by J. Gertori
Near the spill, Sam inspected a wine bottle with a model ship drowning in a sea of gold tonic. Its price tag swung forward, and he read it in a whisper, “Conjured by Sir Torold Gaspare.” Sam noticed the majority of vials, jugs, and kitschy flasks, had this same note, save for a few that were “Partially Conjured.”
The young man, who donned a navy blue cardigan, strolled through the aisle ahead of Sam. There were enough gaps between the potion bottles for them to see each other.
“Out of curiosity—you’re not warm in that sweater?” Sam said.
The young man didn’t look away from the striped jar in his hand. He ignored Sam until the fleshling joined his aisle.
“I know I’m not one to talk—wearing a helmet and all—but even in this thin shirt my pits are a swampy mess.”
The younger fellow scoffed. “Scrudge.”
“Excuse me? I’m a . . . I’m a pac—”
“—Pact—scrudge—one in the same. Another body in town to steal jobs from good-natured wizards. What are they calling it? That’s right—Orientation Weekend,” he said, with crisp annunciation. He finally granted Sam a glance, focusing on the red nose. “You can’t even bother to make yourself presentable. Your naive question about school uniforms and”—he motioned at Sam’s attire—“this: all telltale signs of a scrudge. Not to mention you were holding bottles of Purpurea and Sempervens in the same hand.”
“Mind your manners, Luvoy,” hollered Trixie.
Unsure of how he should proceed, Sam froze. He wasn’t embarrassed, but weary of revealing himself further. He could only stare at Luvoy’s mop of brown hair, pale complexion, and upper lip that protruded as though he wore a mouthguard.
Luvoy dug through a pile of frozen tonics. “I guess there’s nothing to worry about since pacts will never have true careers on Trida. Those are set aside for us.” With that, he tossed the vials into a padded barrel, nodded at Trixie, and made his dramatic exit.
Bulky plants painted the walls a bright green, and each flower acted like an elixir caddy. Sam returned his items to an empty petal, which embraced the bottles and receded into the shrubbery.
“I see ya made a friend,” said Rowen. “Them Octavius fellas rub me the wron’ way.”
“Now, now—Luvoy’s not all bad, just having a rough go. Octavius students may be snobs six-out-of-seven days, but I’d be damned if they weren’t my best customers—especially Luvoy. So you leave him be.”
Rowen rolled his eyes. He patted Sam’s chest and said, “Pay Trixie thirty quins.”
Sam dropped the pawn shop money onto the desk. His eyes fixed on the fairy.
“What’s wrong with this pact?” she said, floating inches off the table.
“Don’t mind him. He’s workin’ fer Dad.”
“Wow. How’d you manage a gig with Raske?” Trixie said, but Sam remained in awe. “He is a crisp one. Give me a second.” She sped away like a hummingbird. Rowen elbowed Sam just before Trixie returned with a small tube.
She aimed her wand at the fleshling, and the vial thumped on his chest. “Raske is an old friend but as stubborn as they come. Use this when you need a moment alone,” she said. “Things on Lekly can get rather . . . stressful. It’s on the house.”
“Thanks you—I mean, thank you,” said Sam, his awkward smile trembled.
“Right, thanks, Trixie. We’ll take it now,” hollered Rowen, jumping off the crates.
Sam waved goodbye to the fairy and heard her shout, “Integro.” With a burst from her wand, the shards merged, reforming the bottle.
Beaming rays of the sun seemed harsher after leaving the shop’s oasis. Sam slipped the gift vial into his chest pocket and jogged to the clock bench where Rowen had scurried. He jerked the helmet loose, revealing his drenched face and flattened hair.
“Could’ve had you do all this for me. But I’ll admit, this marketplace is a sight. What’s a jellyprawn?” said Sam.
Rowen looked uninterested. He opened the vials and instructed Sam to drink them together. The purple substance inside the tube complimented the pale green within the other. Sam gave them a spin, and he threw both liquids into his mouth. Just as instructed, he downed the concoction with a single swallow.
“Dad could’ve fixed yer nose himself, but he’d rather keep ya outta sight. Then there’s the fact that ya got no knowledge of Edmond Lekly.”
Sam hummed but gave it no thought. “Did it work?” he said to the cross-armed hudger.
