by Dawn Metcalf
“Master Ink,” Graus Claude rumbled, his sword en garde. The ruined shotgun swiveled to point at Joy. The Bailiwick inclined his head courteously. “Miss Malone, my apologies.”
Joy’s world shrank to two dark, silver-rimmed holes.
She stopped breathing.
“No!”
Ink sprang, blade gleaming, aiming for the Bailiwick’s throat.
The broadsword came up as the chair flipped down. Graus Claude didn’t even turn his head as he spun the shotgun in one smooth motion, slamming the butt of the grip into the space between Ink’s shoulder and left breast.
Ink dropped like a puppet sans strings.
Joy screamed and wrenched herself sideways, fearing the hot punch of bullets. Her legs collapsed as the dowsing rod shot out of her grip, bounced off the toad’s breast pocket and clattered to the floor, inert.
Everything stopped.
The Bailiwick inspected Ink dispassionately as he replaced his chair in its customary spot. “Now that that’s all in order,” he said, laying the weapons on his desk and wiping dust from his lapels. He cocked an eye at Joy sprawled on the rug. She held her breath, her lungs shuddering with leftover adrenaline. He loomed over the desk. “What is this all about?”
Fumbling against the floor, Joy tried to think. Graus Claude didn’t seem to be gloating or defensive, he didn’t even seem to be very surprised—if anything, he was acting mildly interested, his curiosity piqued. Her synapses lit up like fireworks, screaming questions with no answers. She could see Ink’s limp arm from around the side of the fountain, its calm burble oddly distant in her ears. She reached for him.
“Ink?” she managed and grabbed his hand. Joy was relieved to feel his new pulse beating in his wrist.
“He’s fine.” Graus Claude’s eye ridge rose, and he sounded quite pleased. “A safety precaution I felt would be a prudent addition to their design, a condition of my employment, which was approved by the rest of the Council.” He nudged Ink’s body with his size thirty Oxfords. “You can hardly blame me, given this recent demonstration.”
Joy was confused, dismayed, disgusted. “You made an off button?”
Graus Claude had the grace to look chagrined. “More like a snooze button,” he said. “Normally, in the case of malfunction or malcontent, the Scribes would be decommissioned if they failed to adhere to their prescribed duties, which, as I understand, might include attacking their employer.” His icy gaze slid to Joy. “To err is human,” he said as he sniffed through thin nostrils. “But to forgive is divine, quoth Alexander Pope.” He straightened his suit jacket while two hands adjusted the knot of his tie. “And while I required the Scribes be fitted with appropriate safeguards if they were to be under my charge, I have never once employed them. I confess that I find the results to be both abhorrent and demeaning.” His gaze darkened under his browridge. “So. I am wont to believe that there are extenuating circumstances that do not necessitate informing anyone of this incident beyond the confines of this room.”
“You won’t—” Joy struggled with the words. “You won’t kill him?”
“Of course not,” Graus Claude scoffed. “Obsolescence is an outdated mandate fit for tools and base machinery, and we both know that the Scribes have become much more than that. I consider Master Ink and Mistress Inq proper allies, even friends, recent affairs notwithstanding.” The Bailiwick sat back in his chair, which groaned heavily under his weight, and clicked his claws on the desktop. “He will be unconscious for several hours, maybe more. This is the first time I have had cause to use the fail-safe, but it seems quite effective.” He settled against the wounded chair back and checked his timepiece. “Hmm. Ingenious of me, perhaps, but ill-suited for our schedule. Still, better than a close shave to the jugular, I suppose.” He leaned toward the intercom, one claw hovering delicately over the call button. “Would you care for some tea?”
Joy draped Ink’s hand over his chest and struggled to her feet. “Tea?”
“Yes,” Graus Claude said, gently crunching some shattered glass under his shoes. “I find that I would like some tea. And, given that I expect you to explain your actions in a lengthy and no doubt fascinating tale, I imagine that you may grow quite parched and might appreciate a hot, soothing beverage.” He pressed the button. “Tea, please, and a light repast,” he said clearly. “And ready the guest suite for Master Ink.”
