Page 10 of A Match Made in Slumber

The weaver in front of Kill’em didn’t seem to share my flabbergastation. On the contrary, she didn’t even blink, appearing ecstatic to be ripped off. She fumbled in her purse to hand over the coins just to appease the grumpy giant looming over her.

From time to time, Kill’em cast a brief, questioning glance towards the neighbouring stall. Stationed behind his own counter, Fern mouthed something back, offering vigorous nods and making a pumping motion with his hands as though to egg the other one on. A massive, delighted grin split my friend’s face. Since he’d often complained about my undercharging, he was no doubt having the time of his life watching a lethal warlord execute a high-end market mugging of innocent civilians on my behalf.

What the actual fuck.

I forced myself to my feet. Before I managed to step forwards and confront the happy extortionist duo, a soul-shuddering sigh sounded right next to my shoulder.

“Isn’t he dreamy? Absolutely delicious.” Settie’s face moulded into an expression of sappy, vacant pining, stripping her countenance of any traces of the intelligence that usually resided there. She tugged at my sleeve, her eyes wide. “Go on, tell me. Where the hell did you dig him up from? You’re so lucky. Does he have a twin brother, perhaps? Are you going to get married?”

“Married? Settie,” I hissed, a spike of mild irritation flaring within me for reasons I couldn’t quite comprehend. “Stop saying nonsense. It’s nothing of the sort. It’s… complicated. He comes from an entirely different realm. He shouldn’t be here in the first place. I can’t even say how stable or safe it is in terms of cross-dimensional fractures, black holes and whatnot. For all I know, we both might be in big trouble.”

A sobering thought occurred to me—a notion I hadn’t had time or presence of mind to consider before. Had plucking Kill’em from his home plane disrupted some delicate, cosmic equilibrium? I didn’t claim to be an expert in macro-arcana, nor did I pay much attention in theoretical magic classes, but what little I remembered from it suggested that a tear in the energy lining maintained by every realm would trigger a terrible domino effect. Or something equally apocalyptic.

A heavy sense of impending catastrophe settled over me. My heart rate kicked into a faster, more erratic rhythm, my breathing getting shallower., I began pulling at the hem of my tunic, my mind spiralling into a loop of worst-case scenarios as the gravity of my recklessness caught up with me.

“Well, I don’t care. Trouble-shmouble,” Settie countered, crossing her arms over her chest and poking her tongue out at me as if that display awarded her the final word. “Obviously, whatever is going on between the two of you must be fated. Otherwise, why would the cosmos allow it? And from where I’m standing, the only black hole he’s interested in exploring is your own.”

I spluttered; my cheeks set on fire. “Settyna. You little—”

“Did you know that he’s been at it since the early bell rang this morning?” she interrupted, unbothered by my outrage. “With only a tiny break for breakfast? He hasn’t even sat down once.”

“He… hasn’t?”

She shook her head, sending her auburn curls bouncing. “Anyway, Fern said I should take him over to Rowan’s shop later to help him choose some normal civilian clothes. And also—”

“Malvelian Fountenblym,” a crisp, magically amplified voice cut through the bustling noise of the market. “What have you done now?”

Shit. Only one person I knew insisted on calling me by my full formal given name, which I hated.

The crowd at the front of the booth parted, the punters murmuring in hushed whispers as a figure marched towards the counter. The newcomer, wearing sweeping robes of office in pale gold, carried himself with an aristocratic rigidity. He held a silver ledger-slate tucked beneath his arm, his lip curled as though the entire market smelled of rotting cabbage.

Cholerius Broxxy. My ex-classmate from the Element-ary and an old academic rival—currently the youngest ever High Arbiter to sit on the Everend Market Council.

Our eyes locked through the curtained gap, and my stomach plummeted. In that exact instant, I knew the reckoning I’d been dreading had arrived.

The crowd around my stand multiplied by the second, swelling into a dense, suffocating wall of gaping spectators. Both affluent customers and nosy vendors from nearby stalls all pressed closer, gagging to find out what had warranted a visit from a High Arbiter. At the same time—no, it didn’t escape my notice—to have a proper gander at Kill’em. Market-goers were known not to turn their noses up at getting their scandal fix for free. In a flash, we got promoted to the headline act of the day.

I had a complex relationship with Cholerius. I wouldn’t say he hated me as such, but we weren’t the types to giggle over a shared spellbook. We vied for top spot at school. For a time, he majored in creative magic, excelling at the intricate art of weaving illusions. Then, to everyone’s utter bafflement, he switched in his last year to magical law enforcement and bureaucratic administration. Fern—the only person Cholerius seemed to tolerate—once mentioned that the man didn’t do well around chaos or anarchy. And what was creative magic if not a masterclass in complete clusterfuckery? Whatever his reasons for the career change, he’d always been stiff, over-regulated and put-together. My total opposite.

Wobbly legs or not, I dragged myself behind the counter to take my place at Kill’em’s side. I reminded myself to breathe.

Perhaps Cholerius is here to perform his regular inspection rounds. Right?

Yeah, nope.

A fleeting downward glance at the tabletop nearly made me choke on my tongue. My money case overflowed with silver, glistening to the extent of blinding me. Kill’em’s aggressive sales tactics had proved more profitable than I’d imagined. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been ecstatic. As things have been, my insides performed a violent, nauseating flip.

“Hello, Cholerius,” I managed to croak, the words scraping my parched throat. I smiled nonetheless, refusing to stand there like a pomegramon. I swallowed hard, trying to bluff my way out of a corner. “Lovely to see you again. I’m just… well, conducting standard commerce, as you see. Making an honest living as a law-abiding, licensed craftsman. Same old.”

“Hmm.” Cholerius didn’t return the greeting. Instead, he tapped the spine of his ledger with two leather-gloved fingers and pinned me with a steady, unblinking green stare.

I shat my metaphorical pants while my mind raced through the mounting list of my offences.

Truth be told, a Council enforcer turning up at my stall any day, even for a casual check, already spelled trouble. If we ignored the weensy-teensy detail—and by the goddess, I was trying—that I’d just committed a spot of illegal cross-planar violation, there were still other issues. Take the contraband jar of Fern’s tempest-root stimulant tucked away in my satchel. Or the fact I was vending several new prototypes without a single safety form to my name. Every new alchemical creation required mountains of absurd paperwork before public exposure. Well, the pages of my specification book were covered in… more or less indecent drawings. Who had the time?

Cholerius ignored the buzzing crowd and the shiny fortune tucked between my stock. His sharp, calculating eyes locked onto me, deadpan and sober. Reaching into the breast pocket of his robes, he produced a delicate brass regulatory compass and held it flat in his palm.

Fuck. Not the compass, dammit.