The Crown of the Bandit King

by Matti Lena Harris

  I nodded. “If it’s that important, then we’ll ask her.”

  “There’s one more thing. I will need The Book of All Words. May I have it?”

  I unzipped my backpack, took out the book, and handed it to him. “I should have given this to you right from the beginning. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, young scholar. You did what you thought was right. While your decision may have led to unintended consequences, you could hardly be expected to do what you thought was wrong.”

  “Is it truly going to be of any help now? I mean, since we’ve already read Ketter’s journal and lost the crown, what use is The Book of All Words?”

  “A good question. But remember, this is The Book of All Words. And words are very powerful things.”

  The Professor ran his finger along the book’s simple, leather spine. Then he gazed at me over the rim of his glasses with a gleam in his eyes.

  Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

  “Don’t worry, young scholar,” he said. “Beneath its covers, this book has one or two tricks left to help us before the end.”

  Chapter 25

  The Critic’s Typewriter

  “The Artisans’ Stairwell,” Sweet Pea said, her voice hushed. “I always thought it was a myth.”

  “Man, look at this place.” Deeter shook his head. “Ain’t no myth. Dream, maybe. But no myth.”

  No kidding.

  The Artisans’ Stairwell was a long, white spiral staircase. There was no obvious light source anywhere—no windows or light fixtures of any sort—and yet the whole place glowed with such a dazzling light that we each had to squint until our eyes adjusted.

  “The stories say this place was built at the beginning of time,” Sweet Pea continued. “They say there’s a door for every single place in the world here.”

  “Every single place?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good thing we don’t have to go all the way up,” Deeter said, leaning over the banister and craning his neck to try to see the top.

  “I’m not sure there’s an end to it,” I said, “or a beginning.”

  The staircase seemed to turn and turn forever in both directions. Each flight of stairs was marked by a small landing and a door, so we followed the curving stairs down until we’d traveled five flights, just like the Professor had instructed us. Then, I raised my hand to knock on the door we found there.

  “Wait,” Sweet Pea said, grabbing my arm. “Look.”

  The Critic’s door was already opened a crack, and the lock on the door had been smashed as if someone had forced it. Deeter drew the Sneak’s Ring from his pants pocket, slipped it on his finger, and vanished.

  “I’ll handle this,” he whispered.

  “Be careful,” Sweet Pea said. “Any sign of trouble, get out as quick as you can.”

  The door swung back as Deeter entered. After that, Sweet Pea and I were left alone in the stairwell for what seemed like forever. Finally, the door opened again, and Deeter stuck his head out.

  “All clear,” he said. “There’s no one inside. And you should see the mess!”

  We clambered into the room and then stood there, too stunned to move.

  “The Professor’s not going to like this,” I said.

  Every piece of furniture had been tipped over—bookshelves, chairs, a large desk at the center of the room. There were a lot of file cabinets in this place, and all of them had their drawers yanked out. Torn and crumpled papers littered the floor. The silence in the room was eerie.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “I don’t think we should stay here long,” Sweet Pea said. “But it might be good to look around a little. We might find some sign of who did this.”

  We started searching among the papers, peeking under the leaning shelves and peering into the emptied drawers. A crash made us jump, but it was only Deeter. He’d knocked over the pot of a houseplant that’d been sitting too close to the edge of a side table.

  “Oops,” he said. “Sorry.”

  Sweet Pea rolled her eyes. “The one thing in this whole place that wasn’t broken.”

  I made my way to the tilted desk at the center of the room. The desk’s contents were now on the floor in a big pile—pens and pencils, erasers, a tipped-over inkwell, a stapler, a bunch of paper clips, even a typewriter. There was a piece of paper in the typewriter like maybe the Critic had been typing recently.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, “this might be a clue.”

  The typewriter was a big, black, heavy metal one—the old kind with the clickety-clack keys that had to be pounded really hard to punch a letter onto the paper. Deeter, Sweet Pea and I managed to heave the desk onto its legs. Then I lifted the typewriter and set it back in its place so I could examine the piece of paper tucked in the typewriter’s roller.

  “It’s a restaurant review,” I said.

  Deeter grinned. “Does it mention pancakes?”

  I tugged the paper out a bit so I could see it better. The review was only half-finished, but I read the words aloud anyway.

  “The lobster ravioli was perfection, cooked masterfully until it was plump and tender. The white wine sauce revealed a generosity of spirit in the Head Chef, who spared nothing in his combination of subtle yet thrilling spices and flavors.”

  “Man, that’s making me hungry,” Deeter said.

  “It’s no help to us, though.” I pushed the typewriter aside. “I thought it might be important.”

  “Let’s get back to the Professor,” Sweet Pea said.

  “Wait.” I pointed at the bottom of the review. “Look at this part.”

  Most of the review rambled on with the details of the Critic’s dining experience—she even wrote two paragraphs about the after-dinner mints—but at the bottom of the page was a brief space in the writing, followed by a single typed line.

  Hearing the crash at the door, the Critic hid behind her words and waited for a friend to tell her it was safe.

  “What does that mean?” Sweet Pea asked. “Is she still here, hiding somewhere?”

