Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow

by Jessica Townsend

  She thought of funny, mean Fenestra, of how the enormous gray Magnificat bossed Jupiter around and teased Morrigan and did exactly as she liked and said exactly what she pleased. Then she imagined Fen silent and docile, chained to a line of other Magnificats, kept in a cage and forced to pull a carriage her whole life, and the sick feeling in Morrigan’s stomach intensified. It was so wrong.

  “So who here will be brave enough to tame this handsome Magnificub? Who can master the beast? Or if you can’t be bothered with all that, you can always skin it and wear it as a coat.”

  A small, involuntary sound escaped Morrigan, and Cadence elbowed her sharply in the side, muttering, “Shush.”

  The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, we will open the bidding at an extremely reasonable five thousand kred. Do I hear five thousand kred? Five thousand over there to the tattooed gentleman; do I hear five-five?”

  Morrigan felt a thud in the pit of her stomach. They were going to auction off the poor terrified cub to the highest bidders.

  “Five-five from the lady in the green cloak; do I hear six? Thank you, sir, six thousand from the tattooed gentleman. Now, do I hear six-five? Who will bid six-five? Six-five to the gentleman in the dog mask; do I hear seven?”

  The bidding went for some time and rose to such a feverish pitch with so many bidders that Morrigan couldn’t keep track of the auctioneer’s words anymore; they all bled into one. The Magnificub was tiring now, swaying and cowering, exhausted by the barrage of shouting and the loud, ringing thwack of the auctioneer’s cane every time it smacked against the metal bars of the cage.

  Morrigan’s heart pounded. She felt close to tears. For one heartbreaking second, she locked eyes with the Magnificub, and perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt instantly that he was pleading for her help.

  Morrigan and Cadence turned to each other at that moment and, as if tuned to the same radio station, they said in unison: “We have to do something.”

  “Any ideas?” asked Cadence. Her voice was shaking.

  Morrigan didn’t answer, but instead raised her trembling hand.

  “Twelve thousand to the dwarf in the gorilla mask,” said the auctioneer, pointing directly at Morrigan. “Do I hear twelve-five, ladies and gentlemen—thank you, sir, twelve-five to the tattooed gentleman; do I hear thirteen? Thirteen thousand kred to the lady in the red scarf. Do I hear—yes, thirteen-five to our tattooed friend, very good, sir. How about fourteen, ladies and gentlemen, do I—”

  “Fifteen!” called Morrigan in the deepest, meanest, most grown-up voice she could muster. Cadence choked out a tiny cough, and this time it was Morrigan’s turn to elbow her in the ribs.

  “Fifteen to the gorilla! Do I hear—”

  “Sixteen,” came a deeper, meaner, much more authentically gravelly voice from the tattooed man.

  “Eighteen,” countered Morrigan. There were noises of surprise from the crowd, underneath which Cadence muttered to Morrigan, “Where exactly are we getting this money from?”

  “Nowhere,” Morrigan whispered behind her mask. “Shush.”

  “Twenty,” said the tattooed man. He sounded angry.

  “Twenty-five,” Morrigan shouted, and the crowd went silent.

  “Twenty-five thousand kred,” repeated the auctioneer in disbelief. “Twenty-five thousand kred going once… twenty-five thousand kred going twice…” He paused, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the tattooed man. “No counteroffer, my friend? All right then, twenty-five thousand kred to the small gorilla.” He sounded bemused but slammed his auction hammer down, sealing the deal. “See my clerk for payment and collection. Moving on to our last lot, ladies and gentlemen…”

  Morrigan had stopped listening. Her blood was rushing in her ears, and the obvious question beat like a drum in her heart: What now? What now? What now?

  But Cadence had spotted the clerk, who was standing by the Magnificub and waving Morrigan over. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

  The clerk was deeply unimpressed.

  “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “It’s your money,” said Cadence. She had pulled off her fox mask and handed it to the young man, who looked insulted, and then confused. “Twenty-five thousand kred. I counted it. Twice.”

