Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  The man pointed his hairy finger in Sam’s direction. The space between them became a wavy blur, like the horizon on a hot day. Then the dismembered parts snapped into place, reforming the floor model to its original state.

  “Sir Molting?” said Sam. The man paired his rolling eyes with a half-hearted smile. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “So, you found me,” Molting said. Sam readied his hand beside his pocketed wand. “I told that woman to keep any and all appointments off my back. I’ve got a busy day, and you scrutors tend to—how should I put this? Lollygag.”

  “Well, I’ll try and make this quick.” Sam lifted his heavy bag onto the countertop and twisted sideways to crack his aching back. He pushed the bag closer to the dark robes that lay atop. As he unhinged the bag’s flap, he withdrew a frilled notepad and a leaky pen. “Sir, can you tell me where you were this past Friday night?”

  “No,” Molting said. “We were thoroughly inebriated by nightfall. On Fridays, Otto and I—”

  “I’m sorry . . . Otto?”

  Molting’s brows converged at the middle as if Sam should’ve known who he meant. “Artifec Otto Gilbeaux. Each week, we pick an institution to dine. It’s been this way since our university days, this past Friday no different. We started our night at Calabass and Cezant, right here in Kerek. He, a glass of Striped Fire Wine aged seventy-seven years, and I, three Diamondfly Crusted Bourbons. I’ve got a much simpler palette, you see. I imagine that’s enough unless you’d like details of our meal as well. Suit yourself. We began with—”

  “No, no, that’ll do.” Sam had a light grip on Mavis, and though it looked like he jotted notes onto Cliff, the pen took control.

  In bold letters “Signal the hudger” appeared on the withered parchment.

  Sam coughed twice and pounded on his chest.

  “That’s a nasty cough. I’ve got some salted water berries in my robe that might—”

  “No thanks!” shouted Sam, loud enough to draw Molting’s attention back toward him. At the top of Sam’s bag, Rowen peeked his square head.

  “If this is about the guards, surely Ms. Ward doesn’t believe I’m that unimaginative,” Molting said, scoffing. “A curse? So desperate, so risky, so foolish. If I wanted someone gone—a coffee drinker, for example—well, being the Artifec of enchantments, I’d charm the coffee itself. Make it erode the drinker’s innards, tug at their organs, and play a sweet tune on their ribs. See what I’m getting at?”

  Sam cleared his throat, and Mavis drew an image of Sam’s jacket biting his shoulder. Behind Sir Molting, Rowen crept from the bag and sifted through the robe in search for signs of wrongdoing. The owner’s dogs pepped-up and circled the counter.

  “Then again, I’m not the type; perhaps that’s why I was chosen to be an Artifec.” Molting displayed a fat cigar from inside his jacket. He bit off the top, and its end simmered without the help of a flame.

  The all-white dog spotted Rowen on the countertop. It jumped to its hind legs and clamped on Molting’s robe. Cliff crumpled its sheets to mask the dog’s quiet growling, but the pooch gained a tight hold and tugged the hudger off the countertop. Sam viciously coughed just as Rowen and the robe hit the ground.

  “Is everything alright?” shouted the store owner, emerging from a back room.

  “Nothing to fret about, Pheebo,” said Molting, puffing a ball of smoke away from Sam.

  Pheebo sped to Molting’s side with a colorful box. “Bronson!” he yelled, spooking the all-white dog that pressed its nose onto the covered hudger.

  From a drawer behind the counter, Pheebo flashed a spiraled square. With a flick of his wrist, the square came undone and whipped straight like a snake’s tail; the wand had more joints than Sam had seen thus far.

  “Capto,” Pheebo said. Rowen and the robe covering him lifted from the floor. “Oh my—I’m not as strong as I remember.” Pheebo’s arm shook. “Allevo,” he said. With this, the heap levitated onto the counter far easier. “Exsolvo.” The lumpy robe dropped like a bowling ball.

  “Oh, your drink!” Pheebo said, jerking away only to twist back around. “Where are my manners—Sir, would you like a coffee as well?”

  Considering Molting’s spiel, Sam blurted, “No, thank you.”