  “Can’t imagine where,” Deeter said. “We’ve searched. There’s nowhere to hide.”

  “It’s safe to come out now, Critic!” Sweet Pea called.

  We glanced around the room, but nothing happened.

  “Hello?” Sweet Pea tried again. “It’s only us. Whoever did this is gone.”

  Still, nothing happened.

  “She’s not here,” Deeter said. “Whoever trashed this place must have kidnapped her.”

  I brushed my fingers along the typewriter’s cold, black keys. Deeter could have been right. Maybe the Critic had hidden behind a bookshelf or a file cabinet, only to be discovered. That was what a normal person would have done, right?

  No. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that no Artisan was a normal person.

  “We’re missing something,” I said.

  I closed my eyes and tried to picture the moment before the Critic’s door had been smashed open. She was sitting here at her desk, typing her restaurant review. Suddenly, the crash at the door, someone pounding to get in. She would’ve only had seconds to react. Not even enough time to leave her chair. No place to hide. No one to help her. No time to spare.

  I opened my eyes and saw the only thing she did have—her typewriter.

  She hid behind her words.

  “Is everything okay, Rookie?” Sweet Pea asked.

  “I know where she is,” I said.

  I reset the typewriter to its starting position and typed six small words onto the paper.

  It’s safe to come out now.

  A quick flash of gold light filled the room, followed by the smell of hair spray. After that, a tall, gangly woman was standing beside me. She brushed the wrinkles from her brown skirt and buttoned her matching brown jacket at the waist. Then she smoothed her slick brown hair, which was drawn back into a tight bun.

  “Finally!” she said.

  “Whoa.” Deete
r stared at the typewriter. “Remind me never to play hide-and-seek with an Artisan!”

  “You three children aren’t friends,” the Critic said. “I don’t even know you. Who are you?”

  She examined us through her huge, round eyeglasses for a long time until her glance shifted away from our faces and moved around the room.

  “We didn’t make this mess,” I said. “I swear. Well….” I looked at the flowerpot. “We broke that. But it was an accident.”

  “I’m not such a fool as you seem to think, young man! Three Finders trespass into my room—scrounging for my Collectibles no doubt—and my room is ransacked at the same time? Hardly a coincidence! Tell me, what have you stolen from me?”

  “We’re not here to steal any Collectibles. We came because the Professor sent us.”

  “Oh, really. And why would he send three Finders to work on his behalf?”

  “Well…it’s a long story.”

  “If you’re going to lie, you should at least do it convincingly.” She sighed. “This mess will take hours to clean. Of course, you went about it completely wrong. You should have rifled through the desk first and then gone after the file cabinets. I mean, if you intend to ransack someone’s room, do it correctly!”

  This wasn’t going so well. The last thing I needed was to be blamed for something else I didn’t do. And she certainly wouldn’t tell us the answers we needed if she didn’t trust us.

  She swooped up a pile of papers and shoved them into my arms.

  “You’re not leaving until everything is put right again,” she said. “Every book, every pencil, every paper clip!”

  “What!” Deeter cried. “But that’s not fair!”

  “Ma’am, we honestly didn’t do this to your room,” Sweet Pea said. “And we’re in a terrible hurry. The Professor is waiting for us.”

  “Guys, it’s okay,” I said.

  They both stared at me.

  “Really.” I placed the papers I was holding onto the desk. “We should help her clean up.”

  “What about the Professor?” Sweet Pea asked. “And the crown?”

  “Trust me,” I said.

  Sweet Pea shrugged, and Deeter let out a huff. But they didn’t say anything else. Sweet Pea gathered the scattered files on the floor while Deeter filled the desk drawers with their supplies. The whole time we cleaned, the Critic scowled. And whenever we missed something or put an item in the wrong place, she’d click her tongue at us. She even made Deeter glue her flowerpot back together. But not once did she give us any help.

  Not that I expected any.

  Finally, we finished. I put my hand on my hips.

  “Now do you believe us?” I asked.

  “I do,” the Critic said.

  Deeter and Sweet Pea exchanged looks.

  “And I’m sorry,” the Critic added. “That was unfair of me to make you clean the room when you didn’t even ransack it in the first place.”

  “Wait, you believe us?” Deeter said. “I thought you didn’t.”

  “Did I miss something?” Sweet Pea asked.

  “Guys, think about it,” I said. “She’s the Critic.”

  The Critic laughed. “Oh, you are a clever one!”

  “Now I know I missed something,” Sweet Pea said.

  “It’s very simple, my dear. If you had ransacked my room, you would have had a general sense of the room’s original arrangement, which would have guided your clean-up efforts. But look at this place!” The Critic re-shelved a few books. “I think you’ve actually made it worse! And your friend must have realized that with my eye for detail I’d see the discrepancy.”

  Sweet Pea arched her eyebrows at me.

  “The after-dinner mints,” I said. “I figured if she was observant enough to notice those….”

  The Critic gave up on the books. “Well, Finder, since you did me a favor, I’d like to do the same for you. How can I be of service?”

