He’s the one used to being the hawk, the one doing the hunting, Ozzie thought. Not so much fun being the mouse, is it?
But Nymm wasn’t a mouse for long. He stamped his staff with such force that it prompted Mysteeria Creed to translocate back to her seat. “Is this what we’ve become?” Nymm demanded, his brow furling. “Has this council descended so low that we bow and bend to baseless rumor and tittering gossip?”
Adaryn Moonstrom rose with a flourish. “We only ask that you answer the question, good Master Nymm. This council must know the status of the glibber king.”
“Who among you has set foot on Morindu?” Nymm growled. “Few of you, I think. You ask the question, but do not have the stomach to visit that black and abysmal place yourself. But I have. I was the one to escort that heinous fiend to Morindu, to witness the execution of his sentence!” He reached into his robe, produced a small stone, and held it up for all to see.
“What is that thing?” Ozzie prodded Salamanda. “What’s he doing?”
“It’s a memory marble,” Salamanda whispered. “Master Nymm’s going to show us something from the past. But I don’t know what. . . .”
Nymm hurled the marble to the ground. There was a thunderous crack, and instantly an image beamed upward, into the center of the chamber, for all to see.
“What the . . . ,” Ozzie murmured. The image reminded him of the magic paintings in the crew mess hall; this wasn’t a simple scene to gaze upon, but one that invoked all the senses. He could feel a blast of heat, could hear a fiery crackle. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils; it was as if he had been thrust right into the midst of the memory, as if he himself was standing right there in . . .
“So, this is Morindu,” Nymm declared, though not the Nymm in the room. It was the Nymm in the memory; the majestic wizard was standing on a cliff of black rock, staring upon a wretched and fiery landscape. Next to him was a strong, muscular woman with bright red skin. She wore dark leather armor, and an even darker scowl.
“Who’s that?” Ozzie wondered quietly.
“Must be the warden of Morindu,” Salamanda told him, though she did not even look at Ozzie when she replied. She was fixedly following Nymm’s gaze across the landscape, and now Ozzie did, too.
He could see volcanic peaks stretching into the distance, erupting in steady, almost rhythmic succession. Their plumes of smoke choked the sky, sending smoldering embers and ash fluttering to the ground like black snow. Wide rivers of lava burbled and hissed as they snaked their way across the charcoal-colored rock. The heat became so staggering that a bead of sweat meandered down the side of Ozzie’s face.
“Yes, this is Morindu,” the warden told Nymm, clasping her hands behind her back. “And here comes the prisoner.”
Nymm peered over the cliff—and Ozzie and the rest of the audience peered with him—to see a repulsive creature scuttle across the rock. The beast was giant and fleshy, with bulbous eyes, slimy limbs, and webbed fingers. He was shackled in chains that grated harshly against the ground.
“It’s Crogus!” Ozzie heard someone in the audience gasp. “The glibber king!”
Suddenly there was a zap, and Crogus lurched forward, prodded by a retinue of guards astride dragons that were as red as the surrounding lava. Each guard wielded a lance wreathed in crackling orange light. They continued jabbing Crogus and, even in the grim darkness, Ozzie could see the glibber king’s eyes blaze with rage.
The guards herded their captive toward a narrow cave that stood in a fork of molten rock. At the threshold of this hole, Crogus turned to issue a threatening growl at Nymm and the warden—though, to Ozzie, it felt like the glibber king was looking directly into the conference hall, at him.
The warden pulled a wriggling orange snake from a sack dangling at her belt. “One last meal of fresh meat,” she chortled.
“He does not deserve it,” Nymm said.
“It is crueler this way,” the warden assured him. “Sharpens the pain for what comes next—a lifetime of slop and gruel.”
She hurled the snake over the cliff and Crogus shot out a long black tongue—Ozzie instinctively ducked—to snatch the treat out of midair. He sucked the snake down with a slurp.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Ozzie groaned.
“I, too, have a gift for the glibber king,” Nymm declared. He raised his long staff and flicked it in the direction of Crogus. A beam of light fired down at him; when it struck him, it crackled over his skin, like static electricity.
