A long line of carts and trucks waits to pass through the Farmer’s Gate. The wall rises sixty feet above them, mounted with electric lights to flood the area below. A squacking truck loaded with chicken cages is at the front of the line, and soldiers inspect the driver’s papers and his cargo, while a machine gun crew watches from the safety of their bunker. In the distance, Hallon can see the pale forms of wind turbines atop the wall, their blades turning whoosh whoosh whoosh to make a breeze for those inside the city. Outside the wall though, the air is heavy with the smells of waiting gasoline engines, people, and animals.

Milo takes a radish from the basket and bites into it. “I don’t see a way through, not without papers.”

Hallon nods. They won’t be able to sneak past, but with all these people, she’s sure an opportunity will arise. They wait and watch, while the number of radishes in the basket dwindle. Eventually, a car drives past on the road’s shoulder, kicking up dust and complaints. It stops at the gate momentarily before being waved through without inspection.

Milo adjusts his spectacles. “What was that, I wonder.”

A woman standing beside her truck overhears him. “They call it a Gate Pass, but it’s a bribe is what it is.” She’s in her forties, a farmer by the look of her, but wearing her market best. There’s a passenger in the truck, a man with a yellow tattoo of about the same age. “Don’t mind cousin Abe,” she says. “He’s harmless. What farm are you friends from?”

“My father’s a smith and my mother a weaver,” Hallon says. “From Anundr’s Spring, near Borås.”

“Never heard of it,” the farmer says.

“It’s small. Very small,” Hallon says. “What about you?”

“Haleen Farm. We’re mostly onions, trying to make a name for ourselves.” The farmer frowns. “Assuming we make it to market. Sometimes I wonder.”

A truck rolls past. The driver hands a packet to the soldier and is allowed through.

“Damn and damn,” the farmer says. “That was Baqir. When did he get a Gate Pass? He’ll make it to market well before us now.”

“A competitor?” Milo asks.

The farmer grimaces. “The son of a goat is what he is, and he’ll bleat all of tomorrow and the day after about how he sold all his onions before us. What are we going to do, Abe? We’ll never get anywhere like this.”

From inside the truck, Cousin Abe says, “Suheil.”

“What? This is no time for funny business,” the farmer says.

“Suheil,” Abe says, pointing to a soldier.

“Eh? Why, that is Suheil.” The farmer scratches at her chin. “Hadn’t heard he was in the Ministry of Civil Order. He’s grown.”

Hallon looks closer. The soldier’s young, but bears a resemblance to the farmer. “You know him?”

“Cousin’s cousin,” the farmer says. “He’s city family now. They left the farm about fourteen years ago. The last time I saw him, he was still a child.”

Hallon asks, “Would he let you through?”

“Not without something in return,” the farmer says. “Not for himself—he wouldn’t do that to family—but for the others on his shift. Damn and damn, this is our chance. If we set up next to Baqir, we can show the buyers our product’s better. Sorry, friends, it was good talking, but we’ve got to go.” The farmer jumps into her truck.

Hallon and Milo stand out of the way while the farmer seesaws her truck out of line. Just as it’s about to drive off, Hallon gestures to Milo, and the two of them hop into the back. Milo doesn’t even blink. He just follows Hallon’s example in hiding under the onions.

The cousins greet each other:

“Cousin Suheil!”

“Cousin Houda!”

“How many years has it been!”

“Tell me the family is well!”

“How tall you’ve grown! How smart you look in your uniform!”

“Let’s meet for tea in the morning!”

If money changes hands, it goes unheard by Hallon. All she knows is that the truck is allowed to pass without inspection. But once they’re through the gate, the truck is forced to slow again as it’s instantly mobbed by people hawking their wares.

“Figs! Delicious figs!”

“Necklaces and rings! One more beautiful than the next!”

“Alms, take pity and offer alms to the poor.”

Houda from Haleen Farm curses the crowd, yelling out the window for them to get out of the way. All the while, hands reach into the back of the truck to scoop out onions. One man goes so far as to climb the tailgate, but a well-tossed onion from Hallon beans him on the nose and knocks him back. Houda guns the truck’s engine in a desperate bid to push through the crowd. They curse at her, but she forces her way onto the broad boulevard leading to the heart of the city. The road is crowded though, holding the truck back.

There are people and pushcarts, giant-drawn taxis and cars—all of them going only as fast as they’re willing to go—with no amount of honking helping to move them faster. The truck veers off the main boulevard, forcing a pushcart loaded with round loaves of bread out of the way. The bread man yells at the truck, calling the farmer an ass, a dog’s mother, a peasant with sand for teeth.

