His grin faltered slightly, but returned undaunted quickly enough. She took heart in the fact that there seemed to be no maliciousness in his gaze. A hint of mischief, like Loki or Quickfingers, but no malevolence she could detect.
The other was a different breed entirely. Cold, cynical, and not nearly as frank in his appraisal, but no less appreciative for it. Not that she cared about that. Both men could be considered attractive, in his own way, but neither caused her even a twinge. What's wrong with me? she asked herself. Not for the first time.
"What is this place?” she asked them. “And who the hell are you two—the welcome wagon?"
Neither man seemed to catch the reference, something that didn't surprise her much. One looked like he'd stepped out of the Old West, the other the thirties or forties. For all she knew, they had done just that. There was a certain timeless quality to Strihava, she'd noticed, though she couldn't have said specifically where she'd gotten that impression.
The cowboy laughed loudly, drawing the eyes of several passers-by, including a few obviously non-human types. Jaz met their curious stares with a flat, snake-like gaze which deflected their attention handily.
"Mister Obnoxious over there calls himself Johnny Two-Guns. I answer to Sam."
"Sam? Sam what?"
"Just Sam,” he responded dryly. “Hungry?"
She hadn't really thought about it until now, but she was very hungry. She'd carried some easily transported food with her when she'd arrived, but she'd finished that off a couple days ago. She'd willfully suppressed her appetite, but just the mention of food clenched her stomach like a fist. “Actually, yes."
"Figured as much,” Sam grunted. “Follow us. We'll get you a meal and fill you in on the rules here."
"Rules?” She really didn't like the sound of that. As her fists knotted at her side, she felt a chuckle bubbling up from deep within her. Of course there'd be rules. You can't buck every rule, a silent voice in her head chided.
Who says? she answered back. “Hell with it. I need to eat. Lead on. I doubt if I have any money that would be accepted here, though."
"Don't worry about it. Barter's good enough,” Sam said. “Assuming you have anything you're willing to barter. Follow us."
Shrugging, she did so.
* * * *
"There's no telling how long Strihava's been here,” Johnny said, in between bites of his truly massive hamburger. Pieces of meat and sandwich dressing tumbled out of the corners of his mouth. Civilized, he wasn't. “The bazaar has stood for the past thousand years, at least, a meeting place from people—and I use the term loosely—from many different universes. Free Traders bring cargo in from who knows how many worlds, and sell it to the shopkeepers here at the market."
They currently sat together at a picnic-style table beneath an expansive gauzy white canopy attached to the side of a food booth, their senses inundated by the odors rising from the grills and barbecue pits inside the restaurant proper. Jaz tore into a huge rack of ribs and only after eating about half of it did she think to wonder what creature it had been harvested from.
She wasn't sure she wanted to know. Brontosaurus? she thought, chuckling silently. Mmmm. Could be.
She wasn't curious enough to ask. “Hecate doesn't control the bazaar?"
"She doesn't control nearly as much of Strihava as she thinks she does,” Sam responded. Eyes the color of slate sparked with irritation. “We use wards to keep her and her minions out."
"Like the one you picked apart,” Johnny grunted around a mouthful of jo-jo.
"I don't understand. Isn't Hecate a mage?"
Sam shook his head. “Wizard. There's a difference."
She flashed him a puzzled look. “Huh? What difference? Just different names for the same thing, aren't they?"
"Not from what I understand,” Sam told her. “Not that I'm an expert, but I've heard that wizards don't actually do magic. They have some sort of artifact that does it for them."
"Oh.” Just when I'm starting to think I know everything. “Huh. So why can't she just rip the ward apart—or have one of her minions do it?"
"Hey, if you want to know, why don't you ask a mage?” he growled. “Hell if I know.” His glare grew darker.
Touchy, isn't he? What did I do to piss him off? she wondered, with a questioning glance at Johnny. He seemed to catch her meaning and answered back with a shrug. “Not to change the subject, but ... if I was looking for someone in Strihava, how would I direct them to the bazaar?"
