Curse of the Forgotten City

by Alex Aster

  10

  The Toymaker

  The compass glimmered like a jewel. Its dial was crafted from mother-of-pearl, its needles from solid gold. A pattern of fish, shells, and moons decorated its interior, between four symbols—N, E, S, and W.

  “Nicked it from the strange pirate kid,” Engle said, shrugging. “Right as you sent the ship down.” He smiled wider. “That was lightning, by the way.”

  “And terrifying,” Melda added. Her tone was smooth, but her eyes had gone wide, staring at Engle. Impressed. A little surprised.

  Tor grinned. “Maybe you are becoming a pirate.” He felt around in his own pocket and was relieved the boy hadn’t been able to sense the sack of powder’s value. He supposed it was just a bit of dust from a statue, not too important unless one knew its purpose.

  Unless he was wrong… He banished the thought. This had to work. The future of Estrelle relied on it.

  Engle was famished, and he begged for food before they enacted the next part of their plan. Tor allowed it, still shaken from their encounter with the pirates. He was just finishing his glass of stormberry juice when something below shuddered, and Tor lurched forward. The ship silently pulled on their thread, and Tor grabbed on. He felt around, as the ship, and something pooled around him. He winced.

  Vesper burst from below. “We have a leak,” she said. “A big one.”

  Tor felt as much. The side of the vessel had been scratched badly in the Devil’s Mouth, a thick tear across its hull, and it had gotten worse when the ship had soared to the skies, then landed. It seemed as though their trip underwater to escape Bluebraid and her crew had finally made the rip tear open.

  “Can you make the hole smaller?” Tor asked. The ship groaned beneath him, and he could feel the water burst through its side.

  She nodded. “For a little. But my fix won’t hold long. We have to get it repaired.”

  That would take ages. Time they didn’t have. As if on cue, Melda silently reached for her arenahora, grimacing at the sand left. It was nearly halfway gone.

  “We don’t have the time,” he said.

  Vesper looked down below, where Tor could hear water bursting in, filling the hallway. “We don’t have a choice,” she said, before running down to do what she could.

  Melda sighed. “She’s right. If we don’t get the ship repaired, then there’s no way we’ll be able to follow the compass.” She turned to Engle. “See anything close by?”

  The sightseer studied ahead. They weren’t far from the coast, after leaving Captain Forecastle behind in Tortuga Bay. He nodded. “There’s a town, with ships, not far. Should have someone to be able to patch up old Cloudcaster.”

  Vesper returned, her pants wet to her knees. “Closed. But not for long.” She opened her shell map, and they saw all up and down Emblem Island’s west side, villages and cities dotting the coast.

  The village Engle had spotted up ahead was labeled Gargyle. Tor had never heard of it. He glanced at Melda, and she shook her head—she didn’t recognize it, either.

  “Never seen a town like that before.” Engle said.

  Gargyle was built completely on docks that jutted far out into the water. There were dozens of them, crisscrossed, and built not on a grid, but wayward, as if a giant in the sky had dropped a handful of bridges from the clouds, and people had decided to make a town of it.

  Tor moored the ship awkwardly in the mess of a harbor, squeezing dangerously close to a shop that was located on the end of a neighboring dock. The building drooped low, heavy with what looked like clocks, just a few pounds away from falling into the sea.

  A woman peeked her head through the shop’s window, smiling widely. She had her hair still in curlers and wore an apron, like she had just been in the middle of baking. “Nice to see you, might a timepiece be of interest? We have clocks that cluck, clocks that talk, clocks that walk—useful if you have a hard time getting out of bed—clocks that tell you the wrong time, if you’re in the habit of being late. Clocks that sing, clocks that ding, clocks that ring, clocks that bring you coffee, clocks that—”

  “No, thank you, we’re quite all right,” Melda said, holding up her arenahora.

  The woman frowned. “Now sand isn’t my first choice, but, to each their own…” She was about to leave when Tor spoke.

