Colm wasn’t exactly sure about that, but he told her thanks anyways. She turned to go.
“What’s yours?” he blurted out, stopping her.
“What’s my what?”
“Your story. You said everyone has one.”
Ravena shrugged. “Still working on it,” she said. Then she vanished back beneath the castle gates as quietly as she had appeared.
Colm arrived at Finn’s workshop later than usual, though the rogue barely seemed to notice. He was still surrounded by his flasks. The room smelled much better than it had on previous afternoons. Maybe that meant he was making progress.
“Ah. There’s the victorious adventurer, risen from the depths of the dungeon with treasure in hand, rewarded with riches beyond compare. No time for bragging, though; we have a lot to do.” Without even looking up, Finn pointed toward the back of the room. Colm settled himself in front of the Door of a Hundred Locks and unpacked his bag. He looked at lock twenty-four again, the one he had probably practiced more than any of the others. He glanced over his shoulder at Finn.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I ran into Ravena.”
“A rogue never runs in to anything,” Finn chided, hawk’s nose angled over a flask. “We tiptoe. We skulk. We creep. But the only time we ever run is when we are getting out of something. Was she impressed by your victory, or simply bitter that you won?”
“She congratulated me,” Colm said. “Though I think maybe she was a little jealous.”
“Of course she’s jealous. I imagine every trainee in the whole castle is envious of you right now. That was quite a feat you pulled down there. Most impressive. Even Tye Thwodin took note.”
Colm laid his picks out in front of him, carefully aligning them next to one another. Hook. Claw. Tooth. Needle. Rake. A tool for every occasion. Even a pin for his hair. Ready for anything. In his sack he came across the discarded sheaf of brown paper that had once held a leaf. Looking at it made his stomach turn. He wondered if anyone else had thought to bring stimsickle with them. He wondered if anyone else had read the same chapters in The Rogue’s Encyclopedia. Maybe it was common knowledge. Or maybe Colm had just been fortunate. “Did you know that stimsickle can cure paralysis?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I think I heard that somewhere, yes,” Finn said absently. The rogue was sifting and pouring, the liquids in his glass vials shifting colors, belching smoke. “Though I’ve mostly heard it used for constipation. I suppose the two are related.” The rogue turned and smiled.
Colm took up Celia’s hairpin and twirled it between two fingers, watching the butterfly flitter around his thumb and back again. “And did you know that goblin trap makers almost always include a fail-safe in their designs, to protect themselves?”
“Even my grandmother knows that,” Finn said. “I believe we are back on lock twenty-two.”
“Lock twenty-two,” Colm repeated, leaning in and inspecting the one in question. It looked tricky, but no trickier than the conversation he was trying to have. “It’s just . . . it’s quite a reward, you know. Going into a real dungeon with Master Thwodin and the rest. And the promise of real treasure. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I didn’t earn it. That I cheated somehow.”
Finn slumped back in his chair, abandoning two smoking green tubes. He sighed impatiently, then turned to face Colm. “Did you know that someone sneaked into Master Merribell’s office two nights ago and acquired a jar of Magic Dan’s Anti-Magic Paste?”
Colm knew what acquired meant, at least in rogue-speak. He felt his face turn red. “I might have guessed,” he said.
Finn leaned on his elbows, his fleckless blue eyes unblinking. “In order to cheat, everybody has to be playing by the same set of rules, Colm. But they don’t. The world doesn’t work that way. Your friend Lena, she follows a warrior’s code, and Serene sticks to the laws of the druidic order, and Frostfoot—who knows what lunatic voices mages hear in their heads? The point is, we all have our own compass. Even our own rules—yours and mine—aren’t absolutely steadfast. They’re tough, like steel, but even steel can be shaped, bent, molded to fit your purpose, transformed into a sword or a fork or a key or a trap. There is no single rule that is absolutely indisputable. Some just bend more easily than others.”