  “This isn’t… this is some kind of…” The clerk shook his head like a dog trying to shake off a bath. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

  Morrigan looked over her shoulder to the other side of the tent, where the auction was continuing. She wanted desperately to just get out of there, to run away and not look back. But there was no way she was leaving without the Magnificub, who had finally exhausted himself and was now slumped, sad and helpless, on the floor of his cage.

  She could hear only snatches of what the auctioneer was saying, but the crowd seemed excited about whatever he was concealing behind the large red velvet curtain.

  “Imagine the uses…” The auctioneer’s voice floated across the room at intervals. “…sea merchants and pirates… such a talent. Not to mention hunting beneath… or assassins…”

  “I’m not playing. You’re confused,” said Cadence, her voice as smooth as a bow pulled across a cello. “I’m paying for this cub with twenty-five thousand kred. Which is in your hand. I just gave it to you.” She nodded at the mask in the clerk’s right hand, and then at the key to the Magnificub cage clutched tightly in his left. “And now you give me the Magnificub.”

  “And now I give you…”

  “That’s it…”

  “But…”

  “That’s it.” Cadence’s voice was soporific. The young man blinked slowly and turned to unlock the cage. “Very good.”

  Minutes later, they reached the door of the tent, leaving the dazed clerk locking Cadence’s fox mask into a heavy metal box, earnest in his belief that it was twenty-five thousand kred in cash. Morrigan was struggling to keep hold of the terrified cub. She held the end of his chain in one hand just in case, but was trying to carry the poor thing—which was a bit like carrying a fully grown Saint Bernard. She’d had to abandon the gorilla mask because the cub seemed frightened.

  They skirted the edge of the buzzing crowd, still gathered around the last item. The auctioneer’s gunfire patter cut through the noise. “Eighteen-five to the swarthy gentleman with the peg leg. Eighteen-five, do we have nineteen? Small price to pay for such a rare gift, folks…”

  Morrigan tried to keep her grip, whispering a soothing stream of nonsense into the Magnificub’s ear. “Shhh. You’re all right. My, aren’t you a fine cub. Fen’s been out looking for you. Hush now. Don’t you want to come with us and meet grumpy old Fenestra? Course you do. She’s a Magnificat, just like you.”

  Cadence was standing on tiptoes, trying to see what had everyone so excited. “It’s something in a tank,” she whispered to Morrigan, who grunted back at her. “Like, a really big fish tank.”

  “Let’s just get out of here,” Morrigan hissed. “Can you please help me?”

  But Cadence had stopped several paces behind and was staring through the crowd at whatever was inside the tank. Her eyes bulged. “Morrigan… look.”

  “We have to go. I can’t hold on to him much—”

  “Morrigan,” Cadence said more urgently, pointing at the tank. “Look.”

  Reluctantly—and with difficulty—she returned to where Cadence stood. Perhaps believing she was taking him back to his tormenters, the cub yowled and hissed, digging his claws painfully into her arms. But in the shock of what she saw inside the tank, Morrigan instantly forgot her pain.

  Behind the glass, beneath the water, chained to a rock… was a teenage boy.

  He was alive. He was utterly dejected and hopeless-looking, blue-lipped with chill, but he was alive.

  Well, of course he was. He could breathe underwater.

  “Alfie!” cried Morrigan. She couldn’t help herself; the name tumbled from her mouth before she could stop it. Her voice rang out over the no
ise of the crowd and the auctioneer, and a deafening silence fell as every pair of eyes turned to look at Morrigan, Cadence, and the Magnificub—who was now screeching and yowling, struggling desperately to get away.

  “Who are those children?” shouted the auctioneer. “Who allowed children in here? Somebody grab them!”

  Half a dozen burly, mean-looking security personnel seemed to materialize from nowhere. Cadence grabbed Morrigan’s wrist, trying to tug her away, but Morrigan was rooted to the spot.

  It was happening again. She could feel it.

  Her fear and revulsion and rage swelled inside her like a symphony, until they were somehow bigger than her body. It was a different feeling this time: not burning, but building. She felt the bold, ballooning reach of her power as it tried to grasp something solid, as it swallowed everything in its path, amplified everything around her in its search for… for something. For a tool. An instrument.

