Alchemical symbol: Zinc [https://i.imgur.com/db6WC9b.png]

The Outwall market smelled of fish: smoked, dried, fresh, and rotting. Even among the stalls selling second-hand clothes and lamps and coloured water masquerading as medicine, the fishy stink was inescapable.

Urchins dodged between the stalls, quick and furtive, keen after a chance to snatch food scraps or a purse. Zult kept a tight grip on his bag as he eased through the crowd. They were Outwallers mostly, eyeing Zult with the suspicion of people who recognised their neighbours and had a healthy distrust of everyone else, especially Inwallers, especially Inwallers who looked like Zult.

Outwall was Shepherds’ territory. Since Shepherds had no grief with Zult, and he had none with them, it should be safe enough.

He didn’t feel safe. He felt jumpy. The back of his neck itched with the pressure of unfriendly eyes. Perhaps it was only his imagination; he’d slept badly. He’d lain awake half the night, waiting for Belle to come back. He’d listened to the baby snuffling, his mother’s laboured breathing, and the only thought in his head was that damn prig, the smug way he said Zohan was dead, as if it was nothing.

At dawn, Belle still wasn’t back. He’d risen with an aching head and come out to the market. Bread and fish was all he’d got — fish at least was cheap. He ought to get home. Mama didn’t like to be left on her own.

He left the market, heading north on Southway. A hunched old seller of penny prophecies sidled toward him, but a scowl sent the man scurrying with his basket of worthless paper. Two strides further on, Zult stopped.

On the whitewashed end-wall of a cottage was a picture, a striking design painted in strong black strokes over the faded clutter of old gang signs. It showed a gallows, a man hanging, a crow perched on top.

Zult frowned. He’d seen the picture once or twice, other places, and not paid it any mind. Today, for some reason, it grabbed his gaze and held it. The hanged man wore a cloak, no more than a line of black paint, but definitely a long cloak like prigs wore.

The prig who’d killed Zohan, he’d be a fine sight, hung on a gallows. And why not? Prigs were only men. Rich men died as easy as poor ones.

‘Hey.’

Zult snatched his knife from its sheath and wheeled to face the threat.

The shorter man raised his hands, half-laughing. ‘Easy, big guy.’

‘Sparrow.’ Zult glanced around. No one else was nearby. Sparrow seemed to be alone. ‘It’s been a while.’

Sparrow slouched, grinning, hands buried in the pockets of an over-large blue coat. He hadn’t changed. He’d been a small, sharp-nosed boy, always laughing at a joke no one else saw, and he was just the same now. ‘Still alive, I see. How’s your worthless brother?’

Zult shook his head. ‘Not so lucky.’

‘Oh?’ Sparrow had a way of cocking his head and blinking, exactly like his namesake. ‘Oh. He’s gone? Too bad.’

Zult shrugged. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Bit of this, bit of that. I do all right.’ Sparrow nodded at the hanged man. ‘You ever see who paints these?’

‘Nah.’ Of course, someone must paint them. Could be a new gang. ‘You?’

Sparrow leaned in, sharing a secret. ‘Word is, Isidro thinks there’s something coming. These black crow people, they’re going to shake things up.’

Zult thought that a bit of a stretch. A few pictures on walls: maybe there was a new gang behind it, maybe just a weirdo with time on his hands. What of it? A few months ago, the city had nearly burned down. That hadn’t changed nothing, so he couldn’t see pictures making a difference.

Rumour said the Shepherds’ leader was unusual though, something of a prophet. Maybe he saw deeper than common men.

Sparrow eyed him. ‘You looking for work? We can always use a good man. I could put in a word for you.’

Shepherds owned Outwall like Blazes ran Inwall. Their main business was smuggling. Ships dropped cargo south of the city to be run ashore in small boats, and from there it travelled up from the fishing villages to Outwall, and so into the city without paying Anemari dues.

If he joined Shepherds, he’d have money. On the downside, he’d have to take orders, and the work could be dangerous — which didn’t matter so much, but if he died, what would come of his family?

‘I don’t know.’ He adjusted his grip on the bag of food. A loaf of bread, goat milk for the baby, and smoked herring: not much to show for his money, and it wouldn’t last long. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Sparrow tapped the picture. ‘This is what Isidro wants. Come see him, if you’re interested.’

Alchemical symbol: Tin [https://i.imgur.com/e9DvjDg.png]

In the quiet grey morning, Cord Street had an air of faded respectability. The wide, well-paved street marked the northern edge of the slums; beyond lay warehouses and docks, and though their plaster facades yellowed and crumbled, the tall buildings remembered better days. Among the decorative mouldings lurked ships and dolphins and exotic birds, badges of the merchants who’d once lived in these houses.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The wealthy merchants had long gone, but there was still money on Cord Street.

One large building drew Thea’s gaze like an open wound. The four-storey frontage was freshly painted in white and pink, with no graffiti in sight. Gang signs stopped abruptly at the neighbours.

A thickset man leaned against the wall outside, picking his teeth. Only the red scarf tied round his arm indicated he had more than a casual interest in being there. At this hour, there was little else to be seen. The front doors were closed, and no one moved behind the large glass windows. Business didn’t start until much later in the day.

Thea strode past with her head down, the box in her arms clinking at every step. Her skin crawled at the nearness of the place, at the blank stare of the unshuttered windows. The Burning had passed south of Cord Street, as if the evil soaked into those walls had some protective property.