“Didn’t seem to hurt him,” the warden grunted.
“It was a spell,” Nymm divulged, “a simple enchantment to offer the multiverse even more protection against his return.”
The guards continued driving Crogus forward until, at last, he was forced into his cave. As soon as this happened, a wall of iron rolled down, sealing the prison with a grinding thud. Next, a second wall rose from the ground as an additional barrier. Finally, the river of lava closed around the prison, forming a wide and formidable moat.
“Will it hold him?” Nymm asked the warden.
“Aye,” the warden replied. “None have escaped the dungeons of Morindu in over a thousand years.”
“The glibber king is not some common thief or murderer,” Nymm warned. “As I have previously explained, he is in possession of a particular charm that—”
The warden tilted back her head and released a hearty belly laugh. “See those guards down there, Master Nymm? They’re deaf—every single one of them. Which means you don’t need to fret about that glibber devil. Morindu will hold him.”
“Then it is over,” Nymm uttered. He turned away from the cliff—and at that moment the scene disappeared. Instantly, the entire chamber felt cooler.
“Why does it matter if the guards are deaf?” Ozzie wondered, turning to Salamanda. “What is Crogus’s charm?”
Salamanda didn’t reply, and Ozzie noticed a long drip trickle down her cheek. At first, he assumed she was sweating from the heat, just like him, but a moment later he realized that it was a tear. “What is it?” Ozzie urged.
“Such a horrible sight,” she said, burying her head in Ozzie’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave.”
“Don’t you have to stay?” Ozzie asked.
“I have my ring; if Master Nymm needs me, trust me, I’ll know.”
“But they haven’t talked about my door yet,” Ozzie whispered.
“They won’t now,” Salamanda replied. “It’s too late in the night . . . but, well, you can stay if you want. I . . . I . . .”
Ozzie noticed Snedley, the amber-eyed apprentice, hushing them with a surly glare. “I’m coming,” Ozzie reassured Salamanda.
She clutched Ozzie’s hand in gratitude and led him out of the conference chamber to stand in the gallery beyond. There were windows here, and Ozzie could see a hint of dawn glimmering on the horizon. Salamanda had been right; the first night of the convention was nearly finished. A few security guards were patrolling the area; when Ozzie spotted officers Needles and Bones, he led Salamanda over to a quiet alcove, worried that he might be recognized.
“Have you ever seen anything like . . . like . . . him?” Salamanda asked, as if she couldn’t bear to say Crogus’s name.
Ozzie shook his head. “No. But he reminds me of a giant creepy-crawly.”
“Creepy-crawly?” Salamanda asked quizzically.
“You know, things that slither and squirm,” Ozzie said with a shudder.
“Well, I guess that’s our answer about him,” Salamanda reasoned. “No one’s escaped Morindu in living memory. And Master Nymm cast an extra spell on him, too.”
Ozzie couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something not quite right about Nymm’s story, that there was something missing. “The apprentice,” he murmured.
“What about him?” Salamanda wondered. “You heard Master Nymm. He doesn’t think he exists. Though there’s the stranger you saw in the crew’s tower . . .”
“That just turned out to be Fidget,” Ozzie said.
“No,” Ozzie said.
“Then again,” Salamanda considered, “the apprentice would be in disguise.”
“So, it could be anyone.”
Salamanda slowly nodded. “Although, in my experience, you can always see a hint or something showing through. Keep your eyes open, Ozzie. Someone who is . . . I don’t know. Creepy-crawly.”
That phrase struck Ozzie like a mallet. “Fidget,” he gasped.
“What about her?” Salamanda asked. “I thought you just said—”
“She had this book of magic,” Ozzie interjected, looking intently at Salamanda. “She said it was for . . . but maybe . . .”
