counter.
“I’d think you’d already know, you being a Tinker who lives by the Manticore’s grace.”
Syrus stared at him.
Rackham’s fingers drifted toward the toad. “Surely you’ve heard the story of what the Manticore stole?” he whispered. “Old Man Nyx needs the Heart for one of his experiments. But before that he needs . . . a witch. That’s the only lure that will draw the Manticore from her lair.” He looked around as if a Raven Guard might step from the shadows and arrest him at any moment.
Syrus thought of the Manticore’s strange Heart with all its wires and hoses, its pulsing red light as she’d swallowed the Raven Guard whole.
“Why?” Syrus asked.
“Because she’s the only one that can get close enough to the Manticore to draw it out of its den and make it give over the Heart.”
Syrus knew the first bit to be false. Hadn’t the Manticore come out for him?
“This girl, this Vespa Nyx—is she a witch?”
Rackham’s lips wavered around his stained teeth. “Most assuredly. Funny that what Nyx wants has been in front of him all along. Reckon he wouldn’t want to have to sacrifice his own daughter, though.” He flung a few coins across the counter.
Syrus nodded, pocketing his payment. He headed toward the door, aware of the bearded man’s strange gaze on his back. He regretted that he’d had to cut a deal with Rackham with the stranger nearby; surely he had heard some of their conversation, despite their attempts to muffle it.
“Careful, boy,” Rackham said, before Syrus slid out of the door. “You may be stepping into things far beyond your ken.”
That he certainly knew to be true. He nodded swiftly again, and the little bells ushered him out.
As the door closed behind him, the young man walked to the counter.
“I’ll have that toad,” he said in a husky voice.
The tattler vibrated so hard it broke.
“And this,” he said, cradling the jar with a pale hand. “I’ll have this, too.”
