Page 82 of Disturbing the Dead
We do as we’re told. The escort leads us down one narrow corridor and then another, along stone so cold I feel it through my boots. The ceiling is so low that Gray would need to duck. Water drips down the walls, and I remember this is why the vaults didn’t work out as storage units—they weren’t waterproof.
Finally, our escort stops and raps on a metal door. The process repeats. We step through into darkness, handed into the custody of another, and only once the door shuts behind us does our new escort light their lantern. This time, though, the light is barely needed. We’re in a much larger stone corridor, at least six feet across, with a half-circle ceiling. Closed doors line either side. Voices tumble from the distance, and the dim glow grows brighter until we reach a wooden door with light shining through the slats. Our shadowy escort half bows and opens the door, and we step into the market.
The first thing I see is light. The flickering glow of candles and hearth fires. Then the sounds—fires crackling over a steady chorus of murmured voices. I think we must still need to go through another door, because the voices are muted. Then I see figures. Lots of figures.
The room is cavernous. One of the larger vaults, I presume, with double-height ceilings. There are dozens of people, yet the voices don’t rise above a murmur.
I start to step in and stop abruptly. My gaze swings down. There, on the stone floor, is some kind of mystical symbol drawn with soot and chalk. And we’re walking over it.
“Is that… a problem?” I say, looking down.
Queen Mab chuckles. “Only if you believe in magic. Do you believe, Miss Mallory?”
I hesitate, and she looks over sharply.
“Well, that is interesting,” she murmurs. “You strike me as a young lady who would have no patience with such things. I was teasing, and yet you hesitate.” Her dark eyes bore into mine. “Had a mystical experience yourself, child?”
I give myself a shake. “It just unsettled me, that’s all. My family was superstitious. Can’t help picking up a bit of that.”
Her piercing gaze calls me a liar, but she decides not to pursue it, only saying, “That symbol is supposed to compel you to be honest in your dealings. It is only a problem if you do not intend to be… and if you believe in such things.” Her voice lowers. “Which I do not.”
I nod, still unsettled as I follow her in. Do I believe in magic? I’d say no, and yet I’m walking in a world that existed over a hundred years before I was born. What is that, if not magic?
I shake it off and look around. What strikes me next isn’t the sights or sounds. It’s the smells. I catch dozens of them, coming from every direction, faint scents that have me sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
Queen Mab gives me a quizzical look.
“I’m trying to place the scents,” I say. “Some are familiar, but I can’t name any of them.”
She inhales. “Myrrh and frankincense oil, always popular at this time of year. Also aniseed and…” She lifts her chin, taking a deeper breath, and then makes a face. “Now that smell I would know anywhere. Someone has cheese fruit.”
“Cheese fruit?” I say. “I like cheese, and I like fruit.”
“You most assuredly would not like this. It is also known as vomit fruit.”
“Yum.”
“It is a starvation food in the tropics, meaning it is only eaten if one is starving. It is also said to have medicinal properties, which is why it is here, but I have never found it useful myself.”
As we walk, people glance over. No one does anything as indiscreet as turn around, much less gawk, but by the way they quickly look away, I get the sense that even those subtle glances are considered rude.
Most gazes go to Queen Mab. They recognize her, and they nod, even bow or curtsy. When they see me, their interest sharpens. Something new. Something interesting, as Queen Mab said. Whispers trail in our wake.
“You are causing a stir, my dear,” she murmurs. “Excellent.”
“May I look around?” I whisper. “I’m dying of curiosity, but I don’t want to stare.”
“And you should not. Discretion is key. You may look, though. Keep your chin up, and let your gaze sweep about you, as if you are simply taking it all in.”
Mrs. Wallace has been silent behind us, and I look back, but she has her gaze forward and her expression impassive.
I do as Queen Mab suggested. I survey my surroundings like a princess, curious but taking this in as if it is rather commonplace.
It is not commonplace. What I see around me is part smoky dive bar and part mystical fairyland. The fires mean there’s plenty of smoke, and only a small hole for it to escape… somewhere. That leaves the ceiling a low-hanging cloud of swirling fog that slips down to wreath the tops of rickety wooden market stalls. Candles flicker from scores of candelabras. Some burn red and orange, while others dance with mystical flames of green and blue and white. When a dark shape flies overhead, I nearly drop to the floor. A raven lands on the post of a stall and eyes me with disdain.
There have to be close to a hundred people in here, half behind stalls and half browsing them. At least a quarter of the stalls are unmanned, as if their owner is among the browsers.
Underground-market attire seems to come in two varieties. So dull and dreary that the wearer vanishes into the smoke or so bright that they glitter even when that smoke swirls around them. Those who want to be noticed… and those who wish to disappear into the shadows.