  “Is there a ship repairer here?”

  She pointed a finger across the way, then firmly closed her window.

  Tor went to the place the woman had indicated while the rest stayed on board—everyone except for Engle, that is, who wandered into the town despite Melda’s insistence he stay put. Even reminders that he didn’t have a single dobble in his pocket didn’t stop him.

  The man in the ship repair shop had a reed sticking out from his mouth and tipped precariously backward in his chair when Tor walked into his shop.

  “You need my help, I presume,” he said arrogantly, straightening.

  Tor nodded. “My ship is badly damaged on one side, sliced open.”

  The man grinned. He had yellow teeth, some much sharper than others. Tor looked quickly for an emblem, but didn’t see one. “Now how did that come to be?”

  “Just some rocks.”

  The man still smiled as he nodded. “Just some rocks… Let’s see…”

  He followed Tor down the docks, to the ship. Melda and Vesper now leaned against it. The waterbreather’s enchantment was just about to run out, the crack widening before their eyes.

  The man let out a low whistle. “That’s a bad break you have there. Might not be worth fixing at all.” He turned to Tor. “Why don’t you let me take it off your hands? I’m afraid this looks beyond repair. I’m in a giving mood. I’ll pay fifty dobbles, just because I feel bad.”

  Melda scoffed. “You’re joking, right?” She looked around. “Empty harbor, lack of customers? Not our fault. Don’t think you can con us.”

  The man turned to face her. He looked around, then bent so he was her height. He grinned, rotten teeth on full display. “Right as you may be about a lack of customers…” He turned to his left, and right, dramatically. “I don’t see another shipfixer in this town, either.” The man laughed as he regarded the gash in the hull. “And you won’t be sailing anywhere else to get another quote, with a tear like that. Best take my offer. And now, I’m thinking I’ll pay forty.”

  Melda seethed.

  And, just as the man opened his mouth again, he fell into the water, the planks below his feet suddenly shrinking to an inch across. Vesper took a step forward and smiled at him through the new hole in the dock. The man cursed loudly, drenched and covered in the trash that had accumulated underneath the pier. “How’s the water?” she said. “I’ve been dying for a swim.”

  Just then, Engle walked up, laughing hysterically. He peeked into the hole, at the shipfixer still cursing as he tried to climb out, and laughed some more. “You made her angry, didn’t you?”

  Melda had a very small smile on her face as she glared into the hole. A moment later, she sighed. “What are we going to do now?”

  As terrible as he was, the man was right. He was the only one in town who could help them, and their ship wouldn’t make the journey to another.

  Engle shrugged. “Lucky for you, I’ve already scouted the place.” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “Mean people here, wouldn’t even give me a taste-try of fudge!” He shook his head, disgusted.

  “And…” Melda said pointedly.

  “And I think I have an idea! Vesper, shrink the ship, will you?”

  Melda looked unconvinced, but Vesper did as Engle said.

  He led the way down the dock, which dipped too far into the water for Tor’s liking in some places. The dock split into two. One side led across the stretch of sea to another mess of overlapping docks, and that was the way they took, right onto a floating dock that had to be pulled by a man on the ot
her side using a rope. He tipped his hat at them as they passed.

  Finally, they reached a small cluster of shops, all crowded together on the same pier.

  “How on Emblem did you find this place?” Melda asked.

  “I just…explored,” Engle said, lifting a shoulder.

  In front of them sat three buildings. A small gallery, with paintings that were multilayered, enchanted so that they held multiple works of art that played on a loop. Most of them, unsurprisingly, depicted the sea and a maze of docks that was unmistakably Gargyle. Next to the gallery stood a restaurant. The smell of spices spilled out of an open window, scents Tor didn’t recognize, so spicy even a whiff burned the inside of his nose.

  Engle walked into the third shop—a toy store.

  Melda sighed and rolled her eyes.

