by J. Gertori
two
The Odd New Place
Sam and Raske smashed onto the black granite tiles in a wild heap. No longer were they inside Gaspare’s home. After coming to his knees in awe at the sight of the gymnasium-sized chamber, Sam inhaled an atrocious odor.
“No!” shrieked Raske, vaulting to his feet. He pushed Sam under an archway with GATE 7 etched in a pattern, but nothing came of the repeated shoves. “Know what ya did?” Creases riddled the hudger’s face. “Ruined me, ya fool. Ya ruined me!”
Sam nudged the bumbling hudger off his leg, and Raske flopped with little resistance.
“What do you mean? Where are we?”
The cathedral-like interior mimicked the night sky. Inset within the walls were dim bulbs, which provided a faint color break. There were dramatic swirls of filigree, and intricate sculptures protruding from support columns. These were styles of architecture Sam had likened to old buildings from his college days.
“There’s no we in this, ya twit! Yer lucky the alarm hadn’t gone off.” Raske mumbled to himself, “Tell the guards the truth. Reason with ’em. I’ll have to appear before the committee, but they’ll cleanse the fleshlin’ by noon.”
“Whoa! Pull back there, pint size,” blurted Sam. “I, too, am a fan of talking to myself, but you’re starting to creep me out. Also, who’s getting cleansed in the what now?”
Raske unraveled his frilled rope. He lassoed Sam’s wrist and towed him behind a black pillar. “Lower yer voice,” he said, not much quieter than Sam. “Those with no business bein’ here, aren’t just sent home. Done this to yerself, and worse, to me! Kreol, Malik, Jameson—care to guess what they have in common?”
“Whiskey?” Sam slammed Raske’s rope to the ground. “Foolish me, I forgot drinking gold brings you to magical gnome land, with its horrendous stench, and black walls, black pillars, black floors, black—”
Raske delivered a well-placed kick to Sam’s ankle, forcing him into a crouch. “Ya expectin’ a magic closet? The names Kreol, Malik, Jameson—names of fleshlin’ smugglers. They’re servin’ time in Persolus Place. Yer kind isn’t allowed inside unless they’re workin’ here.”
“Then find me a job. Easy as that. I can cook eggs and sandwiches, not bad with customers either. Also, I wrote a story once, so maybe I can teach a class on what not to do.”
“Stop talkin’! A fleshlin’ with a job is called a pact. Most pacts got bloodlines here; those without are recruited. So unless yer smarter than yer lettin’ on, ya don’t belon’ here.”
“Why are you so worried? Nobody’s around.”
Raske surveyed the area. “Of course not. Transport to the fleshlin’ lands are closed fer the day, but guards should be patrollin’.”
A clicking noise came from a separate gate.
“Can’t be,” said Raske, pulling Sam out of sight, “power don’t come on ’til mornin’.”
A bolt of light set the space ablaze, and Sam struggled to hide in the pillar’s reduced shadow. Booming racket should’ve accompanied these violent flashes, but instead, a feeble sound of escaping air tagged along.
“Here we are. See, money well-spent,” said a voice. “What’s that smell? Make a light.”
Sam saw the silhouettes of three figures. The closest person presented a rigid stick. Sparks shot from its tip, filling the room in a bright sheen. They shook the spiny stick as unstable flickers continued long after the room came alive. The trio descended the elevated gateway and pushed forward. They wore hooded robes, and gray-colored fabric showered the person in the middle, whose hood overflowed to resemble a crow’s beak.
“Stay here,” said the farthest figure. The two people on the ends walked toward the room’s center. They paused with a synchronized gasp then sped away. With a jab of the rigid stick, the nearest door whipped open, allowing the trio a hasty exit.
Without warning, Raske barreled toward a different door. Sam attacked the hudger with a flurry of questions; all went unanswered. As Raske’s options dwindled, his chatter escalated.
“Wait a minute, Raske.” The hudger stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn. “If I help you find Mr. Gaspare, and he vouched for me, would everything be okay?”
“Ya got me into this mess, twit. No turnin’ back. The guards will handle ya.”
“Buddy, I’ve no interest in learning what a cleansing is. Mr. Gaspare can vouch for you, too. Then we’re both off the hook, right? No harm, no foul. You wash my hands, and I wash yours, or however the hell they say it.”
