The booth was a classic—mostly. It looked like a small tent draped in exotic scarves with little fake-gold edging and symbols that were usually meaningless but looked appropriately mystical. A few were not nearly so benign. The most important of the curses woven on the tent caused those who stole from it to die over the course of eight days, after which their soul would be trapped in one of the tiny mirrors that made up one of her gowns. From there, they could be questioned about the location of stolen items and then “encouraged” to make lovely music for her to sleep to. Those curses were spread liberally through the grounds.
Those who had impure thoughts in her presence—at least while she was working in her tent—would suffer the immediate loss of reproductive capability. The pain was delayed and linked to a hex that caused ill luck. It would cause some horrific accident that would see to an injury there.
Married customers who came in to buy products for someone other than a spouse got charms that caused compulsive honesty. And if the trinket were present while the spouse took a well-provoked revenge . . . souls for her mirrors.
Nearly every charm and bangle she sold caused some form of misfortune to rain down on the owner. Or sometimes on people around the owner. Just to keep things interesting. And the objects could act as a focus for her to scry. But that was more just to amuse herself by seeing how things went.
Of course, the booth had a few modifications to it. Despite her best efforts, it still walked on a pair of chicken legs when it needed to be moved. She had tried to at least get it to four; chicken legs were just not well suited for house-mobility. She had been much, much younger when she made it and she had not taken care to make it easy to be rid of. Besides, it had jumped on people stupid enough to attack her—that was always good for a laugh.
The mirrors, each no larger than a thumbnail, woven into her cowl reflected the ethereal light in her booth as a young woman came in. Baba smiled at her, revealing perfectly white teeth in a razor grin. One alabaster hand rose and motioned the female closer. “Come in, my dear,” the woman was instantly more nervous and more at ease—Baba sounded like a gypsy. It was familiar, yes, but legends said crossing one was easy and dangerous. “Please, sit.”
Fearing that to leave now would be rude, the woman sat, leg shaking nervously as she bit a thumbnail. The ancient beauty took in the sheen of the woman’s hair, brown, and the glimmer of tears in her blue-gray eyes. Unusual, but that just made things more interesting for her. Employing no magic but far more experience with young women seeking help than she’d like, she offered, “man trouble?”
The woman nodded, having trouble talking to a woman whose eyes she couldn’t see. There was warmth in the voice, but the edge there was icy and there were no facial cues at all.
“True love doesn’t pay attention to you?” The quick, razor smile appeared and vanished. “An old story.” Her hand passed over the cloth-covered table, leaving behind a single bronze charm the size of a human thumb and set with a reddish stone. “Love charms are popular,” Baba added kindly. “Wear this and when you confess, he’ll love you.”
She accepted the handful of coins from the woman. The odds were good that the young lady had been rendered sterile by her time in Baba’s tent. Not that it would matter, considering the spellwork laced into that charm. She did so love passing along bad luck saved up from others.
Baba cocked her head to the side and blinked when she felt a change in the fabric of the Carnival grounds. No one saw her blink in her empty booth, but she did. It was not usual for there to be ghosts on the grounds. Not at all. People who died tended to not have a soul to become a ghost. So what was a ghost doing here? She made a mental note to ask Mortimer to look into possible deaths on the grounds. Which sounded rather silly when she thought about it. Yes, she would wait until she had a clearer idea of what happened before telling him.
She stroked the mirrors and listened to the shrieks of the stored souls. As much as she enjoyed the taste of a soul, she enjoyed the tortured music more. And besides, they were useful. Sometimes. Well, they amused her anyway. Baba touched one of the flickering glass shards and extracted a long, winding thread of pale gray smoke. It trailed behind her finger to her lips, where she inhaled it.
The soul was a blacksmith who’d been a kind, loving man who had a fondness for the occasional bet. He’d made a wager in her tent and lost. But it was the screams of his twin daughters from the shards beside him that had flavored him properly. It had been so much fun when he’d found himself unable to avoid bashing their skulls in as they asked him why and he couldn’t answer. She had managed to pull that memory from him back when he’d first arrived and savored it still.
There was the tang of the forge and a sort of sooty taste under the sweetness of a loving father. The need for risk added a hard sensation to an incorporeal experience. Then the final moments with their sour-bitter taste of terror and horror and finally months of listening to his daughters’ torment had added a feeling of misery that tasted so bitter it reminded her of raw chocolate.