Onions shimmy and bounce as the truck recklessly navigates the city’s winding streets with Hallon and Milo bouncing along with them. Eventually though, the ride must end, and the truck rolls to a stop just shy of a market plaza. There’s another line, this time officiated by a clerk checking names against a list. Hallon and Milo gratefully slide out of the back of the truck to stable ground.

The market reminds Hallon of the souks she’s visited before—throughout North Africa, the Levant, and even the Silk Road. It occupies the whole plaza, and the air buzzes with the sound of merchants calling out the quality of their wares. Buyers examine the stalls laden with long thin cucumbers, figs, dates, small apples, grapes, tomatoes, okra, potatoes, green almonds, pistachios, walnuts, and yes—even onions. All the bounty of the nearby farms is on display.

Past the vegetables, there’s an aisle of butchers with meat and organs stacked high. Past them are the live animals—cages with birds, cats, and goats bleating for attention. In the other direction, merchants hawk their rugs, carpets, and cloth, dyed and undyed. Further out are the goods made of brass, copper, and tin. Small shops and cafes surround the plaza on all sides.

The market is crowded with people. They are dressed more simply than the people of Barada. The women tend towards simple dresses and head scarves, while the men wear pants ending mid-calf, vests over their shirts, and turbans or keffiyeh on their heads.

A mild breeze blows from a nearby wind turbine, carrying the sounds and scents of the market, including the smell of sizzling meat. An old man hunches over a grill cooking thin strips of lamb. People pay in coins, and he hands them their food on pieces of palm frond. They eat with their hands and toss the trash into the gutter. Both Hallon and Milo’s stomachs rumble in unison.

“We’re going to need money,” Milo says.

“Food and a place to stay,” Hallon says.

Milo gestures with the picnic basket. “Can we sell what’s in here?”

There are people at the market edges who don’t have stalls. They display their wares on small rugs, which they quickly roll up when the soldiers patrolling the plaza come near.

“We’re not dressed well enough to own silver,” Hallon says, “and we’d catch the attention of the local law.”

“Then what do we do?” Milo asks.

Eratosthenes? What have you found?

Much. Much to talk about, but for now, head northwest. That’s the poorest part of town. You should be able to find a buyer for the silver there, but be on your guard. The shadows are thick in this city.

Hallon sends a feeling of acknowledgment and gratitude. “There’s always someone willing to take advantage of the desperate,” she says aloud to Milo. “Let’s go find them.”

###

The buildings have stairs leading up to covered porches supported by round columns. They’re three and four stories tall, with shops occupying the first floor and the upper floors dedicated to workshops and living quarters. Children play in the street. Their elders sit on short, metal stools to watch and gossip. But as Hallon and Milo travel west, the neighborhoods grow shabbier. The buildings change from stone to brick and there’s a pinch around the eyes of the people, like they’re wary about what the next day holds for them. The air is different around these poorer neighborhoods. Literally so—with fewer wind towers, the breezes are weaker and more sporadic. The alleys narrow and crook, making for stagnant pockets.

Eventually, they come to a building squatting in the middle of the street. There are no doors—just two passageways running through, one for each direction. The rest of the street is blocked by a stone wall twenty feet tall. There’s graffiti, the paint still fresh: “Wreck No Town” and “Die Gloop Die!”

Anyone wanting to continue has to go through the building. To Hallon’s eyes, it looks like a border crossing. There are two lines, one for people with tattoos and one for people without. The Gloop are stopped and searched, while soldiers look on from behind barred windows. The Untainted are allowed to pass without harassment.

“Are we going through?” Milo asks.

Well? Hallon asks, passing the question along to Eratosthenes.

The area on the other side is called No Town, and it’s where the Gloop and other outcasts and misfits live. You should fit right in.

Very funny, Hallon says.

I do try, Eratosthenes says, but the humor is fleeting and Hallon senses an undercurrent of tension under his thoughts. The fluxes in thought, luck, and karma are strongest here. It’ll be the place where you’ll have the best chance to pry loose the next clue to the source of the Calamity. Also—he hesitates, preoccupied—there’s a spirit barrier around one of the buildings.

A barrier? Is it a temple or—

We don’t know yet. Neither Mary or I can get inside. Once you’re settled, I’ll direct you there.

Oh, that’s interesting. Hallon feels the curiosity rising within her. “Yes, we’re going through,” she says aloud to Milo.

The soldiers manage to be both bored and tense at the same time. She and Milo should be able to walk right through along with the Untainted. Will a Look Away be necessary? An illusion to pass as male? The magics would only need to last long enough to get past the soldiers, but Hallon’s not sure she could manage either as depleted as she is.

