Becky and Ms. Macartney offered to escort me and Peter to the festival and make sure we met up with our parents (Ms. Whittleby had hitched a ride with Mom and Dad), and Fred and Fran were along for the day, too, since Fred’s father couldn’t come up to Rothermere because he was hosting a company picnic, and Fran’s parents, who were here for the fest, weren’t, as Fran said, up here for fun, they were here on business, they wouldn’t be able to see anything, which included their daughter.
We’d arranged to meet my family and Ms. Whittleby early in order to get a full day in, so we left before breakfast. It was a cool morning, with the promise of the winter not far behind it. The sky still had that new-day pink, but the streets were already clogged. The school’s right on West Avenue, one of the four major streets that cut straight to the palace, and for the festival it’s blocked off to traffic so people can set up booths along the sidewalks and everybody else can stroll straight down the middle. Usually there’s a trolley at the end of the block, but today we had to walk all the way to the Palace Plaza, the huge circular courtyard around the castle where the main fairgrounds are set up.
The vendors were already out when we left, dragging tables and merchandise into the streets, and musicians tuning up and dancers stretching at the small stages set up every so often. We passed a couple of dinky kids’ rides, the ones for babies and under-twelves, you know, the kids who hadn’t been Judged yet, and so couldn’t ride the real stuff. Fred started cracking jokes about them until Peter cut in that the baby rides were the only ones that we could go on. The biggest, fastest, showiest rides—the ones with loops and drops and swirls and all that stuff—use magic, not just to run but to secure people in.
As we got closer to the main fairgrounds, everything got bigger, flashier, and more elaborate. The prices at the vendors’ booths went up, the rides had more lights and dips and twirls, costumes got a lot costumier. Even air seemed to get in the mood and warmed up a bit. A couple of shows started, hawkers shouting out “Amazing Feats!” and “Wonders in Store!” and “Come Check It Out!”
Here’s what I learned about being an ord—you get really good at hearing that word, no matter where you are, no matter what the circumstances. I heard it tossed around behind my back a lot in Lennox, but after weeks of being shut up in the school, I’d almost forgotten how it sounded: Ord. It’s like there’s something deep down under your skin that flares up whenever someone says it, so it’s not so much hearing the word as it is feeling it.
Of course, it’s just as much hearing as feeling when the word is sung out, bright and loud, by a caller looking to lure people into his show. Along with a “Deadly Leviathan, the Scourge of the Southern Sea!” and “Bloodthirsty Red Cap, Come and See but Don’t Get Too Close!” he promised a “Genuine Ord, One Hundred Percent Tame! Step Right Up and Give It Your Best Shot!”
Hearing that, Becky came to a dead stop, so sudden that Fred walked straight into her. She stood there for a moment, hands clenched into fists, wound so tightly it was like a touch might shatter her. The only movement was her eyes flicking over to Ms. Macartney.
We were in front of a tent, a long, winding one, that snaked its way through the crowd. It was so ornate I wondered if whoever designed it had wanted it to look silly on purpose. It was probably the same person who had drowned the whole thing in fairy dust; under the sun the shimmer made my eyes hurt.
The caller cast out some chimes and started his routine over again. “The Mermaid Melusine, Enchantress of the Deep! Beware Her Siren Song, Lest It Bewitch You!”
Shivers crept over me like spiders on my skin.
“You take them on,” Becky told Ms. Macartney, indicating us. “I’ll catch up.”
“They’re old enough to see,” Ms. Macartney replied, without a drop of sympathy. “Besides, if all else fails, I have some money.”
Becky’s smile was a horrible thing. “Oh, I doubt we’ll make it as far as money, Caroline.”
“What is it?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”
Ms. Macartney and Becky exchanged a glance. “What do you think?” Becky asked. Her eyes were cool, and she added, “Do you want to see the ord?”
“No,” Fran said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” Fred echoed.
“All right, come on. You too,” Becky said, putting an arm around Frances’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. If they have the kid as a showpiece, then they’re going to treat him well.”