“Doin’ me a favor, aye?” Raske’s grimace looked severe.
“I got a microwave dinner and a show I’m missing. Tomorrow, I’m was gonna play chess at the park. And Sunday, probably learn how to play chess. I might even go hiking. What I’m saying is: people will be looking for me.”
The pathetic threat fizzled, and Sam dropped to a knee. “I’m not the only one with something to lose. You could’ve ratted me out to the brotherhood-of-cloaks a minute ago, but you didn’t. You don’t wanna get in trouble, and I don’t wanna get you in any. Help me, help you.” Raske twisted toward Sam with a softened brow. “Plus, it’s like a weekend getaway.”
The hudger snarled. “Stay close. Keep yer mouth shut and let me do the talkin’. Far as anyone’s concerned, ya work fer me.”
The chaotic pair rushed to the front of the massive room, which split in the middle like a church walkway. As they reached the guard desks, the unpleasant smell intensified.
“I know that odor,” said Raske, “but frem where?”
Sam gazed over the long desk. He flew backward onto the floor from the unexpected sight—a body lay face-up under a chair. Raske looped around the desk and parked close to the body.
“Stricken stin’ray—that’s the smell,” he said. “The guard is constricted.”
“Oh, you mean it’s not natural to lay straight as an arrow?” Sam blurted. To his point, “constricted” seemed an understatement. The guard’s arms clung to her sides, and her ankles pressed together with her toes to the ceiling; any stiffer and she’d snap in half.
“Is she dead?” said Sam, desperate to catch his breath. She didn’t look like Raske; Not his stature, or his weighted eyelids, or his calloused skin. The woman didn’t have his broad jawline and the patchy beard, or his husky fingers.
“Got a thready pulse and losin’ lots of liquid.” Raske motioned for the fleshling to assist. Beads of sweat lined the guard’s cheeks before falling into her black curls. “Check that bag for her wand.”
Sam sifted through the canvas bag slung on the chair and pulled from it a chunky stick with a blunt end. He dangled the piece near Raske’s face, unsure if it was a “wand.”
“Only we know ’bout stricken stin’ray,” Raske whispered. His calm demeanor shifted into a dead stare as he stood beside the guard.
“Hate to intrude on your bite-size moment of enlightenment, but I think she’s getting worse,” said Sam. “What are you gonna—”
“Scalprus!” shouted Raske.
A spark sizzled the wand’s end, pulsating with a controlled murmur. Raske swung along the guard’s side three times as if he had drawn fish gills. The glowing outlines hovered in place for mere seconds before splitting the woman’s uniform. A shallow cut marked her light brown skin; superficial enough not to draw blood.
“What the fuck did you just do?” screamed Sam, wrestling with the hudger.
Raske squirmed loose. “Had to release the toxins. It’ll keep her alive.” The wand glowed like a burning coal, forcing Raske to toss it away.
“Cover yer nose!” he said, running to the opposite side of the woman. The cut separated as green and pink fumes seeped from the fleshy folds.
Raske sped to the doors at the front of the room while Sam gagged and stumbled behind. The two shimmied into a dark, empty hall with glass doors, and the air carried a pleasant fragrance of potpourri; Gaspare’s apartment seemed an extension to this building.
“We have to get help,” said Sam through his
deep breaths and pounding heartbeat.
“No. Gotta find Gaspare.”
“We can’t just leave the guard there.”
“I prefer to handle one problem at a time, thanks. I’ve never seen stricken stin’ray gone wron’. Suppose she would’ve dried like a raisin if I didn’t cut her, but she’ll recover.”
“Forget about Gaspare and me for a second. That woman is hurt.”
Raske spun around. “Two people know ’bout stricken stin’ray: me and Torold. If he did that to the guard, then vouchin’ fer us will do no good. Findin’ Torold is the priority unless ya changed yer mind ‘bout gettin’ cleansed.”
In pursuit of the speedy hudger, Sam eyed a silver placard hanging on the stretch of wall:
FOURTH FLOOR
Transportation Inquiries
International Travel Hall
Check–in Desk
Check–out Desk
The shimmering sign rippled like a pond with a rock skipping at its surface. Waves flowed through the metallic, settling into a different language.
