Chapter Nine

  Worthless Gems

  In some respects, the Night Market was not so different from the day market. For one, many of its vendors had simply extended their usual business hours into the evening. But like any good festival, it was the event’s ambience that counted most, and the Night Market had all but transformed the labyrinth of intersecting alleys it encompassed. Never had Elias seen so many people packed so closely together, willingly at that. Music and laughter warmed the cool night air, as did the sheer number of bodies. Paper lanterns of purple and gold dangled overtop them all, strewn in zigzags, as if the stars had come down to join in the festivities.

  The kids certainly had. Someone was bound to lose one. Elias hadn’t seen this many children—running, crying, pulling their parents by the arm—since leaving Acreton. He supposed people here had families too. It wasn’t all business all the time, despite what Briley said.

  Speaking of Briley, they found her engaged in competition. Elias greeted her through a cloud of smoke as she took her last shot and missed. The glass bottle thirty feet from the barrel of her pistol remained tauntingly unshattered. She sighed a disappointed sigh.

  “A shooting competition.” Elias tried not to sound too excited, but his eyes gave him away.

  “Do a lot of shooting back in Sapphire’s Reach?” Briley asked, handing the cheap pistol back to a man wearing a very tall hat.

  “I’ve shattered a few clay pots in my time,” Elias admitted.

  The man in the distinguished top hat could not help but overhear Elias’s boast, or so he claimed. “Care to take a shot? Or rather, as many shots as you can load in two minutes. Just one relic to play.”

  Just one relic, thought Elias. One relic was what he took home after a day’s work.

  The game host opened an ornate chest that was quite literally chained to his booth. He rotated the chest to face them. Inside, they saw a growing hill of relics, glimmering in the evening’s purple-gold aura. “Everyone pays a relic to play,” he said. “At the end of the night, whoever shoots the most bottles in two minutes takes home half the pile.”

  “And you take home the other half, I assume,” Elias surmised.

  The man grinned a wide grin and tipped his hat. With his other hand, he gave his stubby pipe a quick puff, letting the smoke trickle out his nostrils.

  Elias peered down the shooting range, watching an assistant replace the three bottles Briley had managed to hit. He was certain he could do better than three.

  The challenge, however, was twofold. Hitting the targets was one challenge. Reloading quickly was the other. He asked to inspect the pistol, but nothing about the weapon seemed amiss. It was no Leefield, and yet he couldn’t identify anything wrong with the gun. It would do.

  “What’s the current high score?” Elias asked.

  “Six bottles,” the man said.

  Briley grimaced at the mention of a number that was twice as high as hers. Elias didn’t think three was anything to be ashamed of, though he reveled in the possibility of beating her at something.

  “All right,” he said, flicking a coin that he caught in the palm of his hand. “One relic.”

  The man received the relic, dropped it into his chest, and unfurled a long list of names, each with a score written next to it. “What do they call you?” he asked.

  Elias spelled it out for him, forgetting and then correcting his surname. His new surname. It would take some getting used to.

  “Elias Fisher Vice?” the game host clarified.

  “Just Elias Vice.”

  “Whatever you say, my boy.” He scratched a line through Fisher. “Stand over there.”

  The shooting range had been set up along the edge of the Night Market and the city itself, in a park that was too small to be much of a park. To its credit, the well-trampled patch of grass possessed a striking view of the mountains, though striking views weren’t particularly hard to come by in Sailor’s Rise. Being a shooting range seemed to be the neglected park’s true calling. Bullets could simply soar off the mountainside, threatening no one but the unluckiest of birds—or perhaps a lost airship.

  On a skinny metal table, behind which contestants were required to stand, lay everything a shooter would need: a rusty bucket full of bullets, a pile of cloth pieces for packing said bullets, and a full powder horn. Elias could load his first shot before the countdown began. The hatted man’s pocket watch rested upon his palm like an opened clam as he took another puff from his pipe.

  There were a dozen bottles in total—more than anyone could ever hit in two minutes—and they were spaced far enough apart to prevent a missed shot from turning into a lucky one. In other words, Elias would need to hit his intended targets.

  He aimed, took a breath, and steadied his hand. He couldn’t afford to miss his first shot. It was the only one he could take his time with.

  “Not to rush you, my boy, but we’ve got another gentleman waiting to play.” The man tipped his top hat at the gentleman in question.

  Elias said nothing as he finally pressed the trigger. He shattered the leftmost bottle first, having decided that he would shoot them from left to right—like reading a book—so as not to waste valuable seconds wondering which target to aim for next.

  If any onlookers had thought him slow before, they would have banished the thought, though Elias spared no time gauging their reactions. He half-cocked the pistol’s hammer, poured a measure of black powder down the barrel, and rammed a hastily wrapped bullet into the muzzle. He poured a bit more powder in the flash pan, snapped the frizzen into place, and fully cocked the hammer.