  “The Professor sent us to ask you a question,” I said. “He wants to know about that stage performance of Richard the Third. The one you wrote the review on.”

  “Ah, that ghastly performance! Such a disappointment!”

  “Were there any mistakes in the play?” I asked. “Even a little thing. The Professor says it’s important.”

  “Yes, plenty of mistakes, which I thought was intolerable. The Actor left off Richard’s last lines. Forgot them completely, I suppose. No kingdom for a horse. Can you believe it? Of course, that was nothing compared to the last scene!”

  “What went wrong in the last scene?”

  “Completely ruined! Instead of coming onstage as Richmond, the character who should have won the battle, the Actor came back as Richard, who should have been killed. Can you imagine! Richard the Third surviving the battle? Shakespearean sacrilege!”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “The Actor should have been Richmond? I thought he was playing Richard.”

  “The Actor played all the male parts. He can assume any character that takes his fancy faster than a wink. It’s one of his talents as an Artisan, and it’s a rare one, too. He can move back and forth between the different characters so quickly that he can play them all, and you wouldn’t even know that only one man was doing all the acting.”

  “So, did you mention the mix-up in your review?”

  “Of course! And the Actor was furious at me. He came to see me the next day. Ranted and raved for a good twenty minutes, accusing me of being biased. Think of it! He forgot his lines, bombed the last scene, then called me unfair when I pointed out how unprofessional that was. I mean, really!”

  She slammed a pile of books down onto her desk. Then she lifted a finger to brush a strand of her hair back into place.

  “Well, since you weren’t responsible for this mess,” she said, “do you have any idea who is?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “I never saw a face, or even heard a voice. I’ve had some death threats recently, of course, but nothing above the ordinary.”

  “The ordinary?”

  “Oh, yes. I receive them regularly. I write the truth, and the truth often makes people angry.”

  She opened one of the desk drawers and gasped. “Who in their right mind put the paper clips and the rubber bands in the same drawer?”

  Then she glared at Deeter.

  “Do you think it could have been the Actor?” I asked.

  “Nonsense. How would he mix up my writing supplies?”

  “I mean, do you think he ransacked your room.”

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”

  She dumped the drawer’s contents on the table and started untangling the paper clips from the wad of rubber bands.

  “It’s not like I wanted to give a negative review,” she added. “I had every hope the Actor would reach the same dramatic heights he attained when he played Richard the Second.”

  Richard the Second. Hadn’t the Fortune Teller mentioned that play as well? Something about it being more useful?

  “What are those two plays about?” I asked.

  “Well, since I doubt you want a long synopsis, if Richard the Third is about a king who gains his crown through deceit and manipulation, then I suppose you could say Richard the Second is about a king who loses his crown through deceit and manipulation.”

  “Is it important?” Sweet Pea asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’d better get back to the Professor and tell him the news.”

  We thanked the Critic for her help, and then we returned to the Artisans’ Stairwell.

  “What if we’ve been wrong?” Sweet Pea asked as we rushed back up the stairs. “What if there is no rogue Collector?”

  “Right,” Deeter added. “And no league of evil henchmen? No dark student, or creepy widow-lady. No fisherman Jack, no psycho clown. No conspiracy.”

  “Exactly. What if it was all the work of one person—one Artisan?”

  “The Actor,” I said.

  Discovering the truth didn
’t make me any happier, though. What was the use of knowing who was responsible for all this? The crown was still lost.

  And I had no way to get it back again.

  Chapter 26

  The Hitchhiker

  When Sweet Pea, Deeter and I returned to the Professor’s study, we found the Professor still sitting in his chair. All of the maps, books, and newspapers that had previously cluttered his desk were gone. Now the only thing on his desk was The Book of All Words, and it was open.

  “Ah, excellent,” the Professor said, looking up as we approached him. “Did you have good results from your research?”

  “Depends on your definition of good,” I said.

  We told the Professor what we learned from the Critic, and he folded his hands together palm to palm in front of his face, like maybe he was thinking. For a long time, he didn’t speak.

  “I feared as much,” he said at last. “A great darkness is at work among the Artisans. Let us hope it is confined to the Actor alone.”

  “Professor, what does it mean?” Sweet Pea asked. “Why does Richard the Third matter so much?”

  The Professor leaned forward in his chair. “Those missing lines, the changed last scene—they can only mean one thing, my dear. In the play, Richard the Third is supposed to die, but the Actor changed the script so that Richard lived. Thus, the Actor never stopped playing the part.”

  “You mean he’s still trying to be Richard the Third?”

  “Yes. And like Richard the Third, he couldn’t truly be successful unless he had the power to force others to his will.”

  “So he stole the Bronze Crown,” I said.

  “Precisely. Unfortunately, of all the roles the Actor could have chosen, Richard the Third is one of the worst. That character is unusually cunning and absolutely ruthless, not to mention a liar and a murderer.”

  “A murderer?” Deeter asked.

  “Oh, yes. Even of women and children.”

  Great. Just what we needed—some whacked out Artisan with an identity crisis and enough power to destroy the world. Honestly, why couldn’t the Actor have decided to play Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny? Some character with a little more jolly and a lot less bloodlust.