It took nearly half an hour for me to leave my hiding place. I sat underneath the tablecloth of an elderly man’s stall, having slid underneath, and would peek my head out occasionally, then dip back inside, shuddering. Something had reached their fingers inside my head, rearranging the things I had believed in, and I hadn’t even noticed. The only thing that had stopped me from becoming part of the carefully manipulated masses was avarice: my desire for Jackson’s blade had overruled everything else. I had never been so glad for my kleptomania.

I returned to Jasmine, hugging my stolen goods. Her stall was almost exactly the same as I had left it, barring a few crops that had been purchased. Her gorgeous face was twisted in annoyance, her business being slowed by her patron’s constant gossiping.

The unsettling behaviour caused by the Dolphinblood’s speech hadn’t extended this far, or if it had, the effect had worn off. Though the unnatural fervour was gone, House Esfaria’s gifts were still the most popular topic of conversation. Being rich already, Jasmine seemed less enthused.

“It’s an obvious ploy.” She said, sceptical. “Buy out the citizens' good graces with a few trinkets. It’s no coincidence most of what they offer are clothing – anyone wearing silk will be made a piece of walking propaganda.”

I bobbed my head in agreement, pretending I knew what ‘propaganda’ meant. Putting Erin’s advice to change my behaviour in front of Jasmine was child’s play, given how disturbing the past ten minutes had been. The wisest decision would be to take Ma’s order and leave, but first I needed to understand what had just happened.

“Yes, that seems to be the case. Was this the first time the recruiters have come?”

She shrugged, somehow making the motion seem elegant. “They’ve been coming for the past five days, but this is the first time they announced their so-called gifts. Most likely because today is busier than the others; more people will spread the word.”

I didn’t know how to bring it up, so I made no attempt at a decent segue. “Jasmine. Did you notice how strangely everyone was behaving? They welcomed the Old Guard so easily.”

“Do you mean their sudden excitement? It’s not so unusual, given what was on offer. I’m sure most would jump at such an opportunity.” I knew her well enough to read the subtext – poor people were easy to bribe. The fact she let her thoughts slip showed just how irritated she was.

“No, it- it wasn’t like that.” She cocked an eyebrow at me, and I continued. “Maybe if there was more on offer, or if they actually had the goods in their hands, maybe it would let them forget their hatred for a moment. But…” I clenched my teeth.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, somewhat bemused. We had never had a serious conversation about anything other than groceries; she looked as if she had discovered a Lizardblood was a mathematician. I tried to be offended at that. “Isn’t what is happening right now evidence to the contrary?”

“It’s impossible to wipe away eight years of hatred with just a few words. No one would ever fight if you could.” I said. It would certainly make my life easier if I could just forget. And for a moment there, I had almost done just that.

Jasmine nodded, as if acquiescing the point. She clasped her hands, deliberating. “I hate to consider such a thing would be so simple… but perhaps one of the Blooded did something? Did you notice what type they were?”

The image was impossible to forget. “I know for certain one was an Oxblood – he’s a regular at our place. The guy speaking – I think his name was Fedor –had this big helmet that covered most of his face. He had this big, protruding mouth, though.”

She gave a soft grunt, gaze turned thoughtfully downward. “It seems likely Fedor is a Dolphinblood.” She muttered, then turned her honeyed eyes to me. “Were there any more?”

“Yes. The last one was definitely an Owlblood. The big eyes, his daydreaming, the nonchalance, it all matched the stories. He didn’t even seem to care when…” I shuddered, recalling his gaze.

“When what?”

“Nothing.” I was careful not to bring any attention to the roll of cloth leaning against my leg. “Oxblood, Dolphinblood, Owlblood. Do you think their powers could do something like that to such a large crowd?”

“Not an Oxblood. The other two, though?” she splayed her hands upwards. “There’s no certainty. The Owl is particularly arcane; there’s no telling what its blood could do.”

“Alright. I’ll ask Ma. She should know.”

Jasmine frowned. “Isn’t she just an Oxblood?”

It was difficult to supress a snort. “Something like that.”

The grocer tried to squeeze more out of me but I deflected all questions, looking to finish my business and head home. If I happened to pique her interest with my cold behaviour in the process, all the better for me.

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Her annoyance left me feeling strangely invigorated. Like I finally had control of something.

Scowling at her failure to extract more information, she uncovered several hemp sacks. I stuffed my new sword, still wrapped in cloth, inside one filled with cabbage, then stacked two on each shoulder and waded back into the crowd.

I paid our butcher, telling him to keep the meat for Ma’s inevitable arrival, then spent the next few dozen minutes looking for Miss Tran’s stall. I had picked some of the lighter sacks, however the sword was far heavier than it seemed, and soon enough I was regretting the decision to buy the produce first. Especially seeing as shuffling through the masses was twice as difficult with such bulky goods. I regretted my decision to see Jasmine first. I had probably been too excited to see her.