Ms. Macartney went over to the caller and bought tickets, which was a very weird moment because, first, we’d spent months at a place where everybody said we were just as good as everybody else, and treated us that way. And now we were paying real money to see a kid just like us. It kind of warped your view of things. And, second, because when the caller was tallying up the ticket price, he looked down at the four of us in our attention-grabbing school colors, and was like, “Oh, you’re Greenies?” And when we told him yeah, he only charged Ms. Macartney for two tickets, saying that kids got in for free.
“I thought kids are half-price,” Peter said, nodding to a sign shimmering by the entrance.
The caller glanced over at the sign. “Suggested donation,” he said smoothly. “Always read the invisible ink, kid.”
“There is no invisible ink,” Peter pointed out, because we could have read it even if there was.
“Look, who’s in charge here, you or me?”
“You’re in charge?” Ms. Macartney asked.
The man looked at her. “Yup.”
Ms. Macartney nodded. “Good to know.”
Inside, they’d clearly had the same decorator as whoever did the outside of the tent. It was just as much. They’d gone for dim and mystical—you know, atmosphere. The sunlight was muted as it tried to push its way through the tent walls, and a few fog charms swirled up a thick white blanket for us to walk through. It billowed around our feet when we moved. Lanterns hovered in the air, glowing spots of color in the mist, but they were so dim it was obviously more for effect than light. The glow inside the fogged glass flickered oddly, showing tiny little arms and legs. Pixies, or something like them—which meant it was fake, because pixies get ticked off when you capture them, and an aggravated pixie’s the last thing you want at a professional show. As Dimitrios often warned us, imprisoned didn’t necessarily mean powerless. And pixies have short tempers and long memories.
Every now and again there was a shimmer of something out of the corner of our eyes, spiraling in the right direction, leading us on. It took us through a long hallway, which opened every now and then into an exhibit room, I guess you’d call it.
They had a pretty good collection, but it was clear straight off that the exhibits were as fake as the pixies. They’d probably look good if you didn’t know any better, but—okay, for instance, the mermaid. She looked exactly like you’d think a mermaid would: seated on a mossy rock by a water-lily pool, her tail flicking in and out of the glistening water, combing out her streaming hair as she sang a lullaby that was cool and sad as the salt air. Except it was all a glamour. A professional one but still just a spell, and our ord eyes could see through that to her two normal legs. Besides, Ms. Macartney informed us, the setting was a dead giveaway since mermaids are saltwater creatures; you’d never find one at a freshwater pond. She didn’t sound happy about it either, because I think the teacher in her takes it as a personal affront when people don’t do their research.
It was like that for all of them. Even the ones that were real weren’t real. The basilisk was a cockatrice (but Ms. Macartney said people get those two mixed up a lot, though I don’t know how because one is a poisonous snake and the other is a poisonous chicken). The phoenix was a regular Svar firebird, which is not quite as bright or flammable, but I have to admit, it did a pretty impressive death scene. To Becky’s visible relief, the red cap turned out to be just a brownie with a red hat. I’d never seen a real red cap up close, but even I could tell he was all wrong. His claws seemed too short and the re
d of his hat was a shade too bright and cheerful. Plus, Becky said, it didn’t smell right—meaning the hat. Fred started to ask her how it should smell when Peter elbowed him in the stomach.
By the time he recovered we’d already moved on to the leviathan room. It was a real, honest-to-goodness water dragon, slick and slithery, with long fanlike fins instead of proper arms and legs and wings. But it was a miniature one, barely as big as Becky. It was in a huge tank with lots of waving, underwater fronds, and it came right up to the glass and stared at us with its huge, black, unblinking eyes. Then the crest around its face flared out, and it seemed to pose, as if for pictures. Ms. Macartney pegged it as a cold-water, lake-dwelling breed that could be tamed if you kept them in warm water. Besides, we knew from Dimitrios that it was stupid to be scared of something just because it was big and strong and had tons of sharp, glistening teeth. Like most creatures, leviathans were perfectly chill if they were well fed and not poked at too much.
So hopes were that the “ord” would turn out to be just a normal kid with an impressive shield. Or maybe there were some tricks set up around the room to block magic.
