by J. Gertori
“You were never planning on confronting Alice with me, were you?”
The wizard’s eyes widened, having found the correct vial. “C’mon, Sam, you’re independent. Enough that you left Rowen and me at the clubhouse.”
“So this is payback?”
“Didn’t see it that way—but good point,” she said with a smirk. “I’ll be on the fourth floor, and I’ve got my sheet. I’ll be able to see everything Ellis’ pen writes. Hey, I might even find my wand near the gates, if the mages haven’t locked it in their Evidence Quarters.”
Before Sam could argue any further, Dara poured the vial over herself. A sparse amount of confetti showered her, but Sam could no longer focus on her eyes. His gaze went to the red lines dancing on her cheeks, which morphed into wild shapes, spirals, and mazes. Sure, he could see her blurry figure in his peripherals, but he fixated on the hypnotizing show.
“Disguises are child’s play when you have misdirection,” she said.
“I can’t stop looking at the swirls.”
“Hmm, that’s new. The last person I tested this on said leaves sprouted on my nose. The time before that, my hair had coiled into ocean waves—at least that’s what I heard.”
She patted Sam’s shoulder as he attempted to shake the distraction. When he reopened his eyes, Dara had vanished. Sam headed for the door that separated Alice’s office from the waiting room and ripped it open.
“Can I help you?” said a boyish gentleman hunched over a desk.
“Yes, it’s important I talk to Alice.”
The thin teen moved his sweaty bangs away from his bluish-gray eyes. He looked flushed as if he wasn’t sure of what to do next. “We weren’t planning on having meetings, especially not on a Sunday. Who should I say you are?”
“M-McQueen, scrutor McQueen.”
“Got it.” He rolled to the door behind him. “You should wait outside until Alice’s ready.”
Sam nodded, trying to get his demeanor in check. He spotted a rack of magazines and newspapers on the young man’s desk. The covers updated in real time. “You mind if I take one of these?”
Sam returned to the waiting room, placing the newspaper on the closest chair. Rather than sit, he opted to explore the surrounding decorations. Planks of dark wood boxed in the Affairs Office.
Calm down, Sam thought. He needed to shake the preconceived notions of himself: a no-good fleshling with a knack for failing. Out with the old and in with McQueen.
A hum that mimicked the wind with a light drizzle stole Sam’s attention. Behind his chair, a gigantic mural appeared, which wasn’t there when he arrived. The art piece featured a man embracing a wooden board, surrounded by the vast ocean that covered the entire wall. The waves crashed in an endless loop, and the man blinked every ten-or-so seconds.
Beneath the art rested a podium with parchment and glass to hold it in place. Sam analyzed the message, taking moments to pause and stare at the subject. It told of a man left to die in the ocean after witnessing the slaughter of his crew. He was Edmond Lekly, founder of Trida. Lekly knew of his powers but only accepted them after experiencing man’s insatiable thirst for dominance. Sprawled atop a shard of his ship, Lekly drifted onto Trida and set out to recruit wizards worldwide. He sacrificed much of his powers to create a sphere that would mask the land and keep magic within its borders.
Sam moved on to a short table tucked beside the podium. Above, were trinkets that floated and danced. One particular item bounced until Sam took control. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a replica of Trida and its encapsulating sphere. As he placed the model on the table, it continued its bounce toward a pair of dirty bifocals. Sam lifted the glasses and tapped on its lenses, which were as thick as bottle caps. Its copper placard read:
The Hidden Continent: Trida’s Typography Through the Centuries.
He wore the glasses and blinked a dozen times to focus his gaze. The fleshling had a birds-eye view of Trida, and a ship came into his peripherals. It sailed toward the sphere, but instead of entering, it rifted to the opposite end. A caption at the top read “The Lekly Fold – 1500.” Sam removed the bifocals and returned them to the display, where he noticed words carved onto every inch of the mammoth lumber.
Lekly Manor is dedicated to the hundreds of wizards who built Trida into the 8th continent. You are the Curators, and your work lives on: Lauralai Wulf, Yamada Okra, Benjamina Elouise, Haggerty Capullum, Ogden Oxnora . . .