“Is this a good idea?” Milo asks.

“We won’t know until we try,” Hallon says, deciding against the magics. It’d be too risky if the spells failed midway. She and Milo walk through the checkpoint, trying to look as ordinary as possible, but they needn’t have worried—the soldiers’ eyes are focused on the Gloop queued to leave No Town.

On the other side, the road changes from asphalt to packed dirt. The buildings are much the same otherwise, except dingier and with ramps leading up to the covered porches instead of stairs. The real difference is the people—not everyone is tattooed, but those that are, come in myriad colors, shapes, sizes, and configuration of parts.

There’s a woman ten feet tall standing next to a man with snake’s scales for skin. Another man has no arms and a rope tied to his belt, which a handful of people with brown tattoos hold onto. One woman has tiny bird’s wings sprouting from the sides of her head. They flutter excitedly as she talks to her companion, a woman in a wheelchair. The scene is like something out of a fantastical painting. Hallon wants to meet and talk to everyone she sees, but first things first—they need to sell what’s in the basket so they can eat. Exploring this place can happen after.

In the shadow of the wall, a group of adolescents lounge. One of them, a boy with a green tattoo and a limp, pushes off from the wall to follow behind Hallon and Milo as they walk into No Town. He trails them for two blocks before turning back. A woman with a blue tattoo takes his place, and she trails them for a block before also turning around.

Milo pauses to watch her go. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. Did you notice—”

“That we’re being followed? Yes.”

Milo shakes his head. “I meant that woman just now. She—”

A boy runs past, bumping into Milo. “Sorry,” he says, calling out, but Hallon’s already moving. She grabs the boy’s arm and pulls him to a sudden stop. He tries to get away. “Hey! Let go!”

Milo pats his pockets. “My watch. It’s gone.”

“Let go,” the boy says. “I didn’t do nothing.”

He’s not more than ten or eleven with cobalt blue eyes and fur on his head as thick as an otter’s. A blue tattoo covers the top half of his forehead. Someone went to the trouble of picking a shade that compliments his eyes.

“Not until you hand over my friend’s watch,” Hallon says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy says. “Let go!”

“Listen,” Hallon says. “We’re not going to make a fuss, but we do want the watch back.”

“It was a gift,” Milo says. “From my parents. It’s all I have left of them and very special to me.”

The boy’s struggles slow. His voice turns cautious. “You’re not hustling me? I can tell if you’re hustling me.”

“I’m not even sure I know how to hustle,” Milo says. “They died in a fire, and the watch was the only thing that survived. Well, and me too, I suppose.”

Hallon feels the boy’s intention to run dissipate, and she lets him shake off her grip. He pulls the watch from a pocket and hands it to Milo. “Nothing personal,” he says. “Just business.”

Milo takes the watch with care. “Thank you.”

The boy doesn’t know what to do with Milo’s gratitude. “Sure. It’s okay.” He looks away and spots a middle-aged woman sitting on her porch, eating a bowl of stew. She glances their way. Often.

“Who’s that?” Hallon asks.

The boy grimaces. “The headwoman of this neighborhood.”

“Ah, and you’re in trouble.”

The boy rubs his hand through the fur on his head. “Maybe. I was goofing off earlier and will be short on my quota.”

Quota? “Wait, does she get a share of your earnings from picking pockets?”

“Sure, it’s only fair since it’s her neighborhood,” the boy says, stating the obvious. “Everyone involved gets a piece.”

“Including the people following us,” Hallon says.

The boy rolls his eyes. “Like I said, everyone. You must be new to No Town.”

“We’ve only just arrived,” Milo says.

Hallon wonders if it’s a kleptocracy; the thieves in charge. If so, then the place becomes more and more interesting. “It comes to me that we could use a guide.”

“A guide, huh? It’s true that no one knows No Town like I do,” the boy says. “What’s your offer?”

Hallon shows him a silver spoon. “We have seven more like it, plus some ceramics. Help us sell them, and we’ll give you a cut.”

“Oh, you came looking to deal.” The boy relaxes. “Sure, I can help. I know all the best dealers. But it’ll be expensive. You have eight silver pieces? I want three.”

Hallon smiles, but it’s clear she doesn’t mean it. “Nice meeting you, we’ll be moving on now.”

“Hey,” the boy says. “Deal properly. Don’t just jump to leaving. At least make a counter.”

Hallon turns around. “Ten percent.”