He wasn’t. It wasn’t. The kid, at least, was real.
Compared to the other rooms, this one was plain. It was reasonably well lit, with no fog or shimmers or anything to distract you. Just a kid in a cage.
I say kid, but he wasn’t really; he looked like a teenager, around Jeremy’s age. He was stocky, with a thick neck and smooshed-in features, like a bulldog. And he was just sitting there, on a stool, in the cage. When we came in, he was reading a splashy romance novel; he carefully marked his place, stood up and moved a couple steps closer, and waited.
“Hello,” Becky began, but by that point he’d gotten a good look at us and something in him shifted, relaxed. He came up, leaned against the front bars. “How are you guys doing, you having fun so far?”
Confused, we nodded.
“This is my third year at the fest. King Steve, he always throws a good party. I’m not going to get to see any of it until five, though, when we shut down, because Frank, he doesn’t like me going around on my own, you know how it is. Hey, I’m sorry, you want to have a go?” he asked Ms. Macartney.
“No. Thank you.” She seemed to rally herself and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Dave. Just Dave, not David or Davey or any of that. When there’s a line, we set a limit of three spells per customer, but I don’t think we’re going to get crowded for another hour at least. You want a go?” he asked her again. “Just, uh, wait, hold on.” Dave scooped up his book and tucked it in a corner, then jogged back. “Okay, shoot.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Ms. Macartney “Are you … being treated well?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Dave answered cheerfully. “Ever since King Steve passed that law, it’s like ‘you’re free, do you know you’re free, because you’re free.’ Okay, look.” He took a deep breath and recited, “Frank is not my owner, he’s my boss. This is my job, and I get paid for it, and I’m not forced to do anything I don’t want to do, except maybe eat carrots, which are disgusting but Frank’s a stickler about eating your veggies before you get dessert.”
“You’re in a cage,” Peter pointed out.
“That so, Ace? How’s this?” Dave waved us closer. He fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock, and swung the front section of the cage open.
“Did I just blow your mind, or what?” he asked, locking everything back up. “I’m an ord who chooses to work in a cage! I appreciate the concern, but seriously, I’m cool.”
“So you sit in this cage by yourself all day?” I asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I get breaks and all that, and during slow times I can read. And”—he glanced at Ms. Macartney and lowered his voice—“I know this isn’t nice, but it can be pretty funny messing with the normals.”
Becky and Ms. Macartney looked at each other. “It appears we were mistaken,” Ms. Macartney said slowly. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
Dave shrugged. “No problem. I get it, you know? There are worse things than folks being worried about you. And it’s always nice to meet a couple of fellow ords. Stop by again and say hi.”
He shook our hands and waved after us as we left.
CHAPTER
17
What happened next was my fault. I just want to say that straight out. I know Olivia blamed Peter, and Alexa blamed, you know, the actual people responsible, but I should have known better. I mean, how many times has Becky told us not to go off on our own? She practically had it tattooed onto our foreheads.
Outside the tent, the world was normal. There were shouts and jostling and colors whipping in the wind and the smells of meat sizzling and hot cider simmering.
“Well.” Becky’s lips twitched. “That was not what I was expecting.”
“I want to talk to this Frank,” Ms. Macartney said. “The boy seems well enough, but still, I’d like to talk to him.”
Frank the Non-Owner was at the entrance, so we had to go back to the front, and by this time it was even more crowded, to the point where we were squeezing through people. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been in the tent, but the sun was higher and the cool of the morning was already starting to give way to autumn heat.
We heard Frank before we saw him. He sounded angry. “I said no and I mean it! What don’t you get about that?”
I only half heard the reply; I didn’t catch the words, but the voice, that harsh tone, I’d recognize that in the middle of a rock concert. Panic flashed into my chest. I glanced around at my friends, to see if anyone else had noticed, but Fred had paused to let Fran squeeze by first, and Becky and Ms. Macartney hadn’t been in Lennox or Thorten, so they wouldn’t know their voices. Peter, though, was already pushing forward. We squeezed past a family, and there was Frank the caller guy, jabbing a finger at a couple wearing cloaks. Though their backs were to us, I had no doubt who they were.
