Up! It was almost as bad as of! Mal didn’t need to look at his list. He wasn’t daft. Of all the six hundred and fifty-three words that might give him a chance of triggering a skill valued by the menagerie, he knew without a doubt none of them were the word up. He groaned.

On Dec’s Choosing Day, his brother had pulled out a stone engraved with bake. The skill was dead easy to unlock because only about half a dozen spells used the word bake. All Declan had to do was trigger the right one. The bake from scratch skill he finally triggered was a dream come true – at least it was for Mona. She sponsored him straight off. The queue snaking from the inn’s door every morning was her reward – that and the rent for the hut that took most of Dec’s wages. She hadn’t even let him take part in the archive hunt. She just stuck him straight in her kitchen, and he was still there six years later. Did Declan even want to be a baker? If the bake stone had destroyed his brother’s dreams of glory, then he kept it well hidden. Baking paid the bills. Desperately trying to trigger the skills needed to fight monsters without a clue where to start didn’t.

The wordsmiths were already leaving. Malcolm hurried to catch them before they reached the door. Most big organisations employed at least one wordsmith. The menagerie had dozens of them. They were his best chance of getting in.

“Please, ma’am!” he called, waving the tiny stone that the rest of his life depended on. The woman hadn’t heard him. Hardly surprising with all the noise in the hall. He was going to lose his chance. “PLEASE, SIR!” By the grace of the gods, the last person in the group paused. Malcolm leaped to put himself in front of the man. “Please, Sir! I’ve got a stone!”

“Really.” The man looked past Malcolm, his piercing, grey eyes searching the room.

“What I mean is, erm, I’ve got a good stone that’ll trigger a good skill… You know, from a spell like -” Mal fumbled for his dictionary. He’d fantasised about triggering skills from spells that would serve the menagerie and its wordsmiths since he was six years old. Now, he couldn’t remember one of them. No, that wasn’t true. He could remember a million spells. What he couldn’t remember was a single spell with the stupid word up in it. He gripped the tiny stone so tight it threatened to crumble. The wordsmith marched straight past like he didn’t exist. The man made a beeline for his quarry - the girl with the suspicious eyes, the last person to choose. She hovered near the platform, deep in conversation with an older woman. The wordsmith paused. There was a brief murmuring then the three of them swept across the hall and out of the door.

Malcolm bit down so hard on his lip, he tasted metal. No! He was not about to give up that easily. Just because the wordsmiths had left the hall, didn’t mean he had to let go of his dream. If the menagerie wouldn’t take him directly, then he needed a sponsor who at least had contact with the menagerie. The back of the hall was still full.

The menagerie didn’t only employ wordsmiths. They employed guards too. Malcolm stood on tiptoe, searching the hall for a familiar shock of white hair. No sign. Knowing Blakey, he was probably still sitting on that step. There was nothing for it. He’d have to try one of the others.

“We ain’t that desperate, kid.” The biggest guard folded his arms and surveyed the room over Malcolm’s head. The rest of the group barely gave him a glance. Malcolm held his stone up higher. “Makes no difference. The answer’s still no,” said the guard.

“But couldn’t you just check it?” Mal urged, waving his stone under the man’s nose. “It might be an extra powerful one or something.” He wasn’t sure if more powerful stones even existed. He knew that all the stones inside the choosing bag on Choosing Day were guaranteed live and ready to trigger. After all, they were a town’s investment in its future. It’d be bad form to bring dead stones, but more powerful stones?

The guard sniffed. The illumineer was still around. It would only take a second to check the lad’s stone. What harm could it do? He reached out to take it, then hesitated. If he took to checking random stones left, right and centre, he’d never get back to the guardhouse. It was his turn to run the pot tonight. The lads reckoned the mayor was coming along, again. No, best not give the kid false hopes. He turned his reach into a stretch. “Yeah, well, what it is… We’re wrapping up now, see. Duty calls and all, so …” Malcolm stopped listening. Time to move on.

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What about ship work? Ship work paid well. Sometimes monsters for the menagerie were transported by boat. It could be the answer to all his prayers. Malcolm’s heart thudded in his chest. He was walking before he lost his nerve, straight for the nearest figure wearing dock workers’ overalls. He thrust out his stone. The man jumped back.