  As Pheebo left, Rowen crept from the robe. A shade of white covered his face, but he shot Sam a “thumbs-up,” signifying nothing of concern. The hudger returned to the canvas bag, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  Molting twisted toward the dark robe and placed an arm inside as the rest of the fabric tumbled inches off the ground. Then Sam saw it: patches on his chest and arm. There were no such adornments on the gate crashers the night of Dara’s attack. Furthermore, Molting’s robe transitioned into dark green at the bottom. If he were there that night, and Sam had overlooked these details, he would’ve at least noticed the Artifec’s round figure.

  “Someone stole your Remeo Brew,” said Sam, in a bout of impulse. Mavis stopped scribbling, and even the frightened hudger peeked out. “Three people came into the gates after closing hours. Your brew got them there.”

  “That’s preposterous. My Remeo is in . . . Where did I put it last?”

  “It’s gone, Sir Molting. And I believe the thieves are tied to the murder of the male guard.”

  “I, I, must consult the other Artifecs.”

  “You can’t.” Taken aback by his own brashness, Sam said, “I’ve my suspicions that Sir Gaspare is involved.”

  “You are accusing the Artifec of healing in the murder of a Lekly guard, and cursing of another? The scrutors have gone mad.”

  Mavis scribbled the word “Exit” in a vast array of fonts.

  “The curse used on Dara Avabelle came from a book belonging to Sir Gaspare. But Mack, the male guard, conjured it. Before his death, Mack slaughtered masses of Athens chameleons and spiked fowls in search for Obsolete Offering to make a counter curse.”

  Molting drew back and whispered, “Who told you this?”

  “I think the thieves of your Remeo Brew are continuing the hunt. Someone attacked Gixxer this morning. What curse would require the killing of these animals?”

  “I don’t know, truly. She’s been filing each Artifec’s collection of spellbooks and inherited titles. She’s putting together a comprehensive source for reference in the event of a crisis.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Alice—the Artifec liaison. She’s in charge of filing the spellbooks after the committee had established its need. We dubbed it the Incantation Index. It’s now available to scrutors, mages, elixir nurses, doctors of alchemy, and persons of authority that might need the archive. Well, days after submitting our books, several Artifecs received mean spirited request forms regarding ‘counter curses.’ The writer seemed to believe we were hiding books—books with instructions on how they’re made.”

  “Then Sir Gaspare must’ve complied.”

  Molting placed his hand on his chest, and his expression fell. “Dear me. It’s Alice’s duty to refill our Remeo Brews. You don’t suppose—”

  “It’s possible. Alice was at the manor that night. I’m gonna have to speak to her.”

  The shop owner returned. “Hope this is enough ice, I frosted the—”

  “Pheebo!” shouted Molting, a great vein had mounted on his temple.

  Cliff relayed the findings to the group, as Mavis whizzed through each page. The bells on the front door sounded as it swung open, and with it came a flood of babble from the streets. A woman entered with a confident stroll. She wore a baseball cap with a sewn letter D, and it’s rounded bill dipped so far ahead that it veiled her face. A posse of reporters formed outside with their backs to Pheebo’s store.

  “What’s happening out there?” said Molting. No amount of Climate Liner could keep the sweat from beading on his balding head.

  “You see, Sir Molting, Kerek has its crowds as well!” shouted Pheebo, with elation.

  The woman proceeded forward, parrying Pheebo’s greet
ings en route to Molting. She lifted her brim; she was Dara. Sam watched as Molting eyed her without much change in expression.

  “You’re the cursed guard,” the Artifec said.

  “Formerly cursed,” said Dara, unrolling a long paper and offering it to him.

  Black ink rushed through the page as words and illustrations encased in bold borders appeared. Under Tattersall Press read:

  Cursed Lekly Guard to Address Kerek Village.

  The mob of reporters scooted close to a short set of stairs under an enormous tree, hoping to fall under its shade. The audience looked exclusive to journalists, but some shoppers stopped to partake in the event.

  The few inside Bo’s Declutters moved to the front window, save for Rowen who remained on the counter; the two mutts patrolled him like sharks circling a meal. Pheebo knocked on his glass, hoping to startle away the reporters from Wombat Chronicles West. They leaned against his store while chomping on greasy burgers.

  “But if you’re here, then who’s that?” said Molting.

  Outside, another woman parted the crowd and scaled the steps to stand before everyone. She was Crissa, right on cue. Concealed under her floppy hat, she wore riding boots and a green cape coat; the same style of uniform Dara had on when Sam found her.