“But we weren’t supposed to have help,” Colm whispered. Finn threw his four-fingered hands in the air. “Nonsense! You were absolutely supposed to have help. If I’ve taught you anything, it’s that you can’t be expected to succeed all by yourself. We all need somebody. Even Ravena Heartfall. Even you. Even me.”
Finn stood up and walked over to where Colm sat by the door and dropped to his knees, placing both hands on Colm’s shoulders and staring him in the eyes. Colm followed the curving path of the scar along his cheek. “Listen to me. You succeeded in that dungeon because you are a gifted rogue, a fast learner, and a good companion. It wasn’t anything I did. Understand?”
Colm nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.” Finn looked past him at the door. “Lock twenty-two.”
Colm turned back to the door and tried to concentrate. Finn went back to his desk full of vials and resumed his mixing. Every minute or so one of them would whisper a “Gentle” or a “Just a little more.” When Colm picked the lock and said, “Got it!” Finn said, “Not quite, but I’m close.” Colm massaged his hand and swiped at the drop of sweat angling off his nose, while Finn reset the door for lock twenty-three.
The next one opened in even less time. The idea was that they got harder as you moved around the door, but to Colm they almost seemed to get easier. He was beginning to see how they were all related, the same basic ingredients exploded into a thousand permutations. He could draw on everything he’d learned so far to find out what had changed, what subtle mechanical shift made this lock different or more complicated than the one before, like telling eight sisters apart simply by the sound of their laughter. Once he discovered the difference, he exploited it, digging around, probing every angle until it all clicked and the door swung open, revealing Finn’s musty boots.
Colm thought about the times he had helped his father out in the barn. It seemed no matter what Colm did, his father ended up coming over and correcting it somehow, silently making an adjustment, resetting a heel or redoing a stitch. He never said anything—never chastised Colm for his shoddy work—but Colm never got the feeling that he had really accomplished anything, even when the sun set on a row of freshly mended boots. Seeing Finn’s tattered spares behind that door, though, Colm felt different. Whole somehow. Colm let the pick drop and turned to his mentor.
“Did you get it?” Finn asked, holding up a liquid concoction so clear it made the flask look empty.
“Yeah. Did you?”
Finn grinned in satisfaction. “Almost,” he said with a sniff. He put down the container and admired the open door. “I’m not sure you even need me in that dungeon of yours. Pretty soon Tye won’t even pay to keep me around anymore because he’ll have you,” he joked.
“But you are coming,” Colm prompted. “You’re not going to make us go down there by ourselves. Master Thwodin said it was your idea.”
“Of course it was my idea. What better prize could there be than the chance for us to go after some real treasure together? I thought you, of all people, would appreciate such an opportunity. I’ll be right beside you the whole way,” Finn assured him. “After all, I have a promise to keep.”
“And Master Thwodin said you had one picked out already. The dungeon, I mean,” Colm said.
“I have one in mind, yes,” Finn replied.
“And . . . ?”
“And?”
“And it’s going to be worth it. Trust me.”
By the time Finn let him go, Colm was late for dinner. But he wasn’t the only one. Serene was apparently still training with Master Merribell. Quinn had gone with her to see the cleric earlier and had described, in the vaguest terms possible, his unfortunate run-in with Magic Dan’s enchantment-eating p
aste. Master Merribell informed him that there was no instant cure, but there was something he could drink that would speed up the process of getting his magic back. There was only one unfortunate side effect.
“I’ve peed more times in the last five hours than in my entire life,” Quinn explained. “There can’t be anything left. I’m going to shrivel up like a raisin.”
“Do you feel more magical, though?” Colm asked.
“I feel . . . I feel . . . ,” Quinn muttered, then quickly rose from the table. “Excuse me.”
“As if that boy didn’t have enough problems.” Lena sighed, bringing her bowl to her lips.
When Quinn came back to the dining hall, he was accompanied by Serene, both with mischievous looks on their faces. Serene glanced around the room, then pulled everyone at the table close together.
“I think I’ve found a way to teach Tyren Troge a lesson,” she whispered.
With an uncharacteristically devilish grin, the druid produced a small earthen jar from her robes. “It’s specially formulated for people with big heads,” she said.