She was just finishing her meal when she felt the spirit vanish from the grounds and a . . . something . . . replace it. That was definitely odd. She tugged a random soul from her hood and slipped it into a small figurine of a bird. “Find Mortimer. Tell him something is wrong on the grounds. We had a ghost and now we don’t.” The wooden figure sped off, granted the moderate intelligence needed for its task by the soul trapped inside.
Those who had impure thoughts in her presence—at least while she was working in her tent—would suffer the immediate loss of reproductive capability. The pain was delayed and linked to a hex that caused ill luck. It would cause some horrific accident that would see to an injury there.
Married customers who came in to buy products for someone other than a spouse got charms that caused compulsive honesty. And if the trinket were present while the spouse took a well-provoked revenge . . . souls for her mirrors.
Nearly every charm and bangle she sold caused some form of misfortune to rain down on the owner. Or sometimes on people around the owner. Just to keep things interesting. And the objects could act as a focus for her to scry. But that was more just to amuse herself by seeing how things went.
Of course, the booth had a few modifications to it. Despite her best efforts, it still walked on a pair of chicken legs when it needed to be moved. She had tried to at least get it to four; chicken legs were just not well suited for house-mobility. She had been much, much younger when she made it and she had not taken care to make it easy to be rid of. Besides, it had jumped on people stupid enough to attack her—that was always good for a laugh.
The mirrors, each no larger than a thumbnail, woven into her cowl reflected the ethereal light in her booth as a young woman came in. Baba smiled at her, revealing perfectly white teeth in a razor grin. One alabaster hand rose and motioned the female closer. “Come in, my dear,” the woman was instantly more nervous and more at ease—Baba sounded like a gypsy. It was familiar, yes, but legends said crossing one was easy and dangerous. “Please, sit.”
Fearing that to leave now would be rude, the woman sat, leg shaking nervously as she bit a thumbnail. The ancient beauty took in the sheen of the woman’s hair, brown, and the glimmer of tears in her blue-gray eyes. Unusual, but that just made things more interesting for her. Employing no magic but far more experience with young women seeking help than she’d like, she offered, “man trouble?”
The woman nodded, having trouble talking to a woman whose eyes she couldn’t see. There was warmth in the voice, but the edge there was icy and there were no facial cues at all.
“True love doesn’t pay attention to you?” The quick, razor smile appeared and vanished. “An old story.” Her hand passed over the cloth-covered table, leaving behind a single bronze charm the size of a human thumb and set with a reddish stone. “Love charms are popular,” Baba added kindly. “Wear this and when you confess, he’ll love you.”
She accepted the handful of coins from the woman. The odds were good that the young lady had been rendered sterile by her time in Baba’s tent. Not that it would matter, considering the spellwork laced into that charm. She did so love passing along bad luck saved up from others.
Baba cocked her head to the side and blinked when she felt a change in the fabric of the Carnival grounds. No one saw her blink in her empty booth, but she did. It was not usual for there to be ghosts on the grounds. Not at all. People who died tended to not have a soul to become a ghost. So what was a ghost doing here? She made a mental note to ask Mortimer to look into possible deaths on the grounds. Which sounded rather silly when she thought about it. Yes, she would wait until she had a clearer idea of what happened before telling him.
She stroked the mirrors and listened to the shrieks of the stored souls. As much as she enjoyed the taste of a soul, she enjoyed the tortured music more. And besides, they were useful. Sometimes. Well, they amused her anyway. Baba touched one of the flickering glass shards and extracted a long, winding thread of pale gray smoke. It trailed behind her finger to her lips, where she inhaled it.
The soul was a blacksmith who’d been a kind, loving man who had a fondness for the occasional bet. He’d made a wager in her tent and lost. But it was the screams of his twin daughters from the shards beside him that had flavored him properly. It had been so much fun when he’d found himself unable to avoid bashing their skulls in as they asked him why and he couldn’t answer. She had managed to pull that memory from him back when he’d first arrived and savored it still.
There was the tang of the forge and a sort of sooty taste under the sweetness of a loving father. The need for risk added a hard sensation to an incorporeal experience. Then the final moments with their sour-bitter taste of terror and horror and finally months of listening to his daughters’ torment had added a feeling of misery that tasted so bitter it reminded her of raw chocolate.
She was just finishing her meal when she felt the spirit vanish from the grounds and a . . . something . . . replace it. That was definitely odd. She tugged a random soul from her hood and slipped it into a small figurine of a bird. “Find Mortimer. Tell him something is wrong on the grounds. We had a ghost and now we don’t.” The wooden figure sped off, granted the moderate intelligence needed for its task by the soul trapped inside.