Free Paper Cities, an Anthology of Urban Fantasy by Ekaterina Sedia Page B

and their younger brother by a year at fourteen, Marcus. He rolled his eyes theatrically.
    “You know what they say about Krank, don’t you?” He leaned forward, stage whispering. “He consorts with Dark Forces — the Dead People beneath Tabat!”
    Deitl Krank, a small, gnomic man with pursed lips and spectacles like moons of chilly light, cleared his throat from the two-crates-and-a-shelf counter where he sat.
    “If you’re not purchasing anything, I suggest moving along,” he told the boys with a flap of his hand. Much to Doolia’s dismay, he included her in the gesture. She would have protested, but she didn’t want the boys knowing how important it was to her. That way they wouldn’t look there for her again.
    Resigned, she followed them down the twisty, windy stairs, past a series of little windows, each a different shape: trapezoid, triangle, arch — framing the crowds of the marketplace outside.
    At the stairs’ foot, in the Bumblety’s stall, case after case displayed bird eggs arranged by size and adorned with paint, wax, feathers, silk flowers, or even jewels. Less ordinary eggs as well: warty green cases from swamp trolls, the flat black purses that hold skate eggs, spangled gold balls cradling embryonic faerie dragons and the clear bubbles from which sylphs hatch. On a topmost shelf, three cameleopard eggs stared down, the dark spots on them looking like cartooned eyes.
    The Bumblety itself served as showcase. Its bulgy, greasy, coal black skin glittered with marbles pushed into the sticky flesh. Its eyes were two enormous glass orbs, the right a yellowy-green and the left as blue as noonday sea.
    As Doolia turned the corner, Cirius and Claytus jostled, pretending to push each other into her. On the topmost shelf a white oval wavered.
    Without thinking Doolia held out her hands to catch the falling egg. It filled her palms with cool smoothness, sized like an ostrich egg but speckled with rose and blue undertones like sunrise. At Marcus’s exclamation, the Bumblety turned. All three boys vanished into the crowd, leaving Doolia behind.
    She stood in shocked silence as the Bumblety moved to her in a waft of cedar and licorice. It took the egg with stubby fingers studded with lines of freshwater pearls, turquoise balls, and malachite rounds. She had never heard it speak.
    Replacing the egg on a shelf, it held out an arm. Lines of marbles were fixed along the length. It gestured at her to pick one.
    The marble emerged beneath her shaky touch as though the skin were expelling it: an inch-wide amber glass sphere, a crack in its depths like a line of light. She thrust it in her pocket, mouthing nervous thanks, unsure how to express gratitude and worried she might offend it.
    She chose to turn and leave.
    Exiting the building in a sunlit dazzle, she collided with another body and went sprawling with an oof .
    Still trying to catch her breath, she scrambled to her feet to extend a hand to her obstacle. He refused it, scowling as he rose.
    He was exquisite, a china doll next to her untidy length of limb, neatly pressed pants and jacket unlike her crumpled clothing. She stared at his immaculate midnight hair, conscious of her own disarray.
    “Watch where you’re going!” he snapped, and pushed past into the building.
    Doolia glanced at the sun’s position, ignoring the jostle and sway of the market goers around her. Youngest of seven children, she knew from experience that while there would be plenty of dinner left from the inn’s table, it would be simple stew and bread. She liked the market fare’s variety: sour-sweet thornfruit candy, steamed fish eggs in purses woven from dark seaweed fronds, roasted nuts, and smoky dried fish. Her mouth watered at the thought, and she fingered the marble. The Bumblety operated under its own laws of commerce, but perhaps the marble could be traded for a bite to eat.
    She made her way to the market’s northeast corner where food stalls emitted smells ranging from