2.

It was intolerable. Inexcusable. There was no way that Grace was going to the Black Market. Not now, and not ever.

She blew past the cardinal’s assistant and entered Fox’s office as if her hair were on fire. Sal trailed distantly behind her. “I can’t do this,” Grace said. Her voice was halfway between defiant and imploring, but her shoulders were back and her feet planted wide. “There’s nothing at the Market for me to do. This is ridiculous.”

“I tried to explain,” Sal apologized to Cardinal Fox.

The cardinal put down the memo he’d been reading. “Those are your orders,” Fox told Grace, mildly. “You’re a soldier now. You’re my soldier, and you’ll go where I tell you.”

“Three days?” Grace shook her head. “Plus travel? And not a whiff of a fight anywhere? There’s no need for me to do this. If it has to be Team One, send someone who’s going to lose those three days of their life no matter what. I should only be used when something dangerous is going on.”

“I’m the one who decides when and where you should be ‘used.’” Fox made air quotes. “Grace, out of all of us, you know Team Three best. You’ve worked with them for years. Unless you and Sal have some personal conflict I’m not aware of, then you’re absolutely the best person for the job.”

Grace glared in Sal’s direction. “I need a minute with the cardinal.”

Sal studied Grace for a moment, then nodded. “Make it fast. The train leaves in less than an hour.”

Grace rounded on Fox as soon as Sal closed the door. “This isn’t fair. I didn’t transfer to Team One so that you could throw me back in with Team Three at every possible opportunity. I had reasons for switching.”

Fox’s expression remained bland. “I gave you a job. This is a part of your job. If you don’t like it, you’re always free to leave the Society and strike out on your own.”

Grace twitched at that, but didn’t reply. Cardinal Fox picked up his memo again. “You should really get going,” he said mildly. “I hear you have a train to catch.”

• • •

The Market Arcanum had changed since Sal’s first and last visit. Some things were the same, of course: the imposing historic manor, for one, with its sweeping gravel driveway and courtyard full of magicians, dabblers, ancient creatures, and new seekers of knowledge. There were numerous cliques, present to see and be seen at such an exclusive venue just as much as to conduct any business. Sal thought a few faces even looked familiar from her first visit. And of course she recognized the Maitresse, their regal and seemingly ageless hostess. She bowed her head toward Sal by way of greeting, but there was no more acknowledgement that they knew each other, much less that she owed Sal a favor.

And the groups felt a bit like a who’s who of enemies and allies she’d made over the past few years. She saw a gremlin leap into the crowd to avoid her; she’d seen one of its kind at an academic conference gone terribly wrong last year. The woman threading her way toward the gremlin could have been Aisha, the Canadian magician who had stopped a century-old curse. There were any number of well-dressed aristocrats, reminding her of Mr. Norse.

For a second, Sal thought she even glimpsed one of the members of Team Four, but the man vanished into the throng before she could be sure.

There was fresh blood here, as well: an old woman with leathery skin and a kente head wrap that writhed in upsettingly non-Euclidean angles. A trio of fat, swarthy men dressed in feathers. Along one wall, a cluster of young people in black lace and dark lipstick. They couldn’t have been out of their twenties, magic or not, and if Sal had seen them on the streets of New York she’d have pegged them as being a little too fond of vampire novels. One young man with bone-white bleached hair eyed her across the room and bent to whisper something to his companions. They giggled and turned away.

But the most pressing new trait of the market was… the press of it. When Sal had first come, there had been space to breathe and mingle. Groups had kept a comfortable distance from one another. Not now. The crush was almost intolerable.

Grace bent her head toward Sal. “Was it always this crowded?”

“No.” Sal rubbed at the silver cross around her neck absently. “Not by a mile.”

Grace frowned. “Rising tide. The market has more customers than it used to as magic gets stronger.” She moved on the balls of her feet, ready to spring into violence at any moment.

Sal laid two fingers on her arm. “Relax, it’s safe enough in here. The Maitresse doesn’t let anything happen on her watch.”

“I’m relaxed,” Grace said, even as she turned so she could keep tabs on the whole assembly at once. “How will we know who we’re looking for?”

“We ask around?” Sal searched for a friendly face. Or a not-hostile one.

The problem was solved for them. A voice boomed loud over the whispering courtyard: “Bookburners!”

Heads turned their way. The whispers grew more intense, fueled by fresh gossip. The voice’s owner made his way over to them.

The Swede was blond and tan, lanky, and dressed in a T-shirt and jeans that somehow seemed more expensive than any custom-tailored suit could have been. He wore mirrored sunglasses in the dusk. Sal thought he looked like nothing so much as the kind of douchebag who called himself a club promoter but actually lived off of the kindness of a series of short-lived girlfriends.