Raske turned into an opening, and Sam closed the gap, scoring a few answers to questions he hadn’t stopped asking. He stayed quiet an impressive six seconds before blurting out, “Is this an elevator? I thought you said we’re on an island. Must be huge to have electricity.”
Raske circled his temple with his husky finger and said, “Not electric. We got gears and enchantments between the islands. But don’t go concernin’ yerself with that.”
“Whoa, time out. That time you said ‘islands’—plural.”
Sam inspected the elevator buttons, which were yellow marble with white veins. The doors shut without his involvement, and they descended. The protruding buttons shifted inward and outward until the elevator halted at floor three.
“Did ya stop the lift?” whispered Raske.
“I didn’t press anything. I swear.”
“Hello,” said the woman who entered, fluttering as their strong odor attacked her nose. Her sculpted eyebrows steadied above smoky eyes, which rested in a natural squint. As she swung to face forward, her billowy curls covered Sam’s view with a shade of midnight; the constricted guard’s hair might’ve looked similar if it weren’t drenched.
The woman pushed the first-floor knob, hidden between a letter B, and an outline of a fish. She sniffled and cleared her throat. “Great to see you’re well, Mr. Olimpi.”
“Am indeed.” Raske’s voice went taut. “Thank ya fer noticin’, Ms. Ward.”
“You’re welcome, but is there a reason why you’re in the manor at this hour?”
Raske fidgeted for an answer. “We’re . . . runnin’ errands fer Torold.” He let out a half-assed laugh. “He’s always got somethin’ that needs handlin’.”
“Running indeed,” she said, sniffing again. “Well, if it’s for Sir Gaspare, I’m sure you’ve got your hands full.” Sam let out a cough, half-hoping for an introduction. “Who’s your friend?”
Raske stumbled to respond, but Sam interjected: “We work together. I’m an advisor type.” He looked at the rabid hudger. “Mr. Olimpi is a loose canon. I’m trying to keep his shiny head from exploding.”
She gazed at Raske. “You’ve hired a pact? That’s progressive, Mr. Olimpi.” She didn’t need to say much to have Sam’s unbridled attention; his knees damn near gave out as she turned to him. “I’m Devon Ward.”
“Imis. Sam Imis.” Behind his smile, he berated himself for his such a cliché introduction.
“We hudgers aren’t as opposed to pacts as we once were, Ms. Ward,” said Raske, speaking with a phony tone.
Ms. Ward’s skin radiated of light copper, much warmer in comparison to Sam’s olive tint. Raske had a manila folder skin tone, though his complexion mimicked a tomato at that moment.
The hudger spewed a barrage of compliments to Ms. Ward’s work ethic. Sam didn’t follow much, but he did gather that Ms. Ward led a type of investigative group called scrutors.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Olimpi. Pleasure meeting you, Sam. If you need anything, I’m on the first floor, but keep it to office hours, gentleman.”
The three parted as soon as the doors opened. Raske walked behind Sam and urged him to face forward. Ms. Ward’s steps echoed until they were as faint as water droplets.
“I was afraid everyone here would look like you—no offense. Please tell me we’ll see more of her,” Sam said.
“Better hope we don’t. Ms. Ward’s the head scrutor. We run into her again, means the scrutors or mages are onto us. Best we go this way and avoid Grand Station altogether.”
“Shouldn’t we at least tell Devon about the guard?”
“Ms. Ward will find out soon. There’s supposed to be two guards at the gates, so we better leave before the other returns to the desks.”
This new area had segments cordoned off and matte-black pillars. A metallic sign, same as the one on the fourth floor, took Sam’s attention.
FIRST FLOOR
Grand Station
Parks and Farm Enforcement
Artifec Affairs
Sam followed Raske into a long corridor, which started as white walls, progressed into exposed brick, and ended with warm wood on both sides. He paused at the end to compare the scenery before him with the office-like ambiance of the previous rooms.
The hallway opened into a vast recreation area. Large shelves tiled the walls with a variety of globes, stamp-covered suitcases, and piles of books stacked until every hole had vanished. The fragrant smell became stronger in this wing, perhaps from the many potted plants sprinkled throughout. A massive banner hung from the back wall, promoting the twentieth annual Pact Orientation Weekend.
