The Grand Bazaar
“Free-run Jarlax eggs!” A small creature in a brown hat bawled.
“Forty-five Tawlas for the price of thirty,” a green-skinned fishman called out.
“You want the best Tookahu this side of Credellia? Right over here my friend, don't be shy!” I stepped wide around the Groq speaking – his filth looked catching, even at a distance.
I'd been reluctant to come with Shecky to the Grand Bazaar, and by reluctant I mean “made him promise we'd never come back after”. More than one night in my youth had ended at the Bazaar, and I'd lost whole days, weeks, and even a month thanks to whatever oddities I'd purchased. It wasn't that the Bazaar didn't have everything – it absolutely did. It was that the place was dirty, loud and filled with the galaxy's best cheats and liars. It was no place for a soft-heart like Shecky.
Trouble was, I couldn't really say no to the little human. He'd saved my life a few years back, and we Hadoshins have one of those “life-pact” contracts that show up whenever someone does something stupid like that. I'd tried to argue the point in a court of law, but they didn't want to hear it. I should never have been on earth in the first place, they said, and though the chance of the slug meant for me actually ending my life was damn slim, the arbiter had ruled that Shecky's intentions were what mattered – he thought I was in danger, and he saved my life.
Now, I had an unwanted roommate, one that wanted his worldly companion to take him to the Grand Bazaar.
Chances are I wouldn't be recognized; a decade of bar fights and bad deals had left me with very different face than the one I used to think was so handsome. I still looked pretty damn good for my age - none of the yellow had faded from my eyes, and my mocha skin was still an even tone, but the bones in my face had gotten a serious working-over. In a way, it made things easier, since the dozen or so beings with means that wanted to end my life wouldn't see me unless I was right in front of them, pistol in hand. Still, that didn't mean I wanted to go to the Bazaar.
Shecky was drifting toward a food cart that didn't smell all that bad, but one look told me what the “chef” was cooking. Fried feces-bird was a delicacy on Lorrun, but past the golden exterior they tasted just like you'd think from the name, and I didn't want Shecky get sick all over me. I grabbed him and hauled him back into the middle of the street.
“You've only got an hour left,” I said, “so you'd better spend it wisely.”
My eager, brown-haired friend nodded, slipping out of my grip. I'd given him four hours in total, and he'd spent the bulk of the last three wandering aimlessly, which was boring but at least kept him mostly out of trouble. He'd almost touched a poison apa-rattler, and managed to get his hands on a Junga Juice before I snatched it and poured it on a rock. He'd been mightily offended until he saw it eat right through the sand-colored stone. Twiilers could manage that sort of stuff, but a human was not built to take the same kind of corrosive pressure.
“Ooh!” Shecky cried out, and I saw him dart forward in the crowd. Breaking into a run I followed after him, shouldering beings big and small out of my way. If one of them wanted to make an issue of it, fine – I had my pistol ready, and the guards the Bazaar didn't care who came out on the winning end of violence, so long as business went on.
“Shecky!” I yelled. “Wait!”
I caught up to him outside of a small tent, a garish thing with the picture of a woman holding an hourglass above it. Great. A time-seller. Most of these were complete frauds, and the few that weren't had no business selling the stuff at the Bazaar. The Timers took these kinds of things very seriously, and didn't give out permission to just anyone.
He was inside before I had a chance to warn him off, so I ducked under the fraying tent-flap. Inside, a thin woman sat at a circular table, hands clasped in front of her.
“Shecky,” she said, “so good of you to come.”
He squealed in delight, but I wasn't impressed. Name-stealing was one of the most basic tricks of the telekinetic arts. That didn't mean she was actually any good.
“You are interested in buying time, yes?” She didn't look at me, but Shecky nodded vigorously. “Alright. Sixty credits.”
I slapped a hand down on the table, blocking Shecky's route to have his money taken.
“Not a chance,” I said, “forty, at best.”
The woman glowered up at me, then nodded. “Fine, forty. Give!”
I stepped back, and Shecky eagerly pushed the credits across the table to her.
“There!” She said after a moment. “Done!”
Shecky's face fell, and I reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. The Bazaar was a cruel place, but he had to learn sometime that not everyone told the truth.
A sound from outside had me spinning on my heels, and I took as step back as I saw Shecky come through the door. The tent-flap moved again, and I saw myself step inside, eyes wide in the dim light.
“What the hell?” Both myself and I said, looking first at our Sheckys and then back at each other. Both of our companions clapped their hands in glee, and I turned to the woman at the table.
“You have some explaining to do, Time-seller,” I said darkly, my other self coming to stand at my side. “How the hell did you manage this?”
The two Sheckys were jabbering on behind us, laughing and cavorting at their good fortune, and I felt my stomach flip. I couldn't deal with a second one.
-D
No comments:
Post a Comment