by D. M. Almond
The great marketplace of Fal was alive with sounds and smells. It had been a short trip from the healing center to the large, bustling square for Logan. Again he wondered why people had an obsession with calling such places a square. It was more of a winding labyrinth filled with shop stalls, all arranged at odd angles, set up in no perceptible pattern.
As he grew closer, the bustle of people ahead was almost dizzying, being the most people he had ever seen in one place. The square was just bursting with the people of Fal bustling about their daily routines. All about, vendors were shouting their wares and every direction he looked, customers and merchants were haggling over prices. The whole thing delighted him to no end.
Logan dove into the crowd, working his way through the bustling marketplace. Fires crackled as food carts cooked up their specialty dishes, made to order and guaranteed fresh. He marveled that only two short weeks ago this city was under a life-threatening attack. Logan deftly sauntered his way through the crowds, trying to blend in as best as possible and not be such an obvious country bumpkin.
Just when he began feeling comfortable with his city swagger, a lovely woman with thick black curls cut across his path. Their eyes locked for a moment, and he walked hard into a table of potatoes for sale. The vendor slapped the back of Logan’s head with the frond of an ent tree, yelling about the mess he had made and demanding payment for the damaged vegetables, while the girl giggled to her friends about the silly young man. Logan tried to apologize, scrambling to pick up the mess, but the old woman just kept hitting him, until he finally gave up and escaped back into the crowd of benignly indifferent citizens.
He found it strange how no one seemed to pay any attention to each other. People were so unaware of their surroundings that they were even bumping shoulders without a single word of apology. This was nothing like Riverbell.
Just past a stand selling ceramic bowls and another vendor peddling playing cards, the crowd parted around a group of people dancing merrily in pairs. The band played joyfully while couples twirled in circles, switching partners, dipping them, and laughing raucously. Crowds of shoppers stopped to enjoy the spectacle, many clapping along with the music and rhythm of the musicians.
Some passersby dropped coins into a donation box, which was guarded by a hawkish man who menacingly gripped a leather-laced club. He was watching this way and that, looking as if he dared someone to try to steal the money he was being paid to protect. Logan could not help but laugh at the merry spectacle, but when a young lass held out a hand for him to join in, he politely declined and moved on.
He passed a food cart swarming with hungry patrons waiting to have their orders taken. The stocky woman behind the counter was barking orders over her shoulder to the cooks. Logan thought this was one lady who didn’t need anyone guarding her money. Shimmying in closer to see what was on the menu, he caught a mouth-watering smell wafting out of the oversized frying pans. The cooks were skillfully sautéing hunks of meat, throwing strips of mushrooms and onions into a thick yellow curry. His stomach rumbled as his senses were assaulted by the exotic dish.
“What’ll you have, son?” the large woman bullishly asked him.
“Ah, I wish I had time. Food later, business first,” Logan said, earning himself an eye roll. “Maybe you can help me? I’m looking for a shop called the Grey Crow?”
“Look, kid, if you’re not buying then step out of the way,” she said, waving to another customer in line. The man behind him shoved past into the small space, knocking Logan rudely out of the way and placed his order.
Logan decided he would need to learn to become more thick-skinned if he was going to stay in Fal. Not one to dwell, he circled the tent, continuing his search. Todrick had given him directions to the Grey Crow as payment when he came up short on a bet. Despite the disorienting nature of the bustling marketplace, with a little prodding, Logan was able to reorient himself using Todrick’s directions. The porter had warned him how easy it would be to get lost and had given a great piece of advice.
“Keep your eyes on the tops of the buildings around you. Stalls move daily, making the markets unpredictable, but the buildings of Fal are carved from the great mountain itself, and they are not likely to be moving any time soon.”
To the right he could see faded blue waves painted under the third story windows of what must be the public bathhouse. That was the direction to head, so he made his way around another set of stalls, slipping between them to take a shortcut and get away from the swelling crowds.
As he squeezed through the stalls, he caught a glimpse inside one of the wider, square tents. A group of citizens was gathered inside, praying to the Great Crystal, Baetylus. On their knees in supplication, the men and women rocked back and forth, moaning.
What rubbish, he thought, dismissing their faith for idiocy, before slipping down a narrow alleyway that led behind the bathhouse. He was surprised to see that even here tables were set up with merchants hawking wares.
A big-bellied man cut in front of his path, peddling beaded necklaces. “For your lady, a fine gift to be sure made from the—”
Logan just kept walking, flicking the man’s arm out of his face in annoyance. “No lady here, pal,” he said, but the merchant was persistent and jumped back into his path.
“Then what about for the lady of the evening, my friend?” His large, devious smile was ruined by rows of rotting teeth.
Logan just kept walking without attempting to mask his contempt. Remembering the porter’s directions, he veered right where the alleyway split, stumbling across something quite unexpected in the fair city of Fal.
A makeshift table had been knocked over, blocking the narrow alley. It looked to be made of nothing more than a wooden slab set on top of some dirty old boxes. Small paper charm bracelets were scattered across the dirt.