  This time, Elias took his shot immediately, instinctively, as if he could feel where the bullet would strike a second before he pulled the trigger. He was good with a gun, but it was a strange sensation, even to him. He chalked it up to adrenaline as the second bottle in line shattered into a thousand worthless gems.

  Like the pistol itself, his movements were mechanical. Once more, he half-cocked the hammer, poured the black powder, inserted a bullet, filled the flash pan, snapped the frizzen, fully cocked the hammer.

  The third bottle shattered.

  He was already tied with Briley at three points. As for how many seconds remained, Elias had no sense of time. He committed all of his attention to loading a fourth bullet.

  Only the top half of the fourth bottle exploded, but a hit was a hit.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Elias heard a whistle he imagined came from Bertrand.

  There was a hushed silence when the fifth bottle fell.

  One more and he would be tied for first place. Would they split the prize? Elias didn’t dwell on such questions. His goal was to win, and he didn’t count ties as wins.

  Someone clapped when his bullet whizzed through the sixth bottle.

  Elias was overwhelmed by a rush of nerves as he took aim once more. Suddenly, he had something to lose. His previously rigid arm felt wobbly, his palm sticky, his target distant.

  His bullet missed the seventh bottle in line, ricocheting off the iron fence behind it.

  “Goddamn piece of shit.” Through gritted teeth, Elias cycled through his favorite profanities as he began reloading the pistol. Would he even have time for another shot? Unlikely, the voice inside him said. Doubt was now turning into despair. He wouldn’t win. At best, he would tie.

  His last shot was rushed, but for a fleeting second, Elias could have sworn he saw something in the air: a faint green line between his barrel and the seventh bottle. It disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  “Seven bottles!” the game host yelled. “We have a new high score!”

  Elias reached for another bullet before being informed that his time was up. “Don’t look so disappointed,” the man added. “You just outshot a hundred men.”

  “I missed,” Elias said.

  “Everyone misses, my boy.”

  I’m not trying to be everyone: Elias thought the words but kept them to himself. Bertrand nearly tripped over Briley on their way over. “Where in heaven or hell did you learn to shoot like that?” the larger of the two asked.

  “Same place I learned everything,” Elias said. “There isn’t much to do in Acreton, but you can shoot a pistol in any direction you please. You won’t hit a thing.”

  “Well, color me impressed and then some, Elias.” Bertrand slapped his friend’s shoulder. Surely, they were friends now.

  “Nice shooting” was all Briley offered.

  “You’re still the better salesperson,” Elias told her.

  “I know,” she assured him.

  “Anyway, I messed up that seventh shot.” He eyed the bottle that beat him.

  Bertrand shook his head and Elias with it. “You shot seven bottles in two minutes and reloaded a pistol faster than anyone I’ve seen, and all you can think about is the one you missed?”

  Elias chuckled as his tight shoulders turned limber, or as limber as they ever were. Perhaps he needed to hear such reassurance from a new friend. “I suppose it’s just the way I was raised,” he said.

  “To be perfect?” Bertrand inquired.

  No, his mother was not responsible for her son’s obsessive nature. “To be good,” he said. “I added a few layers.”

  He could tell that Briley understood without her saying it. That was another kind of reassurance he needed.

  “Come back in an hour, my boy,” the hatted man interjected. “We’ll find out if you’ve won. It’s a hefty prize tonight. You could always try again, see if you can’t make that eighth shot.”

  Elias wasn’t willing to part with another relic. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said, turning toward a crowd of onlookers that had grown steadily over the past two minutes. His skill with a pistol had not gone unnoticed.

  “Nice shooting,” remarked a young woman with dark hair and olive skin. Elias’s sun-kissed complexion, meanwhile, burned a brighter shade of red.

  Back in Acreton, Ginger had always been a big believer in “types” when it came to matters of attraction. Everyone had a type, she would insist (often reminding an uninterested Elias that he wasn’t hers), and she made a pastime of pointing these people out. She was Melo’s type, obviously, though whether Melo was her type remained a question to be avoided. Elias’s mother had been Mr. Humbledon’s type—and the type of many men in Acreton, apparently. As for the young woman with dark hair and olive skin, had Ginger been here now, she would have called it faster than he’d shot that last bottle.

  “Thanks” was all he said to the girl.

  * * *

  Elias, Bertrand, and Briley spent the next half hour browsing goods with no intention of truly buying anything. Bertrand proved the exception, purchasing yet another pie—his apparent weakness. Briley would come over after the market, and they would share the pie over mead.

  Indeed, their entire evening could already be predicted. They would stay up far too late and open a second bottle they had never intended to open. Briley would end up sleeping in the guest bedroom. Bertrand might pass out on the couch if he was too tired for stairs.

  But they were spry and sober for now, and the evening maintained its illusion of mystery. Hell, Elias would soon find out if he had won a satchel full of relics. There was still time for the unexpected.

  And for the uninvited.

  “Nice hat, porker.”

  Elias observed the pained grimace that overtook Bertrand’s face as he turned to see the source of the sting, though Briley spun around first.

