by J. Gertori
“You in the back,” shouted Vulgaris. “What is it?”
Sam withdrew the wand into his soaked sleeve; a trick he learned from Ellis. The pact in question clenched his jaw. He looked nervous, like he considered waving the attention away. But how did he know Sam wasn’t a wizard or a scrutor like he’d been pretending to be? Plop. A glutinous heap of Sam’s disguise splattered onto the floor.
“Him—him!” shouted the pact, jabbing his finger at Sam but never making eye contact.
“Seize that man!” Vulgaris ordered.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the mages nearby sprang toward Sam, but—
“Stop,” said Zubair. “I’ll handle this—”
“Zubair!” Vulgaris shouted.
“I’ll handle this,” Zubair said again, this time in a soothing rhythm. He descended the stage and pushed forward. The pacts parted, yanking their belongings from the Grand Mage’s path. Sam shriveled from the pressure of dealing with the good-samaritan and future Artifec.
“Sir, will you please accompany me to my quarters,” Zubair said before turning to the mages by the door. “Neil, Marks, please fetch Mr. Saint-Marie and have him mix Dry Dust for everyone affected by the hex.”
The fleshling followed Zubair into a nearby hallway, and he heard Vulgaris direct the pacts to reform a line. Sam imagined how far he’d get if he ran away, or if the Grand Mage would even notice; Zubair didn’t bother to turn to look at him. Everything had happened so fast that his mind trailed, leaving his emotions in charge. Whatever punishment a pact might receive must’ve been far worse for a fleshling. He stared at Zubair’s goldenrod turban to distract himself. At the end of the dim corridor, the Grand Mage nudged a door open, and Sam rushed into a leather chair at the center of the room.
“May I?” said Zubair, breaking the silence.
Sam, still collecting his wits, wiggled his maroon wand above Zubair’s hand. As the rogue paraphernalia flopped out, a sense of calmness rushed through him. He allowed himself to look around the Grand Mage’s office. The room had a cozy charm with walls of stone and wood. The black ceiling had a fan drawn in chalk that blew a steady gust. To the rear, a set of stairs led to an elevated space complete with a bed and floating lamps. Behind Zubair were colorful awards, but above those were a collection of PEZ dispensers.
“Is this made with arn feathers?” said Zubair, twiddling the droopy wand by his ear.
“I’m not sure,” Sam said, wondering how one could fancy a guess by listening to the stick.
Zubair sniffed the wand at its base and said, “Fiora buds two, maybe three, months from full bloom. Your wand slinger’s narrow-minded. They added arn feathers to manipulate speed.” He directed the ward toward the rug at the foot the stairs. It glided into the air then dropped. “And short flight. The ingredients of a wand are like signatures. Even more so for rogue copies. They allow us to pinpoint who might’ve crafted them.”
Zubair shut the wand and handed it back to Sam. “Can I interest you in a latte?”
“Yes—wait—what? Are you giving it back to me? What if I make it hail in here?”
Zubair said with a laugh, “Your wand isn’t capable of that. You might mimic standard magic but nothing as elaborate as rain clouds. Hence why we’re going to enjoy lattes together.” He placed the mug on a cork coaster in front of Sam, whose eyes widened as a figure outlined with the latte’s milk swam in a graceful backstroke.
“My colleagues saw you with Mr. Delvis. You’ve driven Cosmo mad,” said Zubair.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean—”
“Sam, is it? I believe that’s what Mr. Olimpi told us. You see, Sam, I’ve been a recruiter for more than fifteen years. I’m selective, in that I look for those who will add a piece of themselves to Trida but also take with them a piece of us. I’ve brought in teachers, writers, musicians, therapists, scientists, inventors, prodigies, the rich, the low-income, gay, straight, trans, black, brown, white—” He continued in the same breath until he gasped for air, adding “teachers” at least three more times.
“Do you know what those people had in common? They each had the right to see what’s hidden under Trida’s sphere. They deserve to have magic in their life—everyone does. Until my last breath, I will keep recruiting. No matter if they stay a few hours, days, weeks, choose to have their memory cleansed, or make Trida as much their home as it is mine—I will keep recruiting.”