"That's a tough question,” Johnny replied, frowning and shooting a glance at his glowering partner. “Strihava isn't exactly easy to find your way around. The only way we manage is by only traveling well-marked routes and taking the teleport disks from one sector to another."
"Damn. I was hoping—"
"Hoping you could lead your own invasion into our sectors?” Sam spat out his sodden cigar, which bounced across the table and threw itself over the rim of Jaz's nearly empty plate. She stared down at the wet stogie, then lifted her gaze to regard Sam coldly.
"Invasion? What the fuck are you talking about? I have one goal—to take out Hecate and her lackeys. I couldn't care less about your bazaar or whatever else you're up to around here. The woman is dangerous and I've got a personal axe to grind where she's concerned. Is that the bug that climbed up your butt? If so, you'd better reach up and pull it out."
Johnny snickered, earning him a dark look from his companion, which he met squarely. “She's got a point there, Sam."
"Whose side are you on, cowboy?” the film noir refugee muttered, gray eyes glaring across his hawkish nose as he reached inside his trench coat and pulled out another cigar.
"Now there's a stupid question, Sam,” Johnny replied, pushing his hat back from his brow and staring down his erstwhile partner in more of a display of spine than she'd seen from him since they'd met. She'd already considered the cowboy the junior partner, but now she wasn't so certain. His gregarious manner had fooled her, but now she began to see the steel beneath the velvet. Or would that be ‘doeskin?'
Who were these guys, and why had they chosen—or been chosen, she amended thoughtfully—to greet her at the entrance? They didn't seem like enforcers, or guards, but she had no doubt they possessed some considerable influence here at the bazaar. The man running the restaurant had deferred to them to some extent, though his manner was hardly obsequious. Jaz picked up some indefinable vibes, however. These guys were something special around here. Why, she wasn't exactly sure.
"Who's in charge around here? Not you two, I assume."
This casual comment jerked Sam's head around. “Why do you say that?"
She gave him a bland stare. “You don't have the right attitude,” she replied dryly. “Believe me, I know ‘in charge’ people and you two are not it. I'm curious, though..."
"About what, exactly?” Sam asked, his anger seemingly evaporating somewhat.
"How long have you two been here? Johnny—you look like you stepped right out of Tombstone Arizona around eighteen ninety or so. And you, Sam, look as though you walked out of a nineteen thirties’ detective novel. How old are you?"
"What year is it on Earth?” Johnny asked.
"Twenty-eighteen."
"Shows how much we pay attention,” the cowboy drawled. Then he sighed. “I was born in Virginia in eighteen sixty-three. Hell of a time to be born in the South,” he added. “By the time I was sixteen my prospects were pretty much shit, unless I wanted to join the Army and fight the redskins in the West. I wasn't interested. I drove cattle for a little while—but I hated it."
Jaz snickered, thinking of how romantic so many men seemed to find the notion of being a cowboy. “So what did you do?"
"What any other poor southerner in my position would do ... I became an outlaw."
Sam rolled his eyes at this, as if he'd heard it all too many times before. Jaz, on the other hand, found herself warming to the story. She leaned forward across the table, accidentally dragging her sle
eve through her plate. “Damn.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped it off. “So how'd you end up here?"
"Running from a posse, believe it or not. Parts of New Mexico are little more than a big maze of arroyos and canyons. Apparently some mage had hidden a worldgate in a narrow draw. I rode through it and ended up here.” He shrugged, as if that was all there was to the story. She doubted that, but didn't press it.
"And you?” She glanced at Sam.
"It started and ended with a dame,” he remarked with a snort. “At least Johnny has a good explanation for how he got here. I don't even know. I got sapped and woke up lying on the floor in one of the sections off the main bazaar. Thought I was going crazy until one of the Stewards took some time to explain everything to me.” The look on his face made it clear he hadn't understood more than the basic gist of ‘everything.'
"So are you guys immortal?"
"Immortal? Hardly. It's Strihava. People just don't age here. Don't ask me why. You can find any number of people who could explain it, but don't expect me to."