“But—?” She pointed at the gun. “You almost shot me!”
Graus Claude frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Malone,” he said. “I had no intention of firing the weapon—I needed the reach, nothing more. Scattershot in close quarters? In my own office?” He harrumphed. “Really! I keep a collection of rare antiquities here. Not to mention the powder burns—it is simply out of the question.” He waved a hand at her. “Only by placing you in danger could I hope to goad Master Ink into rash action...and the resultant inaction.” He glanced down, his low head giving a palsy shake. “The ruse worked quite well, as you can see, and I did apologize in advance.”
Joy dropped into the proffered chair, arms and legs crossed protectively around her. She kept stealing glances at Ink’s body rather than at Graus Claude, wanting to go to him, wanting to wake him up. The giant frog was a presence greater than an elephant in the room. Joy had too many questions and not enough answers, and nothing matched what she believed. The Bailiwick settled himself in his customary chair, his seat of power, unshaken. She couldn’t even look at him.
“So he’s okay?” she whispered into her shoulder.
“He is...o-kay,” Graus Claude’s lip curled around the slang as if he’d swallowed something sour. “I assure you, he is simply resting under duress. He will wake when the inset panel disengages—it is more mechanical than magical.”
Joy shifted uncomfortably, still unconvinced, still uncertain of her loyalties and too aware of Ink on the floor. Kurt and Inq were somewhere upstairs, and she was here, alone, before the Bailiwick. Is he a friend or enemy? Mentor or traitor? Did the rod work? And if so, does he even know what he’s done? Why would he do it? Is he guilty or not? She looked up at the great, hunchbacked, four-armed toad in his old-fashioned three-piece suit and silk tie. Joy didn’t know what to believe. They are who they are, Kurt had said. They are true to themselves—no spell can change that.
Graus Claude was still Graus Claude. And she would respect him. Always.
“Okay,” she said, relaxing something inside with an effort.
“Very well,” Graus Claude rumbled as he leaned forward slightly. One hand disappeared under the desk and passed the dowsing rod to a second hand and a third before holding it up to Joy. “You were tracking something with this, and you found it,” he said with a low rumble. “Care to tell me what you were looking for?”
Joy swallowed the taste of moist air on her tongue. A lily pad spun lazily in the ripples of the fountain. “That,” she said, “is a dowsing rod that I got from a satyr guarding the Glen. It was set to find the origin of a spell affecting all of the Twixt.”
“Resourceful,” Graus Claude said, sounding impressed. “And absurd.” He placed the weapons dismissively to one side of the desk. “What spell?”
“An Amanya.”
Graus Claude still looked suspicious, but unaffected by the revelation. “Not being a spell-caster myself, you will forgive the cliché when I say I’ve never heard of it.” He straightened his cuffs. “I could look it up, of course, but if I am to be considered your suspect, I would highly recommend you not grant me access to my vast network of available resources.” His bass voice grated. “It is still my job to teach you to think like one of the Twixt.”
Joy sat up a little straighter, a little bolder. “I know what an Amanya spell is,” she said. “It’s a blanket spell that covers a set area and affects everyone within those borders.” She wet her lips. “It’s a forget spell.”
�
�How convenient,” Graus Claude said, unimpressed. “And we are to surmise that I have forgotten that I cast it?”
Joy bit her tongue. It sounded stupid when he said it aloud, but also true. And he hadn’t denied it. She considered his words carefully. The Folk cannot tell a lie. As crazy as it was, the theory was proving itself out time and time again. Her silence gave him the answer that she’d left unsaid.
“I see.” The Bailiwick held up a patient hand. “Might I ask what it is that I have forcibly forgotten?”
Joy hung her head. So much for No Stupid. “I could tell you,” she said weakly. “But you’d just forget again—or never remember being told in the first place. I’m not sure how it works.”
