story: fair trade
From the shape of their shadows, Riddled knew trouble was about to step through his door.
Here’s an early version of a short story I plan to add to a longer series. The universe is called Locust & Lowe; at the end of the story, check out another story in the same universe. For those interested in the writing process, this is v2. I plan to add the finished version to a future story pack, but I don’t mind showing yall how the sausage gets made.
From the shape of their shadows, Riddled knew trouble was about to step through his door. Under the counter, his fourth digit began a sigil on his palm; aboveboard, he merely flipped the page of his book and watched out his periphery as one shadow held the door open for the other. The shadows resolved into two men, one in modest desert robes, a slightly shorter one in a hodge-podge of style. Riddled blinked Sunlight and dust out of his eyes. Their silhouettes were no match at all for those long black outlines outside.
Another customer crossed Riddled’s line of sight. When he found the newcomers again, they were back towards the bookshelves, heads bent low, the shorter one grinning and pointing. With their backs slightly turned, Riddled could take a closer look.
The taller one in the robes was Nerath stock to be sure. You could tell from the sunken eyes, if the rings hadn’t given it away. Riddled dropped the half-formed sigil and placed his hand back on the counter. Their magic was more powerful than he could ever hope to counter, but he needn’t worry; their kind posted up to the Dreamlands to mitigate the growth of the Ancient Ones, or so their matriarchs had charged them. Little good it did, but still. It was always a relief to have a Nerathian in your shop.
The shorter one, now, that was tricky. He could be from any plane where there were base humanoids, which narrowed it down to about a thousand. Neither did his fit help. The buckles affixing his long sleeves suited riding or spellcasting equally. There were sigils on the wide curved collar of his undershirt, but a man could pay for that.
The out-of-time man touched the Nerathian’s shoulder, gesturing, murmuring: come over here, look at this. His boots were odd, a style that reminded Riddled of an encounter he’d rather forget, and if this man were from the same place as that old wanderer, well… maybe it hadn’t been a trick of the Sun after all. But that couldn’t be true. No man hailing from a world that had been Swarm-devoured would be so full of mirth now. Riddled watched a lock of black hair fall across his eyes as he laughed at his companion. Wherever he was from, they made ‘em pretty there.
Riddled let them be and attended to his book until the Nerathian came up to him, a mug in hand.
“What can you tell me about this sigil?”
The man’s voice was quiet and melodic. Up close, Riddled saw his youth; his grave expression aged him from afar.
Riddled explained the provenance of the cup, as far as he knew: it’d been traded by a fellow Nerathian, in a batch of loot from the stomach contents of a byakhee. The byakhee had been the steed of a magician hopping through time and space, as they were wont to do, and as such the cup had come from some other plane. The Nerathian had slaughtered the byakhee and closed a gate to 𐍆𐍂𐌰𐍅𐌹𐍃𐌰𐌽, the land of The Swarm, but both Riddled and this man agreed there was no chance it originated there. They barely had the laws of physics in 𐍆𐍂𐌰𐍅𐌹𐍃𐌰𐌽, let alone factories, language, or the idea of cups.
“Are we allowed to cast…”
“In the shop, any Translate or Identify, as long as you share the results.”
“Done.”
Riddled led him to the front corner of the shop, near enough to the door that he could keep an eye on both. He had arrayed that corner to heaven, hell, and back; no magic was leaking out of his store. A typical spell of this kind had to be cast as a ritual, which was at least one incense stick’s worth of time. Riddled was surprised, then, that after a mere quarter stick the man approached again.
“Missing something? I stock the best Nerathian components in Ulthar.”
“No need. Have something to write with?” And then rattled off his information, not waiting for Riddled to keep up. It was the coat of arms of a peacekeeping force from a plane currently connected to the Dreamlands. The unfamiliar language was confusing, and seemed to be two different dialects. The man sounded it out as Riddled wrote down his best approximation: heth-lee day küm-ree sowth whayles poh-leese. It was a mundane cup (which Riddled already knew), but had the arcane residue of at least three other planes (which was news to him, albeit fairly worthless news).
“Leave it on the counter, I’ll put it back.”
Instead of answering, the Nerathian put 10 silver on the counter. That was too much for junk.
“Something you forgot to tell me?” Riddled said.
“No. I have a bet with my friend. I mean to win.”
Riddled wanted to ask. Thought better of it. Took the coins. “Anything else?”
The man spent a few moments peering down the case at collectibles. “The tag says this is from Rhη.”
It was a compass. Riddled had a basket of compasses elsewhere in the store, all priced a few copper at most, just like the other common equipment found on dead adventurers in the Dreamlands. But this one…
“Confirmed Rhη by me and another.”
“Would you come down on price?”
Riddled did not look away from the compass. He hadn’t mistaken the origin of the other man. He knew exactly who they were, and wished he didn’t.
“Afraid not.” And then, because Riddled had suicidal instincts that could not be helped, “You a collector? You know the story?”
Because Riddled was looking down, he saw the man’s hand twitch. For a wild moment, Riddled wondered if he would be struck down. But the Nerathian who accompanied the man from Rhη never acted in anger; he was his companion’s anchor, they said.