  The toy shop had striped spinning tops that were enchanted to never stop, streamers that changed color and whipped wildly around—nearly hitting Tor in the face as he entered—galloping wooden horses, and kites that seemed to be flying themselves. A group of dolls were arguing on a table, then turned suddenly when they saw they had visitors. Their frowns quickly disappeared, and they smiled brightly, curtsying as one unit.

  “What beautiful hair!” one doll said in a tiny, high-pitched voice, blinking its eyes very quickly at Vesper with eyelashes made of curling black feathers.

  Another subtly pushed past her and said, “Silver is the best color, I think! Look, just like my dress!” She twirled for good measure.

  A third doll laughed, and Tor saw her pinch the other as she skipped past. “You’re about the prettiest person I’ve ever seen! We’d be great friends, I think.”

  “I don’t need friends,” Vesper said curtly, before walking away.

  The dolls turned to each other, and Tor had to listen closely to hear them arguing again.

  “Your fault, always yours!”

  “Her hair wasn’t even that pretty, plain if you ask me, just like your dress!”

  Tor continued through the shop. He picked up a ball that immediately bounced against the wall, then back into his hands. He moved swiftly out of the way of a tiny train that produced real smoke and didn’t seem to require a track. Engle was at the very back of the store, where an old man had appeared from behind a curtain.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” the old man said, sounding exhausted. Tor wondered how many things Engle had broken.

  “I didn’t touch anything this time! I swear it!” Engle said. Then, he motioned for Vesper. “We need help. Do you think you can fix this?”

  Vesper held up the tiny ship, slice down its side, which did, in fact, look very much like a toy.

  The old man squinted at it through his spectacles. “I suppose. I have a woodshop…” He looked uneasy.

  “We’ll pay you,” Engle said, though Tor didn’t know how. Melda was the only one who had currency, and it wasn’t more than a few dobbles.

  The old man sighed. “No payment. Just promise never to come back to my store.”

  They followed the man into another room filled with wood, machinery, and buckets of paint. He sat at an old desk and placed the ship carefully in front of him.

  With a sharp creak, he turned a giant magnifying glass attached to the table so it was in front of his eye. His eyebrows came together, and he squinted, as if not believing what he saw.

  He turned to look them all up and down, his gaze landing at Vesper. “You’re a magnificate, aren’t you?”

  She swallowed, then nodded.

  The man turned back to his desk without saying a word.

  Using tiny tweezers, he lifted the hatch of the ship, then turned it over, releasing a stream of seawater. He mopped it up with a rag, clicking his tongue. The boat now dry inside, he grabbed blindly for a long, silver tool that resembled a quill. It hissed when he pressed its end, and a tiny spark of power came out its other side.

  The toymaker grunted as he ran the strange instrument along the hole in the ship’s hull, sealing it. Still not looking satisfied, he stuck a finger into a gray plaster from an open container, then smeared it on top, his eye never leaving the giant magnifying glass.

  He muttered to himself as he got up to walk to the other side of the room. When he returned, he had a tiny bucket of dark paint, and a brush so small it seemed to contain just a handful of hairs.

  He painted over the mark, then nodded, pleased. “Can still tell it’s been broken, but this is the best I can do in such a short amount of time.”

  “It’s perfect,” Tor said. “Thank you.”

  Following the terms of their agreement, they turned to leave. Everyone except for Melda, who was staring at the old man.

  “Yes?” he said, tired.

  “That’s an animator emblem,” Melda said, motioning toward the man’s finger. There was a tiny golden spark there. “Can you really make any inanimate object real?”

  “No.”

  Melda reddened, clearly disappointed. “Oh.”

  She turned to go, and the old man said, “There are levels to animation.” He sighed. “The item itself decides whether or not it wants to be real.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  The man shrugged. “Then it never wakes up.” He peered at the ship in Tor’s hand, then at them, before sighing once again. “Sometimes, when I animate something, it has a lot to say. I took a trade for an old nutcracker this morning, and it gave many warnings. In its place in a store window in Siren’s Wharf, it had seen someone appear and disappear. The Calavera captain, it claimed.”

