‘Enough, Jabitha. Release him.’
The old crone let go of Lex with all the instinctive panic as if he had suddenly burnt her and slowly bent to retrieve her sticks, hobbling back to return to the enchanter’s side. It was too dark for Lex to see him properly. The glow of light from within the tent silhouetted him where he stood in the entrance.
‘What is your name?’ the enchanter asked after a moment.
‘Harold Gibbons,’ Lex lied smoothly.
He would never have been stupid enough to give his true name to one of the enchanters, for then they would hold his soul in the palms of their hands.
They were unusual, even in the Wither City. Lex had been seven the first time he’d seen one. He’d been fascinated then and he was fascinated now. These men had real power. They talked to the stars and the stars talked back!
‘Just what exactly are you selling?’ Lex asked, taking a step closer to the tent.
‘Nothing you would be able to afford, boy. My apologies for the behaviour of my crone.’
And then, without another word, the enchanter steered Jabitha into the tent, drawing the flap closed behind him. The danger had passed and Lex was free to go on his way. And yet he hesitated. There was a pull, a hunger inside him to know what was inside that tent. It was what he lived for — balancing on the edge. Lex was not, in fact, a stupid person. He knew that tangling with enchanters was dangerous. But there was this thing that sometimes came over him; this urge that silenced reason and filled his mind with shrill shrieks of longing for something that was never meant to be his. And he always gave in to it because he enjoyed it so much.
Making up his mind, Lex strode to the tent entrance, drew back the flap and stepped inside, letting it fall back down behind him. The crone was now huddled in a corner of the tent, a cat curled about her shoulders. Lex had heard stories that the crones favoured animal familiars to aid them in the performance of their magics. The faint, guttering light from the green lamp that stood on the table in the centre reflected from the cat’s eyes in eerie flashes that sent shivers down Lex’s spine.
Charm strings hung from the ceiling — threaded with beads, feathers and the skulls of small animals. There were masks too, grinning down from the coarse, canvas walls and an altar in one corner to Thaddeus, the God of Illusion and Waking Dreams. Thaddeus was the patron deity of the crones and the enchanters and had been worshipped loyally by them for many hundreds of years. There was a vase on the altar, holding purple sticks of burning incense that filled the tent with twisting ribbons of purple smoke.
The enchanter was seated at the table, gazing down at the lamp. The green light played shadows across his lined face and gave his long silver hair and beard a greenish tint. Lex cleared his throat. ‘I am wealthier than my appearance would suggest,’ he said. ‘Please, what goods are you offering for sale?’
The enchanter gazed up at him through a mist of the purple incense smoke, the tips of his curiously long fingers resting together.
‘Very well, Mr Harold Gibbons,’ he said at last. ‘Be seated.’
Lex took the seat indicated on the other side of the table.
The enchanter put a hand in his pocket and drew out a small velvet pouch. From this he withdrew a small, sculptured swan carved out of black obelisk, no more than an inch tall and the same across, and placed it on the table. Two more of the exact same sculpture followed — one made from pale ivory, the other from dusky bloodstone. Lex could see each intricately-carved feather, the indentation of their slanting eyes, the graceful curve of their long necks.
The three identical swans gleamed in the light of the lamp and a familiar sensation of selfish greed rushed through Lex. They were beautiful, they were perfect, they were his. Of course he knew that they could not be mere sculptures — if there was nothing darker about them then they would be with the other arts and crafts in the main collection of stalls, rather than hidden away in the pocket of an enchanter in this dark corner of the market.
Lex had always had an eye for beauty. Of course, he was unprincipled and without scruples when it came to thieving for he enjoyed the act for the simple thrill of it. But he had always been moved to steal beautiful, precious things from museums and art collections and it would often be some time before he could bring himself to sell them on. He liked owning these masterpieces, even if it was for a short while, for he felt sure that he appreciated them far more than the gawping sightseers that traipsed through the museums. These things belonged to him in every sense of the word (excluding the legal sense, of course).
‘What are they?’ Lex breathed.
‘They are the Wishing Swanns of Desareth,’ the enchanter replied. ‘They have touched the lives of many men. Beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘They certainly are. How much are you asking for them?’
The enchanter smiled. ‘One million pieces of m-gold.’
‘One million?’ Lex repeated incredulously. ‘There’s probably no one left on the Globe with that kind of money any more. Perhaps the Golden Valley where the last kings live but you’ll certainly find no buyer in the Wither City.’
‘Is that so?’ the enchanter drawled, slowly replacing the exquisite Swanns in their velvet pouch. ‘Then I suppose I must keep hold of them a little longer.’
Lex watched helplessly as the enchanter put the beautiful things away. In ordinary circumstances, he would have simply stolen them. But he knew that this would be no easy feat and that only a fool would attempt such a task without extremely careful preparation. If he was going to get the Swanns, he would have to do so honestly.
‘I have a few hundred pieces of m-gold,’ Lex said. ‘But I also have some artefacts, some precious artefacts that I have collected over the years and I would be happy to trade them all. Please, let me show you what I-’
‘I am not interested in a trade,’ the enchanter replied firmly. ‘But there is another way of purchasing them that might make the price more amenable to you.’
‘Which is?’
The enchanter reached into his robes once again and placed a bracelet on the table between them. It was a simple piece and looked like two bracelets moulded together — one an ivory white colour and the other an obelisk black. Engravings in ancient runes ran round the edge.
‘The bracelet’s price is fifty pieces of m-gold,’ the enchanter said. ‘If you buy the bracelet, you can take the Swanns for free.’
‘Excuse me?’ Lex asked, staring at him.
‘Yes, they’re part of a set and I would hate to see them broken up. So, if you buy the bracelet, I would have no choice but to give you the Swanns.’
Lex hesitated, forcing himself to think the thing through and not just snatch the Swanns away greedily. Of course, enchanters were known for their eccentricity and occasionally hazy logic and the Swanns were being offered for a fraction of their value…
‘On the condition that you promise to wear it until the time comes to take it off,’ the enchanter said.
Alarm bells sounded in Lex’s head. Few people would be fool enough to wear a piece of quite-possibly-enchanted jewellery they knew nothing about. Suddenly, he regretted his rash action in entering the tent. This wasn’t fun any more. He was aware of the old crone muttering to herself in the corner, and the unnaturally loud purring of the cat draped across her shoulders, blocking out the everyday sounds of the market outside. The masks and strings of grinning skulls clicking together softly were beginning to unnerve him and the cloying purple incense smoke was making the tent tiny and hot. He was very aware of the blueness of the enchanter’s eyes, the lines on his face and the slightly hypnotic quality of his voice. Lex got to his feet quickly, feeling slightly alarmed.
‘No, thank you. I think I’d better be going now.’
‘A pity,’ the enchanter said, standing up just as abruptly and sticking out his hand. Lex shook it, thanked him for his hospitality and turned to go.