  And in a glorious, golden moment, Morrigan felt it settle on the thing that was closest to her: the desperate Magnificub, fighting to get out of her grip…

  … and succeeding at last.

  He leapt from her arms a yowling cub. But by the time he had landed on the ground he was a towering, terrifying beast, grown strong on Morrigan’s own uncontainable Wundrous power. He roared with a sound like a whole pride of lions, baring his teeth at the auctioneer, who promptly fainted.

  The tent descended into screaming chaos as the cat took swipes at the crowd, pouncing here and there among them, joyful in his well-earned vengeance. Using his antics and the terror of the crowd as their cover, Morrigan and Cadence ran to Alfie’s tank, only to find their way blocked by their rival bidder, the tattooed man. Intricate black ink crept over every uncovered inch of his body.

  “You did that,” he said, staring straight at Morrigan. “How? How did you do that? What are you?”

  Morrigan made to push past him toward Alfie’s tank, hoping to somehow get to him, to get him out and take him with them. The man made to lunge for her, but Cadence kicked him hard in the shins and he yelped, clutching his leg in pain.

  “Oi!” he shouted, and three of his friends—each one covered in muscle—started toward them.

  “Run!” shouted Cadence, grabbing Morrigan’s wrist.

  They ran to the mouth of the tent, weaving through the panicked auction-goers now streaming back into the busy, noisy chaos of the Ghastly Market outside.

  With a pang of mingled hope and regret, Morrigan saw the ferocious Magnificat shrink slowly back to his former size as he disappeared into the crowd, leaving a trail of destruction behind him—stalls trampled, tables upended, and vendors bellowing at each other in the confusion, not realizing the real culprit was getting away on four fast paws.

  Run, little cub, she thought fiercely, hoping against all odds that he would somehow get to safety, but knowing she and Cadence could do no more to help him. They had to help themselves now.

  “There she is!” came a rough voice from behind them. “Grab her!”

  They dodged their pursuers, deliberately knocking over even more tables behind them as they went. Cadence sent flying a barrel that turned out to be filled to the brim with brightly colored snakes, and the chorus of screams that rose up in their wake spurred Morrigan and Cadence to run even faster.

  They sprinted all the way back to Devilish Court, past the suffocating trick, through the seemingly endless precincts of the Nevermoor Bazaar, and at last arrived—sweating, lungs heaving—outside the gates of the Temple of the Divine Thing, just before midnight.

  Pacing between two bracketed torches bearing bright pink flames was Hawthorne, ashen-faced and speechless, apparently unable to channel his worry into adequate words. Homer more than made up for his younger brother’s silence, however, with a series of shouty blackboard messages featuring lots of exclamation marks and capital letters, hastily erased and written over while Morrigan and Cadence stood, silently absorbing the fury as they fought to catch their breath.

  Most of the boys’ anxiety was, of course, over the fact that Hawthorne had lost Morrigan somewhere in the bazaar and had been looking for her everywhere. She didn’t mind, really. Homer’s blackboard made her remember something.

  Reaching into a concealed inner pocket of her jacket, she retrieved a small piece of soft, silvery-black paper.

  Without pausing to explain, Morrigan snatched Homer’s chalk out of his hand midsentence, pressed the paper against a wall, and wrote:

  Found Alfie Swann and the Magnificub.

  Devilish Court. Ghastly Market.

  Tell Jupiter.

  Bring Stealth.

  Then she whispered Jack’s name three times—“John Arjuna Korrapati, John Arjuna Korrapati, John Arjuna Korrapati”—held the paper to the mouth of a flaming pink torch, and watched the ashes fly away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE HOTEL DEUCALION ACADEMY FOR ONE

  Please, Mog. Don’t go down any more Tricksy Lanes.”

  Jupiter’s face was drawn and lined with worry. On Cadence and Morrigan’s information, he’d stormed Devilish Court the night before, taking with him the Stealth, the Stink, the Geographical Oddities Squadron, and even Fenestra (who was worth ten Stealth and at least fifty Stink, in Morrigan’s opinion).