“Only that it was consumed by an Ancient One. I haven’t seen anything from Rhη in any other store. Nor in any other corner of the Dreamlands.”
“This was a trade from before I came here. I’ve had it in my collection a long time.”
“I’m surprised you want to sell such a piece.”
“Everything’s for sale. Doesn’t mean it sells.”
“I understand. Thank you for answering my questions. The sign outside said you barter.”
Riddled almost wanted to say no, but curiosity was what had sent him packing to Ulthar and would be what eventually killed him, the Oracle had always said so. Against better wisdom, he asked what the man would trade for the compass from doomed Rhη.
When the black-haired one walked over to make his purchase, Riddled refused to think his name, in case… just in case. A pewter tankard was in the man’s hand.
“He’ll think this is hilarious,” the man said, and then, at Riddled’s blank look, “Ah, we’re playing a game. We each get thirty silver, and we have to buy each other the best thing and the worst thing.”
“What constitutes worst?”
“You know: tacky, tasteless, makes you laugh with how ugly it is. You know it when you see it, as they used to say on my world. Like this stein. It’s so battered, it looks like it’s been run over.”
“And that thirty silver – does that include barter?”
“Now, that’s a question. We hadn’t established a rule for that. It’s a loophole, and you know what, I respect it. I have to respect it. Wait. Has he tried it? Has he already done it? Of course he has, the clever swine, and from the look on your face I can tell he’s going to win. Well, he’s going to win best. He wouldn’t be bartering for worst. I can still win worst.”
They both looked at the tankard, then looked up at each other. The man laughed, and Riddled thought: if I could bottle that sound, I’d put the price higher than anything else in this case.
“So much for this garbage. I’m going have to find something much worse. And something best-ish too.” He took stock of the case. “What is that?” He pointed, and Riddled brought out the urn necklace to show how the pendant unscrewed. On the world it came from, they put the ashes of their most beloved inside and their beloved would whisper to them from beyond. That magic only working on their world, it was more common to use the necklace for a hidden component compartment. Useful when traveling, Riddled added.
“A hidden component compartment,” the man repeated with delight. “A clandestine component compartment? A com, com, com… I’ve got it. A covert component compartment. Not a com, but close enough to fool the bank. Whaddya think?”
“If you like,” Riddled said.
“I do like. Is that a… ship, on the pendant there?”
“Steamship. On ;lkJe, they power all their contraptions with steam there.”
“Oh, ;lkJe? L- my- he mentioned wanting to go there.”
Riddled did not allow his expression to shift. “Might fit your best category then.”
“Not enough to win. But he’ll like it.”
“You pick somethin’ 5 silver or less as your worst, I’ll throw it in for free.”
“Wow, he really won, didn’t he? Damn,” the man muttered, but he was smiling, looking over at his companion who did not notice he was being observed. Then the man shook his head. “But the game’s still on! I can still win worst! Okay, wish me luck— oh. What’s your name?”
“Riddled.”
“West. But,” he leaned in, “I expect you already knew that.” Whatever Riddled’s face was doing, thank the Sunlight, it did not insult. Instead, the man smiled, a little thing, much dimmed. “A pleasure, Riddled. More for me than you. Thank you. Really. I promise we’ll be out of your fur soon.”
“Pleasure’s mine.” Riddled could have left it at that. Faced with terror, he should have. Instead, he cleared his throat, so that the man knew he wasn’t done. “And.” Riddled swallowed. Met the man’s eyes. “Luck. In all your endeavors.”
That night, Riddled spent some of the day’s profits on a little of the hard stuff from his landlady’s old man, who made clear liquor in a tub for cleaning grout from the cobblestones and killing neighbors by the bottle. Then, after consideration, he bought three pints of milk to set out for the cats. He needed the protection. He’d brushed too close, today. Too close indeed. He’d wrung out nearly a whole life getting him through that encounter, and he needed to gain more luck, quick, so that he never saw West or Lowe again.
But how could he have known? Even though his goddess Sun had tried to warn him with shadows, how could he have known?
A man from Rhη who had declared to the Dreamlands and all its connected planes that he would kill The Swarm — kill an Ancient One. He was insane. And his companion, a silent stalwart sword wielded with deadly precision against anyone who doubted them. Anyone caught in their wake joined or died. That was the legend. It hadn’t taken a week in Ulthar for Riddled to hear it, and when he asked what to do if you encountered them? Pray to your god to survive the encounter.
Riddled hadn’t prayed. He’d bartered. And now his bounty laid on his table. It had been delivered an hour ago. A small glass frame. Underneath the glass, pinned to taut cloth, a perfect specimen of larder beetle, one of The Swarm’s ubiquitous species, now dead and on display like a head on a pike. And in Riddled’s home, proof of guilt and collusion.
He should get rid of it. Look up an array to keep it inert, then burn or bury it.
He stared at the beetle for a long time, watching for movement. Then he put it in his bag and fell asleep drafting the tag for the display case: Authentic Collectible - Calling Card of the Notorious Miles West & Cassius Lowe - Ask For Price.
Check out my other story in the Locust & Lowe universe:
Oh my GOD! Okay, it's happening!
Everybody stay calm-
Stay fucking CALM!!!