He trailed off. He didn’t like suspecting Fidget, but one corner of his mind had firmly seized the idea and was making a run for it. He couldn’t deny that the purple-haired girl was the most creepy-crawly of any of the strange people he had met in Zoone. Cho had said she reeked of dark magic. And Mr. Whisk had said that her hair wasn’t the right color, that she didn’t look quite like a regular Quoxxian. What if her curse was all just a ruse? What if being near water automatically summoned her slimy minions? Fidget had claimed that those beasties would rip her apart, but now that Ozzie thought about it, he hadn’t seen any of those wrigglers snap or hiss at her—only at him. Maybe the reason she couldn’t go near water was very simple: Because it would reveal her true identity.
“You’re not making sense,” Salamanda said, touching the sleeve of his cloak. “What was Fidget doing with the book of magic?”
Ozzie looked intently at Salamanda. “I thought she was trying to stop a curse. But if she’s a glibber, she might have been trying to keep her disguise going. What do we do now?”
“We need more evidence,” Salamanda told him. “You have to keep an eye on her, Ozzie.”
“Me?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hang out with someone who could be a glibber. Especially after witnessing that scene of the king being marched into his prison cell. Thinking of his long black tongue made Ozzie queasy.
“Someone has to do it,” Salamanda insisted. “And I’m already running around night and day for Master Nymm.”
Ozzie exhaled. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” Salamanda said. “If you get proof, we can take it before Master Nymm. But we better be sure, Ozzie. Or . . . well, you know. I sure don’t want to bring him a false accusation.”
Ozzie mustered a nod of acknowledgment, but the truth was that his mind was churning. So many things added up about Fidget . . . but could she really be a glibber spy?
18
Salamanda Smink Makes a Mistake
Ozzie only managed to snatch a few more hours of troubled sleep before it was time to get up and start another day. As he wandered down to the mess hall, he had this feeling that there was a different mood in the station. At first, he wondered if it was just him, and the disturbing notions about Fidget that were bubbling inside of him, but everyone he met seemed very serious, what Aunt Temperance would call “all business.”
Even Cho was different. Ozzie bumped into him in the mess hall, but the usually good-natured captain didn’t say a word; he just quickly downed some breakfast, then slipped away without so much as a good-bye.
“Don’t take it personally,” said Mr. Whisk, who was sitting nearby and sipping a mug of Elandorian coffee. “The wizards have put him in a foul temper.”
“Why?” Ozzie asked.
“Wizardly folk don’t like Captain Cho’s kind, and they’re making it known. He should have overseen security at the conference hall last night, but was asked to patrol the platforms instead. That’s a slap in the face for the captain of Zoone.”
It hadn’t occurred to Ozzie before, but now that he thought about it, it was peculiar that Cho hadn’t been at the conference. Better for me, Ozzie considered. I’m not sure it would have been as easy to sneak past him as it was those other guards.
“Truth is,” Mr. Whisk continued, “I suspect Master Nymm would like to have Captain Cho relieved of his duties.”
“You mean fired?” Ozzie asked in surprise. “Why?”
Mr. Whisk stroked his beard, which today was so long it spooled to the floor. “You might as well ask why flies don’t like spiders.”
Ozzie headed to his porting shift, pondering the tinker’s words. What exactly had Mr. Whisk meant by “Cho’s kind”? As far as Ozzie could tell, Cho’s kind was . . . well, kind. How could the wizards have a problem with that?
Ozzie’s day of porting was not a busy one. Now that all the wizardly attendees had arrived, the platforms were comparatively quiet.
“It’s not just that,” Keeva told Ozzie as he ended his shift. “Travelers are worried about the glibber king. They think he’s going to strike the station during the convention.”
“Crogus is in prison,” Ozzie countered.
Keeva shrugged. “So they say.”
A part of Ozzie—a very large part—wished he could say something about seeing Nymm’s memory of the glibber king in Morindu. How many people could say they’d witnessed something like that? But he decided to keep his mouth shut.
After changing out of his uniform, Ozzie sauntered up to the common room to see if he could find Tug. The skyger was stretched out near Ozzie’s window seat, but before Ozzie could make his way there, Fidget suddenly leaped out from behind a corner, causing him to screech in surprise.
“What’s up with you?” Fidget demanded.
