by J. Gertori
“Rowen?” shouted Sam, beside the ripped wall.
After a momentary silence, a voice yelled back, “Sam?”
When Sam twisted past the corner, he nearly trampled the hudger who ran full speed.
“Ah!” Rowen screamed. A flicker came from his rogue wand, and thorns sprang from Sam’s dirty shoes. He hollered just as loud as Rowen.
“Gutta!” said Ellis, firing from behind his couch.
A glint of light bounced off Rowen’s hand; the sad wand tore from his grip and bounced away. The hudger shelled-up as if he were naked, and he sprinted into the hall once more.
“Where’s Sam?” he yelled.
“I’m—right—here,” grunted the fleshling, huffing and puffing through the pain. He removed his thorny shoes as carefully as possible. Blood patterned his blue socks like polka-dots.
Rowen peeked from behind the wall and approached. “Prove it.”
Sam wondered if he would pass out from the excruciating pain. “You—helped—fix my—broken nose.” He yanked a pair of razor-sharp spikes off the top of his foot. “Gahhh! Fix this now, or I’m gonna break something of yours.”
Rowen shoved Sam, who fell to his back. The excitement of the reunion was both one-sided and short lived because a person remained in the hall. Rowen scurried to their side and lifted their head; Dara, the suspended Lekly guard, opened her eyes.
“I—I’m fine,” she said, wincing and rolling to her side. Dara slid her boots on the slippery ice that covered the floor—not imaginative but effective.
Ellis crept along the farthest wall with a flask in hand. “Friends of yours?” he whispered to Sam, who straightened the fallen furniture to divert attention from the throbbing pain climbing his leg.
With not a minute to spare, Ellis doused Sam’s injuries with a mound of sand—much more than this flask should’ve held. The sand expelled the remaining thorns and absorbed the blood droplets.
“Just as well,” said Ellis, “I felt guilty about not changing your shoes.”
Sam’s itch to clean spread into the epicenter of the battle, but he hesitated to stand; he crawled to the hall and plucked wall debris off the ground.
“Yer Sam, alright. Stop tidyin’ fer a second. Nobodies fightin’ anymore,” said Rowen.
“Helps lower my stress,” grunted Sam. He willed himself upright and gave the dust bunnies to Ellis, who had since sat on a bar stool.
“Nervous tic?” the reporter said.
“You should’ve seen my house growing up—spotless.” Sam wiggled his feet, certain there would be some lingering effect; however, Ellis’ elixir made them more refreshed than they’d been all weekend.
Looking beyond Sam, Ellis locked eyes with Rowen, who squared his posture to look bigger. “Fun as that was, you can’t just burst into a person’s home and start attacking—but damn it I love the tenacity.”
Sam spaced himself between both parties in case things escalated again. “Ellis, this is Rowen, the son of Raske Olimpi.”
“Pleasure. I assume you did this.” Ellis pointed at the blasted wall as Rowen sneered.
Upon catching Dara’s attention, Ellis said, “And who might you be? I think we’ve met before. Ever go to Caffe Puro in Limings?”
Sam rushed to the fallen wizard, aiding her upright. “This is Dara, she—”
“Trudo,” blurted Dara, drawing and firing her wand so quick you’d mistake her for a Wild West gunslinger. The bar stool flew backward from under Ellis, and he crashed on his tailbone. Dara retracted her wand as fast as she unleashed it. She strolled toward Ellis and offered her hand. “We’re even. I’m Dara.” Ellis donned a funny sort of smile, but the art in the hall stole Dara’s attention. “Wow, is this a Linus Hatfield painting? I heard they’re enchanted, but this is the first I’ve seen in motion.”
“What? No!” Ellis blurted. “What did it do?”
“You own a Hatfield, therefore you know I can’t share what I saw,” Dara said.
With such an eventful weekend thus far, Sam thought nothing else could shock him; however, the sight of these three acquaintances together in one place was a pleasant surprise.
“Is that you, Sam?” said Dara, swinging around.
Sam nodded but looked away, self-conscious about his disguise. “You guys came for me?”
Dara tugged at her brown boots, adjusting a pair of patterned socks. “Of course we did. Like it or not, we’re bonded by misfortune.”
