The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 4.3

'May I have your attention, please! Roll up, roll up, and other such old-fashioned nonsense! Prepare to be amazed and bedazzled! Such delights as you've never seen! All for sale, for a limited time only!'

In the dim light of the mine, only a vague sound of shuffling greeted my sales call. A few knockers looked up, but otherwise returned to what they were doing.

Ang watched me deflate and nudged my knee. 'Lemme try, gwas. I speaks their language, like.'

'I didn't think you knew Cornish?'

She tutted. 'Not like that, twpsyn.'

She clambered on top of our table and stuck her thumbs into her belt. Striking a cavalier pose, she cleared her throat. 'We gots pies, lads!'

Suddenly, scrabbling and chattering filled the stope.

'That's cheating,' I told her pointedly.

She grinned at me. 'Learned it from you, I did.'

'And I'm very proud. A free pie to our first five purchases!'

I had to shout over the top of the growing hubbub. There's nothing that gets the attention of a knocker faster than a bit of pastry. I plucked a curio from the table and held it aloft.

'Our newest acquisition, the Melancholic Tonic! Need a dose of solemnity for a special occasion? Do you want to create a poetically brooding persona? It's all the rage!'

'What's in it?' said the nearest patron-in-potentia.

'A truly woeful combination. The base is mixed from the tears of a career clown; a deeply profound body is provided by the mulched works of Schopenhauer fed into a blender; and of course it's rounded off with the most vital of seasonings: the petals of a forget me not crushed into the leaves of a chamaebatia plant.'

The knocker scratched his nose. 'Sounds like a recipe fer misery, if y'ask me.'

'Yes, that's– Never mind. How about . . . this!' I pushed forward an ornate brass compass nestled in a velvet box. 'This delightful device will point the way to your heart's desire! Always know the direction of your deepest ambitions! Never be stumped by existential paralysis again!'

He prodded it, unimpressed. 'Does it point North, too?'

' . . . Yes.'

'I'll 'ave it, then. What's yer price?'

'How about a small measure of piskey dust? Just a pinch, and it's all yours!'

'Yer what?' The knocker's face screwed up in amusement.

'Piskey dust,' I repeated. 'Come now, it's like actual dust to you people, isn't it?

''avin' a laugh, you are!'

'I do have a specimen of bottled laughter around here somewhere, but that's besides the point. I'm here to trade – valuables for valuables!'

The knocker sneered at my table. 'Nothin' here as valuable as piskey dust.'

'Now that can't be true,' I persisted. 'You'd trade me a . . . a metal charm infused with the stuff, wouldn't you? All I'm asking for is the raw ingredient. Less work for you, surely!'

The knocker left in a huff. The remaining crowd became decidedly more leery as well.

Branok sidled up to the table, cleaning his pipe on his waistcoat. 'Wouldn'a be askin' fer piskey dust, if I were you.'

'Why not? Seems like a reasonable proposition to me.'

'Ain't, though.'

'I don't see what's so–'