“Ah, of course. How silly of me,” Graus Claude said drily. “This begs the question that if I cannot remember, then why are you unaffected?”
“Because I’m human.”
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Okay, technically I was born human, and I wasn’t part of the Twixt when this spell went off, and so I wasn’t affected the same way the Red Knight wasn’t affected each time he resurrected after the initial Edict was announced. The spell doesn’t account for a new addition to the Twixt.” She couldn’t talk about the princess or the royal family or the door. Her voice grew from smallish to stern. “Look, it’s a loophole. Yet another convenient loophole in your precious rules that, for once, seems to be in our favor, so can we agree that I’m human enough to remember and Folk enough to be telling the truth?”
That took him aback. The frog sat up, his hunch receding as he straightened his spine, his long jowls wobbling as he rose to an impressive height. “Indeed,” he said. “You do well to remind me that you have earned my trust. Well said and well played.” He dropped his head to a more comfortable crouch. “There is hope for you yet.” He threaded two of his hands together as numbers three and four cupped the chair arms. “So, let us establish a sense of scale. What are the purported boundaries of the spell?”
“The Twixt,” Joy said. “The entire Twixt.”
Graus Claude’s eyes widened in alarm, his mouth hung slightly open, his four hands stilled. “That would be—” he began and stalled, exhaling a moment of silence. “That would be a heinous treason as well as an incredibly subtle coup de grâce. Should I be inclined to undo our world, that would be an effective strategy. I should be flattered by the implication of my abilities if not utterly scandalized by the accusation.” For once, it seemed as if the Bailiwick did not know what to do with his many hands. His head wobbled in distress. “Do you understand the gravity of what you are saying, Miss Malone?”
Her words were stronger, older somehow than her. “Someone cast a spell over all of the Folk, making everyone forget something important,” she said. “Something very important. And that person did it in order to take power, to usurp the Twixt without any memory or regret, knowing full well what they were doing. I can’t believe it was an accident.” Joy nodded to her mentor. “You once told me that there are no accidents, but you forget that I was born human. I had choices. I had free will. The Amanya spell is brainwashing. It’s mental rape. It is forcefully, knowingly killing free will.” Her fingers formed into fists. The enormity of it hit her all at once—this was what Ink had fought to keep for her, this was what she’d given up by joining the Twixt. It wasn’t about wings or gills or heat in her hands, it was about being bound to something, now and forever. But she didn’t have forever. She was still mortal and had known what it was to have a choice. Someone, somewhere, had stolen all of the Folk’s choices, as well as their leaders’ and their families’ and everyone else’s. “Yes,” she said, understanding all too well. “I know what I’m saying.”
The Bailiwick’s eyes slid over the dowsing rod, his palms resting on either side of the Y-shaped stick. “And you believe that I could have done this thing.” It was a statement aching to be a question. To be refuted outright.
But she couldn’t.
“Is there any way it could be wrong?” she asked. “The rod tampered with? The wrong spell? A false positive?”
The Bailiwick paused. Never one to shirk a puzzle, even one pointed at him, he considered the variables, his head easing into its familiar palsy shake. He ran a dozen fingers over the dowsing rod’s runes.
“As I said, I am no spell-caster,” he said. “Anything is possible.”
“So it could be wrong,” Joy said hopefully.
Graus Claude gave a wan smile. “And it could be right,” he said. “But thank you for having faith in the possibility of my innocence.” He let his hands drift back to his lap. “Do we have the means to cleave theory from fact?”
Joy felt her face warm as she unwound her fingers. “I can prove it, once and for all,” she said. “I can sever the spell at its source, freeing the caster from the forget spell, although it won’t affect anyone else.” Joy gazed at him. “But I won’t do it without your permission.”
The Bailiwick leaned on his two elbows and crossed the other two arms over his middle. The tension was thinner but still hung in the air like perfume. Joy’s nerves felt like the shattered glass underfoot.