“Let’s find out.” Rowen tilted his square head and fired off: “What’s yer name?”
“Samuel Joseph Imis.” Sam shook his head with his eyes clenched tight. “I didn’t mean to say that. Why did I say that?”
“Yer not a pact are ya?”
“No.” Sam covered his mouth.
“I knew it! Of course yer not, or ya would’ve had a fit when ya saw my rogue wand. Why is Dad sayin’ he’s hired ya?”
“It’s a ruse to keep suspicion off us.” Sam tried to hold his mouth shut. His finger traveled the path of his nose to find the severe bend still present.
“What kind of suspicion ya mean?”
Sam’s head straightened. “Your dad said there’s punishment for smuggling outsiders. He kept calling me a ‘fleshling.’”
“Why would Dad smuggle ya?” grunted Rowen.
“I forced my way here.” No matter how stiff he made his neck, Sam couldn’t refrain from speaking. “You snake. What did I drink?”
The hudger kept a close eye on the clock beside them. “Shot of Reminder Unwinder to keep yer memories keen, mixed with a shot of Honor Extract. Ya can’t tell me a lie fer the next . . . ferty-eight . . . ferty-seven seconds.”
“You son of a—”
“Gonna turn my dad in?”
“Not my plan. My neighbor is Mr. Gaspare. After Mr. Gaspare vouches for me, your dad will be in the clear.”
Rowen raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t Dad turn ya in?”
“He threatened me, but he also wants to fix this situation. Frankly, I’d prefer to stay and explore. Besides, this place is growing on me, and I’m not exactly making tidal waves at home.” Sam exhaled deep, and his jaw dropped as if he just accepted the truth for himself.
Rowen looked at the clock a final time. “So, yer workin’ with my dad and got no motive except to stay outta trouble?” Sam’s head bobbed. “Then who’s the woman who’s been followin’ ya since we left the docks?
FIVE
The Follower
“There, standin’ near the wisphounds,” said Rowen, pointing across the marketplace.
“What the hell is a wisphound?” said Sam.
“First cart—orange fruits.”
A trolly of vendors lined the street just left of them. The first had waffle-pattern fences filled with triangles of sun-kissed fruit. Sam eyed the woman who conversed with the cart’s owner. She wore a black turtleneck dress and a floppy hat that topped her light-brown complexion.
“Such an ill-advised outfit if she’s trying to be stealthy,” said Sam. “I know your truth serum ran out, but in all honesty, I’ve no idea who she is.”
Rowen eyed the red-nosed man and stood on the bench. “Could be tailin’ Dad, too.”
“Wait, why are you so sure she’s following me? You had me pawn my ring so I could buy potions to rat on myself. Kinda shows me you’re not a model citizen.”
Rowen raised his finger to argue but stuttered.
“We can find out if we separate. I’ll exchange my money, and you find me food,” said Sam.
“Do that yerself.”
Sam shot forward, pointing at his twisted nose.
“Quit yer cryin’. It’s nothin’ a wand can’t fix.” Rowen jumped off the bench and faced the oncoming traffic.
“Sir, excuse me—know how to fix a smashed nose?”
“No,” mumbled the man hobbling by.
Rowen jumped ahead of a woman who led a brigade of hovering bags. “Ma’am, ya mind helpin’ us with an injury?” She stomped away from the
hudger, ignoring his pleas. Other shoppers pranced by with neither the interest nor skill to perform the task. Finally, Rowen targeted a jolly-redheaded man who seemed overjoyed with the opportunity.
“Hah! It looks like a zigzag,” the redhead said to Sam. He placed his bags onto the cobblestone street and untied his short coat. “Can’t fix the color. For that, you’ll need Normalcy Powder. But I can repair the break. Have you numbed your nose?”
“Not yet,” said Rowen, interjecting.
“You’ll need to buy Pain Reaper to numb his—”
“Catch,” said Rowen, tossing a can at Sam.
“This the stuff?” said Sam toward the redhead.
The helpful gentleman confirmed with a nod. “Go ahead and place your schnoz in there.”
“If I grow an elephant trunk, I’m gonna strangle you with it,” Sam blurted to Rowen. He unscrewed the lid and immersed his nose into the sparse liquid. Upon finishing, he threw the can back to the hudger.
