by J. Gertori
“A fellow Gaffadill!” The shop owner leaned in and lowered her voice. “As an alumna, I’m willing to slash the price.”
“You’ve got great stuff,” said Sam, inching out of view. “Yup . . . plenty of cool trinkets and whatnot.” The corner of the store seemed the safest, he was, after all, avoiding a stalker.
“Those slings are two for fifteen quins. What’s the lining of your wand, standard Fiora flower, or Braxtine root? If you’ve got one of those new Elppa wands, I can’t help you; they’re too tough to burn a hole through.”
“You know, I just remembered that I left my wand at home.” He shrugged and continued to hide beside the clear case of school accessories. The petite woman mumbled and scurried to her desk. She lifted a black paperweight of a wolf’s snout solidified mid-snarl. Flags hung on the wall across Sam, each with a phrase or a name correlating to its school. The oldest looking read:
Octavius Institute
Cruimlud Dynasty Champions
’55–Present
The shopkeeper shocked Sam as he turned. “Rogue market mockeries are hitting the streets. Wizards shouldn’t go about their day without their wand. Tell your fellow Gaffadills to stay alert,” she said, handing Sam a card that read: E. BAUTISTA’S UNIFORMS.
“Do you sell robes?”
The shopkeeper’s cheeks rose as she squinted. “Robes? I know you’re not an Artifec, but if you’re in dire need, I could recommend a place, but they’ve been stealing my customers—actually—forget it—I don’t know where you’d find any.”
The black-dressed woman appeared in the alley, and Sam bent out of sight. He buried his face into a rack and rummaged through the navy blue cardigans that looked familiar. He had seen the same uniform on the rude fellow at Trixie’s. After some time, he rose and found the exit vacant. “Well, thanks for the help. I’ll be sure to let my classmates know about your shop.” The tufts of clouds congregated around the shopkeeper, who returned to her stool. Sam gave her a final wave and exited the fanciful shop.
Out of sight, he dropped to a knee as if his shoe became untied. He dragged his helmet behind a crate, but buzzing noises thwarted his attempt to listen for the woman’s footsteps. The sounds came from the store ahead, where people sat in pairs with an aura of light between them. Sam focused on the closest duo: a woman and man, both covered in tattoos.
The wand in the woman’s hand shook with vigor, but her calm face flaunted her complete control. The spark at the end of her wand emitted the steady hum and color-changing lights. Sam leapt inside after spotting the store’s sign—Enchanted Ink. He lingered beside the artist, who holstered her wand and fanned her subject’s back. The tattoo, a gorgeous cluster of poppy flowers, swayed side to side as if there were a gentle breeze. A pleasant, herb-like scent—reminiscent of the potpourri smell of the manor—filled the shop.
“Can I help you?” a man at the counter said. But the question wasn’t meant for Sam, who spun around and caught eyes with the woman draped in black.
“Just browsing, thank you,” she said, in a calm tone. The woman inched toward the fleshling. With her hands crossed behind her back, she turned to Sam and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
He had no choice but to oblige. In his short day on Trida, Sam had seen creatures reserved for myth, had his nose broken and unbroken, and bartered with a bubble-speaking crab. As far he knew, this woman could turn him into a sponge with a snap of her fingers if he refused. The two exited the alleyway and ventured toward the end of the bazaar, where Rowen would be waiting.
“Where’s the hudger you were with?” said the woman, walking a step behind Sam.
“Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions. I’m a scrutor, and that’s all you need to know.” Sam had heard this term before; Raske said Ms. Ward was their boss.
“Where did the hudger go?” She asked.
“I don’t know what you mean. I lost my orientation group and made a wrong turn. If you could point me in their direction—”
“Fine, since you wanna give me trouble—what’s your pact number?”
“Pact number? Right. It’s two—four—”
“Just as I suspected. You’re not a pact.” Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip.
“Did I say two? I meant zero—four—”
“Wrong. Turn here.”
“I’d rather not. But thanks for the walk. I’m gonna go get myself a drink.” Sam attempted to part ways, but the scrutor blocked his path.
