Galey A Market of Dreams and Destiny

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-80336-369-1
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 432 Seiten

Enter the bazaar of the bizarre where fate and fortunes are for sale in this high-stakes magical adventure across a London not quite like our own, perfect for fans of Neverwhere and The Night Circus. Below Covent Garden lies the Under Market, where anything and everything has a price: a lover's first blush, a month of honesty, five minutes of strength, a wisp of luck and fortune. As a child, Deri was sold to one of the most powerful merchants of the Under Market as a human apprentice. Now, after seventeen years of servitude and stealing his master's secrets, Deri spots a chance to buy not only his freedom but his place amongst the Under Market's elite. A runaway princess escapes to the market, looking to sell her destiny. Deri knows an opportunity when he sees it and makes the bargain of the century. If Deri can sell it on, he'll be made for life, but if he's caught with the goods, it will cost him his freedom forever. Now that Deri has met a charming and distractingly handsome young man, and persuaded him that three dates are a suitable price for his advice and guidance, Deri realises he has more to lose than ever. News of the princess spreads quickly and with the royal enforcers closing in, Deri finds himself the centre of his master's unwanted attention. He'll have to pull out all the stops to outmanoeuvre the Master Merchant, save the man he loves, make a name for himself, and possibly change the destiny of London forever.

Trip Galey is a debut author whose first novel, A Market of Dreams and Destiny, is launching in 2023. His interactive novel, Faerie's Bargain, was published in 2021 and is set in the same world. Trip has degrees in English and Theatre, Shakespeare, Acting and Creative Writing. He works as a lecturer and was published in the Lambda, Ignyte and Locus award-nominated Glitter + Ashes: Queer Tales of A World That Wouldn't Die. He lives in London and tweets @TripGaley

Autoren/Hrsg.

Galey, Trip

Leseproben

1

Be wary, child, as you go down,
To the place beneath old London town,
Where fey-folk work and goblins frown,
In the market ’neath old London town.

Deri hummed to himself as he dodged through the crowd, an old scrap of rhyme dredged up from a memory so many times bought and sold it was all but worn through. Three more errands left, just three, then he’d be free as the wind-swept sea. Well, as free as possible until he bought himself out of his indenture. Until then, endless errands. Fetch a new vial of ink of night from Merchant Codex. Deliver the parcel he carried to Merchant Blatterbosch. And return with Merchant Maurlocke’s lunch before the Market Bell rang the midday hour. Not that there was day, as such, here below London.

The Untermarkt was busier than usual. The lanes that threaded through the market stalls, never terribly wide, were choked with people. Mortals mixed with denizens from Faery and lands even deeper Underhill. A tattooed woman in buckskin and furs traded a small leather pouch to a merchant with the head and paws of a cat for the ability to see in the dark. A pair of young men in evening wear, drunk on a drop of faery wine, nearly crashed into a stall filled with dreams caught in crystal cobwebs. Goblin midwives, big-bellied with the precious charges that they both carried and delivered themselves, waddled past.

Noise crashed and foamed around him. Merchants haggled and hawked their wares, customers haggled back or laughed with their friends, buskers sang songs or brayed on instruments. You could feel the approaching holiday in the air, anticipation and excitement. Threaded through it all were the voices of the bells, ringing out hours and sales, jangling the appearance of customers and, to the rare few like Deri, who could truly hear, sharing gossip and swapping stories.

Did you hear? Did you hear? rang the Bell of Auld St. Cyr. The Merchant Shade did disappear!

Pish and tosh! Pish and tosh! rang the bell near Merchant Kosh. He’s simply gone to do his wash!

The first words Deri could remember hearing had been rang out by the bells. He’d been able to understand them, even then. A gift from having been carried to term by a goblin midwife.

‘Memories, sure to please! Sweet memories for modest fees! Come buy! Come buy!’

‘How do, Merchant Pryek,’ Deri called a greeting to a woman whose fingers were fine white clay and whose face was a porcelain mask. Her stall was a magpie’s nest of things that had been shaped: fine china and silver spoons, knots of plaited straw and carefully tatted lace, needles and spindles and rings and chains. Every item held not only its shape but also a memory that could be relived simply by using it.

‘Ah! Good morning, Deri,’ the merchant replied. ‘Come see my latest treasure! Come-come!’ She held up a commemorative plate, delicately painted with a distinctive pattern of blue and the profile of a regal young woman. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it pristine? Why, it hasn’t been eaten from since High Queen Victoria was elected to the throne, nearly forty years ago. And when you look at it, you can hear a memory of the Stone of Destiny singing her confirmation.’ She sighed with pleasure. ‘It will be a shame to part with it, but should you, or Merchant Maurlocke be interested…’ She angled the plate temptingly.

‘Not today, Merchant Pryek.’ Not today was so much safer than no. Maurlocke would skin him for shoe leather if he closed down a potential opportunity with a no. ‘Have a profitable day!’

Deri slipped behind a trio of young women bearing armfuls of parcels, though he needn’t have bothered. Merchant Pryek was already calling out to another.