The owner of the cheap merchandise appeared to be nothing more than a child; he could not have been more than ten years old, Logan guessed. The boy was backed up against a wall, with three scruffy teenagers cornering him. Two of the ruffians wore bands of tan cloth around their right arms, while their leader wore a high-collared jacket that covered the lower half of his face.
“Quit your lying, street-rat! Cough up the money what you owe us.” The leader jammed a bony finger into the kid’s chest, pushing him against the wall with every syllable.
“Owe you?” the boy said. “Um…b-but my m-mam needs the m-money.” He looked like a cornered mouse about to be eaten.
The ringleader backhanded him hard, knocking the boy to the ground, while his lackeys cackled. “Don’t act like ye don’t know who this alley belongs to!” he spat, kicking the boy in the belly.
When the boy began to cry, the ring leader turned to laugh with his friends, and adjusted his beret.
“Now be a good little rat and cough up the toll,” he added, kicking the kid again for good measure.
Logan was already making his way around the table by the time the other two noticed him.
One of the punks flexed. “Hey, flip off, Sally!”
Without even thinking, Logan backhanded the little prick, sending him flying into the alleyway wall from the jaw-rattling impact of Logan’s new mechanical fist. The troublemaker’s head smacked hard against the stone, knocking him out cold.
“Watch your mouth, little guy. Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” Logan taunted, grimacing at the remaining pair.
“Hey…easy, man...easy,” the other lackey said, holding his hands out, gesturing for Logan to calm down. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you. We just collectin’ our dues for Old Roger is all.”
The punk’s nose made a crunching sound, like splintering wood, as Logan’s fist shattered the cartilage inside. Blood splattered down the troublemaker’s face, covering his leather vest.
“Is that right? Oh, do tell me more,” Logan said. The thug clutched his broken nose and cried out as blood gushed between his fingers.
As Logan taunted the thu
g, the ringleader howled into motion, lunging at him with a knife. Logan spun around, kicking the tabletop across the ground. The wooden slab skittered directly into the charging thief’s path, knocking his legs out from under him. He let the knife slip from his grasp as he tried to stop himself from falling face first into the soil. Logan caught him by the collar, tightly twisting the leather jerkin and cutting off the attacker’s air.
“Tut tut,” he said, wagging a finger inches from the troublemaker’s face. “Is that any way to treat a tourist?” Logan grinned, raising his other fist, readying to punch the ringleader in the face.
Unable to avoid the oncoming blow, the ringleader winced, gurgling incoherently for him to stop. Logan’s eyes squinted and his face curled in disgust as he noticed the punk had just pissed his pants. Still scowling, Logan lowered his fist and wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, you little coward, big enough to beat on this poor kid but can’t even take a punch like a man?”
The punk just whimpered, looking to his friend for support, but the other thug was still so worked up, trying to stop his nose bleeding, that he probably had not even noticed what was happening.
With a sigh of impatience, Logan gave two quick tugs, wrenching the wooden earrings from the ringleader’s right ear. Then he let the punk go and slammed his left fist into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs and dropping him to his knees.
”Get out of here and go play in your sandbox, Peck,” Logan said.
The bloody-nosed thug was already helping their dazed companion up from his slumped position against the wall. He eagerly nodded to Logan and scrambled down the alleyway. Just for good measure, Logan shoved the ringleader’s behind with the heel of his boot.
Once he was satisfied that the thieves were actually leaving, he turned to check on the young boy they had been harassing. Several of the other peddlers stood watching the commotion in awe. When Logan turned, they began clapping and talking excitedly with one another. One man even walked up and thanked Logan, shoving a belt into his unsuspecting hands as a token of appreciation.
The boy sat on the ground, gazing at Logan in wonder. To the kid, he was a hero of myth come to life, like Great Ulysses overthrowing the world dragon. No one had ever stuck their neck out for anyone else in the alley markets.
Logan walked over and knelt down to the boy’s level. “You okay, kid?” he asked, his gusto replaced by genuine concern.
“I am now, Mister! Wow, you really gave it to the Drugenns!” The boy hopped to his feet in excitement, punching the air like a boxer.
“Why were those punks messing with you anyway?” Logan asked, as he helped set the boy’s table back up.
“Oh, that’s just the way it is around here, Mister.” The boy frowned. “My bracelets have been selling pretty good. They must have caught wind of it.” He showed Logan two coppers as way of explanation.
They beat this poor kid over two coppers? he thought. “Well, they won’t be bothering you again. Try and stay a little safer from now on, you hear?” Logan mussed the boy’s hair before striding away.
“Sure thing, Mister!” the boy called back, starry eyed. As soon as Logan walked away, the boy was quickly surrounded by the older peddlers, all of them eager to recount the fight.
After a series of back alley zigs and zags, Logan came to the inner city. He had heard of this part of Fal and often wondered what it might look like in person. Up until now, the city had been made from stone buildings expertly carved into the very rock of the mountain that at one time made up this grand place. However, in the inner city, he began to spot wooden buildings erected in between the older houses. As the population of Fal grew, so too did the need for additional housing.