“This is more like it. I could get used to this,” said Sam, jogging toward a mantle of assorted goods. “If I can get past the whole dying guard thing, this could be a helluva vacation.”
“Hey! Keep movin’. No time fer—”
“Mr. Olimpi!” shouted a voice to their right. A woman emerged from a gap in the wall that didn’t identify as a door. The wide entryway shut behind her, filling the room with echoes of turning gears. The laughing woman descended the steps; her shadow climbed the wall like a blurred giant. Devon Ward’s hair had similar volume but didn’t shield her eyes the way this woman’s red curls did. How she managed to see the one and a half foot tall hudger was a mystery in itself.
“Alice! Just the person I’m lookin’ fer. Glad yer still here,” said Raske.
Alice met them at the central cluster of couches. The pale woman had rosy cheeks and didn’t look much older than Sam. Through her incessant yawns, Alice mumbled, “Before you say anything, I need to confess. I’ve had my fair share of Wheat Willow Spritzers, but there’s a wagon waiting for me outside. So I’m in a”—she hiccuped—“rush.”
“I’ll make it quick, then. It’s ’bout Torold.”
“Oh, Mr. Oli—oli—oli—impi,” She sang variations of Raske’s name until another hiccup interrupted her. “You know my protocol: no business talk after business hours. I mean, no business hours after business talk.”
“But Torold—”
“Nanananana,” hummed Alice, fingers in her ears. She swirled around the room, lighting the bulbs as she passed. “Leave an Artifec Request on Monday”—hiccup—“I’ll pass it along to Sir Gaspare.”
Alice collapsed onto the couch, twisting her hair into a thick braid like a boat paddle. “Do yourself a favor, and go to the negative second floor. The Department of Fish and Sea Monsters throw a damn good”—hiccup—“party. It’s mostly guys from creature sanitation, but I saw Chancellor Cho”—hiccup—“throw back a few.”
“Alice, I need—”
“That’s not even the best part. Zubair Singh is in there. How often do you see a Grand Mage letting loose? He’s not drinking, but he’s giving off”—hiccup—“good vibes.”
Alice paid no mind to the fleshling who towered over Raske. She paraded away, singing a tune catchy enough to be a jingle. As soon as she disappeared,
Sam begged Raske to take him to the negative second floor. The hudger had a different plan.
He prodded Sam toward an empty hall, hissing as if that would quicken the fleshling’s pace. They waltzed into the passageway, and Sam held the metal railing. The hallway filled with portraits of women, men, and a pipe smoking koala in regal attire.
ARTIFEC OF TRANSFORMATION – IGNACIOUS GILBEAUX, read the engraved stone beneath the koala. A beady-eyed woman with a winged creature on her shoulder hung across: HEAD OF FOREIGN SPECIES – MERIAM MERTAW.
“That’s the exit,” said Raske, pointing at a pair of hulking double doors. “The knob on the left opens ’em, but don’t ya dare run off. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Sam entered the circular lobby. His hands continued on the rail which angled upward, spiraling to form an impressive staircase that reached the ceiling. From under the brushed-gold chandelier, Sam could count each of the ascending floors.
He pushed the knob Raske mentioned. The double doors shook at the hinges before cracking open, and the hudger sprinted across the lobby with an arrangement of flowers. As they exited, the massive doors slammed shut and clicked together.
“Lot of ground to cover. We’ll stop by my house so I can gather supplies,” said Raske.
“Whatever you say, partner.”
Raske didn’t find the statement amusing.
Sam turned to admire the structure from which they arrived. As first impressions go, the interior looked like an overdecorated church, and the exterior resembled a castle. His heart fluttered as he stared at the sky. Each star beamed in all its glory with no city lights to challenge their intensity. The last time he saw stars this bright, he had to drive forty-five minutes and walk to the crest of a mountain range. But appreciation of the undiscovered came when Sam silenced the cynical voice in his mind and gazed into the black heavens.
“Need to drop waste? Not havin’ ya bother me later. Besides, ya won’t fit in my house,” said Raske—a man of great timing.