The remaining trinkets scurried away, so Sam returned to his newspaper. As he shuffled into his chair, words stamped onto the sheet. A new set of headlines appeared from Red Owl News. After tilting the paper, Sam discovered the publication changed. The second newspaper appeared: Tattersall Press. The announcement of Dara’s “speech” remained on the front page, and true to his word, Ellis refrained from publishing about the Kerek Village attack. Sam cycled through a heap of titles, making sure none of them had posted about it either.
Each newspaper had their way of making the words appear on the blank page, but most were not as dramatic as Ellis’. Sam stopped on a publication titled Wands & Reels.
The article materialized above a close-up portrait of a beautiful woman with a dark complexion. He’d recognize that confident smile anywhere—the Nigerian woman from Currency Corner. The headline read: Trida’s Leading Lady. She is Fola Nkem, a thirty-two-year-old filmmaker and screenwriter. Fola had no pact blood ties, but instead, the Lekly committee had scouted her for her sheer talent. They hoped that Fola would further develop Trida’s entertainment industry. Her debut film, Here But Not, would release by the year’s end.
It would take another batch of tilts to return to Tattersall Press, and Sam’s jaw dropped. A new story graced the front page: Ancient Giant Resurfaces.
Naturally, Ellis omitted Sam from the story. “See more,” Sam said, reading the words at the bottom of the excerpt. The paper fluffed in his grasp; he now held several pages of the issue. He rushed past the bogus stories and found the continuation of the lead article.
“Is this the Daytime Giant seen long ago?” asked the article. “Under what city does it lurk?” and “Why are other giants denying the claims?”
Small truths such as the bloody cut, abandoned park, and leafy throne, hid among false claims. A knot twisted Sam’s stomach; unbeknownst to him, Tridans regarded Simon as a myth. Ellis said he would publish another scoop, but Sam wished it had been about the botched assassination instead.
“Scrutor McQueen,” said the young man, leaning on the door, “Alice will see you now.”
Sam jumped to his feet, desperate to suppress the guilt of his gabbing. He strolled into the back room and returned the newspaper to the table. The issue of Tattersall Press flashed on the front, but Sam pushed the story from his mind.
“Hello,” said Alice, standing beside her door.
She has a friendly face, Sam thought, as friendly a face as a criminal could. He plastered on a false smile, but before he reached her door, a toothy child appeared.
“Scrutor McQueen is it?” Alice said, her hand outstretched. “You must forgive me. I’m familiar with most of the Lekly scrutors. Were you transferred from Wulf?”
“Yes, so no offense taken.”
“Please, come in.” Before leading Sam into her office, Alice hugged the little boy, who closed his eyes and smiled even wider.
As eccentric as areas of the manor were, Alice’s office provided yet another fold of splendor. Each piece of organized furniture had meticulous items within them. Well-kept trees poked from the ground, and their thin branches subdued the glare from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sam couldn’t tell if the trees were real since they sprouted from the tiles without a trace of soil.
Alice sat in front of a bookshelf with rows of colorful brick toys. A warm, orange bulb hovered above her desk, and faultless stacks of papers surrounded her.
“It’s quite unorthodox for us to be here on a Sunday, I’m sure you know. What is it you’d like to discuss?” Alice said.<
br />
“I’m just making sure I’ve checked off every lead. You were seen leaving the manor late during the night the guards were attacked. Can you shed some light on this?” Sam yanked the stubborn notepad from his pocket and fought with Mavis.
“Of course. I stayed an hour or two later than usual to set Lady Eriksson’s appointments for the coming week.” Alice looked past Sam to her giggling son, and the fleshling followed her gaze. Her boy was skinny with sparse eyebrows, around the age of eight or nine. He bounced a short wand in the air as the leaves above swayed along.
“Good job, Chip!” Alice said. “We don’t know how he does it—I could spend hours doing that, and you wouldn’t see a twitch in the trees. Your boss, Ms. Ward, came to inspect Chip’s wand about a month ago. She must’ve thought it was a knock-off. But no—Chip chose it himself from the Wand Emporium catalog.” She looked past Sam again. “Lots of anticipation for the wand to arrive. How many weeks did you wait, Chip?”