“Is he in there!” hollered someone outside.
“And there’s that misfortune,” said Rowen.
One could take an educated guess that it was Crissa Avabelle who hollered from outside. Ever the law-abiding citizen, she’d sooner trade places with Sam in the water-filled deathtrap than enter two homes unwarranted in a single weekend.
“No way. Crissa ‘Goldeneye’ Avabelle is outside of my office?” said Ellis, clearing the path to the front. He peeked out the door, looking elated to converse with Crissa.
Sam inspected the damaged wall. The exposed brick gave the loft a distinct appearance, and maybe why Ellis didn’t seem too irked.
“That’s a cute look the two of ya got goin’,” said Rowen. But Sam neither explained the uniform nor called-out the hudger’s doll-sized overalls, which he wore above a white thermal, making him look like an ice-cream sandwich.
“Pretty smart what yer doin’, I’ll admit,” Rowen said. “Makin’ relations with a pact. I mean, I don’t read gossip papers, but I can see yer the type.”
“No, no—he’s a wizard. Ellis runs Tattersall Press,” said Sam. He pointed at the equipment in the neighboring nook.
“Tattersall Press is one of the few pact-run newspapers, Sam. That’s not to take away from its past accomplishments. It’s a shame it isn’t held as high in regard as the others,” said Dara.
“Well, the quality has gone downhill,” Rowen said.
Sam racked his brain. Ellis’ wand looked identical to that of Dara and Crissa, except the feather attachment. He had heard the reporter use incantations, as well. Were they all for show?
Crissa shimmied inside, knocking shoulders with Ellis, who galloped beside her.
“ . . . All I’m saying is I could’ve conveyed your accomplishments better than Octavius Daily. I’m still a huge fan, though. Since your mage days.”
Crissa marched beside her sister, spewing her uneasiness. “Dara, Rowen—Sam?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“I saw flashes through the window—what happened?” Everyone’s eyes shifted to one another, perhaps waiting to see who’d buckle. “Rowen, what did you do? We’re going to have a long talk about that rogue wand when this is over.”
Ellis stepped forward. “Actually—”
“Yup! Yer right. I got startled and fired off a couple of spells,” said Rowen. He motioned for Ellis to hide his wand. Crissa shook her head at the hudger, but also rolled her eyes at Sam’s disguise, as if she expected such hijinks.
“Take note that Mr. Tattersall has given me permission to enter, and us being here is not part of the ongoing investigation,” she bellowed.
Ellis curled into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above his sink. Behind tall glasses, which had etchings of the Tattersall fox insignia, Mavis jotted Crissa’s every word on Cliff’s dingy pages. He whispered to Mavis, “Note the time Goldeneye arrived and draw something for the interior pages; keep it casual, maybe the two of us talking over coffee—enlarge all the furniture.”
Crissa wore an olive coat, long like her dress, with thick red-and-white bands sewn on one side and “Avabelle” inscribed on the other.
“I hope you’re aware that the Artifec of enchantments has to verify all non-sentient employees. As of today, that’s Sir Molting,” she said.
“Then it’s a good thing they’re not non-sentient. I’ll grab you some shoes, Sam,” said Ellis, shuffling away.
“Did he—what did he—” muttered Crissa.
Sam ushered the group out from the hall and into the op
en space of the loft. “Did the scrutors release your dad, Rowen?”
“Holdin’ him and Mom, probably me too if I were around. But they’re not in trouble, at least not with the scrutors or mages. They think my family could be targets—loose ends or whatnot.”
“That’s great! So I’m in the clear.”
“The opposite, actually,” said Crissa. “Unlike Raske Olimpi, you weren’t in custody when Mack got killed. And that disguise doesn’t do much for your innocence.” Crissa paused beside a funny-looking chair in the corner, as if she knew it would crumble the moment she sat. “The evidence suggests a fleshling couldn’t have done this. But a fleshling with a rogue wand is a different story. Yeah, I heard you ‘jumped’ away from mages.”
Sam grinned at Rowen, but Crissa continued: “A farmer near the clubhouse reported his brother, Mr. Bellew, missing during the night after hearing commotion in their field. Something tells me you had your hand in that as well. Lucky for you, Trixie Kiltters brought Mr. Bellew in this morning. They were . . . rather fond of each other, so I doubt that matter will go any further.”