He wove and darted through the crowd. It was busy, even for the Untermarkt, making running errands even more of a challenge. Deri was looking forward to the Autumnal Equinox as much as any of these punters, but unlike them he still had to work. Didn’t get but the bare scrape of holiday allotted by his indenture.

‘Good morning, Merchant Creydland!’ Deri called, passing a mountain of a man with eyes like coals and hair of fire. One of Merchant Maurlocke’s best trading partners; always take the time to pay respect to Merchant Creydland.

Deri received but a grunt of recognition in reply. A smith as much as a merchant, Creydland affected a smith’s apron rather than the more elaborate robes many merchants favoured. The majority of his attention was currently bent on hammering the last details of delicate brass filigree into place on a replacement hand for the man standing outside the merchant’s stall, who only had one of his own remaining. A soldier, probably, what with the appendage in question being of brass and all.

Creydland’s stall commanded an intersection of two market avenues. Left should be quicker, along the Street of Living Flame. Deri turned, but instead of the smell of hot metal and cold coin, his nose filled with a full field of floral bouquets. Fardles, the Market had shifted again.

‘Fruit of Knowledge! Fruit of Health! Learn secrets! Never sicken!’

‘Seeds! Rich seeds! One grain will sprout a full field of wheat!’

‘Flowers of Love, to grow your regard! Flowers of Lust, and passion unbarred! Come buy! Come buy!’

The last exhortation was cast upon the winds by Merchant Peaseblossom. Not good. Their stall, all of living wood that had never known the touch of axe, was so close to the edge of the Untermarkt as to be nearly in London proper.

‘Good morning, Deri,’ the merchant said, catching sight of him standing near. ‘Does Merchant Maurlocke require a fine posey or three?’

‘Not today, Merchant Peaseblossom.’ Deri flashed an apologetic smile. Peaseblossom was a terrible flirt. He was saved from further conversation by a pair of customers breezing up to the stall.

‘Good morning!’ Mortals. A pair of them, hand in hand, stepped up to the merchant.

The two young men, for such they were, both wore clothes of excellent cut, with particularly fine waistcoats. One was green and bronze with a chain-like pattern worked across it, while the other was blue and grey and bore repeating circles, like ship’s wheels.

It was a far cry from Deri’s own garb. He was dressed well enough, to be sure, but as a servant. Simple trousers and waistcoat of grey, with a coat to match. His hat, a nice flat cap which had once been a very fetching maroon, was his sole foray into the more daring side of fashion. As a servant he could only venture so far.

Not like the happy young men in front of him.

‘Ah! Messrs Copperfield and Steerforth! You’re looking well. I have the boutonnieres for your wedding all ready. Bide but a moment and I will fetch them for you.’ Merchant Peaseblossom turned, touched a flower as iridescent and translucent as spun glass, and disappeared.

‘Should we get some more rós-a-milis?’ Steerforth asked. ‘We’re here anyway.’

The flowers in question were so named for the enchantment their petals bore, not the specific colour or variety. Plucking a single petal from the bloom and crushing it between the fingers immediately cleansed one of all foul smells and rendered one’s clothing as freshly laundered. They were understandably popular amongst the bright young things that partied somewhat excessively but then had to make a presentable appearance at Great-Aunt Augusta’s dinner soiree to ensure the inheritance didn’t go amiss.

‘Depends on the price,’ the other, Copperfield, was saying.

‘You fret too much. Come now, Daisy! Can’t be less than fresh at our own wedding, can we?’

‘Don’t call me Daisy!’ Copperfield attempted to look stern but the laugh that burst from his lips spoiled the effect.

Lovers. Easy marks for the right kind of merchant. Nothing opened the purse like devotion or desperation. So much touching, too! Deri hadn’t seen many mortals quite so bold in the public display of their affections. He absently ran his fingers down his own arm. Not that he had occasion to flirt with the boundaries of what was or was not proper, himself. His indenture expressly forbade romantic entanglements. Not that he had time, anyway.

Time! He still had three errands to complete and, thanks to the stalls and alleyways shifting, his next stop was halfway across the Untermarkt. Deri briefly considered trying to take a shortcut through the streets above. No. Not fast enough. He’d have to do it the other way. At least he had a strong guide to follow to his next destination.

The trick to navigating the Goblin Market was not to ignore temptation. That was an exercise in futility. The trick was choosing which temptations to give in to, just a little, so you could follow them to what you were truly after.

Merchant Codex dealt in books, and parchment, and inks of all kinds. When was the last time he’d had the chance to hear a good story? There were no books or storytellers near, but this was the right place to send messages in the Language of Flowers, and sure enough, the Untermarkt stepped in to tempt him.

‘Prose spelt in poseys! In pansies and roseys!’

A single voice leapt out at him, clear above the clamour. Right on cue. The Market couldn’t resist an unspoken desire.

Deri followed temptation from the Street of the Flower-Sellers to a niche near an intersection where a bardic initiate sang a ballad of ages past. His feet slowed. He hadn’t heard this one before! No! He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to learn it himself. He needed a copy of the ballad. Deri followed that impulse away from the performance, and...