Chapter 3: The Auction - The Night Market

Pepper followed the swell of bodies until the tent came into view.

If it could still be called a tent.

The main structure loomed like a cathedral above the surrounding stalls. Its black-and-reds shimmered faintly as it caught the lantern light in a way that suggested that something else held it all together, not just wooden supports and canvas. Reinforced ropes anchored the thing like a ship upon a stormy sea. It didn’t flap or sway in the breeze. It breathed.

Around it, a crowd had gathered, hundreds strong. A crowd that Pepper kept to the edge of, slipping into the gaps between taller figures, trying not to draw attention. Her coat was still dirty from crawling through the fence, but no one seemed to notice. Or care. Either was good. She inched forward through the standing audience until she found a patch near the side that gave her a partial view into the main tent.

Inside, the ground was set with black-stone tiles that glimmered like polished obsidian. Candles floated in tall iron candelabras, their flames steady despite the open air. At the centre of the space was a square, unmarked, but clear in its intention. At each corner of this invisible stage sat a single chair.

Chair wasn’t the correct description, not really. Throne, perhaps. Carved from ancient wood and cast from metals that caught the light in uncomfortable ways, each faced inward. Their occupants – three men and a woman – made small talk to one another while flanked by a handful of unidentified individuals. Security most probably, though not all, not by how they sat, how they moved, what they wore. Some looked like they would be at home in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Others, more a church, draped in vestments of an unrecognisable religion.

Pepper, who knew nothing of their reputations, could feel it. The pull of power. The weight of it. Every exchange between them was a statement of bloodline, wealth, and most importantly, respect. The kind that was earned with fear.

An elderly gentleman in the centre waved his hands about expressively before a standing microphone, wearing robes of purple decorated with feathers that shifted in colour from lavenders to fire shades at the slightest turn. A ripple of applause moved through the audience, compelling Pepper to join in. Somewhere, a bell rang, low and deep.

Pepper swallowed, trying not to feel small. She shifted her weight, peering through the shoulders of those in front of her, careful not to press too close to anyone who might notice.

‘Thank you, everyone, for your patience, and to our bidders, for your generosity. What an evening we have had already.’ He bowed before extending a hand toward the only woman seated. ‘Before we reveal the last item, I would like to introduce the sponsor of tonight’s wonderful event: Lady Concetta Cavendish. Applause, please.’

The lights in the auction tent dimmed slightly, shifting the focus from the stage to the tall woman who rose and glided toward its centre.

The auctioneer stepped back without a word. He knew better.

Concetta Cavendish didn’t require an introduction so much as acknowledgement. Dressed in a sweeping gown of white silk with a deep emerald sheen that caught the light like beetle wings, she moved with queenly grace. Her silver hair was sculpted into a chignon, and heavy gold earrings framed a face that spoke of years spent holding power and holding it well.

When she presented herself before the microphone, she raised one elegant hand in a soft, theatrical wave.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said warmly, her voice smooth and assured, placing her fingers upon the microphone stand, a drink of red in the other. ‘Tonight is our ninety-third Night Market. Ninety-third. What an incredible number. When the very idea of the Night Market was proposed, it was said that it would never work. Look at you all. Evidence that convention can be defied. As it should be.’

A murmur moved through the tent. Some looked at one another. Others just smiled.

‘Each and every time I have the privilege of arranging a Night Market, it warms my heart. The gratitude I feel never goes away,’ Concetta continued. ‘Some of my fondest memories have been walking these stalls over the decades, seeing many of you go from strength to strength in your enterprises. I may have even hired a few of you in light of that. The Night Market is home to talent of no equal. Providers of no comparison.’

A few chuckles rose from the crowd.

‘You know what it’s like out there,’ she said, her tone turning contemplative. ‘We don’t exactly have the opportunity to be open about our culture, our traditions. So, the Night Market . . . is something special. A place where, no matter our backgrounds, our successions or birthplace, we can mingle in safety. And mutual respect.’