“Sounds like nothing more than a slap on the wrist to me. Nothing that would warrant—oh, I don’t know—a cleansing,” said Sam.
“Perhaps . . . but you decided to steal evidence from a crime scene.”
“Oh. You found out about that, too.” Sam’s voice squeaked.
“How do you think we tracked you here? Mr. Knottley turned over the ingredients sheet and said he took it from a shifty-eyed pact. Most of the items listed were plant and animal life from Okra. So I gathered Dara and Rowen, and we made for Ree Bridge—don’t say a word. Gixxer told me everything. It’s a matter of time before he talks to other scrutors.”
“Never heard of a Gixxer. Cute puppy name, though.”
“This is all a joke to you, huh? Then humor me—what do you call a fleshling with a rogue wand and evidence that belonged to a deceased guard?”
“A strange coincidence?”
“The primary suspect.”
“Ya know, Sam, I’ve heard that everythin’ happens fer a reason. In yer case, that reason’s ’cause yer an idiot. Why’d ya go stealin’ frem Mack? If the mages found us at the clubhouse, we’d all pay fer yer actions,” said Rowen.
“I don’t know, okay?” blurted Sam. “Maybe you guys don’t understand because you’re magical and shit. You guys have a neat and tidy fix for everything. I mean, you’ve got a potion to make cookies fit into any glass of milk—that’s real, I’ve seen it. But I’m just a regular-ass human. And we make mistakes all—the—time. Maybe, for once, I wanted to do something magical, like give the mages, or whoever, a reason to keep me around. The regular guy who solved a murder by himself—the only way I could make sure I didn’t get any of you hurt.”
“Damn it, Sam. It’s not just you in this. Get that through your skull,” said Crissa. “Someone’s trying to find Dara, Rowen’s family might be targeted, and I’m sure Mr. Tattersall has his reasons for helping you.”
For a long while, nobody spoke. But after some time, Ellis returned with wingtip dress shoes. He paraded into the muted group, admiring everyone’s blank stares. In a show of unity, Ellis, too, became silent. Then he bowed and whispered, “Amen.”
Sam wanted nothing more than to maintain his stoic attitude, but he burst into laughter along with the others. The reporter handed the shoes to the fleshling, who gasped as they scaled to his feet.
Ellis whispered, “Try not to click the heels together unless you’re in a bind.”
“I know you didn’t kill Mr. Mack, Sam. But we’re gonna have to collaborate to catch the real killer. That’s how I make sure you don’t get hurt,” Crissa said, in a much calmer tone. “You need us. That much is clear. But as sad as this is: we need you. You’re one step ahead of everyone, maybe because you’re keeping information to yourself.”
Sam didn’t have much more of a lead than the mages or Crissa’s colleagues, but he did have a theory, thin and vague, but a theory nonetheless. For all of Sam’s misguided bravery and monumental missteps, here he stood, safe and sound, thanks to these four individuals: a book-crazed hudger, an unrelenting scrutor, her inventive little sister, and a starstruck reporter who’d offer the theory if Crissa asked.
If you can’t beat ’em, let ’em tag along, Sam thought. “Okay, I’ll admit I need your help, but things are gonna get hairy.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Ellis, batting Cliff away from his ear.
“I’m still suspended, so I have time to help you, bozos,” said Dara.
“Turned yer nose red—guess I owe ya this one.”
“What’s in it for you, Mr. Tattersall?” Crissa asked.
“Sam promised me an exclusive on the story. And please call me Ellis. We’re the same age. You’re what—twenty-five, twenty-six?” Ellis kept an unflinching gaze on Crissa, waiting for a response that never came.
Ellis and Sam explained their morning with Gixxer over some questionable cups of coffee brewed by Mavis. Sam detailed his fateful meeting with Simon the giant, his brief stint at Lixferg, and the theory that placing him a half-step ahead of the mages: Mack might’ve been working for someone. The spiel ended with a suggestion to coax Sir Molting into confessing his involvement; however, the idea lacked any semblance of strategy.
“No. Absolutely not,” said Crissa. “We’ve got scrutors Evie and Pike scouring South Lekly for Sir Molting, and that’s just our district. I don’t know who else Ms. Ward has sent.”
