The Silversmith

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. In fact, if the townspeople were asked if there were any dragons within a hundred miles, most would ridicule the idea or cross themselves against the magic and curse against tempting fate. This far south, so close to the border? Ludicrous. It didn’t do to imagine such things.

Eleanora Silversmith was not one of those townspeople. She knew for a fact that there were dragons in the Valley and what’s more, she knew where. That was why she was slinking into the dubious shadows of the Night Market with a bulging canvas knapsack and the unmistakably shifty look of somebody getting up to no good.

There was no better place than the Night Market to conduct shady business of an evening. Most of the town paid protection tax for defences to stamp out magic, but the neighbourhoods that couldn't afford it were largely abandoned to their own devices. In the depths of shambolic Old Town, the labyrinths of winding streets were lined with crooked buildings that pressed in as though conspiring with one another. It was there, in obscure nooks and clandestine corners, that a hotchpotch of stalls had sprung into being almost as spontaneously as a ring of toadstools.

They sold mostly junk; cheap talismans that barely worked or didn’t work at all, potion remedies that were entirely illegal and most likely poisonous, scraps of precious metal so unrefined they offered no protection whatsoever; rip-offs and fakes and very, very occasionally, a genuine magical artefact selling at a price that almost nobody could afford. It was ironic that a place as terrified of magic as the Valley also had a black-market trade in it; but people were getting desperate, and desperate people are susceptible to dangerous things.

Nora knew better than to be in a place like this. If her mother ever found out that she had slipped away to skulk around the Night Market, of all places, she would have had to make a run for the border for self-preservation's sake. Of course, she wouldn't have been at the market at all, except there was a golden opportunity to make money that had been too good to pass up. It was almost certainly a terrible idea, and it was already far too late to back out.

It was almost dark and the narrow strip of evening sky that was visible between the eaves was glimmering an ominous green, the clouds simmering with the faint threat of thunder. Hungry skies. A storm was going to blow in soon and the magic along with it. Nora checked her wristwatch, but it had stopped. That was a bad sign. She didn’t have long.

Ursula's market stall was tucked at the end of a wandering alleyway that reeked rather unpleasantly of fish. There were only two other shabby little stands nearby, one of which was selling questionable river clams and the other jellied eel. There didn't seem to be much in the way of patronage except for a couple of mangy cats that were lazing in the shadows of the tables, tails twitching hopefully.

Beneath its sun-bleached cobalt canopy, Ursula's table was laden with a day's catch from the river. Rainbows shone in the scales, reflected in the glow of the lanterns strung overhead. Ursula was cleaning the guts from a carp. When she spied Nora approaching, she tossed it onto the table and wiped the oily blood from her hands with a rag. "How many?" she demanded.

"Three."

"Only three?"

“That’s three more than you had this morning. Besides, they’re a nightmare to catch.”

Had she lived anywhere else, Ursula might have had a friendly disposition; instead, long years of suspicion had soured her narrow features. Her brow scrunched into a vicious frown and her gaze was razor-sharp as she sized up the knapsack. The knife she had been using to gut the carp was a wicked little curved blade. She tucked it into the belt of her stained apron and beckoned, holding the canopy of the stall aside so that Nora could duck into the cramped space behind it.

The air within was oppressive; flies were buzzing lazily around the crates of fish and a pail of guts glistened in the corner. Translucent scales were scattered on the cobblestones like gauzy confetti. They crunched under the soles of Nora's boots as she gently set the knapsack down. Ursula squatted beside it and yanked it open. Golden light spilled out and she gazed in wonder.

“How’d ya get em?” she asked with reluctant admiration as she carefully lifted out a glass jar. Nora glanced at the front of the stall, but there was nobody nearby to catch sight of its contents. Ursula didn’t seem to be thinking about discretion; she didn’t seem to be thinking at all. She raised the jar to peer into it and the gentle glow emanating from within was cast like a spell across her face. For a moment, her glazed eyes seemed to shift colours. “How'd ya catch em?”

It was a very good question and one that Nora had no intention of answering. Her own heart was far from being filled with wonder at the sight of the jar clutched in Ursula's calloused, grimy fingers. Within it, the dragon shook out delicate, shimmering wings and beat them helplessly against the walls of its prison. Its scales gleamed like precious stone; it was luminescent like a firefly. From the tip of its nose to the end of its sinuous tail, it was no bigger than the palm of her hand. The one Ursula was holding was emerald green. She pulled out another of the jars, this one containing a specimen the colour of pure copper. She sat back on her heels to inspect them greedily and drummed her nails on the jars so that the little dragons snapped and hissed.

“We agreed on fifty each, didn’t we?” Nora said. She avoided looking too closely at the sparklings. They writhed within the jars, gorgeous and rare and hopelessly trapped, their fates no longer their own. The sight of it made her feel faintly sick. She was keen to be gone from the stall, keen to be out of Old Town, far away from the jars and the fish merchant too. She held out her hand for the money. Ursula clambered to her feet. On a rickety wooden filleting table that was heavily scored with knife marks, there was a money box. She flung it open to count out notes into a small pile.