She paused.

‘A most unique opportunity for our people in trying times.’

A few bodies away, Pepper caught someone mumble.

‘How the fuck does she know what it’s like in the real world? Any of ’em?’

And while some in the vicinity chuckled in agreement, a handful turned and fired threatening glares.

‘So,’ Concetta declared with a smile, ‘our heartfelt thanks to every trader, business owner and the dedicated people working tirelessly behind the scenes who keep things running – my husband especially.’

She turned slightly, raising her glass in his direction. A thin man with streaks of grey through his slick-backed hair and dressed in an understated navy suit, lifted his glass in return. And when he sipped from it, Pepper found herself feeling peculiarly uneasy for a reason she couldn’t determine . . .

‘And all those from each family here who provide their manpower to ensure everyone’s safety. A round of applause for them, if you please.’

The crowd responded with polite, genuine clapping. Even the more jaded attendees offered a few appreciative taps.

‘And of course,’ Concetta said, lowering her voice slightly as the clapping faded, ‘to every single one of you in attendance.’

The quiet returned, this time softer, more focused. She raised her glass, but did not drink its contents. A beat of silence. Not awkward. Just held. Then she smiled again, this time smaller, and offered the microphone back to the auctioneer. No flourish. No bow. She didn’t need one.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. It is time for tonight’s main event!’ The auctioneer took hold of the microphone with energy and snapped his fingers.

From behind the velvet curtains, two attendants emerged, each dressed in muted grey robes. They moved in perfect sync, carrying between them a narrow box of polished oak. The grain shimmered faintly under the lights, with unusual symbols burnt into its surface. They placed it on the raised plinth with care.

One attendant reached into his coat and produced a silver key, long and notched with teeth in strange, uneven shapes. The other untied the thick blue rope wound around the chest like a belt. As the rope fell away and the key turned, everyone in attendance seemed to lean forward. So much so that Pepper stumbled, under the impression she would be knocked down.

‘It is my privilege tonight to present a piece whose reputation precedes it by centuries. One of the most fascinating, and indeed elusive, of recorded Relics. This,’ he purred as the velvet cloth was drawn back, revealing the object in its glass casing, ‘is Rosam Crucis, though most know it commonly as the Eternal Rose.’

Pepper’s heart immediately launched itself into her mouth at the name. This was it!

Inside the box, nested in black velvet and secured by delicate clasps, was a glass case, faintly fogged from the inside.

At first glance, it didn’t look like much. A wilted, brownish bloom, folded in on itself like a cabbage left too long in the sun. But the longer one looked, the more it revealed. Veins of opal shimmered beneath its outer leaves, pulsing with a shifting, pearlescent hue that couldn’t be described as colour alone. It leaked light through as though bruised.

The attendants raised the case slowly, reverently, and turned it toward each corner of the tent where the players in this game were readying to make their move.

‘First recorded in the Alnwick Fragments of eleven thirteen, it is believed to have been cultivated by a forgotten sect of spiritualists during the reign of Henry the First. It disappeared following the Norse-backed raid of the North, vanishing after the skirmish at Brinklow Hollow. For nearly seven hundred years, it was little more than a rumour. Then, in the nineteenth century, it began to surface again. Briefly. It changed hands quietly, and not always peacefully. It reappeared in France, its last confirmed private owner, a Mister Leon Carter, was shot dead over a misplayed hand in a Marseille card house. The assailant then fled to England with the Relic and vanished. For most of the twentieth century, it passed through one family line, their names unknown. That is, until now.’

He paused, letting the quiet swell again. The Rose was carefully returned to its velvet cradle, the case resealed, and the lid closed with a soft, final thud.