“Then bring Pike and Evie to our side. They don’t need to know who I am.”
“And you just expect Sir Molting to confess? What if he says he’s not involved? We’d have to know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s innocent.”
“Yer outta yer mind, goin’ straight to Sir Moltin’ with this,” said Rowen.
“At least Sam’s working with us this time,” said Dara. She tacked some pins onto her clothes.
Crissa strolled into the center of the ragtag bunch. She flashed a beautiful smile and said, “Another round of coffees—let’s hash out a plan.”
SEVENTEEN
The Artifec of Enchantments
According to Ellis, finding Sir Maynard Molting was a task both painstaking and tiresome. But Crissa believed that scrutors throughout Trida needed to adopt his methods. First, Ellis typed odd phrases into the current run of Tattersall Press. Then came a chain of sounds from his equipment, followed by cryptic drawings from Mavis. Finally, an origami lily pad spat from Dara’s wand. A reporter at The Inquiring Frog had seen Sir Molting at a shop called Bo’s Declutters, in Kerek Village. In return for the help, Ellis promised to inform the participating newspapers of where to be and when.
At a quarter to two, Sam struck the mustard-headed match and found himself wedged in a room with boxes. He pried the door open and exited what appeared to be a storage closet.
A blinding band of sun ricocheted off the wooden walls and traveled through the store as an orange wave. On both sides were products that cleaned themselves. Still, none of this surprised Sam; Mavis had depicted the shop so vividly in the drawing he memorized before striking the match.
Sam snickered at a reflection of himself: the beard that would take him a lifetime to grow, and the parted hairdo, much different from his normal puffy quiff. He also admired that his skin tone remained his own.
“Yes, yes, I understand . . . great success, I see,” mumbled a heavy-set fellow at the rear of the store. “But your sales could double, dare I say triple, in my bazaar.”
“My clientele know where to find me. I’ve never moved, and can’t see the allure of doing it today or even tomorrow,” said an older gentleman. There were two large dogs beside him: an all-white pooch to his left, and a white-and-brown mutt on the right. “The volume of customers in Fizzawick’s would mean I’d have to hire help, and I know that means pacts.”
“Not necessarily—”
“Then find a wizard who’s willing to help me, and I’ll consider the
move. Not like that other chap you brought me—Kopper’s kid.”
“Otis,” said the round man, dropping his gaze.
“Right. Otis. I’m confident he lost me a few loyal customers. He kept enlarging my items and selling them at a higher price. After most shifts, he’d ask me for bike fare so that he could get to his Puffbaste Anonymous meetings.”
The older gent placed his hand on the round man’s shoulder. “I’m much more comfortable running this on my own. I don’t know who told you that Mr. Digglebee is recruiting from your bazaar, but you should avoid copying him. Take comfort in knowing you’ve done exceptional work with Fizzawick’s. For your trouble, I’d like you to take our new Declutter model.”
As Sam approached, the heavy bag across his chest sent a floor model smashing in the center. The contraption’s parts separated into clean dissection as if not a single screw held it together.
“Not to worry, friend! I didn’t see you enter. Please feel free to peruse, and I’ll be right with you,” said the store owner, responding to Sam’s rabid apologies.
The white-and-brown dog lifted to its feet in a tiresome fashion. It walked to an identical closet to that which Sam arrived. The dog’s gentle pawing aided the door open, and from it escaped a gizmo with a familiar bulb atop its build. The thingamajig, which looked like an abstract painting, engulfed the flowery ashes on the floor and streamed around the shop, gathering the stray pieces of the model Sam had broken. When it finished, the gizmo sped into the closet where the yawning mutt pressed the door shut.
“Do you mind, Sir Molting?” said the shop owner, pointing at the neat pile of mess. “I’ll go fetch your coffee—how do you take it?”
“Iced. And plenty of sugar.”
“Will do!” The older man jogged away, leaving his sleepy dogs to oversee the store.
Sam eyed the remaining fellow, whose blue suit struggled to stay buttoned. There weren’t many hairs left on his head, but those that remained were wispy and blond to the point of transparency. There were red flecks above his brow and cheeks, and his large nose visually shrunk his sunken eyes.