“That isn’t all of it.”

"Oh, yes it is," Ursula said with a cold smile. She folded the money into a wad and tossed it at Nora, who caught it. It only took a quick thumb through the notes to confirm her suspicions. A hundred crowns. It was more money than Nora had ever held at once in her life, but the price of only two of the sparklings. She shrugged, tucked the money into her coat pocket and took up the knapsack with the remaining jar in it. "I guess I'll keep this one, then."

Ursula gave her a long, liquid, appraising sort of look, like a cat considering how best to pounce. Nora’s heart lurched up to thump somewhere in her throat. She swung the knapsack onto her back and groped for the stall's exit. Before she could duck out, Ursula spoke. "Ever been to the Skanky Cat? Don’t ‘spose it’s your kind of place. A few soldiers like to drink there.”

Of course, she had been half-expecting something like this. There was not one good reason to trust Ursula after all, other than the fact that this illegal bargain put them both at risk. “Last I checked, buying sparklings is as bad as selling them,” she said, though her heart was fluttering madly now, as though it too were trapped in the fish merchant’s clutches.

Ursula shook her head slowly and tucked her hands into her apron belt, closer to her knife. “That depends where you got them. Leave the bag, or maybe I’ll go have a quiet drink with the Legion soldiers and tell them how somebody’s been poaching sparklings from the Finch estate.” Nora's breath caught. Her surprise must have shown because Ursula smirked. "What, you thought you were the only one who knew where to find them? Nah. I know where they are. Not many around here stupid enough to steal from them though, eh? Tell you what. I've paid a fair price for these two. That last one can be the price of me keeping your secret, eh, little thief?”

Just like that, Nora was over a barrel. Ursula was right; she had indeed poached the dragons. It was true, only an idiot, or someone truly desperate, would steal from the estate. The Finches were the most powerful family in the Valley and they were mean with it. The Iron Legion was firmly in their pocket, and the threat of their retribution was enough to give anyone pause. Bribing a patsy into doing the dirty work and then blackmailing them to slash costs, however, was a win-win. She dropped her hold on the stall's canopy. If the legion got involved, it would be no good to run now only to end up with a different kind of knife in the back later. Or, more likely, a silver-tipped bullet.

"Do you really want to make an enemy of me?” she asked. Ursula shrugged carelessly, confident of the upper hand.

“No, 'course not, you got it all wrong. We’re friends. If you want more money, I’ll give you fifty for every one you bring me. And if you don't bring them, well, I'll have no more reason to keep your secret, eh?"

"We had an agreement. You keep your end, or I’m not gonna do business with the likes of you.”

“That would be smart, eh? Bit late for that.”

Sparklings have an avaricious sort of magic. There is something enchanting about them, alluring to the point of distraction. Often, they can make a person forget themselves. Ursula was tall and long-limbed which gave her the advantage in a fight, but she was too sure of herself and she got greedy. When Nora held out the knapsack, she reached for it eagerly - too eagerly.

In one fluid movement, Nota dropped the bag, seized Ursula's outstretched arm and yanked her forwards so the merchant lost her balance. The knapsack, she kicked aside, out of reach. Ursula recoiled in surprise and without the forethought to seize her knife, lashed out clumsily with a fist - and Nora caught it. There was a hiss and steam poured from beneath her hand. Ursula gave a horrible yell and wrenched free. She staggered back, clutching her arm. A livid blister was peeling open on her skin. Her face was pale as she stared down at the wound in horror. Then anger overcame her shock; she snarled as her uninjured hand went to the fish knife in her apron.

Again, Nora was faster. Quick as a flash, her own silver knife was gleaming between them. Ursula cringed away from it, eyes glittering. The sight of it alone was enough; she kept well back, lifting her hands in defeat. Nora opened her own hand to reveal the silver medallion clasped in her palm. It had burned Ursula badly, which they both knew perfectly well could only mean one thing.

“Go ahead and snitch, but I’ll make sure the Legion knows what you are," Nora said. She meant it to sound tough but ended up choking back a coughing fit. The mingling scents of hot metal, burned flesh and old fish made her want to gag. She swallowed hard, eyes watering. “They'll cut off my hand for poaching, sure, but they’ll do a hell of a lot worse to you."

Ursula's face was twisted with pain and rage. She yowled in response, baring sharp teeth that were the mossy green of algae. There was something vicious and feral in her eyes. For a moment, they were ink black and speckled with gold like the eyes of a toad. Then she blinked and they were human again. “I didn't think you had it in you," she panted. Her arm looked painful. She hunched over it, cowering back from the silver knife held out to ward her off. "If you really were your mother’s daughter, you’d take care of me yourself.”

“Don't tempt me" Nora said, hoarsely.

For a moment, when Ursula's face had been touched by the sparkling's aura, it had seemed to reveal something; then again, it could have been a trick of the light. Now there was no doubt. Nora wasn't entirely sure what Ursula was - a kelpie, most likely - it would explain the fish, to mask the smell. Real fear flickered across her face as she regarded the knife levelled at her. She dug into a pocket in her apron and pulled out a grubby lump of bank notes which she tossed at Nora's feet. “Here. As promised. A bargain kept.”