“Alright—let’s get to it,” said the man, unsheathing a caramel-colored wand with smooth surfaces and dark woodgrain. With the snap of his wrist, the upper half flicked open as if it were a switchblade. It clicked at the end to align straight. The impressive tool was a far cry from Rowen’s smoldering mess. The man loosened his hand and readied the wand for a spell.
“Fissare,” he said.
Sam’s head jolted back after an awful crack.
“All done. Try to keep it straight, friend,” said the jolly man. He tapped the base of his wand, releasing small embers that smelled like pine cones.
“That’s incredible! I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Fixing minor breaks is a blessing and a curse, believe me. My wife and I keep a cabinet full of elixirs and Pain Reaper. I have three boys, anyhow. It’s their mission to push the limits of our magic.” The good Samaritan snickered as he adjusted himself. “Well, I’d better be off.”
Sam assisted the man with his bags before extending his thanks three times over.
“Oh, and don’t forget Normalcy Powder for the bumps,” said the redhead, trotting away.
As Sam turned, Rowen hurled a pink glob that forced his eyes shut. “There—yer color’s back to normal,” said Rowen.
Sam fanned the lingering powder and coughed. “You had the cures the entire time?”
“Swiped it frem Dad. Thought I could fix the break myself.” Rowen rotated his sad wand.
After flicking the pawn shop coin at the hudger, Sam said, “Real food. No tricks.” He looked to the cart vendors—no sign of the black-dressed woman. “Where should we meet?”
“End of Fizzawick’s,” Rowen said, retrieving the coin. “Street gets narrow beyond Wharf Inn. If she’s still followin’, we’ll see her.” He shoved his wand into the pocket of his tan overalls. Without another word, Rowen camouflaged in the crowd.
Retrieving his helmet, Sam spotted the exchange shop across the street from Trixie’s. Of the buildings in the marketplace, Currency Corner looked the most pedestrian. There were no trite decorations on its exterior or nifty features to go with its sign. The interior didn’t break the monotony, either, but Sam found some excitement within the line of patrons curved around an emerald rope. He joined behind a man who foamed at the mouth as he spoke.
“Calabass and Cezant—been there yet, sweetheart?” said the brash man to a tall, dark woman ahead of him. “Yeah, well, few pacts have. It’s in the middle of Kerek Village, real upper class.” The man scoffed at the woman’s twists of hair, which blocked his thirsty glance. “We should get together. Like I said, I’m the co-manager now. First drink’s on me.”
The line dwindled, but Sam remained in place; the obnoxious man’s rolling bag separated him from the group.
“What country are you from, anyway . . . Africa?” said the man.
The woman slowly shut her eyes.
Sam blurted out in unrest, “Africa’s not a country. The continent of Africa has more than fifty countries.”
The intolerable man made a sharp turn, but the woman didn’t react to the quarrel. A voice from the counter yelled for the next patron, and she responded with a confident stroll.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Sam fired a squint of his own, “I’m a pact, just like you. Well, not just like you.” He pretended to shudder.
“You’re right; we’re not the same.” He inspected Sam from head to toe. “And what do you do? Wait, let me guess. You flip pumpkin patties at Pearsom’s. No, even that’s upscale for you.”
“I work for a hudger.”
“Bullshit.” The man turned forward; he was next in line. “My uncle has spent his life on Trida. If he says hudgers are greedy bastards, it’s the truth. Hell, I’ve worked here four-almost-five years, and they wouldn’t even consider hiring me. You’re full of shit.”
Sam unclasped the braided rope from the silver post and knotted the frilly end to the man’s rolling bag. “You see, that’s the thing: people who stay humble and show others respect,”—Sam nudged the bag with his foot—“they’re a step ahead of the rest.”
“Next,” screamed a clerk near the end.
“Enjoy your day,” said Sam, with a cheesy smile.
As the man grabbed his belongings and ripped forward, he yanked the silver posts from their stand, which crashed onto the floor. The emerald rope dangled behind him like squid tentacles.
Sam shrugged as he reported to the open teller. Upon reaching her, he hesitated and said, “Sorry, one second.” He walked to the woman from the line. “Hi—excuse me. My apologies. I hijacked your moment. You would’ve set him straight far better than I did, and I wasn’t even sure about the number of countries. I mean, fifty sounded—”
“You’ve done fine,” she said, smirking. She glanced past Sam as the rude man’s profanities faded. “Isn’t it perplexing that ignorance can exist in even the most magical of places?” As she thanked her clerk, her striking yellow top twisted to reveal a gorgeous butterfly tattoo.