  Tor stilled. When they’d been in Siren’s Wharf he could have sworn he’d seen the captain’s hat, in the corner of his vision, just before they left.

  Were they being followed?

  The toymaker shook his head. “I would go inland, if I was you,” he said. “If the Calavera’s curse has been broken, the sea and its cities are not safe places to be.”

  * * *

  They were silent on the haphazard walk back to the marina. The toymaker’s warning rang through Tor’s head.

  He wished they could heed his advice and go inland. Instead, they had to sail toward danger, into the eye of the storm.

  And hope the Calavera captain, the traitor, and the spectral didn’t beat them to the pearl—or didn’t attack them before they had a chance to find it.

  The toymaker’s fix had worked brilliantly. When Vesper grew the ship in the harbor—making sure to avoid the shipfixer, who had drifted and was still trying to climb back up onto the docks—the hole was completely sealed.

  “Just looks like it has a scar, doesn’t it?” Engle said. He patted the ship on the side as he climbed up the ladder. “You look absolutely menacing, Cloudcaster.”

  Once aboard, Tor, Melda, and Engle gathered at its helm.

  “We have the compass,” Tor said. “And part of the siren statue. I think we should look for the comb first. If we use it to find the pearl, we might avoid the prophecy, since we changed our plan. If it doesn’t work, we can always use the compass to go straight to the pearl.” He looked down at the enchanted object in his palm. “If I’m right, and the siren statue originally had the comb, then this should lead us right to it.” And if the legends in the Book of Seas were true, using the comb to brush the sea would attract a mermaid who would grant them their wish for the pearl.

  Engle grinned. “Let’s go, then.”

  Tor carefully dipped his finger into the sack from Siren’s Wharf. A bit of dust stuck to his thumb. He pressed it to the instrument’s glass and held his breath, waiting.

  If it didn’t work, they would have to rely on Vesper. She would need to hold the compass, which, according to the prophecy, would take them on a journey not all of them would survive. And, there was the Calavera captain, the Swordscale traitor, and the mysterious spectral. For all they knew, they could be hours away f
rom finding the pearl, or even on their tail…

  No, it had to work.

  Tor watched the compass intently—hoping he had been right.

  And its needle began to whir.

  When it finally stopped spinning, it pointed directly west.

  Relief almost brought him to his knees.

  “We don’t need her help anymore, do we?” Melda whispered, motioning vaguely below deck toward Vesper’s room. She had gone there as soon as they had boarded. He wondered what she was doing down there. Likely speaking into that mysterious conch shell.

  Tor nodded. “No, we don’t. But let’s not do anything until we’ve found the comb. And then the mermaid.” He knew the warnings. Though there were dozens of species of mermaids, according to Melda’s book, they all had one thing in common: a reputation for being wicked, deceiving creatures. The wording of their wish had to be precise, leaving no room for loopholes.

  They remained on the deck for hours, watching the compass move ever so slightly. Vesper came up for food, and Tor did not take his eyes off the pirate’s instrument, even as he ate, its thin golden needle guided by an invisible force.

  Every once in a while, he sprinkled bits of the statue’s powder on its glass, when the wind had all but blown it away. He led the ship the same way he had once watched giantesses lead their horses. It groaned slightly beneath him, its blue and silver sails always filled with wind, even when there was barely a breeze on his cheek.

  Tor wondered why the Night Witch had ever had use of a vessel like this. Had she sailed on it hundreds of years before, when she had been just a girl and not a legend?

  Had she understood the draw to the sea that Tor had always harbored in the pit of his stomach?

  Soon, staring at the compass became tiring. They decided to take shifts, to ensure there was always powder on the compass. Melda and Engle were below, taking their break.

  Tor had just leaned his head back against the mast when he heard a splash.

  He was on his feet in an instant.

  Vesper was in the water, staring up at him, as the ship passed by. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up to you,” she said, diving deep into the water.