  “Fuck off, Edric.” She practically spat the words.

  “Calm down, fireball,” said the young man whose name, presumably, was Edric. “I jest. This is the Night Market, after all. Are we not here to have fun, to let loose?”

  “Why don’t you let yourself loose over the edge of an airship,” Bertrand replied. “Some of us have actually grown up since finishing school.”

  Edric had certainly grown up in appearance, at least. Based on Bertrand’s pointed rebuttal, Elias assumed they were of an age, and yet Edric could have passed for the oldest among them. He was tall, as tall as Bertrand, but built more like Elias. His dark facial hair was already thick enough to be shaped into pointed sideburns, jutting along his cheekbones like twin blades. His hair was coifed, his silk vest almost silver. He might have been considered dashing were he not such an obvious asshole.

  Edric approached them, accompanied by a friend who acted more like hired help, for the young man said nothing over the course of their entire exchange.

  “What’s that miniscule company your family owns again?” Edric asked.

  No one answered for him.

  “The Shitweather Company or some such?” he went on. “Is that what the new hat is for, Bertrand? Trying to impress the crew?” He flicked Bertrand’s black tricorne so that it sat awkwardly upright on his head. They were standing nose to nose.

  Bertrand would later inform Elias that Edric Graystone was the heir apparent of The Graystone Company, one of the city’s few businesses with a seat on council. Little else needed to be said about Edric, as his nature spoke so loudly for itself.

  As if his words weren’t venomous enough, Edric snatched the hat off Bertrand’s head and plopped it onto his own. “My god, it fits perfectly.” He feigned astonishment. “Mind if I borrow your hat for a bit, my friend? I’ve been on the market for a good tricorne, you see. Don’t imagine you’ve heard, but I am now the captain of a respectable airship, and one must look the part.”

  “You mean your father gave you a job,” Bertrand said flatly. “Congratulations.”

  “Has your father made you captain?” Edric fired back. “Well, I suppose he does just have the one ship. Perhaps you can sweep the deck or something.”

  Elias decided against pointing out that Bertrand did indeed sweep the deck as one of his duties aboard The Sleeping Sparrow. Edric had clearly hit a nerve. You stab someone enough times and you’re bound to hit something vital.

  Bertrand reached for his hat.

  Edric swatted his hand away.

  Bertrand reached again.

  Edric slapped him—his face this time, not just his hand—hard enough that even onlookers took notice. Bertrand stumbled backward, his cheek burning red.

  And just as quickly, Elias filled the space that Bertrand had ceded, stepping forward with his fist already winding backward.

  “Who the hell are—” But Edric’s unfinished question would go unanswered, at least for one evening. The punch knocked him off his feet and into a pyramid of precariously arranged egg tarts.

  Elias was not sure what made him do it. His fist had taken the lead with his sense in tow. Immediately, he felt terrible for the horrified vendor whose baked goods he had just annihilated. Elias tossed her a relic that bounced off Edric’s head, adding to her horror. A relic wouldn’t cover the damage, but he hadn’t a moment to spare for math. Much like the vendor, Edric’s companion was frozen for a spell, his fingers caging his temples as he stared down upon his friend like a man who had just dropped someone’s birthday cake.

  “We need to go,” Briley said. “Now.”

  Elias had once more drawn the attention of a crowd, albeit not the favorable kind. The egg-tart-covered heir apparent of The Graystone Company was a fleeting distraction, but turning heads were already searching for the source of such damage.

  As Briley said, they needed to go.

  “Come on!” She yanked Bertrand’s wrist forward and slapped Elias out of his rage-turned-shock-induced trance. The three of them flew, but not before Bertrand retrieved his leather tricorne.

  The thick crowd was both an obstacle—Elias bumped into more than a few shoulders—and a helpful camouflage. On Briley’s signal, they slowed their sprint after a few blocks.

  “Just walk calmly, and no one will notice us,” she said.

  “Walk calmly,” Elias repeated.

  “Elias Vice!” a man’s shrill voice pierced through the ubiquitous chatter and laughter of the Night Market. “Elias Vice!” it called again.

  They looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  At first, Elias thought it must be their pursuers calling after him. The local police, perhaps. But how had they acquired his name so quickly? Maybe money really could buy anything in Sailor’s Rise. He was ready to run again.

  “Elias Vice, come collect your damn prize money or I’ll keep it for myself!”

  It dawned on them then, though Elias was slowest to realize.

  “You won!” Bertrand shook his friend once more. “You won the bloody shooting competition.”

  “I won?”

  “Guess you shoot as well as you punch,” Briley chimed in.

  Elias had never felt his emotions pivot so quickly, nor so completely, as he did in that fateful moment. “I won,” he said, and then he yelled it. “I won!”

  Bertrand flicked a dollop of egg tart from his hard-earned hat and pulled the latter down snugly over his sweat-beaded brow. “Now let’s fetch your winnings, get the hell out of here, and find out who can swig back the most mead.”