“I should welcome the opportunity to prove myself after such a vigorous introduction to the topic,” he said softly. “But I find I cannot work up the necessary enthusiasm as your doubts feed my own.” He shrugged two sets of shoulders. “How am I to convince you what to do, Miss Malone, when I cannot know myself what I have done except to know that I would not do such a thing?” Joy had no answer, feeling both angry and ashamed for what she could say to him and more for what she could not. She wanted to tell him that she knew he was innocent, and yet she didn’t. She couldn’t. Is it true? Do I believe it or not? What does that say about me, about what I truly believe? Or is it the fact that I am no longer human, that I am becoming more of the Twixt?
Was she being honest or afraid?
Joy drew the purse strap across her body and slid the zippered compartment to rest on her stomach. She paused before standing before the giant toad on his severed throne. She pointed to her open purse. “May I?”
He gestured with two of his hands. “Of course.”
Joy gently lifted the first thing from its pocket. “This is a beacon I got from one of the satyrs.” She held up one of the glow sticks. “He’s the one who gave me the dowsing rod, which I needed to track down the spell.” She placed it gently on the desk, next to the rod itself. “And this pouch belongs to Filly. She gave it to me so that I can communicate with her without ringing any bells, my backup in case of emergencies.” She placed that down, too. Graus Claude continued to look intrigued but still nonplussed. “And this...” She lifted up the bone blade. “This has been ensorcelled by the Wizard Vinh to help me sever the Amanya spell at its source. If the caster was caught in its effects and failed to remember, it will free that one person from the spell in order to confess.” She held it up but kept a firm grip on it, knowing that while the Bailiwick’s hands might be out of reach, his tongue could cross the desk in a blink. “I’m telling you this because I want it all out there. Now you know what I have, what I’ve done and what I’m willing to do for everyone in the Twixt because I am trying to do what’s right.” Joy shifted her grip on the blade, still matching his gaze eye to eye. “You have always stood by me, even though you had little reason to trust me, a human with the Sight.”
The Bailiwick’s eyes were impassive. Her voice shook just a little, a slight tremble on her lips. “Now, I don’t know if I got the name of the right spell, and I don’t know if this blade will do what it’s supposed to do...” She circled the desk, sliding by the stone basin, coming closer by degrees. Graus Claude watched her quietly, letting her come. “But I have to trust someone,” she said. “I trust Ink. And I’ll trust the Vinhs. And I trust you.” She stopped within two feet of the giant amphibian, who, even seated, towered over her with h
is hunchback shoulders and cold, icy glare. She didn’t blink. “Will you trust me?”
Graus Claude pushed himself slowly to stand, rising to fill her vision as he unbuttoned his jacket, removing it in a dance of limbs and draping it gently over the back of his chair. He straightened his cuff links and let all four arms rest by his wide sides. His head lowered like a wrecking ball, and his voice unfurled from deep in his chest. His gaze pierced through the back of her skull.
“I trust you, Joy Malone.”
She nodded, held her breath and stabbed him in the meaty part of his arm.
Joy was knocked backward by a burst of light that slammed her into the stone fountain, cold water and soggy tendrils sloshing over the edge. Her back smacked against the lip of the basin, her feet skittering over broken glass, but true to his word, Graus Claude kept all four hands at his sides, eyes clenched and body bent over the blade sticking out of his arm. His face was splotched, his mouth a tight grimace, his blood—red and runny—streamed down his sleeve. All Joy could think through the sharp fog of pain was how she’d just ruined his shirt.
The letter opener bobbed with each beat of his heart, but he made no move to remove it. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but it looked painful, and Joy wished that he’d take it out. A sort of shimmer danced in front of her eyes. She thought, at first, that she’d hit her head, the sight of his blood and her own hypoglycemia probably taking its toll, but the strange light rippled through the air from every direction, coalescing down into a smudgy, static haze, pressed like a tight bubble over the four-armed frog before it burst, a sonic punch that whipped Joy’s hair back from her eyes and dropped Graus Claude to his knees.
The floor shook.