by Zachary Olson
in Issue 159, April 2025
The solitary law that binds Gran Marche’s thieves is this: only filch what you can flip. It is a law in truth more pragmatic than moral, for even in Gran Marche–which straddles the Turquoise and Citrine Seas, bobbing in the Lowan Bayou’s outer edge, where it is said that anything can be found and anyone can be lost, for the right price, of course–there yet exist trinkets too hot to handle.
But it wouldn’t be Gran Marche if people didn’t try.
Take, for instance, Edward Fish. See how he runs, hopping from punter boat to punter boat. Hear his ragged wheezing breathing. Feel his sour fear. Edward Fish is a man on the run, and the reason is simple:
Edward Fish has stolen from someone he shouldn’t.
Edward Fish has stolen from me.
Watch him in my scrying disc, scampering along the market district’s shining stories, clutching his ill-gained trophy like a hamster’s seed-stuffed cheeks. It’s a beautiful bauble, you must admit; a many-faced gem a little bigger than a grapefruit. Silver-embossed glyphs glint on every rune-carved facet. It’d fetch a pretty penny–if only he could sell it.
How clever he must have thought himself, sneaking through my tower! Traipsing past my militiamen, carefully disarming each and every trap encountered! Deactivating the lightning snares, twirling past the venomed darts, sussing out the hidden deadfalls–trifling things for a magician of my caliber, but he doubtless saw himself a titan for conquering them. Certainly, in any lesser wizard’s tower, Edward Fish would have his fortune easy.
The boy has talent, that much is clear. We all recall his heist in Merriach, loosing all those shackled leopards at the auction house. And who could forget his antics, lifting rings from touring nobles’ fingers? A more daring burglar this town has never known.
And yet, not deft enough to conquer me.
Settle in, my friends. That’s Attilian velvet upholstering those chairs–Attilian lumber, too. You’re comfortable, I trust? Tell me how you like the spread. If all goes well, we’ll have to do this monthly! Maybe next time we’ll see how fast your workshop falls, eh, Bandez?
Right, of course. I lose myself. Back to the show.
Fish throws a terror-stricken glance behind him. His pursuer is close, he knows, but where? Gran Marche’s glitz is beautiful, but so many lanterns in so many shades make the marketplace riot in kaleidoscopic chaos. It could come from anywhere, and helpful faces in the marketplace are ever in short supply.
And so on he runs, his lithe legs burning, his lungs aflame, the hair he prides so much a sweaty tangled mess above his brow.
Now, you may think me foolish for using a legitimately valuable object as my decoy, but recall that a gem’s purity and capacity for enchantment are closely correlated–and the enchantment on this bauble is a mighty one indeed. You see, not only does it ensorcell the unprotected viewer into craving it above all other relics in my tower, but it also acts as a beacon for a most tenacious beast.
Ah! There it is! See it flicker from shadow to shadow, close at Edward’s heels. The base genetics I bought off an alchemist in Ashburg–those Sunderlandi mages are so inventive, aren’t they? Nearly as clever as us. It started as a sort of fey-wolf, but after the sixth or seventh round of transmutations it became a bit more crocodilian. Fitting, no?
The lamplight falls upon it. I really have outdone myself. Its forelegs ripple with tight-packed sinews. Double-thumbed paws cling effortlessly to the market facades. Its hindquarters were a devil to perfect–the finned tail stabilizes it supremely for its dozen-meter leaps. And, of course, the crushing crocodilian jaws, to sunder bone and steel alike.
Let me refill your drinks, my friends. We’re getting to the good part. He’s gotten out of the market stalls, into the eastern pontoon slums. I believe I heard he’s shacked up with some other ne’er-do-wells out there as a rag-tag band of bravos. A pity for them to be caught in the crossfire, but hardly my concern. Unfortunate all around, really, for such a solid footpad to fall to foolish fancy. Remember how he pinched those Tixuacan opals from that jeweler ship for us? If only he had stayed so useful.
Oh, right, Bandez. Wasn’t it your prentice that had charmed the lad? These days the grapevine sags with prattle of their romance. I apologize in advance for the grief my beast will soon inflict.