Johnny grinned. “Give him a mystery to solve and he's a goddam—excuse me, ma'am—he's a regular Sherlock Holmes. But anything too high-brow or technical makes him cranky."
Seems like more than a few things make him cranky. “So can you explain it?"
"Heck, ma'am, I'm just a poor cowboy. I don't care how it works, just that it does. I don't get any older as long as I stay here, so that's enough for me to know. I haven't been back to Earth in ages and, honestly, don't miss it even a tiny bit."
"You wouldn't recognize it now,” she chuckled. From eighteen ninety to twenty-eighteen? Talk about culture shock.
He shook his head emphatically. “I've seen video. I don't think I'd like it much."
Oh, you'd do okay in Freak City, she thought. “So, really, what do you two actually do here? I doubt you greet every stranger that comes through the door. And—” she frowned as something occurred to her. “You wouldn't be my first choice in dealing with an invading mage."
"We're troubleshooters,” Johnny told her. “And both of us are warded up the wazoo. By the time you'd have any chance to magic us, we'd've filled you full of lead. Plus we are not without other talents."
"Nice to know.” She glanced at Sam. “So—you willing to accept I have no designs on the bazaar or any of the other areas not under Hecate's rule?"
"I'll reserve judgment,” he said. “But it says a lot that Johnny's willing to vouch for you.” He added a pointed glance at his partner, who simply grinned and winked.
She realized at that moment that she'd really misread these two from the beginning. Whatever their partnership, it was more complicated than she'd first suspected. Johnny had been here longer, by his story, but Sam didn't strike her as the type that would settle for playing junior partner.
Junior partner in what? That was the question she found herself asking. Troubleshooters? And who did they work for? The traders? Or the people who ran the bazaar? Who would they have to go to in order to get clearance to do what she wanted? Was there a way she could ask them herself? Or did she need the two men to act as intermediaries?
This place was a lot different than Earth, and different on too many levels to easily analyze. She was accustomed to working with those in power—coming from the outside as she was here left her scrambling to find the right path to get what she wanted.
She couldn't bully her way in. That was pretty damn clear. She didn't like it, but she figured she had to become accustomed to doing things a little differently. She liked moving straight ahead—hadn't ever really learned to take a circuitous route to anything. Manipulation had never been her way. She hadn't the talent for it. Nor had she needed to acquire the skill before now.
"So what now?” she asked of both men. They exchanged cryptic glances. Sam released a barely perceptible shrug.
"We take you to the Council,” Billy said. “They'll make the decision."
"The Council? Who are they?"
"The people who run the bazaar, who keep everything here running smoothly, and who've managed to keep Hecate out of our area for the better part of a thousand years. The people in charge."
A thousand years. A millennium. She's been here that long and they've managed to keep her locked out of their territory that long? Impressive. “Good. So what are we waiting for?"
"You to finish eating,” Johnny said with a grin. “Damn, but you can pack that stuff away. You got a hollow leg?"
"Something like that,” Jaz answered. Being an immortal wasn't without its price. Usually paid in huge grocery bills and restaurant tabs. She stuffed the last few bites into her mouth at once. “Let's go."
Fifteen
The room was nondescript, a long, low-ceilinged chamber with several seats spread around a large circular table. In the seats around the table were collected several men and women who represented the most influential of the bazaar's several guilds.
Jaz stood in front of them, in a wide area obviously set aside for petitioners. Sam and Johnny had escorted her to the entrance and bowed out. She found herself hesitating for a heartbeat before stepping inside the open double doors.
Ten eyes, tracking as five separate pairs, swiveled in concert as her heels beat against the lapis-tiled floor. She tried to meet each gaze in turn, noting the faces in which they lived. All appeared human, surprisingly enough. One, a blunt-faced man with thick reddish-gold sideburns and shaggy hair, regarded her curiously through eyes the color of polished bronze. He reminded her a little of Deryk—though his massive shoulders sat atop a frame at least a foot taller than the squat immortal's.
To his left sat what looked at first to be a child, no more than nine or ten years old, who watched her cross the floor with eyes the color of a stormy sea. White hair like pure snow fell about her thin shoulders, stirring gently as if caught in a breeze. Jaz frowned, turning her face slightly to realize no breeze disturbed the air here. How could it?