She explained what she had in mind. It wasn’t complicated, but it was a little tricky. And there was a high chance of getting caught.
“Who’s going to do it?” Colm asked.
All eyes looked at him.
“Stupid question.”
They had to wait until nightfall, until the moon cast a pallid glow over the castle gardens and seeped through the muddy glass windows. The thieves’ sunrise, Finn called it, their busiest hour. Not that there were any thieves in Thwodin’s Legion. Not really.
“And you are certain this will work?” Colm asked again as he peered down the empty hall.
“Absolutely,” Serene said. “I picked the ingredients from Master Merribell’s garden and whipped it up myself. It might not last long, but it will make an impression.”
Colm led them down the hall, hissing at them to take lighter steps, especially Lena, who seemed to clomp along like she didn’t have a subtle bone inside her. Halfway there, he put up a hand—he thought he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Whispers only, but he had attuned his ears to pick up on such things. The one voice was gruff, almost assuredly Fungus. The other was quieter, much harder to make out. Colm brought his finger to his lips. Getting caught skulking around by the gnarled-knuckled cook wasn’t part of the plan. Colm motioned the others around the dining hall and into another corridor, the muffled discussion from the kitchen fading behind them.
“This is it,” Quinn said.
They grouped outside Tyren’s door. Lena took her post as a guard at the end of the hall with the express command to hoot like an owl—and not bellow like an enraged lunatic barbarian—at any sign of danger. Colm removed his picks and started working the lock, undoing it in a matter of seconds. He wasn’t entirely sure why Tye Thwodin even bothered having locks on the young dungeoneers’ chambers when the masters were training those same dungeoneers to undo them. Only the one on the treasury door was impossible to pick. “We’re in,” Colm said. Serene handed him the jar, half full of cream the color of seaweed.
“You have to use all of it for it to take full effect,” she said.
“And I just rub it on his feet?” Colm questioned. That was perhaps the most frightening part of the whole affair.
Serene shook her head. “It needs direct contact with the skin. I just thought feet would be safest.”
Colm nodded. Truthfully, he didn’t want to touch any part of Tyren Troge. He looked over at Quinn. The mageling, dressed uncharacteristically in black robes per Colm’s instructions, was wringing his hands. “You ready for this?” Quinn nodded. Colm turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The moon shone through the only window, providing a faint light to navigate by. The room was the same as the one he and Quinn shared, except there was one fewer bed; Tyren had the space all to himself.
Perhaps because he snored even louder than Quinn. For once, though, Colm welcomed the sound. Colm slowly approached the bed and deftly peeled back the covers near the bottom, where the lumps of Tyren’s feet stuck up like boat masts.
They were still stuck in his shoes. Colm frowned and pointed to the boots. Quinn shrugged. They had already come this far.
Colm handed the jar of ointment to Quinn and bent over the boots anchored to Tyren’s feet, slowly undoing the laces of one, tugging at them gingerly, like coaxing fishing worms out of the dirt. When he had the ties plenty loose, he gave the boot a gentle pull and it slipped off easily.
Colm flinched. The smell was palpable. A musty fog that emanated from between the sleeping boy’s meaty, sweaty toes. Quinn covered his face with his hands. Colm squinted, eyes stinging. They had talked about slathering both feet in the stuff—for it to have maximum effect, Serene said—but Colm didn’t think he could. He would just use all the cream on the one foot. One hairy, disgusting foot, with its cracked yellow nails and that patch of green fuzz growing between the last two digits.
Quinn handed Colm a pair of gloves, the same kind Finn wore to hide the fact that he was missing fingers. Colm pulled them on, then snatched the jar from Quinn’s trembling hand. The mageling was dancing.
Hurry, he mouthed, making the word with his lips. Then he crossed his legs and started rocking back and forth. Colm dunked two fingers into Serene’s jar and reached out to the sleeping boy’s cracked yellow heel. He paused.