“That’s not enough,” the boy says. “I’ll still be in trouble with just a tenth. It’ll need to be at least an eighth.”

“An eighth?” Hallon says. “Then how about your services for this spoon?”

“And an eighth of whatever the ceramics earn too,” the boy says.

“I can agree to that,” Hallon says.

“Then it’s a deal. Hold a jot,” he says before jogging over to the headwoman. After a short conference, she calls over a young girl, who is then sent scurrying down the street.

When the boy returns, he says, “We’re good. You shouldn’t have any more trouble while you’re in No Town. I’m Karam, by the way.” He sticks his hand out, palm up. “And payment is due in advance.”

Hallon gives him the spoon, and he tucks it into the pocket Milo’s watch was in. “I’m Hallon, and this is my friend Milo.”

“We’re looking for a fence,” Milo says. “I believe that’s the right word for it.”

Karam laughs. “Bold as you please. I like that. I wouldn’t have taken either of you for burglars though.”

“Oh, we’re not burglars,” Milo says. “At least, not yet.” He looks to Hallon for confirmation.

“No, we’re not burglars,” Hallon says. “We simply found some things on the ground while we were traveling.”

“Is that so?” Karam says. “Well, don’t worry. I’ve heard enough and know someone who can help. Follow me.”

They follow the road to a small plaza with a well at its center. People sit and listen to music—a mixture of drums, horns, and one lone wailing instrument Hallon doesn’t recognize. The body is made of metal, and there’s a melancholy in its music, a feeling of long and weary sorrow that seeps its way into the listener’s bones. No one pays any attention to Hallon and Milo as they pass through. The two of them are far and away the least strange people walking by.

Karam keeps up a steady banter as he guides them deeper into No Town, but the words don’t mean much—here’s where you can buy a good kebob, this shop sells excellent tooth powder, down this alley is a mushroom that looks like a man’s face. They detour to look at the mushroom, and it in fact does look like a man’s face—with a bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows, and a brown tattoo smeared across his forehead.

Eventually, they reach the Gloop Market. This one is organized around a central building four stories tall and with large swaths of rich, scarlet cloth reaching from its roof to the buildings surrounding the market plaza. Otherwise, it’s similar to the other market they’d visited earlier, with sections for the different products sold.

That’s the building with the barrier, Eratosthenes thinks.

Oh really? Hallon can’t help herself—she opens to the sight to take a quick peek. A violet-tinged bubble surrounds the building. A moment later, she realizes why the spirit barrier is there. Shadows. Many, many shadows. They lurk in the corners of the plaza, under the merchant’s stalls, riding on the people around her. They see her too but keep their distance because of Eratosthenes.

Hallon is shocked. This is worse than Rome. How is it possible for any place to be worse than Rome?

I did warn you, Eratosthenes says.

Hallon counts at least five people actively possessed in the immediate area around her. Where do they all come from? Why are they here?

We don’t know. Not yet anyway. But we’ll find out. Because how much do you want to bet that whatever it is, it’s connected to the Calamity?

I won’t take that bet, Hallon says. Not in a thousand years. Shadows are drawn to suffering. They feed off the emotions it causes. There’s a good chance they sense the Calamity coming.

To find this many shadows—it’s not a coincidence, Eratosthenes says.

“Hallon, are you all right? You’ve been staring at that scarf for five minutes, twenty-three seconds.”

She slides her inner eye shut and finds Milo standing next to her. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“Are you going to buy it?” Karam asks.

The scarves folded neatly in front of her are actually lovely, now that she’s paying attention to them. The weave is tight and regular. The patterns are full of intricate geometric shapes and the dyes are subtle. “Not today, but I’ll come back.” For a scarf and a visit with the magician behind that shield.

Karam leads them to a shop at the far edge of the plaza. The door is layered with beaten tin, and a bell rings as they enter. The store’s shelves are lined with shoes, making the place smell like old leather. A man sits on a cushion to one side with a game board and colored stones next to him. When he sees it’s Karam, he ignores them and goes back to contemplating the board.

At the back of the shop, behind a scarlet curtain, there are ramps leading up and down, as well as an elevator with a dwarf standing by its entrance.

“Second floor,” Karam says.

The dwarf nods and speaks into a mouth piece: “Second floor. Hold a jot.” He waits for them to enter. “Okay, go.”

The elevator lifts upward with a jerk as someone hauls them up manually from one floor to the next. Milo gasps and looks around in disbelief.

“Is this your first time in an elevator?” Karam says, smirking. “There are Reds in the basement doing the work. It’s hard labor, but useful—some of the Greens have a hard time with the ramps. There are some places going electric though. Well, only one in No Town, but I hear they’re getting more common Brickside and Stoneside.”