‘Legend claims the Rose possesses peculiar, some say spiritual, healing properties. It is said to cure any affliction of flesh or spirit, be it illness, affliction or curse, regardless of origin or age. A bold claim, of course. And as with most myth, the truth cannot be validated – at this time. But as to how factual it may be . . .’ He smiled faintly. ‘I leave that for you all to decide.’

He let the silence stretch as murmurs rose from the back.

‘The Eternal Rose, ladies and gentlemen! Whole. Undamaged. And for the first time, available for possession. Whether you wish to acquire it, or simply witness its presence, you are all part of something historic.’ He gave a shallow bow, prompting another ripple of applause. ‘We open the bidding at fifty thousand. And . . . begin.’

The first bid came quickly. Then another. No gavel. No call-and-response. Just gestures. Numbers traded like secrets between the elite in their chairs, and only them. This was clearly a spectator sport for everybody else.

From the left, a nod. From the right, a flick of a ringed finger. The numbers climbed rapidly. These weren’t people guessing. These were players. For those who never had the intention of owning the Eternal Rose, they would ensure its price to be substantial. That was all part of the game.

Concetta sat with perfect composure, her expression unreadable. When she finally leaned sideways to address one of her rivals, her voice carried just far enough.

‘Little too rich for your tastes, Dominic?’

The man she addressed, slightly portly with an excitable beard, dressed by old money, shook as he snorted.

‘I prefer value over spectacle,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I’d never dream of spoiling your fun.’

‘That’s very considerate of you. Possibly the most sensible thing an Ode has ever done,’ Concetta returned without malice, swirling the crimson liquid in her glass with idle grace. It was met with good humour.

The tension escalated again. Bids rose further. Significantly. Then, silence. Until Concetta spoke confidently again.

‘Seven hundred and ninety-two.’

A pause followed. Pepper eyed each of the bidders in turn. None seemed to have the stomach to continue. The auctioneer nodded once, eyes flicking briefly across the tent to confirm what everyone already knew.

‘Final offer accepted,’ he said. ‘Seven hundred souls pledged, ninety-two years of bound service. Going once. Going twice . . .’

No objection.

‘Sold! The winning recipient of the Eternal Rose: Lady Cavendish. Congratulations.’

A burst of restrained applause followed.

Concetta didn’t rise. She merely lifted her glass. Not in thanks, but in acknowledgement. This had never been a competition. Just confirmation.

Two black-suited Enforcers stepped forward from beside the winner in silence. They lifted the chest between them and moved towards an exit.

Pepper was moving too.

The crowd dispersed slowly, murmuring in tones that ranged from amusement to envy. Pepper slid between the bodies, keeping her steps measured and unremarkable. She left her fear behind, because if she didn’t do this, and she didn’t do it now, then the whole affair would have been a waste. There wasn’t time to think. Not to worry. Too much was at stake.

The Enforcers didn’t rush. That made it easier.

They took the chest through the tent’s side flap, down one of several corridors extending from the main event space, and out into the Market itself. Pepper trailed behind, careful to keep a distance, stepping behind hanging fabric. She kept her head low and her ears open.

They moved to the fringe of the Market, toward a shell of a building that had been repurposed for the evening, flanked by rusted scaffolding and a crooked set of stairs. A deeply weathered steel door, fitted with massive strap hinges, served as its entrance. Everyone on the route stepped aside.

The two Enforcers stepped inside. When they came out, one took point at the door. He didn’t look particularly imposing in his body language, leaning against the doorway and paying attention to those passing without urgency.

Pepper stepped behind some tents into long grass and shadow and waited.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

No one else entered. No one left. Just the lone guard now posted outside, arms folded, attention loose. He was young. Bored. Clearly not expecting trouble. But there was a clear presence about him, the way he shifted his eyes, the unreadable expression on his face. Undiscernible as it was, it was a quality enough to be noticed.

Pepper exhaled and moved.