Sam’s head dropped, wrapping his brain around the lecture and what Zubair implied. He noticed the milk swimmer had dissipated into the drink.
“They also had that same reaction to the latte as you. That’s how I know you’re the man Cosmo’s been looking for—that, and the fan is blowing your brow off.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam bellowed. “I didn’t mean to barge into the gates, but it happened, and I guess I got scared of the consequence.”
“Don’t fear me, Sam. We’re the same outside of Trida. Here, I just have a wand. Then again, so do you.” Zubair grinned. “Care for a Sprout Apple?”
Sam accepted the light pink treat. Zubair looked younger than he had remembered back at Lixferg, where Agilan noted his age as mid-forties. He imagined the wizard would’ve looked even younger had it not been for the thick beard and intense wrinkles beside his eyes. Each time Zubair smiled, however, it became evident these wrinkles were a positive side-effect.
“That apple is a candied charm. Its seeds will sprout tiny fruits inside your stomach and keep you satisfied all day.”
Sam gorged the decadent, sugary food. “So, am I in trouble?”
“No, a few sprout inside but just once. You’ll be fine.”
“I meant . . . big picture.”
“Well, that depends on what you’ve done during your time here. For ‘unlawful entry,’ I won’t say anything. But answer me this: do you want to leave?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then you’ll need to find a job before Cosmo finds you.”
“Oh, I’ve been looking at a few prospects. I saw a bar at Fizzawick’s, Chewy-something—”
“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. Should you find a reputable employer, they would be in charge of your salary and housing if included. Also, they are responsible for any trouble you cause and the cost of your Commuter Brew. Altogether, it’s a sizable investment. Which is why the majority of pacts work for family friends or family-owned businesses.”
“Commuter Brew?”
“That’s right. I forgot you arrived using Remeo Brew, not Commuter. The Remeo is for Artifecs and committee members,” Zubair said, taking a bow. “Remeo Brew can rift up to three individuals into Trida. Everyone else travels with Commuter Brew, which rifts its owner, and them alone. Wizards have other travel options, but arriving through our gates is the safest.”
Knocks on Zubair’s door creaked it open. In the same moment, something wiggled within Sam’s pocket. He’d forgotten about Mavis and Cliff, though he couldn’t unleash them now that he had a second chance.
“Hello Zubair—”
“Oden, nice to see you. Helping your father?”
“No, he’s away on vacation. I’m filling in. I wasn’t sure if you needed Dry Dust,” said the gaunt gentleman, tan as the powder on his garb.
“My office survived the storm, but Sam could use a drizzle,” Zubair said.
A shower of dust flew over Sam, then came the suctioning sound like the last bits of drink slurped through a straw.
“Also, Grand Mage Vulgaris wants you to show me the East wing to make sure nothing’s damaged,” said Oden.
“Of course. I’ll need another minute here. I’ll meet you in the hall.”
The moment Oden left, Zubair circled his desk. He stopped beside Sam and said, “Everyone I’ve taken here has made a bond: let Trida reveal itself when ready. Else we run the risk of destroying the sphere altogether, and losing our magic for good. By choosing to stay, you agree to this bond. If you endanger Trida’s existence, you won’t be able to
return.
“The nature of this land is bittersweet. We’re unable to share our magic. As determined as we may be, the dome prevails. At least it keeps illnesses out and contains ours. We’ll talk more about it when I return. I’d like to learn about you. It’ll help in finding you a suitable job.”
“Quick question,” mumbled Sam, catching Zubair before he exited. “Do you know what kind of wand would be able to make those rain clouds?”
Zubair paused and leaned against the door frame. “It used more ingredients than yours. A Fiora bud a year away from blooming, perhaps. You see, Fiora buds are at their most dangerous the moment they appear on their plant. The length of time before they become a flower is around eighteen months.
“After their first year, buds gain stripes. That’s when we know they’re ready to bloom. So masses of striped Fiora buds are brought to the Linking Port, where we can better control its magic. It’s during this transport that slingers like Mr. Delvis strike.
“The younger the bud, the more erratic and unconventional the magic. But the closer they are to bloomed flowers, the more subdued and controlled the magic becomes. For safety, we destroy those that remain dormant past the eighteen-month window.”
