Free The Map by William Ritter Page B

my ears. Before me, an angular man with huge gossamer wings was speaking in a strange tongue to a brutish, leathery vendor nearly as wide as his stall. Across the aisle, a bushy-bearded man with pointy ears was showing his wares to a severe woman whose entire lower half appeared to be a giant chicken. In every direction were horns, scales, and wings buying and selling peculiar vials, crystal balls, and pelts of animals I had seen only in storybooks.
    “Welcome,” said Jackaby, “to the Zandermacht Market.”
    Green light flashed in a nearby window, and purple smoke billowed from another. As I gawped at the scene, a distant, muffled explosion sent a man in dark robes shooting across the skyline like a firework.
    Jackaby was a fish in water, striding gaily into the crowd and taking in the sights as if every bubbling cauldron and Cyclopean skull was an old friend. I hastened after him, not wishing to be left behind.
    As he marched through the aisles, leaning to admire a jackrabbit with antlers to his left or a dragon scale vest to his right, I began to notice something even more unsettling than the curious contents of the merchants’ stalls. All around, strange faces—faces with spikes and fins and fur—were turning to watch my employer. I thought I must be imagining things, until the re-articulated skeleton of what appeared to be a bird-bear turned on its suspension cables to point two empty sockets at Jackaby as he passed.
    “Mr. Jackaby, ” I said under my breath as soon as I’d closed the distance between us, “why are so many people—and
things
—
watching you?”
    My employer didn’t bother glancing around to confirm my alarm but looked at me as though I had missed some glaring truth. It was his most common expression.
    “Rook, I should think it obvious.” He smiled broadly. “I’m famously important.”
    The serene, unapologetic arrogance was oddly reassuring.
    “I forget that you only typically see me at work in town,” he continued, “where my abilities are not always fully appreciated.”
    That was true. The last time my employer’s work had crossed paths with the local police force, we had both spent the evening in a holding cell.
    “You’ll find that in this setting my reputation is rather different,” he went on. “At any one time, as I’ve told you, there is only one true Seer, and I’m it, Miss Rook. Being able to see through the veil and perceive all manner of magical auras is an invaluable skill.”
    We arrived at a stall manned by a muscular brute with the head of an ox. He reminded me of the Minotaur from the stories. As we neared, he glowered with strangely square irises at Jackaby.
    “Take this booth, for example,” my employer said. “I can tell you with certainty that those goblets are not, as advertised, goblets of plenty, but are merely enchanted with a temporary charm. That arcane scroll is a forgery, and those basilisk eggs were laid by a common ostrich.”
    A few of the browsing customers set down the goods they’d been inspecting and shuffled off. The Minotaur’s eyes narrowed, and he snorted hot air as he glared at Jackaby.
    “ See ? I’ve saved all those patrons from wasting their money,” Jackaby prattled on. “People love me here!” I hurried away after my oblivious employer, darting glances back at the fuming vendor until he was out of sight behind several layers of tents and tables.
    “Sir,” I said, “this is all incredible—but I wonder if you couldn’t slow down. It’s just a lot to take in.”
    “Of course. Oh, how auspicious. Would you care for a cup of tea, Miss Rook? My treat.”
    We had come to a small cluster of carts selling a variety of food and drink that looked suspiciously ordinary. Having had only the charred scent of a breakfast, I accepted a cup and sat down to drink with Jackaby.
    “Thank you, sir. Mmm, this is actually lovely,” I said after my first tentative sip. It was a rich, dark blend, not unlike a strong Assam. “Very