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Unsettled, I decide to get to the next point on my list of places to visit, in search of information as well as my initial quest.
It’s almost dark by the time I get to the Glitter Lane, so I expect the market to be empty, but the artisans I planned to visit are still standing.
Having a stand on the Glitter Lane is common for most craftsmen of the undercity, whether they have a proper store or not. Once a royal way to travel from Flaur to the city, Glauter’s Way is the widest street south of the river. It was unofficially renamed Glitter Lane a couple of centuries back, after one of the gaudy, extra Flaurian queens saw fit to have her servants throw glitter in front of her carriage as she travelled to town, or so the legend goes. Whether historically accurate or not, the name stuck and we’ve taken to throwing glitter and lighting fireworks at Yule.
The crews holding the territory changed hands a number of times over the years, because the location’s the most prized in the undercity, though there’s an understanding any crew can deliver goods to the Glitter Lane market. Unease still knots my insides. In my absence, there could have been a street war, or worse.
It kills me that I don’t know for sure.
It's late enough in the day that some regulars closed shop, and a few of the evening stands are already set up. Drugs, gambling, dodgy enhancement offers. I've always kept my nose clean and well away from the night market.
"Well, I'll be damned." Hammon Kretcher eyes me from the tips of my toes to the swell of my chest under my blouse, never bothering to get to the eyes. Taking in my ridiculous outfit, he snorts. "If it isn't our Hel, all dolled up."
I wrinkle my nose in distaste, both at his leer and my clothing. I expected both, but dealing with him is unavoidable for two reasons: he’s the biggest gossip I know, and he sells what I need. "Kretcher. Have you seen any of my crew around?"
“Yours, is it, still?” He chuckles. “If so, why don't you know where they are?”
I hide my irritation, knowing he thrives on annoying people as much as he can. “Why, indeed.” I retrieve a fat red pouch filled to the brim and weigh it in my hand. “You think ten gold could jog your memory?”
His eyes widen. “Now you’re talking my language. Word on the street is, they’re spending time up at the orphanage—helping rebuild after the last fire, you know. That boy of yours is teaching some brats to read, too.”
I grin and tilt my chin to his hand. “Say, you still have some of that armored fabric I got from you last year?”
He breaks into a grin and strokes his chin, always eager to get some business. "Hm. Why would you need it? If what I hear is true, and it usually is, no reason for anyone to shoot spells, bullets, and lasers at you anymore."
I shoot him my best fake smile. "I liked the look. Come on, Kretch. Everyone knows you can get anything."
Flattery rarely fails with simple men. "I don't have much left. You bought the last of the black. I have green, red, purple…"
He drags a box concealed underneath the loaded table to the side and retrieves several bolts of material.
That’s more like it.
I spent what used to be a fortune on the familiar, featherlight fabric. Cool in the summer and spelled to retain body heat in the winter, the soft, silk-like weave can be used to make practically anything.
I still have my pants and cloak, but they were more useful than presentable.
"How much?"
His eyes taken in the silk and linen I'm wearing. "Thirty per bolt. I don't have much left, see. It's popular. The pricing went up."
A bolt is enough for a cloak and three pairs of pants. He sold one to me at ten golds last year, and that was expensive for me. Now, I only bother to haggle out of habit—and because I know that whatever money I give him, he'll spend at one of the gambling parlors on the harbor. "Fifteen."
"No way. I can sell it to the Serpent crew across the river for twenty any day of the week."
Yeah, right. The Serpent crew is even more broke than my Claws.
Back in the day, the threat of giving away resources to the Serpents would have hit its mark. I hated those bastards. They always tried to get to the same jobs as I did.
I suddenly feel nostalgic and confused that I no longer feel any strong way about other crews. I just wish them well in their battle to survive this stinking city.
“They're getting their supplies from Jagger, not you. I can do seventeen. It's a lot more than what I spent last year, and you know it.”
“Hey, I have mouths to feed! Twenty-five,” he counters.
I snort again. “Your wife ran off with the baker and both your kids are of age.”
“That doesn't mean they aren't still trying to suck me dry.”