I eventually found the old woman, her table tucked in some obscure corner as always. She was dressed in a blackened apron, the clothes beneath a mishmash of patches and different coloured thread. The products of what she claimed was her trade were arrayed in front of her: wooden containers filled with thick, swirling, liquid. They were unlidded, and smelt noxious. Alchemy. Or at least what Miss Tran claimed was alchemy – I didn’t trust it in the least.

No one who had used her concoctions gave good reviews. They performed as advertised, except the consistent side-effects were sometimes worse than the initial problem. The potions usually caused stomach problems, from what I had heard. I had drunk a potion of healing once, and immediately thrown it up. Sash had once been bed for a week after Ma gave her Miss Tran’s cough remedy. Though in both cases we were left feeling a little bit better.

The would-be-alchemist squinted, her wrinkled face scrunching, then lit up with a vibrant smile, showing her few remaining teeth. “Little Crow!” she shouted, strange accent enunciating the syllables in strange ways. Her lack of eyebrows gave her a perpetual look of surprise. “So good to see you! Come, come, what is it you need today?”

I had tried several times to get her to remember my name, but the only one that stuck with her was Little Crow. The old crone still remembered me as a nervous six-year-old, always carrying a sack filled with dozens of colourful pebbles.

“A remedy?” she guessed. “Mayhaps a tonic for strength? Oh, I know! You are getting to that age for love, yes? Something to smooth the skin, take away those pesky, ehm, pimples.”

I was tempted, truly. A person poor at their craft is an excellent salesman by necessity – Miss Tran was no exception.

“Sorry, Miss Tran.” I gave her an empty-handed gesture. “Ma only gave me enough money for a few pan repairs.”

Her face twisted into an expression of exaggerated disgust. “Eck! Maja is cheap, so cheap! Nothing for her lovely son! And pans? My talents are wasted on pans!”

This song and dance was a constant companion to any repair requests. I think that was why most only knew her as the crazy lady who peddled strange potions, entirely unaware of her smithing abilities. As accurate as that description was, it was their loss. I’d never seen her unable to fix something.

She was still ranting. “…knives and ovens and kitchen sinks! They know nothing of my skills! My talent! I give them exactly what they ask, but always with the complaining!”

“So…” I interrupted. “Is that a no?”

“You are scrambling with me.” She said, not caring the sentence made no sense. “Give them here.”

I carefully handed her my satchel, wary of accidentally toppling her merchandise. Alchemy was foreign to me, but I had heard how many people died meddling with it. It was probably a good indicator of skill or luck that Miss Tran had survived to her age.

“Ah, yes.” She held a magnifying glass to her eye, which enlarged her eyes in ways that had me stifling laughter. “What is Maja doing? Using them to beat people?” I chose not to answer that. “Poor pans! Poor pans!” She looked back up at me. “Simple to fix. But first…” she held her hand out, wiggling hairless brows.

I let out a huff of amusement and handed her my remaining chits. She always made me smile – sometimes so much so that I could swear she acted this way on purpose. Grinning widely, she held up her magnifying glass and carefully counted the money. “I would charge more, but just for you, Little Crow, less is paid.”

Though unsure she was telling the truth, I thanked her anyway. She went ahead, tapping at the pans with a tiny hammer. She lit a small oil burner, throwing in a pinch of powder that made the flame glow blue. The heat, even several paces away, felt like I was submerged in a boiling cauldron; I stepped further away, dragging the sacks of produce with me.

As she tinkered away, I tried not to think of the last hour’s events. It wasn’t like me – usually, I had trouble remembering the last thing I ate. I couldn’t help but feel this was different. As if my reflection had waved back at me, without my consent.

The abilities of most of the gods were easy to understand. There were hundreds of songs featuring them – it was only human to know their powers. My favourite – and the only one I remembered in full – was a children’s rhyme the twins and I used to skip to. I sung it under my breath.

‘Dure knows how to fight real long,

Liz-ard’s sca-les are most tough.

‘Enn is stron-ger than the skies,

Ox will crush you like a bug.

‘Ka-ni rush-es like the wind,

Fox knows how to draw you in.

‘Siik most cle-ver of the bunch,

Spi-der’s web will make you lunch.’

The first four gods were simple: the Lizard is tough, the Ox is strong, the Fox is quick, the Spider is smart. The others were not so easy to understand.

‘Wump can make you smile and laugh,

Dol-phin keeps you in its grasp.

‘Yoot the strang-est of them all,

O-wl’s pow-ers make wrong right.’

Two of the eight were conspicuously absent from the song. One was a god I had always known. Almost everything about the Foot revolved around the Raven’s death, even before it had actually died – even if it wasn’t in any songs, every child in the city knew of Avri.

The final god was only spoken of infrequently. For most of my life, I thought there to be only seven gods, and when I had first heard of Eval, I had to ask Ma who that was. From her I had extracted only two facts: it always kills without warning, and it had never been harmed. There were no Shrikebloods. My mother knew little else.

These four – Dolphin, Owl, Raven, and Shrike – were real mysteries; few truly understood what they did.

A children’s rhyme wasn’t the best source, but if it was accurate, either of the mysterious Blooded could have done something. Ma would know which one.