“Are you carrying a wand, potion, pipe or any other—”
“Wait, am I under arrest?” Sam stopped in the middle of the street.
The woman moved near his face, close enough to see the warm shade below her vibrant brown cheeks. “Depends on what you tell me. But for now, we’re just talking.” They continued their brisk walk. “Are there any weapons on you?”
“No.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Peeing in the forest, and there’s a wrinkled old bird who can attest to that.” As Sam sneered, the woman drew her wand and flipped it straight. She pressed it against Sam’s chest.
“Listen close—I know where you were last night, and I know what you’ve done. So here’s your chance to explain, and I want the truth. Why were you at Lekly Manor past closing hours?”
Sam sighed; this woman had dampened his overwhelming sense of wonder. “I’m not saying I was there, but if I was, what would happen to me?” he mumbled.
Before the woman could reply, another bike with a tower of belongings turned into their path. With a plate in one hand and a teacup in the other, the bike rider strolled past the patrons.
“There’s the hudger!” Sam shouted, pointing to the closest shop. With the woman distracted, Sam sprinted toward the bike. The scrutor screamed for nearby civilians to apprehend the runaway fleshling.
“Move, boy! Move!” shrieked the bike rider.
At the last second, Sam shuffled to his right and delivered a powerful kick to the side of the wheel. The bicycle and its high payload toppled to one end but, to Sam’s astonishment, did not crash. Instead, it leaned at an unnatural angle, and the rider’s knee scraped the ground. The rear tower of items stretched across the cobblestone road like a gigantic broom.
Sam carried out his mad dash but glanced behind to see the patrons running into shops, flattening against the walls, or preparing to jump over the approaching sweep. Shattered teacup remnants were sprinkled across the road but nothing further. Before he passed the last building, Sam saw the rider pull upright with the entire tower intact.
What remained of Fizzawick’s Bazaar were pop-up vendors and acrobat hudgers. The walls of the marketplace cusped into an arched corridor patterned with advertisements.
“Try our new Ice Tea Straws today at Pearsom’s, Trida’s number one food destination!” said a man in a framed poster; his movement looped, and the spiel repeated.
Rowen appeared at the end, standing near a newsstand with blank papers and rows of snacks.
“Hey, buddy, we gotta keep moving,” said Sam. The hudger launched a squishy treat at him and stormed away. “Hey, what’s going on?” Rowen moved so fast that Sam struggled to follow through the myriad of twists and turns. “Man, you’re just like your dad.”
At this, Rowen turned and slammed a blank paper onto Sam’s leg. The words on the long white sheet reappeared in Sam’s ethnic language, which he understood but hadn’t read in some time. He shook the paper, and its articles reshuffled into English:
Hudger Apprehended for Attacking Lekly Guards.
SIX
The Guard
“So, you’re saying we have no plan,” said Sam, opening the wrapped treat.
“We’re gonna walk in there, and yer gonna make her admit my dad didn’t do it. Sounds ’bout a good a plan as any,” Rowen said.
“Why me? I’m the outsider here.”
“Well, ya shouldn’t have left out the part ’bout the dyin’ guard. Does the paper say what room she’s in?�
��
“Doubt it. The article doesn’t even mention her name, but I’ll check. By the way, this thing smells amazing.” Sam took a mouthful of the gelatinous treat Rowen had fetched him. “Mmm. That’s quality.”
“Ya wanted a jellyprawn, right? Those are popular amon’ hudgers, but I’d never eat one.”
Sam read the excerpt: “The cursed guard remains in Middleton Medical in pending condition.” He lowered the newspaper and eyed Rowen. “Jeez—‘pending condition’ sounds rough. She might not be conscious.”
“Nonsense. Pendin’ just means they’re makin’ sure there’re no other symptoms. Elixirs can heal common injuries in minutes, but she got cursed. Let’s move before she gets released.”
They entered Middleton Medical and marched to the front desk. The receptionist, busy gawking at a mirror, didn’t acknowledge them until after Sam greeted her.