On the child-creature's left sat another man, this one wearing a glare at least as formidable as Sam's, with even less reason, as far as she was concerned. At least Sam had the excuse of having felt himself provoked. With short black hair slicked back, mustache and sharp goatee similarly waxed, he brought to mind a sorcerer from a B-list sword and sorcery movie. Long, delicate-looking hands drummed the table in front of him, bejeweled rings glinting from every finger.
To his left sat a figure that stopped her cold. Androgynously beautiful, skin like midnight satin, the man's gaze crawled across her with a distinct sensation of chill, despite the slight smile touching the very edge of his crimson-stained lips. She suppressed a shudder. He threw back his head and appeared to laugh in silence, his ebony mane shimmering blackly beneath the harsh light from the skylight some twenty feet above their heads.
The last member of the council wore white hair like the child, but, despite a face mostly devoid of any sign of age, her gaze seemed to convey a sense of great age and authority. She could have been twenty, or three times that, by appearances, though it was quite possible she was ten or twenty times that. Jaz had no way to know and no inclination to guess. Like the sorcerer, she wore an assortment of rings on her hands, visible as she splayed them on the table in front of her. But, rather than a multitude of gemstones, each of hers seemed simply crafted jewelry capped with black stones of uncanny depth.
The woman spoke. “Jasmine Tashae.” As the words fell upon her ears, she sensed a presence tickling the edge of her mind and struggled to erect a wall to block it out. The woman cocked her head, smiling thinly. “You have talent, girl, but you need teaching."
Just what I don't need—another would-be teacher. The woman smiled and stood. “I am Veramyth Ka-Deena, representing the Stewards of Strihava. I am very pleased to meet you."
Are you, really? Jaz inclined her head in recognition and waited for the others to introduce themselves. Instead, the Steward chose to do so on their behalf. “This—” she casually gestured toward the red-haired man “is George Harrig
an, representing the artisans and craftsmen of the bazaar.” The brawny man nodded a congenial greeting. “To his left is Gimp, representing the shopkeepers.” The child-like creature flashed a sincere-looking smile, though Jaz could see a hint of suspicion lurking in the depths of her azure orbs. “Next we have Cowen Cattee, of the Guild of Magi.” The sinister looking one lifted his hand to his brow in a jaunty salute. “And, lastly, we have Diamond Rathe, Lord Captain of the Free Traders."
The sensual lips tilted upward into a sly smile as he met her gaze. She felt an unexpected tightness in the pit of her stomach and nearly staggered. What the hell was that? The creature Gimp turned a dark glance on the man named as Diamond. “Turn it down, will you?"
His responding look hinted at abashment, but revealed nothing more than that. Whatever it was that he'd done, Jaz couldn't have said. She wondered, however. Her knees still felt a little weak and her stomach felt as though a nest of butterflies had hatched there. Her heartbeat pounded against the roof of her suddenly-dry mouth. “What kind of name is ‘Diamond,’ anyway?” she found herself asking before she could stop herself. Well, if you wanted to get a reputation for being rude here, that's one way to go about it, she told herself dryly.
Rather than offended, Diamond aimed an amused look her direction. “A nickname,” he answered. “Intended to suggest that I'm cold, hard, and sharp."
"Are you?"
He grinned slyly. “Am I which? Cold, hard, or sharp?"
"Any and all of the above."
"Sometimes."
"Enough of this,” the man named Cowen muttered. “You two want to exchange flirtatious banter, do it on your own time. I've got better things to do than sit here listening to it."
Jaz was aghast. Flirtatious banter? Was that what we were doing? She realized, belatedly, that she had been flirting with him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared across the room at the man, who, irritatingly, seemed completely unaware of the novel effect he was having on her.
She felt the albino woman's gaze, registered an impression of sympathy there, but shunted the impression aside, concentrating instead on the trader and the amazing feelings he was eliciting from her mind and body. What is he doing to me? And how?
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