Zubair played with his beard. “But to use a Fiora bud a year from maturity means its maker entered the manor’s garden—an entry granted to Artifecs alone. They have no need for wands. So we could be dealing with a new sort of material.” He grinned as if to signify his excitement for the challenge. “Well, I’ll be right back. Help yourself to another latte, if you please.”
When Zubair exited the room, Mavis and Cliff burst from Sam’s pocket. The pen splashed ink onto Sam’s royal-blue jacket, and Cliff’s pages crumpled to look like a frown.
Sam flattened the notepad’s top sheet and read what the Mavis had transcribed to the others:
SOS – deranged fleshling – disguise compromised – Grand Mage Singh’s office
Sam rushed through the room in search of a mirror, but he turned to find Cliff floating at eye level. Mavis quick-sketched his likeness on the notepad, making a reflection in the form of a choppy animation.
There came a sudden rustling in the hall. “It worked! Grand Master Singh left the pact here,” said the mage who angled into Zubair’s office.
Mavis zipped into Sam’s pocket. Cliff followed, but not before it slammed a black sheet onto Sam’s upper lip. The paper pulled his cheek, distorting his expression. Sam tried to rip the crumpled sheet from his face, but it clung on, as rooted as an actual mustache.
Another mage came into view, and the two jogged into the room to each side of Sam. Not a moment later, Grand Mage Cosmo Vulgaris made his entrance.
“Place your wand on the table,” growled Vulgaris.
Sam complied. This man was the opposite of Zubair in demeanor. Where Zubair flourished in fostering trust, Vulgaris seemed to feed off fear. The office’s stale smell was a byproduct of Sam’s wand, but as Vulgaris came closer, a nose tingling mustiness beat out the stench.
The hulking man grazed his slicked back hair. He paced across the table from Sam and leaned forward, planting his veiny hands on the desk.
“Zubair sure’s taking his sweet time with you. I’ve gone through five pacts in the same window. One of them had a forged wand, but without the folding notch like yours. Tell me what you and Zubair have been talking about.”
Sam opted to stay silent.
“Have it your way,” uttered Vulgaris. He took Sam’s wand into one hand and snapped it into four pieces. Fine shavings of rose gold evaporated from the wand’s wounds. Even its maroon tinge faded. “You’ll remain detained to await review. Maybe then you’ll decide to talk.” Vulgaris motioned for his subordinates to wrangle Sam, but a third mage ran into Zubair’s office.
“Sir!” the man shouted, pausing to catch his breath. “We received a tip from a Mr. X—left a note on the Grand Station door.”
“Give it here.” Vulgaris sped to the entranceway and snatched the note. His brows met in the middle. “Change of plans. Take the pact to Persolus.”
“Sir, shouldn’t we wait until he’s charged?” one of the mages said.
“Are you questioning me, Neil?”
“No, Sir. I just—”
“Then you will do as told. Marks, go with Neil. Make sure he stays the course.” Vulgaris twisted toward the mage who brought the note. “Return to the station and gather everyone we have. The fleshling at large is at the crossing of Saxon and Kent—he won’t get away this time.”
Sam tried his damnedest to hide his oncoming smile. Vulgaris stormed away, leaving the two mages frozen. In ways, Sam found the situation to be like Keeth and his schoolmates.
“What do you think?” said Neil, a mage with a gap between his front teeth so wide you could slip a coin through.
His opposite was a shorter man, bulky and devoid of a neck from Sam’s view. “Orders are orders. Not much else we can do.”
“Bullshit. We’ll wait for Zubair to return. He wouldn’t send the pact away without review.”
“Yeah, then what? It’ll get back to Vulgaris, and he’ll snap us like that damn wand.”
Sam’s pocket rattled once more, and Cliff peeked itself enough to be visible. Letters appeared on its top sheet, though Mavis wasn’t the writer:
On our way. Be alone in 2 minutes.
Sam cleared his throat, slicing through the escalating tiff. “I have another option, and stay with me on this. You guys leave unharmed, and I break out of here. Deal?”
“The hell did you just—”
“Mavis, get the lights,” said Sam.
The leaky pen burst from Sam’s pocket. It breezed by Zubair’s lamps fast enough to eradicate their white glow before the mages could react. The room went black save for the dim light in the hallway.