Karam thanks the woman who opens the elevator door and leads Hallon and Milo down a corridor. He knocks on the second door on the left. Inside, a man, twin to the one downstairs, sits on a cushion and plays the same game with colored stones. The pieces are in identical positions to the board downstairs. An open window lets in the breeze and the sounds and smells of the market. Bright tapestries soften the walls.

The man looks up from his game. “Karam, what a pleasant surprise. I was thinking you would be absent today.”

“Armin, good evening. These people have silver to sell.”

“Do they now? And you have brought them to me. How delightful.” Armin looks out the window. “Do they know the Rules?”

“They’re willing to give the Scholar his cut,” Karam says.

“Who is the Scholar?” Hallon and Milo say together.

“Oh,” Karam says, “I thought everybody knew the Scholar. He’s the one who runs No Town, makes sure things are fair, that kind of thing. And as payment for his good work, he gets a ten percent cut. Of everything.”

“You didn’t mention this before,” Hallon says. “I’m guessing it’s not negotiable.”

Armin’s lips tighten when he smiles. “You are correct. It is non-negotiable. Think of it like a tax—one that actually benefits the people of No Town.”

“I’m your guide,” Karam says, “and it’s my job to keep you safe. This is what you have to do.”

“All right,” Hallon says. “We’ll trust you.”

Milo looks doubtful, but he digs through the basket anyway to pull out the silverware and plates. They’d agreed beforehand to leave the wooden boxes and the rethak alone for now. The design on the boxes looks like a family crest, and the security around the rethak factory has Hallon worried. Later, once they know more, they can think about selling them off.

Armin looks over the pieces. “Twenty dinars.”

“Fifty,” Karam says automatically. “That’s real silver, and the dishes are fit for one of the Houses.”

“Twenty-five,” Armin says. “Fit for a House means it may be missed.”

“Forty-five,” Karam says, countering.

“Thirty, but only because you are a charming scamp, Karam.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty and no higher.” Armin sniffs and looks away. "I do not like you that much.”

Karam sighs. “Thirty it is then.”

Armin smiles. “Do not be sad. You have made a good deal for your new friends.” He pulls a polished box towards him and counts out the bills and coins. He pauses. “Listen. Because I am generous, I will give you another two dinars, but only if I may look into the basket to see if there is anything else that interests me.”

Milo shakes his head and clutches the basket close.

Armin’s eyes narrow. “This is not your virtue, young man. You need not hold onto it so tight.”

“Just the silver and dishes,” Milo says.

“Then we are done,” Armin says. “Go, all of you.”

Milo leads the way out, choosing the ramp over the elevator. The man on the first floor ignores the game board to watch them leave.

Outside, Karam hands them the money, minus his share. “Don’t feel bad. That was a good deal. I should’ve mentioned the Scholar’s cut, but really who doesn’t know the Scholar?” He takes them to a stall selling meat pies and gives the woman there a coin. She has feathers for hair and tucks the trailing edges under a blue headscarf before handing him three pies.

The meat is gamey but mixed with onions, cumin, and pepper. They eat the pies standing up, hot juice dribbling down their chins. Bliss. Sheer bliss. Seeing how hungry his charges are, Karam buys a second round of pies and then a third. The woman’s eyes crinkle in pleasure.

Next, Karam takes them to a Red with two brass tanks strapped to his back. Drinking glasses dangle from cords on his belt. The water in the tanks is tepid, but one is flavored with mint and the other with cucumber. They sit on thin cushions, the space shared with another Red selling tea, and watch the crowded marketplace together.

“Now then,” Karam says. “We’ve eaten and drank water. What would you like to do next? There’s music, arak, gambling, whatever your hearts desire.”

“Sleep, I think,” Milo says.

“Yes,” Hallon says. “Somewhere clean and safe.”

“You want to stay in No Town?” The question is asked innocently enough, but there’s disbelief under Karam’s words.

“Yes, that’s right,” Hallon says. “No Town is an interesting place.”

Karam laughs. “Interesting? I suppose that’s one way to put it. But an inn—” He rubs the fur on his head, thinking. “Everyone stays with family if they’re visiting, so there’s not much need for inns. There’s only one that I know. The owner isn’t Gloop, but she’s fair. She’ll put up anyone who’s got the coin for it, and Tanith Hataisi is singing there tonight.”

Hallon leans forward. “Singing would be nice.”

Milo smiles at her eagerness. “What’s this place called?”

“The Standing Goat.”