It was in this part of the city that he found his destination. Though it was constructed of ashen wood, the shop looked as old as the caves of New Fal themselves. Its windows were covered with solid sheets of soot and cobwebs. A worn sign hung loosely above the door, proclaiming The Grey Crow, then underneath in smaller letters, Oddities & Wonders.
The shabby old building stood in stark contrast to the parlor next door, which had the red silhouette of a buxom lass clinging to its facade. Instead of a proper door or shutters, the parlor had red velvet curtains, which were swaying in the breeze. Out on the balcony upstairs, some city watchmen were laughing rowdily, their arms wrapped around the working women.
As Logan approached the storefront, one of the women next door called down to him. “You got the wrong door, sugah. The real experience is right here.” She suggestively pointed down between her legs at the doorway directly below. Falling for her ruse, Logan blushed, and a group of the women burst into laughter, coming together to taunt him with promises of what could be.
“Ye got that right, Veronica!” one of the watchmen drunkenly agreed, sloshing his beer over the edge of the balcony in his excitement. He turned to wink at Logan then buried his face in her bosom.
Logan had to admit to himself, the prospect was intriguing. He had never seen so many women ready and able. Riverbell had nothing even remotely like this bordello, not unless you counted Francine Erwil’s place. She was considered the village tramp. A name she never deserved, in Logan’s opinion, as he could not understand how sleeping with two men before settling down with her husband was any different than what most of the guys in the village did, but they were never called names for it.
Logan smirked and gave a slight bow. “Maybe later, fair ladies, but for now business is calling.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing, lad!” one of the other city watchmen called down as Logan headed inside the shop.
The old wooden door slammed shut behind him, bouncing against the frame on springs that had worn out ages ago. A little bell above the door clanged to announce his arrival, as if the slamming racket were not enough.
The Grey Crow was nothing like Logan expected, with dusty tables and shelves overflowing with wares literally crowding the room. There was not an empty spot among them that he could see. The place was dimly lit by a single candle glowing somewhere in the back of the cluttered storefront, its light dancing back and forth, flickering across the ceiling.
The shelves held so many interesting artifacts, most of them utterly foreign to him, like the large, winding brass tube or the small carriage wheel coated in a blackish gray substance. Many empty oil lamps hung from the ceiling, some rusty, some polished to a sparkle fit for a queen, all covered in cobwebs. He had also never seen so many books in one place. The village only had around eighty, and he had read them all cover to cover well before his fifteenth birthday.
Someone cleared their throat behind him, causing his heart to skip a beat.
“Ahem. What do ye want? We ain’t open,” the man said.
Logan turned to find a little gnome standing behind him. He could not imagine how the gnome had snuck up on him. The shopkeeper looking up at him could not have been more than four feet tall, wearing red suspenders over a white collared button-up shirt, rolled neatly around the sleeves and tucked tidily into beige trousers. What little hair that still remained on the gnome’s head was white as soap and seemed to glow in the light from the candle floating in the air above him. He adjusted tiny spectacles over his broad, flat nose to get a better look at Logan, impatiently waiting for an answer.
“Uh…w-well...that is to say...,” Logan stammered, still taking in the gnome and wondering about his odd, white patent leather shoes.
“Well? Out with it, son, I haven’t got all day!” the gnome barked, wrinkling his bushy white moustache, then adding under his breath, “Very busy man, I am. Important things to do.”
“My apologies. I guess I’m still a little jumpy after the surgery,” Logan said, offering the mechanical hand as way of explanation.
Faster than he could blink, the gnome scurried closer and grabbed his hand. Flipping another lens in front of his spectacles, the shopkeeper studied the mechanical fingers intently. He scrutinized every angle of the hand,
turning it this way and that, opening and closing the digits one by one, all the while muttering to himself, “I see, I see...oh yes, very nice design.”
Beginning to feel like the prize ham at the picnic, Logan interjected, “Right then, if I’m not mistaken, you are Mr. Beauford, correct?”
The old gnome eyed him, still turning his fingers. “Might be that I am, just as likely I ain’t. Who are ye to be askin’ then, eh?”
“Todrick Thornhill told me you were the man to talk to about a little upgrade,” Logan said, drawing out the word while he tried on his best carefree smile.
“Never heard of him,” the gnome said.
“Oh?”
The gnome grumbled and leaned back with his arms folded over his chest, silently brooding. Logan pulled a pouch of coin from his pocket, which seemed to be all the credentials the shopkeeper needed. As it landed on the table, a couple gold shillings skittered out, lighting up the gnome’s eyes. He looked to the stash then back up at Logan with a newfound smile that stretched ear to ear.
“Well, why didn’t ye say so earlier, lad? Oh, it’s certainly great to have ye ‘ere, it is. Why, any friend o’ Todd Thornybeak’s a friend o’ mine, I always say!” Mr. Beauford said, hopping up onto a chair to clap Logan on the shoulder. He hopped down and pulled Logan away from the table by his forearm, ushering him into the backroom. “C’mon then, let’s get to it! No time to be a wastin’!”