She wished now she’d taken Nevin’s money. Why hadn’t she swallowed her pride? It would have been easy enough. He’d offered to help, and perhaps he’d meant it, but no, she had to be stubborn.

If not for him, they’d have had another thug beating down the door, maybe worse than the last one, the one who’d died… but she couldn’t expect to be protected, not again. With or without Nevin’s aid, her time was running out. She was sixteen this year. The Lady wouldn’t wait forever.

She turned off Cord Street into a narrow lane where buildings loomed three or four stories high, blocking most daylight. Wedged between two of them was a ramshackle hut, looking like a strong wind would knock it down. A trestle table in front held an assortment of roots and wilting herbs.

Inside, the shop was gloomy, empty apart from a table cluttered with labelled jars and bottles. Thea put her box down. The close air was thick with the dust of dried herbs and the mingled scents of medicines.

She sneezed.

‘Ah. You came.’ The deep slow voice came from the shadowed doorway at the back of the shop. A man stepped out. He was tall and dark-skinned, wearing grey, loose trousers and robe in the sothron style, but his eyes were all most people noticed. They gleamed strangely pale, milky, without iris or pupils.

Thea smiled. ‘Hello, White-Eye. It’s just me.’

‘You have the oil of pennyroyal?’

‘Ten jars.’

His long thin hands fumbled over the table, found the box and counted the jars. He lifted one, ran his fingers over the label, opened the lid, and sniffed the contents. ‘Good. Excellent work, as usual. Thank Benedict for me.’

‘White-Eye—’ Thea hesitated. ‘Could you pay me for these?’

He cocked his head. ‘Now, Thea — we both know I paid in advance. Did you think I had forgotten?’

She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. Money’s tight, that’s all. If you were able to loan us something, even a few forints…’

‘Fond as I am of Benedict, I’m not a fool, and I’m not made of money. He already owes me over twenty forints.’

‘I know, I know. We’re very grateful for all you’ve done for us, I wouldn’t ask but—’

His sightless gaze drilled into her. ‘Come through to the back,’ he said. ‘Have tea with me.’

The door at the back of the shop opened into a small room with a kitchen range, a table and chairs. White-Eye shook a small cold-lamp into flickering life. Its pale light seeped over a blue-checkered table cloth, patchwork cushions on the chairs, a bright copper kettle on the gas burner.

Thea sank into a chair. White-Eye lit the gas burner under the kettle, collected two cups and a canister of tea. Here in his own space, he moved confidently, every object exactly where he expected to find it.

‘Benedict’s getting worse,’ she said. ‘I think his sight is failing.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. A plume of steam rose from the kettle. He poured boiling water into a small teapot, added a spoonful of black tea. ‘But that isn’t the real problem, is it?’

She twisted her bracelet. The cold-lamp’s light shone through the blue glass beads. ‘We owe money. A lot of money. We always managed to pay before, not all of it, but enough. But since the Burning, Benedict can’t work like he used to, food’s expensive, rent’s expensive. The debt just keeps growing.’

White-Eye sat across from her. ‘Who do you owe?’

‘The Lady.’

He grimaced unhappily.

‘What can we do? We need work. Benedict can still manage if I help him. Routine stuff, like your order, I could do most of the work myself.’

‘There was someone, a few days ago… ’ He poured tea into two white porcelain cups. ‘I’m not sure I should mention it.’

Thea wrapped her hands round the warm cup and breathed in the fragrant steam. ‘Someone?’

He scowled. ‘You may be better off staying away from them.’

‘Gang business?’

‘No one I knew. Outwallers, Shepherds maybe.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s not always easy for me to tell.’

Thea sipped the tea. Shepherds were the biggest Outwall gang, and that was all she knew of them. Blazes owned most of Inwall — all this area was theirs — and as everyone knew, the Lady owned Blazes. ‘So what did they want?’

‘They only asked if I knew any alchemists. I said perhaps...’

‘Why didn’t you send them to Benedict?’

‘Why would they ask me, not the Alchemists’ Guild?’

Thea sat back. Of course, White-Eye was right. If someone needed an alchemist, they inquired at the Guild — unless they had a good reason not to.

She sipped the tea while she thought. What kind of work could it be? Either something the customer wanted to keep quiet, or something the Guild wouldn’t like.

The Guild had firm views on alchemists who accidentally poisoned or set fire to their neighbours. Which in practice meant the House Oryche workshop had a monopoly on the more dangerous processes, and charged accordingly.

This potential customer might just want dangerous work done cheaply. In which case, they’d have to go elsewhere, because Benedict wouldn’t risk anything like that.

What else could they want? The Guild permitted the manufacture of explosives and incendiaries, though questions might be asked. Similarly poisons and drugs. Work on gold and silver also attracted attention; House Numisma disapproved of entrepreneurs who stretched one coin into two.

If they took on work which the Guild or Houses disapproved of, Benedict could get into serious trouble. But then, the trouble already facing them was as bad, or worse, than anything the Guild Proctors were likely to do.

No guardian angel would swoop from the sky to rescue her. No handsome noble would stand between her and the fate that had been set when she was six years old. Money, though — money could save her. So the real question was, how big was the risk? And how much would they pay?

She drank the last of the tea. At the bottom of the cup, the black tea leaves made a splodgy bird shape. She tipped the cup: definitely a bird in flight. A good omen. ‘Did they tell you how to contact them?’