He had an entourage: a few fashionable youths like himself, mostly hanging back; a graying woman with a sensible haircut and a skirt suit who looked like she could’ve walked out of an accounting office; and then there was the bear, ten feet tall with claws as long as Sal’s face and a thick pelt matted with food. It wore a bright red collar and leash, though the lead hung loose.

Or maybe not a bear. Sal’s head ached as she squinted to try to focus better. The icy cross around her neck showed her a truer vision of the thing: a heap of stinking furs pinned together with knives. The empty space inside it buzzed faintly, as if it were filled with bees. Her fingers strayed toward her gun, strapped tight in its holster.

Not that bullets would be very effective. The thing was probably a homunculus, or something like it—a magical construct that operated as if it were alive, and to an ordinary onlooker was indistinguishable from the real thing. She could see the bear and the not-bear at the same time, but by now the ache in her temples was familiar. She wondered how the Maitresse felt about a bear traipsing around the premises. It didn’t seem like something she’d ordinarily have tolerated.

“You’re Asanti’s servants?” the Swede asked, abrupt. He spoke with the up-and-down singsong of Scandinavia, so he sounded less menacing than he might have intended.

Grace pushed Sal behind her and glowered. “And you are?”

The Swede raised an eyebrow. “Feisty, are you?” He circled around her, eyeing her with tremendous interest. “Mmm. Quite the interesting specimen. You don’t see something like that every day.” He turned to Sal. “How much for her?”

“What?” Sal half-shook her head, certain she’d heard wrong.

“I’m not for sale.” Grace’s voice was flat and dry.

“You think you’re not,” said the Swede, “but everything is negotiable once the price gets high enough.”

“She’s not for sale,” Sal repeated. “You must be Povel. Asanti sent us to finish your business.”

He held his hands up in a pretense of being offended. “Oh, come now, don’t be too hasty! We hardly know one another, how can we conduct business together? Drink with me first! We have vodka, we have akvavit…”

Sal shook her head. “We’re not here to party.”

Povel sighed with showy disappointment, though his accountant’s lips quirked to the side in a half smile. “Bookburners! All matches and no fun. The only thing you care about is the book. Though I may still get a better offer! I should really spend some time mingling to see…”

“Don’t you and Asanti have a contract?”

“You wound me! The first night of the Market is not for completing business, it’s for friendship.” His youthful companions sniggered in their hands, well accustomed to this game.

“If you don’t hand over the book,” Grace said, “we’d be happy to get it from you with our usual methods.”

“Threats?” Povel pressed his palm to his chest in exaggerated horror. Behind him, the bear stood up on its hind legs; it was easily a dozen feet tall. “Whatever would the Maitresse think if she heard you?” Povel looked around in a show of agony that could have been rehearsed.

As if on cue, the Maitresse arrived at Sal’s side. Or perhaps she had been there all along. She steered Sal away by an elbow. “Walk with me,” she said. She guided them away from the crowd and into the empty garden. It was thick with roses, or the shadows of them. There were no lights here, and the June air clung to Sal, moist and heavy.

They followed a path of pale cobblestones between yew trees trained into an arch. There was a little clearing rounded by hedges, with a fountain in the center. Beside it was a stone bench carved of marble. The Maitresse sat upon it, leaving Sal and Grace standing. “You must understand,” the Maitresse said, “I have nothing but gratitude for your helping me during a difficult situation.” She turned her face to the stars, examining them impassively.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming up,” Sal said.

“You and me both,” Grace murmured.

The fountain chuckled to itself. Sal resisted the urge to stare at the statue at its apex. In the absence of artificial light, she couldn’t see its shape clearly, but she couldn’t shake the idea that the thing was shifting its weight or making faces every time she turned away from it.

“You have done me a favor,” the Maitresse said, “but that does not mean that you can demand repayment. That debt has been settled. No matter how fondly I look upon you, the rules of the Market Arcanum are the same for everyone. Do not think I will support you in a dispute with any of my other guests.”

“We weren’t trying to pick a fight,” Grace said. “But we aren’t going to let anyone take advantage of us, either.”

The Maitresse sighed. “Nonetheless.”

She turned to them, and this time she was young and radiantly beautiful. She gave an impish smile. “We might still be friends,” said the maiden. “Just… not during the Market. You understand, don’t you?”

Sal nodded, slowly. “Of course,” she said.

“Thank you,” the Maitresse said. And then she was her ageless self again. She rose and glided away.

Grace and Sal stayed in the garden a while longer, breathing in the heady June scents in companionable silence. “It’s going to be a long weekend, isn’t it?” Sal asked at last.

“Longer than most.”

And then Sal realized one more reason why the Market felt so different this time. It wasn’t just the newcomers; the Market had been full of wild characters before, too. But there was something missing: the Network. There hadn’t been a sign of a techno-cultist anywhere in the place. She felt a pang, something between regret and victory. She’d have to call her brother soon, and tell him she missed him.

Of course, the Network had never been the only dangerous game in town. Sal and Grace would have to be on their guard. Just like always.