“If you’re with the media, the guard is in room seventeen, and there’s a sign-in sheet at that post,” she said, refocusing on her mirror.
Sam proceeded with caution, wary of how painless it was to pinpoint the guard. They sped into the adjacent annex and shuffled behind an enchanted mop and bucket that spiraled through the corridor. The shimmering silver placards were a fixture here, too. Rowdy wizards clogged the hallways; their booming conversations overlapped, melding into a reverberating hum. The wing where room seventeen resided overflowed with reporters dressed alike to denote their club.
Rowen and Sam weeded through a group in denim jackets adorned with colorful patches. Meanwhile, bribes from a man with an Octavius Daily badge failed to entice the attending nurse. Her glare became more severe as the rest of the Octavius Daily posse leaned over the counter.
“Lekly Gates: Can Old Magic Keep Us Safe, the scoop by Natalie Shakewell,” said a woman in a houndstooth pencil skirt. The words bled onto a sheet of paper hovering nearby, and her matching colleagues huddled near suited women with semi-transparent headphones.
“The guard’s room is on the right,” whispered Sam. “Let me borrow your wand.”
“A fleshlin’ with a wand?” Rowen sneered. “Job like this takes skill. Watch and learn.”
A striped-shirted gentleman cut across the hudger and paused before room seventeen. “Foto,” he said, aiming his quill-like wand at the guard’s door as he drew a glinting magenta square. When the floating lines connected, an image of room seventeen flipped into his notepad. “Got the picture, Mavis. Go bother the nurse for the guard’s name.”
“Now or never, Rowen,” said Sam.
The hudger crept under a segment of chairs then pointed his wand at the ceiling lights. Rowen’s expression scrunched, and he hesitated long enough that Sam wondered if he, too, had been constricted. Finally, the wand trembled, and Rowen wrangled it closer to his chest. A blue orb flew from the stick and collided with the light fixture.
Nothing seemed different, and the hudger wiggled out from beneath the chairs. Then a noise like cracking branches spread from above. The raucous escalated into a blaring crunch, hushing the room. Soon after, the consistency of the ceiling changed into rows of glossy circles. A single pebble fell into the nurse’s lap and frightened her backward. Then another dropped, and another, and—crash! A massive chunk of the ceiling poured onto the nurse’s area and flooded into the waiting room.
“It’s another attack!” screamed a woman wearing a fur hat. The reporters raced for the exit; most were barreling head first toward Sam.
“I smell fire!” screamed a man. As he shoved the nurse aside, he tumbled into a trio of tall women with their hair braided to look like crowns.
“Make way,” said a hoarse voice, near the exit.
As Sam turned, his body spasmed, and he jumped toward the nearest wall. The snorting command came from a half-man half-bison. The bison-man charged forward and presented his wand; its shiny handle curved around his fingers like brass knuckles. He stiffened his posture, uttered an incantation, and launched a row of chairs at the ceiling.
“Show yourself!” he shouted.
“Hansel, you buffoon—let’s go!” yelled another burly fellow. He shuffled next to his half-bison colleague and yanked him to the exit.
Rowen and Sam scurried into the guard’s room as the commotion dwindled. They slammed the door shut and pressed against the walls.
“Holy shit,” said Sam. “That was brilliant!”
“Thanks, I guess, but I meant to blindfold the nurse,” mumbled Rowen, releasing the stale ashes from his wand.
“What’s happening outside?” said a muffled voice.
“Just a spill. Nothing to worry about,” said Sam.
“So . . . there’s not another attack?”
“No, you’re safe. I’m sorry but where are you?”
A woman sprang to her feet from behind the far side of the bed. She wore shorts and an oversized shirt of a tawny hue; a touch redder than her light brown skin. Her copious curls bounced as she walked toward a table at the opposite end, not looking once at the duo. She was the guard from the gates, except without the vomit-inducing stench.
“I’m not talking to media, sorry. I’ve already told the nurse,” she said, fumbling with items on the table. “And I can’t see how I’d be of any help. My memory is hazy.”
