The Illusion of Fear: 2
A Sip of Coffee
On his third day at the Pavilions market, Del made a sale. A city devoid of Pamavianda magic seemed like an opportunity to sell Pa illusion art, but until now, people hadn’t given his rickety table full of blown glass globes more than a passing glance.
He ought to put an illusion on the table and make the presentation more attractive. But that would be cheating. And probably pointless, since he could do nothing about being sandwiched between a coffee stand and a stall selling cured sausages in the rearmost pavilion.
Being next to a coffee stand was torture, but at least Del had lunch sorted – the sausage seller kept offering him taste tests. Del’s mouth still burned from the last one though, and if the chilli trend was continuing, he’d have to decline. He’d lasted weeks without food before. It was a mild discomfort for a fifth-stage human. The feeling of being hungry, but none of the effects.
Still, he’d rather eat, and because this absurd city didn’t use the Universal Credit Exchange System or offer a conversion service, Del had to find a way to earn Acrusian sucoy.
A woman dressed in a long green gown with gold embroidery and a train tied up under a bustle paused, sipping her coffee. Her eyes spoke of centuries. A long, thin wooden rod was strapped to either arm with decorative bands, and she wore rings to match the style. She set her cup on the edge of Del’s crowded table and indicated a piece he’d placed towards the front. ‘May I?’
In exchange for a sip of your coffee. Del smiled. ‘Of course.’
The woman picked up the small sphere. It was a simple thing: clear blown glass with a wisp of cerulean blue curling in the centre like smoke, flecks of gold glinting in the colour as the woman cradled the orb before her eyes.
Del waited, rubbing his beard. It needed a trim.
She lowered her hands, disappointment clouding her face.
‘Think a kind thought,’ Del suggested.
The woman pursed her lips, and just before she set the orb back on the table, it shimmered, then the curl of blue smoke expanded and morphed into a giant painted butterfly perched on a cream flower, its body crystalline and glittering in the sunlight, its wings glorious blue and red patterns, flecked with gold. Del had painted the butterfly back in Oria, captured the painting’s likeness as a moving illusion, then worked with an An magician to preserve the illusion in the glass sphere.
The butterfly stared up at the woman with big, iridescent eyes, flapped its wings, then the image spiralled into smoke and returned to a simple glass ball. She set it back on the table. ‘You should be in the artists’ pavilion.’
Del shrugged. ‘They were full.’ And the rent was expensive.
‘A pity. No one comes this far down looking for art, and certainly not for work such as this. Then again, some are more dedicated than others.’ She eyed Del’s hands, looking for the rings Pa illusionists wore, but she saw only his leather gloves. ‘Are you the creator?’
Del almost nodded, but Medea’s warning flashed through his mind. The thief might have only meant to caution him against bringing an unregistered Pamavianda artefact into Acrusi, but there had been an edge to her voice that set Del’s nerves skittering. He smiled instead, grateful that he’d worn gloves. Pa rings had a look to them, unlike the pretty mundane rings on the woman’s fingers.
The woman smiled back, sly. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about the Piavinica Child?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘You will soon, I expect.’ She still had that gleam in her eye, like she knew what Del was up to. The muscles in Del’s neck tensed. She couldn’t know anything about him, but he found himself poised, weight on the balls of his feet, arms taut at his sides.
The woman laughed, and the moment shattered like fine crystal hitting the floor. ‘I’ll take the butterfly.’ She reached into a pocket for her purse. ‘How much?’
Del took a deep breath and unclenched his body. ‘Ten sucils.’
She dropped the small green coins into Del’s palm with a careless clatter. He should have asked for more. But at a rate of one sale every three days, he’d keep his rented room at the Mezlit and eat well enough. He wrapped the butterfly sphere in tissue paper, and she tucked it into another pocket somewhere in her panelled skirt. Useful, having so many pockets. Trousers couldn’t manage half the number, and it was obvious to thieves – or fake thieves – if they held any great volume.
The men here were just as likely to wear similar attire to Del’s customer: fitted, laced bodices, with or without sleeves, and long, full skirts, sometimes split down the middle for riding. As many women had walked past sporting tailored suits too. Everyone’s attire was beautifully embroidered and patterned.
Del wore a version of the same clothes he’d arrived in – a simple long-sleeved white shirt and plain grey trousers. The only wardrobe he had, standard issue for Uzrun agents.
He’d sell the next sphere for double and get some new clothes. Simple ones, but something that blended in better than his old uniform.
Del closed his fist around the coins, regretting not having a till or something more professional than his pockets. ‘Thank you.’
The woman smiled. ‘Watch out for the Lightlords. They won’t appreciate work as fine as this.’
Del frowned. In Oria, the Lightlords were a sect who eschewed Pamavianda magic in favour of the subtle school, but they weren’t anyone to watch out for. Before he could ask, she swept away. As she stepped out of the pavilion, Del spotted her near-full coffee cup still sitting on the edge of his table.
Well, she could buy herself another. Grinning, he picked up the cup and sipped the rich liquid. Honey tempered the bright acidity. And it was good. Subtle-made, for sure. He leaned against the pillar of the archway in a ray of warm spring sunshine and took a deep breath.
The undesirable location suddenly wasn’t so bad.