“You’re threatening me? How ’bout I call the cops over here, let them know you two are trying to buy one of my kids?”
Barbarian Mike—and it had to be, only one person in the world was that big—held up his hands. They were covered by the thin, shimmery fizz of a glamour. “Hey, no worries. We were just asking. She didn’t mean any harm. Got a bit of a temper, right, babe?”
Frank seemed calmer but no less angry. “Fine. You were just asking. Now you can just be leaving,” he said, jerking his thumb at the road.
The big one started in on no problem, no problem, and he and his companion moved away. I tried to catch Becky’s eye, but she was still back with the others trying to make her way through the crowd. Peter went for the more direct approach, however. He ran at them. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but the way he looked, he could have done anything.
I should have waited for Becky and Ms. Macartney and told them what was going on, or what I thought was going on since voices and somebody with a glamour don’t prove anything.
I should have at least checked with Fred and Fran to make sure I wasn’t going crazy. But I didn’t. I guess when you’re scared or excited enough your brain shuts off and you do the first thing that occurs to you. And that was plunging into the crowd after Peter.
But the crowd was so crowded that I couldn’t see him anymore. Not really—there was just a glimpse of dark curls and a flash of green in the throng of people in front of me. I shoved through after him. People muttered angrily, and sometimes shouted and shoved back, until it got harder and harder to keep my eyes on that dark hair. I lost sight of him once, twice, and then completely. By that time, I wasn’t sure that the hair had been Peter’s, or if I was even moving in the right direction. The street was a sea of red and gold, and everything looked the same. I jumped up and down, trying to see something, shouting Peter’s name. And when that didn’t work, I figured maybe if I cut around to the space behind the vendors, where there weren’t as many people, I could get a better view.
I
skirted behind a bakery stand with a tower of apple tarts and a steaming vat of cider, and I was right—the way was a little clearer. The only problem was, which way had Peter gone? Which way would Barbarian Mike and Trixie have gone? They probably would have wanted to blend in with the crowd, right?
That’s when a big, meaty hand clapped over my mouth and nose and yanked me back into an alley.
I had a moment of total and complete surprise—I caught muscles, giant sword, dark-red hair, impressive angry eyebrows—and then my surprise raced into fear. I twisted and kicked, but Barbarian Mike lifted me up by the back of my dress and flipped me over his shoulder. I started screaming, frantic high-pitched shrieks. “Let me go! Let me go! LET ME GO!” It was hard to hear anything, but there were people everywhere, the city, the festival, someone had to hear something. A few people looked over; I don’t know what they saw or what they thought was happening, but they didn’t do anything. Barbarian Mike ran with me through the alleys.
I kept shrieking—LEMMEGOLEMMEGOLEMMEGO—over and over again, until it wasn’t even words. Just panic and desperation. I grabbed at buildings, poles, anything we passed, and how could this mountain not notice when I kicked him in the face? When Barbarian Mike jogged past an open Dumpster, I latched on to it, not screaming words anymore, just screaming, and he had to stop to pry my fingers free. I kicked and scratched and twisted and grabbed a hunk of his hair. He hissed in pain and a protection shield sizzled into place around him, but my hands passed through it like the film of a bubble, and I yanked and yanked and yanked until I ripped a whole chunk of hair out of his head. Barbarian Mike cursed, then stopped again and shifted me so he could clamp a hand over my face. “Enough with the screaming, okay? You’re not helping the situation.”
So I bit his hand—hard. As hard as I could, hard enough to taste blood. He jumped, enough that I could wrench away. I fell to the ground and, scrambling to my feet, I ran. I didn’t know where I was going—it was all dark alleys, twists, and turns. Something snatched at my hair, I couldn’t tell what. I kept running as fast as I could, and I tried very hard not to think about how my twelve-year-old-girl legs would measure up to grown-up-adult legs. I looked for streets, carpets, people, anything. I wasn’t picky, I didn’t care who I found, but please, let me find someone.
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