Nora lowered her knife. Ursula was sweating, tinged grey with pain, but her eyes followed the knife until Nora had tucked it back into her belt. “Keep it, and your bad faith with it.”

With that, the matter was settled. Nora scooped up the last jar that had rolled away in the tussle. An ember red sparkling fluttered in distress at its rough treatment. With extra care, Nora righted it and secured the jar in the bag. The other two, she left on the filleting table with a pang of guilt. She didn't know why Ursula wanted them and in truth, she didn't want to know. The wedge of bank notes in her pocket was answer enough.

When she ducked out of the foetid fish stall and into the alleyway, she took several deep breaths to steady herself and tucked her medallion back into the pocket of her coat. Nervous merchants from the neighbouring stalls eyeballed her as she strode past them without a word. No doubt they had heard at least some of the commotion, but there was no sign of any soldiers.

"Nought to do with us," one of them called after her. Nobody in Old Town wanted to invite trouble. It was small cause to wonder how many merchants of the Night Market were not all what they appeared to be.

Nora checked her watch again and saw with some dismay that its hands were now turning resolutely backwards. The storm was no longer a distant foreboding; it was coming on in earnest. Nora tugged her hood up on the way out of Old Town. Lightning was glimmering in the bellies of the clouds and an unnatural fog was rolling in. Windstorms were always unpredictable, but the ones that began with fog tended to be particularly bad. The sirens had not yet sounded though there was the distinct taste of magic in the air - hot copper mingled with aniseed. She would have to hotfoot it to make it back before curfew. The electric streetlamps were buzzing like angry wasps as they tried to stay lit. They failed, one by one, plunging into sudden darkness. On every street corner, hung suspended on tall poles of black iron, the storm lamps were flickering into life.

By the time she got back to the smithy quarter, most of the furnaces had been extinguished, the workshops closed, iron shutters drawn. Only a couple still burned cauldrons, bright flames glimmering in the mist like dragon’s breath. Ashes floated down, dusting the rooftops like a fall of dirty snow. It stained the cobbles and the stone bricks of the buildings, mingling with the wet smog rolling down the empty streets and turning to slurry in the gutters.

Nora walked quickly, trying not to jostle the battered little sparkling riding in her knapsack. She turned down a pokey, meandering little side street known as Filigree Lane, at the end of which sat Smith's Silver Emporium. Like all the other rickety storefronts that inhabited that road, this establishment suffered from a vague air of shabbiness. There was white paint flaking from the frames of the giant bay windows, the thick glass panels of which were gritty with streaks of coal dust and fogged by the damp. The tiled threshold was likewise black with soot and the gutters were choked with leaves from the straggly sycamore trees that grew out front, warping the pavements with their roots. It was rather dismal at first glance, but from behind the veneer of pollution and grime, there came the subtle glittering of precious things.

The windows displayed delicate silver netting, boxes of magnesium flares, stacked glass jars of silver dust and iron filings. A wrought iron tree held aloft bunches of wind chimes crafted from beaten sterling. There were garlands of horseshoes and portable braziers stuffed with packets of dried lavender, shelves of handcrafted amulets decorated with elegant twists of gold. Most remarkable of all was the lantern. It rose in the midst of the display, fashioned in the same style as the storm lamps outside except that its iron casing was embellished with silver scrolling. It was powered by a single electric bulb. It ran on a generator so that even when the storms cut the mains power out, it kept on shining in pure defiance of the magic. Its constant light was a true testament to the quality of the silver and undisputable proof of the powerful protection that it offered from magical pollution of all kinds.

Beside the shop and up a short flight of steps, a green door led into the quarters where Nora and her mother lived. On the threshold, mosaic tiles created an intricate ring of glittering silver with space to stand inside. A bell pull dangled beside the door, over a small sign that said:

OUT OF HOURS EMERGENCIES

Ring the bell and wait within the circle.

Nora used her key to let herself in, kicking the door in at the base where it was stiff. "I'm home!" she called from the hallway, dragging off her boots. Her mother was likely in the workshop; Nora headed straight for the stairs. She would stash the stolen sparkling in her bedroom until the storm had blown itself out; then she could sneak away to release it. She’d only got one foot onto the creaky bottom step, however, when her mother's strained voice called from the parlour.

"Nora? Come in here, please. Now!"

Something was up. There was no arguing with that voice. There was no time to stash the bag upstairs. Instead, she hung it on the coat pegs in the hallway and positioned her coat over the top of it for good measure. It looked completely inconspicuous and Nora hoped the sparkling would be happy enough there until she could retrieve it later.

There was another voice coming from the parlour, one she didn’t recognise. It was heated. From the sounds of it, her mother was in staunch disagreement with someone, which was not unusual. What was unusual about the situation, Nora discovered when she stepped into the room and found herself surrounded by four soldiers and their machine rifles. Not just any soldiers either, but soldiers in grey army fatigues with the emblem of the iron star blazed across their chests.

The Iron Legion hadn't needed a tip off after all. They were already waiting for her.