She shifted around the perimeter of the building, keeping low behind shattered crates and draped tarpaulin. The place looked dead from the outside, just more forgotten infrastructure folded into the edge of the Market. But up close, she spotted it: a grimy old staff toilet block bolted onto the side, its paint flaking, one of its windows shattered.

Perfect.

Pepper checked once more. No one in sight. She climbed atop a rusted bin, braced her knee against the piping, and hoisted herself up. The window was barely wider than her shoulders. Her coat tore. She gritted her teeth, twisted sideways, and shoved. A rogue blade of glass scored across her hand, causing a cut deep enough to bleed. She withheld a wince and tumbled through with a grunt, landing squarely on the lid of a toilet seat.

Plastic creaked. She gripped her injury tightly until the sting numbed enough for her to continue. It wasn’t a graceful entrance. But not loud, either. The smell of damp and brick was an assault on the senses.

She slid down and eased the stall door open, where the air was cold and still.

The cubicle opened into a narrow washroom, its tiled floor cracked, a corner invaded by rampant black mould. A row of sinks sagged beneath a vandalised mirror; the remaining glass blackened with age. One tap dripped in slow, hollow intervals, the sound too loud in the silence.

Pepper crossed the room carefully with careful steps, listening out for any signs of life.

The door at the far end hung ajar.

Beyond it, somewhere behind an old conveyor belt, a single lamp buzzed above metal tables. Crumbling plaster and brick still sported graffiti. She pressed forward, stepping quietly out onto the factory floor.

The space opened wider than she’d expected; the ceiling lost in a lattice of steel beams and shadow. The lone lamp cast a thin pool of light across the concrete, leaving the rest of the building to brood in darkness. Pitted concrete all but silenced her footsteps, though the faint crunch of loose stones occasionally betrayed her. The air reeked of oil and dust, as though the decaying machines had only recently fallen silent. Along one wall, a defiant window had finally given way, and brambles were taking their time spilling through the broken frame, inching their claim across the interior.

Pepper kept to the margins, skirting a line of abandoned pallets and rusting drums, until she knew there was no danger. Then she approached the tables.

The chest might have been the centrepiece, but it wasn’t alone.

To the left, several other crates and containers were neatly stacked, some locked, others sealed with thick wax and cords knotted in ritual fashion. One of them was humming faintly, like it held something alive and annoyed. Another gave off the faint smell of scorched grass.

A holding area, she presumed. A halfway place for auctioned items before they were escorted to their ultimate destinations. Everything expensive, dangerous or best kept unboxed had been stored here temporarily.

And yet, there was hardly any security. She expected at least a few cameras or something to that effect. Wasn’t all this terribly expensive? Rare, wasn’t that the word that was used? Why with such high-value items here, did they just put a single bored-looking Enforcer on the door? Why not an army of them? This wasn’t right. It had to be a trap, surely. Or the other possibility was that they didn’t expect anyone to be stupid enough to pull this kind of stunt.

Which, in retrospect, was a terrifying prospect.

The chest sat like it owned the space. Heavy. Waiting.

She approached carefully. Her fingers itched for the lid. The lock stared up at her, complex and ancient. No key. No time. Luckily a nearby workbench retained some dust-covered tools, including a battered chisel. She took it in hand and slipped the tip into the crease to make the wood yawn with effort. A couple of pushes and the lid began to give, but every time she expected the latch to break away, it pulled back on her tool and returned to a close. She tried again and again. Come on. She didn’t have time for this!

A door clattered shut somewhere nearby. But just before it did so, a hand closed over her wrist, not harshly. Just firmly. Its owner having crossed the darkness in those few seconds. And quietly too.

Pepper turned sharply, eyes wide.

A figure stood half shadowed behind her, close enough to hear her breath catch.

The young Enforcer, who, just minutes before, was positioned at the door outside, loomed over her. He looked at her the way someone might regard a stray animal that had wandered into the wrong garden, glaring somewhat beneath a shock of trim black hair.

Pepper hadn’t the voice to speak. He did.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.