“N-nothing,” Ozzie said, carefully taking a step back and staring at her intently. She sure didn’t look anything like a glibber. But, he reminded himself, she might be using some sort of spell to disguise her true appearance. Maybe that’s why she had that book.
“You look like you’ve seen a Quoggian,” Fidget said accusingly.
“You just startled me, that’s all,” Ozzie insisted. “Hey, what exactly were you trying to do with that book of spells, anyway?”
Fidget raised a purple eyebrow at him. “I told you—trying to get rid of my . . . you-know-what.”
“Oh . . .”
“You’re in a strange mood tonight,” she observed. “Come on, look what I found in the closet!” She held up a box and excitedly rattled it.
“What’s that?” Ozzie asked suspiciously. He couldn’t read any of the symbols on the lid. For all he knew, it was a glibber bomb.
“It’s Quoxxian chess,” Fidget explained. “Fusselbone told me it was left behind by a visiting dignitary a few years ago. I’ve been dealing with guests all day. Wizards are the worst. Nespera Cruxx made me switch her room three times. Come on; let’s play!”
She was already setting up the board on Ozzie’s favorite window seat. Well, Ozzie told himself, I did promise Salamanda I’d keep an eye on her. And at least Tug’s here in case she suddenly decides to attack me.
He wasn’t exactly sure what Tug could do to protect him; the skyger was pretty much a gentle giant. Still, just having him there made Ozzie feel better, so he sat down across from Fidget to start the match.
Quoxxian chess wasn’t much like the game Ozzie was used to playing with Aunt Temperance. The board was round and tall, like a cake, and along the sides there were many gears and switches. Instead of bishops, rooks, and knights, the pieces were wizards, lighthouses, and winged beasts.
“This game has skygers?!” Tug exclaimed, sticking his giant blue nose over the board.
Fidget frowned. “They’re not skygers. They’re quixies.”
“Quixies?” Ozzie wondered. “What are those?”
“Flying sea dragons from Quoxx,” Fidget explained.
“Really?” Ozzie said skeptically.
“I think I’d know,” Fidget said. “The
re’s a whole stable of them back home. Why are you so suspicious about everything?”
“I’m not,” Ozzie protested, even though that’s exactly what he was. This whole thing is stressful, he thought.
He tried to just concentrate on playing the game. The most interesting thing about it was that you could pull different levers to flip the squares and either “devour” whatever piece was sitting on it or cause that piece to switch sides and join the opponent’s forces. Ozzie quite enjoyed this aspect of Quoxxian chess until Fidget made a move that caused the demise of a quixie he had spent several turns maneuvering into position.
“How are you supposed to win if that happens?” Ozzie grumbled.
“That’s what makes Quoxxian chess so interesting,” Fidget remarked. “You don’t have to be sore about—what are you doing here?”
She leaped to her feet, her eyes radiating definitely hostile periwinkle. Ozzie turned around to see Salamanda standing nearby, all in a fluster.
“This is the crew’s tower,” Fidget told Salamanda. “Are you lost? If you need something, you should go to the on-duty clerk at the inn.”
“N-no, it’s not that,” she stammered. “I . . . I need to talk to Ozzie.”
“What is it?” he asked, quickly standing up.
“I’m in terrible trouble,” she told him, clutching his arm and pulling him a few steps away. “Before coming to Zoone, Master Nymm sent me to Isendell to fetch some packages. But I must have forgotten one. I can’t find it anywhere. And Master Nymm needs it for an important presentation at high moon. I need someone to retrieve it for me.”
“You know, we’re in the middle of a game here,” Fidget snapped, sauntering over to them. “Why don’t you get it?”
“I can’t leave!” Salamanda answered desperately. “Master Nymm will know I’m gone. He seems to need me at every moment. Ozzie, can you go for me? I have a key you can use and everything. I have all the instructions written out here for where to go once you arrive in Isendell. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. If Master Nymm realizes I messed up, he’s going to . . .”
“Going to what?” Fidget demanded.
The Secret of Zoone Page 14
