Veraa tugged at the collar of her shirt.
“Phew, it’s hot down here.”
“Welcome to Ispania,” I replied. “And welcome to the Sevillo Markets.”
We’d just arrived at a broad, open promenade packed with stalls and carts selling fish, fruit, baked goods, carpets, stoneware and a million pieces of jewellery. As we wove through the crowd, I pretended to keep Veraa on a short leash. She was looking at jewellery when I spotted something. I gave her a little tug on the bright orange ID armband she’d been issued with.
“Don’t react to this, but there’s a guy watching us,” I muttered. “Straight ahead, the guy selling scarves.”
Veraa lowered the necklace she’d been toying with. “That a good thing or not?”
“Can’t tell yet. Let’s move toward him, see what he does. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with him.”
We strolled along the promenade, casually eyeing the stalls as we passed them, until we reached the scarf seller. I tugged Veraa by the sleeve, and she halted.
“Well, lookit there,” I said, putting on a twangy South-western drawl. “Ain’t these ol’ scarves beautiful?”
Veraa nodded but said nothing; I’d warned her that American slavers took a dim view of their products speaking freely.
“How much?” I asked the vendor.
His smile was warm and so broad it seemed to stretch his cheeks like taffy, but his eyes stayed cool and analytical. “Forty Noonans each, sir.”
“Forty jacks ain’t so bad. You got anything else, ‘sides scarves?”
“Handkerchiefs,” he shrugged.
“Hmm, naw, I should be fine without.”
“Forgive me for asking, sir, but is your name Jack Slate?”
His hand was edging toward the hem of his tunic.
“Who wants to know?” I replied cagily. Normally, I’d just say no, but I think he thought he was onto something, and the right response could turn out a wealth of information.
He yanked a pistol out from under his tunic but I grabbed his arm and charged forward, literally crashing through the table of scarves to push him backwards. He started clawing at my face with his free hand, while I twisted his wrist around until he dropped the gun. We struggled for a few moments, and Veraa was able to step in and pick the gun up from around our feet. Finally, I got him bent over another table with his wrists gripped firmly behind his back.
“Who are you?” I yelled, dropping the phoney accent.
“Just a messenger, I swear,” he said, panicking.
“They always say that. Who are you working for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll kill me!”
“Who will kill you? Tell me!”
“All right!” he shrieked. “His name—“
There was a tiny crackle of something flying very fast. The scarf merchant gasped, shook with a sudden and violent spasm, then went limp. There was a small, silver needle buried in his shoulder, and it looked to have missed my finger by less than an inch.
“So much for ‘don’t shoot the messenger’,” I said drily.
Veraa yelped, clutching the side of her neck and ducking on a reflex. Another crackle went past my head as I dived toward her and dragged her into the crowd.
Life on the Fringes 