“I might be able to give you answers,” said Sam.
The woman turned and yelled, “Hey! Get that hudger out of here!” Her face scrunched as she patted her pockets before leaping for the wand on the bed.
“He’s with me; we mean no harm,” said Sam.
The woman struggled to pry the wand from its closed position.
“Speak fer yerself,” said Rowen, stepping forward.
Sam held the hudger in place. “We’re not here to hurt you—swear. We just need answers, and I think you’d like a few yourself.”
She steadied her aim over the growling hudger and swatted away the swell of hair shielding her eyes.
“Hey, look at me,” said Sam, reaching out with both hands. “How’s your cuts healing?”
“Which paper do you work for?” shouted the woman, targeting both intruders.
“What?”
“The only way you’d know that information is if the nurses told you. This is your last chance to answer. Which newspaper do you work for?”
“We’re not reporters,” said Sam.
“You asshats know more about what happened than I do. How is that right?”
Sam blurted, “I was there, but I didn’t hurt you. You had stingray . . . something. I forgot what Raske called it, but you smelled like death—that much I remember.”
Knocks on the door cut the tension in the room. Sam held the door shut as the nurse attempted to pry it open. “Ms. Avabelle, are you alright?” shouted the nurse at the other end.
The guard hesitated but lowered her wand. “I’m okay—just changing. Don’t come in.”
“We’ve got a mess that needs tending to, so we’ll come get you when it’s safe.”
“Yes, that’s fine, thank you,” she said. Her gaze refocused on the duo. “Looks like we’re stuck inside until further notice. I’m listening.”
“I’m Sam. And your name is?”
“Dara.”
“Right. Here’s the thing, Dara: I’m not a wizard.”
“Okay? You’re a pact, then.”
“I wish . . . but no.”
“A pact born in a wizard’s body?”
“Try again,” grunted Rowen.
“An Artifec?”
“I don’t know what that is, so no.”
“If you’re not a wizard or pact, there’s little else you could—wait. You’re . . . a fleshling? As in, an outsider with no clearance to be in Trida, therefore arrived illegally—fleshing?” Sam nodded to her query. “Oh, that’s no good. That’s grounds for review and possible cleansing. How have the mages not taken you? They’re probably swarming this hospital. How’d you even get inside the gates at the manor?”
“Security must’ve been pretty shoddy last ni
ght. I wonder who was on duty,” said Sam.
“Ah. I see where our problems cross. Truthfully, I don’t remember much except for the events earlier in the night.”
Sam tidied the sheets on Dara’s bed, and Rowen kicked him in the leg. “I’m stressed, okay!” The fleshling blurted, massaging his shin. “I clean when things are hectic.”
Dara pointed at the seething hudger and mumbled, “So, what’s his deal?”
Fluffing the guard’s pillow, Sam said, “That hudger they’re blaming for your attack—this is his son, Rowen.”
“This keeps getting better,” said Dara, snickering.
Rowen lunged forward. “Ya find this funny?”
“Hey, fold this,” said Sam, dropping a washcloth on his tiny ally, “it might calm you.”
“Look, I’ve been in here since last night, and all I’ve heard is that a hudger attacked me. Says so in most of the newspapers I’ve read.”
“The thing is, Rowen’s dad gave you those three gashes. Now, I’m just a lowly old fleshling, but I’m pretty damn sure those cuts saved your life.”
Dara fell into the chair in the room’s nook. She jumped back to her feet and paced to the table of her belongings. “That’s heavy information.”
“Can ya help get Dad out?” said Rowen, less intensely.
“I’ll try, but they’ve suspended me until this gets sorted. So I’m more of an ordinary wizard than a Lekly guard. Can’t find my wand, either. The mages stuck me with one of theirs. They even took away my uniform, but I’m not complaining. We tried dipping it in a solution of fire salmon—it angered the stench.”
Rowen nudged Sam.“We’re wastin’ our time.”
“Not so fast. I’ve got a visitor coming who might be able to help. Until then, you mind if I run a few products by the two of you?” said Dara.