  To her side stood a tan woman draped in the same outfit Crissa wore at the Tattersall Press loft. Though he couldn’t read the name on her coat, Sam recognized her monochromatic appearance: black hair, lipstick, nails, and interior clothing. She was Crissa’s partner, Evie. Meaning Pike was the muscular scrutor patrolling from the rear of the crowd.

  As Crissa reached her arms through the slits beside her tapered waist, the crowd hushed. “Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming here today,” said Crissa, her face eclipsed. “As an update to the incident in Lekly Manor: the hudger, Raske Olimpi, is no longer being questioned. He is innocent of this crime, and we have reason to believe—”

  A blinding light appeared behind the scrutor, and a figure robed in navy blue materialized. The enlarged hood covered all but their pale chin. Crissa spun quick, but the robed person pressed a barbed wand to her stomach. Sparks spewed from its end, and a wild barrage of flashes launched Crissa off the steps.

  “Attono!” Evie screamed.

  A lightning bolt climbed the attacker’s leg, but they vanished into a gust of air.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Lone Liaison

  Kerek Village couldn’t have looked any more different than Fizzawick’s Bazaar. They were even at opposite ends of Lekly Island. Kerek Village was a small feature of Kerek city, while Fizzawick’s stood as the staple of the town of Fulvus. While Fizzawick’s touted a wide cobblestone road, Kerek Village was narrow with sublime stone. Fizzawick’s stores were dark brick, while the Kerek shops had a uniform sheen of white paint. And though Fizzawick’s triumphed in width, Kerek Village flourished in height. Its buildings bundled together tight like a high wall. If Fizzawick’s were Trida’s answer to Verona, Italy, then Kerek Village would be their rendition of Bath, United Kingdom.

  That said, it was here in Kerek that an attempted assassination of a scrutor had occurred.

  Dara knelt at the center of the crowd, screaming at Crissa at the top of her lungs. The reporters circled the sisters like a thick wreath. Sam recognized a few by their matching attire, including Hansel, the bison-man, and Natalie Shakewell. Her skirt-wearing colleagues were in a verbal tussle with the smug few from Octavius Daily.

  Wizards that enjoyed lunch outside of Ingram Ingram, and those under the patio of Raven & King Fish, had left their food to join the commotion. But by the time Sam had reached the sisters, Crissa sported a smirk like she’d just lost a bet.

  “Ballsy. Didn’t think he’d rift behind me,” she said. A circle had melted around her stomach, and she knocked on the silver scales where there should’ve been a gaping hole.

  “At least they hit you where we hoped. Would’ve been worse if they rearranged your face. Well, not that much worse, ” said Sam, winking as he offered his hand.

  “You knew there would be an attack?” said Molting, ignoring the pesky reporters.

  “I guess the killer reads my paper,” said Ellis. “We just had to draw them out.” His lensless frames had morphed into a stylish pair of sunglasses, and he mounted the short steps ahead of the audience. “Attention fellow reporters and good people of Kerek. We ask that you refrain from speaking of—or publishing about—this incident. At least for an hour.”

  “Why the hell would we do that? This scoop’s gold!” screamed a man in the crowd. “Who are you to tell us what to do?”

  “Dave from Snazzerfig Post, everyone. Does heckling make you feel like a big man? I’d recognize that squeaky voice anywhere, Dave. Show yourself!”

  “People—that fellow is right,” said Pike, the blond scrutor at the back. “This is an active case, and anyone that leaks the story will place us at risk for another attack.”

  Ellis rejoined the group and helped Crissa upright.

  “Nice of you level the playing field,” said Dara.

  Ellis sneered. “You kidding me? I’m giving Sam thirty minutes before I publish this thing. These clowns aren’t gonna get the jump on me, especially not on a story I helped plan.”

  “Sir Molting checks out, guys,” said Sam to Crissa’s colleagues, who fired matching bewildered glares. But after they received Crissa’s acknowledgment, Evie and Pike ushered Sir Molting out of the sea of reporters.

  Crissa wiggled her legs to regain balance. She withdrew a small sheet from her pocket, and the others did the same. Each member of their crew had a piece of Cliff, in which Mavis relayed every new detail Sam had extracted.

