some who were decidedly pushy. The magical people, for instance, were, by nature, predators, moving among their non-magical prey. Which wasn’t to say that the entire magical population on the Globe was evil. But those frequenting this kind of place had to be at least a little unsavoury and Lex would have done well to stay away from them. But the enchanters fascinated him.
They were very tall men and they always seemed to be old. Lex had often wondered where all the young enchanters were. Was there even such a thing? For all the ones Lex had seen had been very tall, silver haired with long silver beards and bushy eyebrows. Most of them had dark blue robes stitched with silver stars and grand pointed hats although Lex was sure that this was just for effect and to make the magical men seem even taller than they really were. As a conman himself, Lex could recognise showmanship when he saw it.
He was bothered by crones a couple of times but when he protested that he had no money they lost interest pretty fast. But there was one old witch who wouldn’t be dissuaded. She appeared out of nowhere and gripped Lex’s wrist with a gnarled, crooked hand. ‘H’s waiting f ’r us!’ she hissed in Lex’s ear.
‘Pardon?’ Lex asked.
The crone gestured over her shoulder to the black velvet tent that stood sullenly behind her. It was so cloaked in shadows that Lex hadn’t noticed it.
‘He ’as great magics in there. We will sell them to you.’
‘No, thank you,’ Lex said politely, tugging at his wrist. ‘I don’t need any magics at the moment.’
It was well known that magical people very rarely allowed anything of real supernatural significance to fall into the hands of laypeople. Giving such powers to the unskilled was the last thing they wanted and was frowned on by the magical community. But it did happen on occasion and Lex was always on the lookout for such an opportunity. Enchanters were dangerous people. What greater thrill could there be than to steal something from one of them? But tonight was not the night for such recklessness. Lex was on the run and there was enough danger already.
Crones served the enchanters and didn’t tend to be dangerous in themselves but, if she did become violent, Lex was sure he would be able to knock her over and run for it. In the markets they were sent out to find customers and bring them back to the stall or tent at which their master was waiting. A lot of traders in the dark area had tents rather than stalls in order that business could be conducted more privately. Crones had some magical powers of their own but they tended to be unbalanced or, at the very least, dim-witted, with child-like minds that made them virtually powerless without the protection of an enchanter.
The crone barely came up to Lex’s shoulder and walked with the aid of two sticks. Various drably-coloured shawls were draped around her hunched form and the tiniest movement made her jingle softly with the many charms and amulets that hung about her. She was a crooked old woman, from the hunch of her back to the uneven lengths of her knobbly fingers.
‘Maybe some other time,’ Lex said, making another attempt to free his wrist from her surprisingly tight grip.
At that point, the crone started to get agitated; her voice rose and took on a cackle-like edge and she dropped her walking sticks to grip Lex’s collar and pull his head down closer to her level.
‘He knows! He watches everyone! You must come with me, little boy-’
‘Hey, I’m not a little boy, all right? I’m seventeen! I’m just small for my age, that’s all.’
‘Come. Come with me,’ the old witch insisted, still tugging doggedly at his collar.
‘Enough, Jabitha. Release him.’
The old crone let go of Lex with all the instinctive panic as if he had suddenly burnt her and slowly bent to retrieve her sticks, hobbling back to return to the enchanter’s side. It was too dark for Lex to see him properly. The glow of light from within the tent silhouetted him where he stood in the entrance.
‘What is your name?’ the enchanter asked after a moment.
‘Harold Gibbons,’ Lex lied smoothly.
He would never have been stupid enough to give his true name to one of the enchanters, for then they would hold his soul in the palms of their hands.
They were unusual, even in the Wither City. Lex had been seven the first time he’d seen one. He’d been fascinated then and he was fascinated now. These men had real power. They talked to the stars and the stars talked back!
‘Just what exactly are you selling?’ Lex asked, taking a step closer to the tent.
‘Nothing you would be able to afford, boy. My apologies for the behaviour of my crone.’
And then, without another word, the enchanter steered Jabitha into the tent, drawing the flap closed behind him. The danger had passed and Lex was free to go on his way. And yet he hesitated. There was a pull, a hunger inside him to know what was inside that tent. It was what he lived for — balancing on the edge. Lex was not, in fact, a stupid person. He knew that tangling with enchanters was dangerous. But there was this thing that sometimes came over him; this urge that silenced reason and filled his mind with shrill shrieks of longing for something that was never meant to be his. And he always gave in to it because he enjoyed it so much.
Making up his mind, Lex strode to the tent entrance, drew back the flap and stepped inside, letting it fall back down behind him. The crone was now huddled in a corner of the tent, a cat curled about her shoulders. Lex had heard stories that the crones favoured animal familiars to aid them in the performance of their magics. The faint, guttering light from the green lamp that stood on the table in the centre reflected from the cat’s eyes in eerie flashes that sent shivers down Lex’s spine.
Charm strings hung from the ceiling — threaded with beads, feathers and the skulls of small animals. There were masks too, grinning down from the coarse, canvas walls and an altar in one corner to Thaddeus, the God of Illusion and Waking Dreams. Thaddeus was the patron deity of the crones and the enchanters and had been worshipped loyally by them for many hundreds of years. There was a vase on the altar, holding purple sticks of burning incense that filled the tent with twisting ribbons of purple smoke.
The enchanter was seated at the table, gazing down at the lamp. The green light played shadows across his lined face and gave his long silver hair and beard a greenish tint. Lex cleared his throat. ‘I am wealthier than my appearance would suggest,’ he said. ‘Please, what goods are you offering for sale?’
The enchanter gazed up at him through a mist of the purple incense smoke, the tips of his curiously long fingers resting together.
‘Very well, Mr Harold Gibbons,’ he said at last. ‘Be seated.’
Lex took the seat indicated on the other side of the table.
The enchanter put a hand in his pocket and drew out a small velvet pouch. From this he withdrew a small, sculptured swan carved out of black obelisk, no more than an inch tall and the same across, and placed it on the table. Two more of the exact same sculpture followed — one made from pale ivory, the other from dusky bloodstone. Lex could see each intricately-carved feather, the indentation of their slanting eyes, the graceful curve of their long necks.
The three identical swans gleamed in the light of the lamp and a familiar sensation of selfish greed rushed through Lex. They were beautiful, they were perfect, they were his. Of course he knew that they could not be mere sculptures — if there was nothing darker about them then they would be with the other arts and crafts in the main collection of stalls, rather than hidden away in the pocket of an enchanter in this dark corner of the market.
Lex had always had an eye for beauty. Of course, he was unprincipled and without scruples when it came to thieving for he enjoyed the act for the simple thrill of it. But he had always been moved to steal beautiful, precious things from museums and art collections and it would often be some time before he could bring himself to sell them on. He liked owning these masterpieces, even if it was for a short while, for he felt sure that he appreciated them far more than the gawping sightseers that traipsed through the museums. These things belonged to him in every sense of the word (excluding the legal sense, of course).
‘What are they?’ Lex breathed.
‘They are the Wishing Swanns of Desareth,’ the enchanter replied. ‘They have touched the lives of many men. Beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘They certainly are. How much are you asking for them?’
The enchanter smiled. ‘One million pieces of m-gold.’
‘One million?’ Lex repeated incredulously. ‘There’s probably no one left on the Globe with that kind of money any more. Perhaps the Golden Valley where the last kings live but you’ll certainly find no buyer in the Wither City.’