The red-haired boy smiled at the memory then held two fingers like a peace sign.
“That’s right, two weeks. We had the wand lined with two extra Fiora petal rinds for easier use.” Her son raised three fingers. “Oops. Three petal rinds. Chip prefers to be non-verbal at the moment; it could be why he can manipulate the leaves.”
“Impressive,” said Sam, turning to the kid. “Hey, I can make wings appear on a bug without using my wand . . . just give it a month.” Sam snickered alone. “You know, caterpillar to butterfly. Like how it takes a month for a—”
Mavis illustrated a tomato that looked so real that Sam pushed the notepad under the table for fear it might pelt him. He cleared his throat. “So, about that night. You were seen much later than an hour or two after the work day had ended.”
“Right,” she whispered, “I’m not proud of this, but I had a night to myself. While I locked the office, my husband contacted me with updates on the day. Chip had a fantastic therapy session, and they were headed to his mother’s for a visit. So I had the night off. Saying it like that sounds wrong. I was greedy.”
“You went to a party here in the manor.”
“I did.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a moment to yourself—”
“It’s just that there’s so much on my plate. I know I’m making an excuse about balancing all my duties, but it’s a challenge. I manage the appointments of each Artifec, make sense of their schedules, sift through piles of Artifec Requests, then chat with the babies that make the Remeo Brews. Okay, they’re not babies, but I swear they’re getting younger and younger.” She resorted to a whisper, “And why does Lady Oxnora, the Artifec of goddamn rifting, need me to fetch her Remeo Brew for her?”
Sam gave Alice a minute to collect herself. A leaf fell onto his lap, and he turned to catch Chip smiling at him. “Is there nobody that can help you?”
“There were two of us. Jyn Moodley was the second liaison, but she left to pursue wand whittling.” Alice straightened the pile of books on her desk. “Chip, could you grab me the requests for Sir Capullum, the month of June.”
Chip stood on his stool, opened a cabinet, and tugged his wand until a folder wiggled from between binders. He presented the papers to his mother.
“Thank you, dear,” said Alice, mirroring her son’s nod. “You know, most people pity the amount of work I do. Then they meet Chip and think he’s my breaking point, or he takes the bulk of my time. In reality, the days he comes into the office with me are my most productive. Between Chip helping me in here, and Willem taking some of my work, I can say I’m managing the influx of duties. I’ve got three boys that are much bigger handfuls: a ten-year-old, an eleven-year-old, and a husband in the Alchemist Program.”
“I’m sorry—could you repeat that,” said Sam, scooting to his seat’s edge.
“Sure. Chip is the youngest of the bunch. Their father is working to becom—”
“My mistake, I meant about relegating your duties.”After each of Alice’s squints, Sam worried about the potency of his disguise. His uneasiness spiked, and he rearranged the nearby trinkets on Alice’s desk.
“My assistant, Willem, offered to help me with tasks. He attends my non-obligatory meetings, handles some Artifec Requests, and files the Incantation Index—”
“That’s the glossary of spells, correct?”
“Oh, yes, the committee put me in charge of archiving the old spellbooks. I’ll admit that it’s more than necessary, but after finishing Sir Molting’s literature, I’d rather gouge my eyes than learn a hundred more enchantments from bottled lightning.”
“Did you file Sir Gaspare’s spellbooks?”
Alice kicked out her feet to roll toward her bookshelf. From within her loose sweater, she exposed a red wand, quite similar to her and Chip’s hair. She flicked the wall of the bottommost shelf, and it dropped forward with a stack of torn books.
“I’ve filed the spellbooks of Sir Gilbeaux, Lady Eriksson, and Sir Molting,” Alice said. She flipped the wall back in place and returned to her desk. “Willem will input the remaining literature, but I think he started Sir Gaspare’s. I could’ve sworn a book or two of his were in here. I know this week we’ll get Lady Oxnora’s, so that’ll—”
“That kid who let me inside had access to Sir Gaspare’s books?”