  “Good job clearing Sir Molting,” Crissa said. “I couldn’t see enough of the attacker’s face, but did you see their robe? That’s not the same material as typical Artifec robes. It looks like Sam isn’t the only one pulling a ruse.”

  “They used a volatile wand—definitely rogue,” said Dara.

  “Agreed. Ellis, see if any reporters managed to get a picture of the suspect. I’ll have Evie reach out to any stores that might’ve sold a dark blue robe,” said Crissa. She grabbed at her stomach and groaned. “We have to go to the manor and talk to Alice.”

  “Take a breather, we got this,” Sam said, as the scrutor cocked her eye. “Keep Cliff’s sheet nearby. We’ll let you know where we’re at.”

  Crissa had pointed to her sister before she said, “If anything goes wrong—”

  “It won’t. I can do this,” said Dara.

  The duo sprinted toward Pheebo’s store as Sam withdrew Mavis and Cliff from his jacket. Upon entering, he broke into laughter at the sight of Rowen wrestling with the dogs. The contagious chuckles enveloped Pheebo as well.

  “Keep this with you,” said Sam, placing a sheet of paper into Rowen’s hand.

  Since Dara had never seen the Artifec liaison’s office, they would be at the mercy of Mavis’ illustration. With breakneck speed, the pen drew a rendition of their destination and even signed the bottom. Cliff colored behind the black lines, giving the image a more believable depth.

  Sam held the drawing close, memorizing it to the last dot before tucking the tools into his jacket. Brandishing the rogue matches, he pulled a mustard-tipped matchstick and headed to the closet with Dara. Before Pheebo could object, Dara shut the door behind them. After fighting away his shivers, Sam envisioned Alice’s office and struck the match between them. Suddenly, the cramped space felt far more compact. Books that lined the wall stabbed his side. Dara shoved the door, but it came crashing shut, for they weren’t standing at all; instead, they were sideways inside a trunk that acted as a piano seat.

  “Worked like a charm,” Sam said, his bones cracking as he emerged from the box.

  Though the manor wasn’t open on Sundays, you’d never believe it. Crowds of people were rushing through the halls and their uproar seeped into the room with Dara and Sam.

  “The gates are more backed up than
I thought,” said Dara, gasping.

  Despite having her face planted on the most recent headlines, Dara strolled around as if she were invisible. In an attempt to mimic the wizard’s cool demeanor, Sam joined her in the hallway that opened into a large chamber.

  “I had to stay Worby Whamble’s Inn. Who’s gonna refund that?” said a man in the crowd.

  “When will you let us leave? I’ve got places to be,” yelled a woman with bulky luggage.

  “This is taking forever!” shouted another.

  Dara nudged Sam and gestured toward a line of like-dressed individuals on a lifted platform. “Those are the mages.” Mage uniforms included a khaki shirt and cream suspenders to hoist their brown trousers. Behind their impressive brigade was a breathtaking stained-glass mandala.

  Sam reentered the Artifec Affairs office and sped to the door that read LIAISON ALICE BERNARD.

  Dara didn’t follow.

  “Hey,” he whispered, “let’s do this.”

  The wizard strolled forward. “Go on without me. I’ve gotta see what’s going on at the gates.”

  “No, no, no—do you know how much shit your sister would give me if she found out—”

  “Sam, I’m going. I know I’m not responsible for the delays, but, then again, I sorta am. These pacts can’t get home because of an incident involving me.”

  “Your face is in all the newspapers, and you’re not exactly incognito.”

  To this, Dara dropped to one knee and removed an item that stuck to her shoe. “Hold, please,” she said, presenting an enamel pin of a diamond-shaped terrarium with vials stemming from dirt. But if Sam learned anything this weekend, even this cartoonish pin could display magic beyond his wildest dreams.

  Dara yanked open her stand-in wand with graceless fashion and uttered, “Originate.” The smell of coriander filled the void between them, and Sam balanced the morphed object, which became material before his eyes.

  “I never leave home without my tools,” said Dara, poking around the terrarium. She inspected each vial; there were more than the four bottles the flat pin had alluded. Sam hadn’t noticed the other accessories sprinkled on her everyday outfit. Was the cactus pin on her pant cuff a house plant or something more? How about the lion pendant or the owl patch that camouflaged into her sleeve? He didn’t care to guess the alternate use of the gold beetles that tied back Dara’s voluminous curls.