He had survived an attack by thugs on the road to the castle. Had survived Renny’s dungeon not once, but twice. He had been inches away from spikes and lightning bolts and giant scorpion tails. But he was fairly certain Tryen’s crusty foot would be the death of him.
Beside him, Quinn let out a little whine and crossed his legs even tighter. He really needed to go.
Colm closed his eyes and started rubbing.
The next morning, the dining hall was buzzing with rumors. Something had happened to one of the members of the guild. A curse. Or a disease. Whatever it was, it must not have been too serious, judging by the occasional snort of laughter that accompanied the whispers. Colm looked over at Quinn, both of them barely corralling the smiles that threatened to give them away. All four of them sat and waited.
The buzzing stopped. Colm turned around, though he already knew what he would see. He just hadn’t realized he’d have to stand to get a good look.
Tyren Troge paused in the entrance of the dining hall, stopped by the collective gasp that met him there. It was unmistakably him. The same pitch-black goatee. The ice-cold blue eyes. The unibrow. Everything.
Just all of it three feet lower than usual.
“He shrank,” someone at the table next to Colm murmured.
“He’s barely the size of Master Bloodclaw!”
“But his head is so big!”
It was true. Tyren’s head looked gigantic compared to the rest of his greatly compacted body. Serene’s salve had worked beautifully to shrink everything except for his already too-large head, which now seemed to wobble precariously on top of his dainty shoulders. Maybe Colm should have used both feet. Or maybe started at the top.
Then again, he thought, it was probably even better this way.
Tyren gave an oversized scowl to everyone in turn as he shuffled through the dining hall, barely able to walk in boots that were much too large for him, his pants bundled and bunched at the ankles, tunic billowing well past his knees. He looked like one of Elmira’s rag dolls dressed in Elmira’s own clothes, his head bobbling with each step. Colm was certain he was going to tip over, his skull planting into the stone like an anchor and his reed-thin legs sticking out like flagpoles. But Tyren managed to take one wobbly step after another, head lolling this way and that, till he stopped at Colm’s table.
“This isn’t over,” he said. His voice sounded squeakier. Almost mouselike.
“Go pick on someone your own size,” Serene said. Tyren balled his tiny hands into tiny fists and shook them, then turned away and shuffled toward the back of the room, ripples of laught
er chasing after him. He stormed straight into Master Bloodclaw, the two of them actually bumping chests.
“What happened to you?” the goblin asked, giving Tyren a long once-over. Then he took one hand and measured from the top of his head to the top of Tyren’s and smiled with satisfaction. The goblin was taller by an inch.
The shrunken warrior fumed and circled around the smiling goblin, retreating to his table, where even his own friends seemed to be laughing at him. All except for Ravena, who turned and looked at Colm, eyebrows raised. She seemed to be asking, Now do you feel better?
Across from Colm, Quinn Frostfoot chewed his food contentedly, seeming to savor each bite. The enchantment from the shrinking ointment wouldn’t last more than a day. And it could still be several more days before the mageling could cast spells again. But for this one moment, at least, it didn’t seem to matter.
Colm looked back at Ravena, as if to say, Maybe I shouldn’t, but yes.
Yes, I do.
After all, they might all be part of the same guild, but Quinn was a member of Colm’s party. He was almost like a brother. Like family.
And you don’t mess with family.
At the table in the back, Tyren’s head got too heavy for him for a moment. The sound of it hitting the table filled the room.
Quinn grinned. “Best. Foot rub. Ever.”
14
ANYWHERE AT THE WRONG TIME
By the next day, Tyren Troge’s body had stretched back to normal, though he still stumbled when he walked, as if he had to get used to the redistribution of bones and muscle. His head also seemed slightly smaller than the rest of him, as if he would never quite be in proportion again.
Quinn waited for retaliation, keeping even closer to Lena when the four of them were together and making Colm sniff and taste all his food ahead of time. That is, when he wasn’t back in the lavatory, getting Magic Dan’s out of his system.
It was also the day that Lena received a letter from her father, asking her when she expected to delve into her first dungeon. She happily wrote back that it would be much sooner than expected.
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