Fish skids to a stop. The floating walkway ‘neath him gently bobs. He must have tired of running. He turns, brandishing the head-sized gem…
And drops it at his feet? What the devil is he doing? That thing is worth ten times his life, the wretched little man. Why steal it in the first place? Almost as if… No matter. Now he draws his sword–he must have lost his wits. Everybody knows the boy is useless with a blade.
The creature leaps, razor claws gouging furrows where it lands before him. It has six eyes–two in front, two in back, two on its shoulders just for the spectacle–and all are lit with cunning. It is the pinnacle of my mutagenetic studies. Tonight, it takes its tenth life, no matter Fish’s madness. Tonight, my creature–oh gods, now what?
He’s rolled past its pounce. Who taught him to do that?
Bandez, why are you laughing?
‘Did I make it see at night?’ Of course not, it started as a wolf. Its olfactory senses should more than account for… oh, damn it all. The crocodilian snout. It can follow the cursed gem’s scent, but its spatial awareness is admittedly… lacking. Explains how for all its muscles and claws, Fish is dancing around it like a foppish Carlin fencer.
But fret not, Bandez. The beast will triumph yet. It only has to hit him once. He’s already exhausted from absconding from my tower. It’s simply a matter of time.
Look, he’s tiring already. It lunges, scything the air before it. He’s a split-second later than he ought to be–its claws tear furrows through his tunic. If he’d been a bit slower, it’d have been through his spinal column, but take solace, my friends–death will slow him plenty.
Hm? If he’s the tenth, who were the other nine? Oh, the usual assortment. Test subjects. Vagrants. A merchant or two that short-changed me on deals–like a particular Tixuacan jeweler. A weapon must be sharpened, after all, and bloodlust comes from bloodshed. I wasn’t going to make a beast and not ensure that it was deadly, was I?
Now, stop distracting me. I want to see him die.
There we go! He’s stumbled–he leapt too hard, smashed a foot through a rotten walkway board, see? The beast is creeping up on him, savoring his fear. Yes, my triumph! Make every moment torture! Let Gran Marche’s people know: stealing from me beckons death.
Wait. Who threw that javelin? Who’s that in the shadows? These teeming, ragged masses, lugging knives and chains and clubs? How does Edward Fish have so many fighting by his side? I knew the lad was popular, but this is just ridiculous.
Well, it doesn’t change things. They’re just townsfolk, after all. My beast is an apex predator, even with its unexpected foibles. Keep your counting fingers ready, my friends–it’s soon to be a slaughter.
Hm. I must admit, they’re better organized than I’d expect. They’re almost using something within the realm of tactics. My beast is deadly, but only once it catches you. The way they bait it–multi-pronged concurrent strikes, dashing in and out and never bunching up–well, it’s just what I would do, were I running the hunt. If I knew no better, I’d expect–
Oh, of all the blasted nonsense. Bandez, you bastard, you envious slime! I see your prentice out there, barking orders at the mob. What japery is this? Was it you who hired Fish?
What? ‘Did I know those vagrants’ names?’ What use are vagrants’ names to me?
Are you telling me that you, my peer, allowed this torrid overstep because your prentice cried about his brother’s death?
What insipidity! What gall! If his brother had mattered, then he should have saved him. What guilt there is for his death lies solely in that failure. I tell you, Bandez, if this is all payback for the trouble with the Fire-Ape–
Well, there it is. They’ve done it now. A finely-honed, extremely costly living weapon, slaughtered on the decks by a gang of dirty wastrels. They’ve even sawed its head off. They’re holding it aloft. Are you happy now, Bandez? Your prentice got his vengeance. His paramour is safe. And I am out ten thousand queens.
This changes nothing, you know. Don’t think I’ve been beaten. I’ve still got plenty in my coffers, and plenty in my labs! Edward Fish has better watch his back–a wizard always gets his due. Cease your laughing, Bandez. Get the hell out of my house.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten the rest of you tittering hedge mages, either. You fair-weather snakes, you wet-mouthed slackjawed opportunists. That beast is a wonder of modern magic–I’m sure you’ll gladly pay a tidy sum for every scrap of tendon.
What’s that? ‘Only filch what you can flip?’
Oh, I bet you think you’re clever.
©April 2025, Zachary Olson
Zachary Olson is a freelance writer and composer from Phoenix, Arizona, currently in Chicago. Updates on his work can be found @zacharyolson.bsky.social and at zacharyolsonpresents.com. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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