@heksery -
The Night Market —or Markets, more properly, as they were a global network of such–existed in a space between spaces, a liminal area between worlds–the human world, and many, many others. Merchants from all came to hock their wares, with treasures such as bravery in a bottle, cunning in a carafe, kindness in cabochon ring. You could buy seven-league boots (or a mere seven mile knockoff if you couldn’t afford the leagues), a dagger that cut through lies, the strings and needle necessary to mend a broken heart, or an “evil eye” amulet that really was from an evil eye, though which one you had to be careful to ask whom the eye had come from—they might want it back. The prices, it must be noted, were just as dear as the wares; your heart’s content, your peace of mind, and even baby’s breath (not the flowers)
The stalls were as varied as the species of the merchants; some were mere huts, some veritable palaces. Some were made of straw, or stone, or bone (best not to ask what from); some were living flesh, or glittering glass, or water that was enchanted to hold its shape. Some steeped the potential buyer in darkness as soon as they stepped in, or transported them to a glamorous ball or the bottom of the sea or a trail in a dark forest that they had to pick their way through to find to find the merchant at all if they TRULY wished to buy. Some advertised themselves as flamboyantly as possible, some were hidden in the shadows, some were charmed to only be visible to those who needed what they had.
But all held to certain rules–namely, a buyer could not be influenced or compelled to buy. All sales must be done of the purchaser’s own free will. There were a few others, of course, and the code of respect towards other merchants that one must abide by, but that was key.
Two such merchants in this marvelous magical market were Juliana Sara Ester Berger Accama, and Abraham “Bram” King. A witch and a werebull, a seamstress and a CEO. And the former was presently in the office of the latter. Not the office of Bos Industries, the mundane machinery company that he presided over as a man, but his office as a member of the Curia Regis. The term was a Latin phrase that meant “king’s court” and was traditionally used for the royal council of monarchs in medieval Europe. Here, though, it was a band of cutthroat elites, human and otherwise, who wished to control the supernatural underworld—and did a damned good job at it, often through methods most cruel. Most cruel, and most concealed; they were as elusive and as they were elite.
But Juliana knew of Bram’s membership—and was apparently seeking it for herself. And Bram was not dismissing her. . .just yet, anyway.
“I’m not opposed to you petitioning for membership to me, Ms. Accama,” he said from behind his huge desk of some black polished stone, harvested by weremoles from a world beneath even that of the dwarves, his thick fingers steepled together before him,
“But I want to know what you can offer. We’ve not shortage of assassins, though your means are unique. Besides your textile talents, what can you bring to our little. . .club?”