Sam launched backward, tilting the chair over. He barreled into the hall and slammed the door before the mages collided in a booming heap; they’d soon drew their wands. From his pocket, Sam yanked the rogue matches. There were two left: one with a mustard tip, and the other a bright blue. Despite Mavis’ speed drawings, Sam needed an instant vision. He thought of the first place that came to mind: Morrow Pawn. The clear image of the hermit crab returned, along with the peculiar climate inside neither warm nor cold. He pictured the unusual items strung to the ceiling, and the glass case that would house his ring.
Sam angled the box under the door then struck the matchstick so that it slid inside the darkened room. The thumping and feral roars ceased. Pressing his ear to the door, Sam turned the handle. The lanterns ignited, and the men had vanished.
For a second, he couldn’t contain his awestruck laughter. But he soon veered into nervousness as he scrutinized his recollection of Morrow Pawn. Sam stared at the remains of his wand. The broken ends were gray, but the tip still had a reddish tint. He pocketed the sliver.
A crinkling noise streaked across the corner of Zubair’s office. Sam approached in a cautious hunch. In one motion, the corner wall crumbled in a gooey mess. Sticky strings dribbled to the ground like poured syrup, and daylight beamed into the office between the trickles. Sam tried to time his exit so that the sticky matter wouldn’t drop onto his garb. He noticed the pieces of wall on the floor appeared to have engrained shapes like that of a honeycomb. At the first opening, Sam leapt onto the gravel.
Rowen stood outside, crossing his arms. “Quit wastin’ time. Got us a killer to catch.”
TWENTY
The Scrutors
The sight of the two mock sleuths filled Sam with a joyous euphoria. “I’m so glad to see you guys,” he said, moving in for a hug. Dara, who no longer had distracting shapes on her cheeks, didn’t mind so much, but Rowen wasn’t too enthused about the way Sam lifted him.
“Where’s Crissa and Ellis?” said Sam.
“My sister’s meeting with Ms. Ward about what happened at Kerek.”
“And Ellis dropped me here. Said fer me to call him when I reached ya.”
“
First things first, we’ve gotta get the fuck out of here here. That Zubair is a helluva guy, but I don’t think he’d appreciate your decorating,” said Sam. “Please tell me ‘flight’ isn’t banned.”
Rowen and Dara erupted with laughter. They told Sam of their ongoing bet to see how long it would take for him to ask about flying.
Dara said, “We can’t do that. I mean, there’s no straightforward spell, at least. I have a levitating charm, but that’s more of a party gag.”
The fleshling fell into a tirade, citing the notion of witches on brooms.
“Such a short fuse on ya, Sam. Just cause there’s no spell, don’t mean ya can’t fly,” said Rowen. Sam’s demeanor spruced. “Just gotta be inventive ’bout it.”
Dara flicked her wrist, popping her wand into alignment. “Capto,” she said, pointing at a set of boats along the manor’s exterior.
Under the aim of Dara’s wand, the vessel rattled but stayed grounded. A thick vein arrived at Dara’s temple. “Allevo,” she said as the boat dragged against the pebbles below. She struggled as though the entire weight of the ship were in her wand. Dara’s feet dug into the sand until it covered the front of her shoes. “Allevo,” she said, once more. The boat lifted from the ground, and she pulled it closer. Gaining traction, Dara took several steps back. “Allevo.” The vein on her head melted away as the entire craft floated toward them.
“Well, get on,” she said.
Gravity interjected once the crew boarded, and the ship grazed the rocks beneath. The confident wizard uttered a short string of “Allevo” spells and raised the craft a foot higher.
“Light as a feather.” Dara looked back at the others. “Hang on, boys.”
For a rickety ship, they traveled at a decent speed. Sam suggested they use Dara’s invisibility potion like at the clubhouse, but she informed him that the supply had emptied that night. Well on their way, the crew decided to call Ellis, but it failed. They’d forgotten Ellis’ wand wasn’t registered, which gave Sam further proof the reporter wasn’t the “wizard” he believed. Still, they had the option to relay a message through Cliff. They only hoped Ellis wasn’t too preoccupied to see the note.