“Well, yes, and also parchments that were in Sir Gaspare’s possession. I glossed over the concoctions, but they were stuff I’d never heard of, so I had Willem index them early on.”
Mavis sprung into action, ripping Sam’s wrist along as it wrote. In turn, Cliff broadcasted the note to the individual sheets divided among the group. Sam placed Mavis and Cliff into his jacket and bolted upright. “I’ll need those parchments.”
Alice straightened every item Sam had touched. “I don’t have them. They’re in Willem’s possession until he’s done indexing, but you can access them at Grand Station. Anybody can if they work with—” A mist swelled before them until it filled the office with a thick haze.
Sam rubbed his eyes and blurted, “What kind of trick are you pulling?” He retreated until his back slammed against the file cabinet.
Alice called Chip in a calm tone. The white fog clustered together and rose to the ceiling. Unlike the playful clouds that traveled through the uniform store, these had an unpleasant hue of a reddish-gray. The liaison wrapped around her child, who still aimed his wand at the cloud covered trees. Was chip to blame for the sudden spectacle? Furthermore, had Sam said something to cause the reaction?
He retreated to a corner as a furious downpour spewed from the dense clouds. In a rush, Alice dropped her wand. She eclipsed Chip with her arms stretched as far as she could pose. Chip withdrew his wand, pulling away so fast that bushels of leaves ripped to the ground. Mother and child moved toward the door and were almost hit as it swung open with Willem hanging on.
“The manor’s bewitched!” he yelled.
The skinny teen reached for Alice, and Sam shuffled behind. But as the water drifted to his chin, so did clumps of his beard. The weight of his cheeks yanked his eyelids downward, and within seconds he’d be exposed.
“Go! I’ll be right behind,” shouted Sam, waving Willem, Alice, and Chip away. He shielded his face from the torrential rains, but the cloud above seemed to focus on him like a waterfall. Sam stabbed his fingers into his jacket pocket, which sealed as if it had been sewn shut, but he knew better—Mavis and Cliff were keeping themselves dry at the fleshling’s expense. With no other choice, Sam exited into the chamber with the army of pacts and mages. He caught a glimpse of Alice leading Chip outside, and her assistant limping behind as he slammed the doors.
“Purgo!” shouted a man standing beneath the stained glass mandala. He was Zubair Singh, the advocate that made Agilan and Derby swoon at Lixferg School of Magic. His wand looked sharp enough to be a dagger. A crackle came from the wand’s end, and an opaque wind flourished through the ring of smog. The clouds expelled their last pourings then dissipated.
Another b
earded man joined Zubair on the stage as if thick facial hair fulfilled a prerequisite. He had orangish skin with dark blots that suggested he spent most of every day outside.
“Shield the doors. Nobody gets in or out without my consent,” The man said. His every word traveled through the hall in a loud echo.
Per his instruction, a pair of mages sprinted to the manor doors, cutting Sam off before he could escape.
NINETEEN
The Grand Mages
Zubair and the man beside him wore the same muted uniform as the mages, except for burgundy bands that circled under their armpits; the sunburned man substituted the suspenders for a thin holster. Sam could see a wand dangling near his chest.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Zubair in a calm, authoritative tone. “I am Grand Mage Zubair Singh. Feel free to call me Zubair—”
“—And I’m Grand Mage Cosmo Vulgaris. You will call me Grand Mage Vulgaris,” said the wizard with the holster.
Zubair said, “We realize the delay is unacceptable, and I assure you that transport personnel is doing their best to get everyone home as soon as possible. We appreciate that you have not explored any rogue means of leaving—”
“—But we won’t tolerate the conjuring of destructive magic inside the manor,” said Vulgaris. “This is the work of a rogue wand, so a pact among you bewitched the first floor, or at least saw it roused. Speak now.”
With a tone much calmer than Vulgaris’, Zubair said, “The magic is unstable, judging by the crudeness of the spell. It would be in the interest of us as a collective to locate it soon.”
As though the rain had washed away the earlier hecklers, the hall was silent save for a pact who stood in a rear. The only person close to him was Sam. The pact’s grunts and melodramatic coughs seemed like a purposeful way to draw attention.
