Page 7 of The Only Way Out Is Up

“Glad to see you up and about, then,” he says. His eyes are on the bag at my side. “What you got for me?”

Straight to business, as always. Ekkeban and I have maintained a successful relationship for years based entirely on the understanding that there’s nothing between us that can’t be measured in bits. Unfortunately, I’m about to put some serious strain on it.

“Not as much as I’d like,” I admit.

I tip the sack onto the counter, sigils clunking dully. They never look like much, these things that everyone wants so badly. Red circles of clay about the size of my palm, each inscribed with a single character in charred black lines. Most of what’s written on these are the basics: the triple spike of MOVE, the double circles of PERCEIVE like owlish eyes, the bent lines of RESIST. Some of them still have scraps of threading wire attached.

Ekkeban sorts them with casual expertise, prodding a few to make sure they’re not already cracked. He grimaces as he looks up at me.

“Thirty-three,” he says. “Because I like you.”

“I nearly died, you know,” I say, without much hope.

“And if you did, I would be sorry. You’re a good customer. But these…” He clicks his tongue. “Nothing special, and some of them I think are near collapse.”

“You’ll sell them anyway.”

He waves that away. “Not the point.”

It’s not worth arguing, especially when I know he’s right. I sigh and look around the shop, stalling.

“How’s business?” I ask him.

“So-so,” he says, sudden suspicion on his face. “I get by. Why do you ask?”

I shrug. Most of what’s on display on the tables is crap, in case some desperate thief tries a smash-and-grab. He keeps the good stuff in the back under lock and key. On the wall over his head, though, there’s a green gleam. His pride and joy.

“Still haven’t sold that thing?”

Ekkeban snorts. “Nobody can afford my baby.”

It’s a sigil, a simple RESIST, but the clay disc it’s burned into is green. Sigils are made in different colors in ascending order of strength, like a rainbow from one of Somi’s books: red, orange, yellow, green, and so on into the stuff of legends. Each step up multiplies the cost by at least a hundred. At least. You can get an orange or two off the largest Twisted, and once a year I might find a yellow and we all eat like pigs for a month. I’ve never seen a green besides this one.

“Someday I’m going to take it off you,” I tell him.

He gives me a fond look. “You know the price.”

“Yeah, yeah. A million bits.” I shake my head and add, as though it’s an afterthought, “I’m going to need some stuff. A couple of thread junctions, four STRONGS, some plate…”

Ekkeban looks at the sigils on the counter, then back up at me. “You have cash?”

I wince, and his eyes narrow.

“I’m going to need—”

“Don’t say it,” he spits.

“Credit.”

“Taj.” He taps the counter, where crude characters are burned into the metal. “What does the sign say?”

“Most of your customers can’t read anyway!”

“Taj. What does it say?”

I sigh. “No credit. No exceptions.”

“Does that answer your question?”