  But they were too late. The cub’s dramatic exit had raised too many alarms, and by the time they’d arrived, the market had been dismantled, the perpetrators scattered, and all that was left was a graveyard of dirty, anonymous market stalls, a hand-painted sign that read THE GHASTLY MARKET, an empty glass tank… and one miserable teenage boy, sitting alone on the cobbled ground in his wet clothes, shivering from cold.

  At least they’d got Alfie back.

  But there was no hint of joy in Jupiter’s face that morning, nor even of satisfaction in a job well done. Nothing but grave determination to extract a promise from Morrigan never again to enter a Tricksy Lane.

  “I mean it,” he said, his blue eyes flashing. “They’re far too dangerous. It isn’t worth the risk.”

  Morrigan made a face. How could Jupiter say that? If she and Cadence hadn’t gone down Devilish Court, they would never have found the Ghastly Market. They would never have set the Magnificub free. Jupiter and the Stealth would never have known where to find Alfie Swann. She opened her mouth to say all of this, but Jupiter held up his hand to stop her.

  “Alfie’s knack is gone.” He spoke in a hushed, almost reverent voice, as if breaking the news of a terminal illness.

  “Gone?” echoed Morrigan. Jupiter nodded. “Gone… how?”

  “We don’t know.” He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “It’s not clear yet whether it was taken, exactly, or… sometimes a severe trauma might…” He trailed off, and Morrigan could hear the bewilderment in his voice. He had no idea. The Stealth had no idea.

  “What about Cassiel and Paximus Luck?” Morrigan asked quietly. “And the cub—has anyone found it yet?”

  “No sign of Cassiel. We know Paximus was there, because we found a list of auction items, but he’s gone now. We think perhaps…” He trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish that thought. “Anyway, we’re not giving up. Fen’s people are out looking for the cub. Now that they know he’s out on the streets, not locked away in a cage somewhere, they stand a much better chance of finding the poor thing.”

  Morrigan frowned. “Who are Fen’s people?”

  “Friends of hers. Other Magnificats, mostly—they keep to themselves, but there are a few of them around. They look out for each other.”

  “But… isn’t the Wundrous Society helping? What about the Stealth? Shouldn’t we be investigating—”

  “There’s no ‘we’ here, Mog,” said Jupiter, his voice slightly raised. “You are not part of the investigation. Understand?”

  “That’s not fair.” Morrigan could hear the whine in her voice but couldn’t help it. “I found the market—well, Cadence and I found it. We set the cub free. We’re the ones who—”

&
nbsp; “You’re the ones who showed your talents to a roomful of people who would pay a lot of money to take them from you,” Jupiter snapped. Morrigan recoiled slightly.

  “I didn’t show them anything deliberately,” she muttered, thinking of the Magnificub’s strange transformation. “I told you already. I don’t know how it happened, it just…”

  “Happened,” Jupiter finished for her with a sigh. “I know. I’m afraid I can’t explain that one either.”

  He’d lost his thin veneer of patience, but she could sense there was something more behind his frustration. He looked her dead in the eye, and she saw that he was afraid. “Morrigan, trust that everyone is doing all they can to find those still missing. And, please. No more Tricksy Lanes.”

  The rest of Morrigan’s summer holidays went by like a strange, slightly stifling dream. Jupiter’s absences were still frequent, but during those in-between times when he was home, he seemed determined to make up for them—and also, Morrigan strongly suspected, to keep her so busy and entertained that she had no reason, temptation, or opportunity to go hunting for any more clues about the Ghastly Market.

  It quickly became clear that he’d roped in the staff to help make this summer at the Deucalion as distractingly spectacular as it could possibly be. There were rock concerts and midnight picnics on the rooftop. A croquet tournament on the south-facing lawn and near-nightly fireworks displays. And although Morrigan kept pestering Jupiter for details of the Ghastly Market investigation every chance she got, it was hard not to be somewhat diverted by the parade of relentless festivities.

  Frank threw a pool party almost every weekend, complete with epic make-your-own-sundae bars and water balloon wars. Jupiter had a water slide installed and brought in realistic inflatable polar bears that tossed people high in the air, caught them in their soft rubber arms, and dunked them underwater, to endless screams of delight from Morrigan, Hawthorne, and Jack.