“I’m from Nigeria, but I now live in Ghana, by the way.” Her smile ravished Sam. She walked off, not adjusting an inch for the fallen ropes that seemed to adapt to her strides.
The clerk cleared her throat, and Sam rushed back to her vacant counter. He pulled his wallet and searched for his bank cards—they weren’t there.
“New traveler or first-year pact?” said the clerk.
“Uh, pact.” Sam scavenged the floor.
“Sir, you won’t find them. Your employer might’ve warned you about bringing fleshling tech through Lekly Gates.” She stared at his blank expression. “You can’t. Any tech, banned paraphernalia; or as my husband claims, anniversary gifts; that are on your person at the time of travel, won’t make it past the cloak.”
“The cloak?”
“The sphere, the dome, whatever you want to call the cover around Trida.”
“Wow. Karma works fast here.” Sam opened his wallet’s fold, but he didn’t have any cash.
“Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” said the clerk, batting her eyes.
Upon exiting Currency Corner, Sam searched through the nearby patrons. Just as he feared, under the clock sat the woman in the bright hat and full-bodied dress. Unless Rowen hadn’t left, Sam was the target.
“End of Fizzawick’s . . . end of Fizzawick’s,” he muttered, jerking onto the sidewalk to dodge shoppers, only to web himself in a dense crowd that swept him into their ranks.
“Hi, uh, excuse me,” he said to a woman who blocked his route. She wore see-through headphones, and as Sam talked, rainbow-like waves rippled from them; they were vaporous enough that he second guessed his vision.
“Stop. Gather around!” screamed a man at the head of the mob. “We’ve reached the middle of Fizzawick’s Bazaar. This marketplace is named after Seplov Fizzawick, the traveling merchant who sold Sir Maynard Molting his sorcerer’s wand when he was just a wizard. It turned out to be an asparagus dipped in oil.” The guide paused for laughter which, if there
were any, were muffled by the marketplace. “For those of you who skipped the orientation literature, Sir Molting is the Artifec of enchantments and overseer of Fizzawick’s. Here, you’ll find all of your needs including Lekly run institutions like Shelf Life Library and Wand Emporium. For many of you, your first job will be within these stretch of shops.
“My advice for the pacts who plan on living in Lekly: try to get an interview at Enchanted Dwellings. Wrangling wild furniture is tough, but forty percent off makes the bites less painful. The owner is Diedrech Vangoss—tell him Ash sent you. We’ll take a short recess. Feel free to mingle but be back here in ten minutes so that we can proceed.”
The bench under the clock came into view, but the stalking woman had left. “Shit,” whispered Sam, corkscrewing through the pacts at the rear.
The remaining stretch of road had much fewer people, but Sam still weaved on the street and sidewalk. An older man on a bicycle nearly slammed into Sam, for the fleshling had become transfixed by the sight. The gentleman’s feet rested high on the bike’s frame, and the wheels turned on their own. But Sam’s attention went to the items piled behind the man: a ten-foot setup of books, a birdcage, and wine bottles. The belongings teetered but never severe enough to collapse.
Like a ghost, the woman appeared again, this time in Sam’s path. She leaned on a brick divider, feasting on a bright orange fruit. Sam snuck into an alley, which led into a labyrinth of doorless entryways.
“Come in, come in,” said a friendly voice from within a shop. A small Asian woman arose from a stool and shimmied to Sam’s front. “What school do you attend?”
Sam struggled to get a word out as his gaze wandered through the fantastic arrangement of décor. Strung on the textured-tin ceilings were black ropes carrying exposed bulbs. The brick walls had beautiful landscape paintings that moved within themselves like captured worlds. But the star of the show were fluffy clouds that floated above their heads in a calming speed.
“I’ve got all schools available. Just restocked on Burrowtew Prep and Nitehawk School,” said the shopkeeper, spinning the rack with a wand. Her stock of colorful clothing also lined the shelves on the walls. Sam lifted a maroon cardigan with gray stripes at the waist and arms. He fondled with its buttons, which were brown seashells in perfect circles.