“Give it ‘ere, kid. Let the expert ‘ave a ganders!” The voice sounded like its owner gargled gravel on a daily basis. “Jolly Jacko there don’t know a decent skill stone from a liability.” A gnarled hand grabbed Malcolm’s stone, twisting and turning it under the yellow light. “You’ve got a live ‘un alright,” he growled.

Malcolm beamed.

“I said it’s live.” The old sailor rolled the stone across his palm. “I didn’t say it were any good, now, did I?” He rummaged in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a stained notebook. “Up,” he mumbled. “Up, up, up…Ah, ‘ere we goes!” He tapped the open page. Mal leaned forward eagerly. The sailor’s finger underlined the words as he read. “Coo-king-up-a-storm! Oh aye, that’ll be perfeck, won’t it lads!” he cackled. “Just what we needs in the middle of the ocean.”

“Never mind, sir. It doesn’t matter.” Malcolm reached to take his stone back. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no,” said the old seaman, closing his fist over the stone. “I ain’t done yet, lad. There’s a lot more where that came from! Don’t you worry. Looks like you’ve only gone and got yourself an extra powerful stone! Fancy that! Now, ‘owsabout this for a sea spell? Up-to-your-neck-in-it,” he read. “Hmmm, I wonder what we’d all be up to the neck in?” He paused. Malcolm groaned inside. “Shark probbly,” said the sailor. “Or kraken. What’s you reckon, Jacko? Fancy being up to your neck in sea monster?” The men fought to keep their faces straight.

“Ehm, I, ah, I sus’pose it does sound a tad risky.” Jacko made a gulping noise in the back of his throat.

“Too right it sounds risky,” growled the old sailor. “And I’m tellin’ you now, we’ll all be shafted if the lad triggers a fuck up!” The sailors dissolved into laughter. Malcolm snatched his stone and stalked to the opposite side of the hall, his face burning. The old sailor waved.

“Bit mean that, Cap,” muttered Jacko. The boy wasn’t much older than his youngest. He had that same earnest look about him too.

“Well, what else we ‘spected to do. We come all this way to be told they don’t want us taking on no one new.” He nodded towards the black-cloaked guards in front of the door. “I’ve never known owt like it.” The old captain looked at the departing archivist and shuddered. Summat not right ‘bout a man who can’t do his own dirty work.

Malcolm held his cheek against the cool plaster of the wall. Now he was away from all that damn noise, he could think of loads of good sailing spells he might be able to trigger. Wake up call for a start! He bet the skills off that would be brilliant for sailors, or how about All bunged up? Perfect for a sinking ship! He tried to picture what such a skill might involve. The trouble with the ancient spells was that a lot of the time the skills they triggered didn’t exactly turn out how you might expect. Malcolm rubbed at his eyes. Why the elders stuffed their magic in a load of stones and nonsense words was beyond him. He looked back at the dwindling sponsors. Trying to trigger a word like up could take years without a clue which spell it came from. Who was going to support him for that long?

Most people had left. The mayor and his entourage were long gone. Even Mr L’s floating orbs had bobbed home after him, leaving the hall in flickering candlelight. Malcolm prowled the room, worry eating at his insides. He needed a sponsor. As much as it sickened him, fighting monsters for the menagerie would have to wait. He’d worry about it later. Later when Declan hadn’t wiped the floor with him for coming home without any sponsor at all.

The couple from the dairy shook their heads in unison. They appreciated him asking, but money was tighter than ever this year. They needed someone who would trigger their skill quickly. It was the same story at the stables. None of the healers were interested.

Verging on desperate, Mal hurried over to the only group left in the room. Three burly men stood in the doorway, heads together, talking softly. He wasn’t sure what profession they represented, but they were his last chance.

“Sorry, lad,” said the man. “We’re only hanging on to make sure everyone gets off alright. Got word earlier a couple of chancers were trying to persuade the youngsters to swap stones.” He shook his head. “Now, you make sure to get yourself straight home.”

Malcolm gave him a weak smile. The men raised a hand in farewell.

Once they were out of sight, he slid down the wall, head in hands. He’d failed. Choosing Day was over, and he had no sponsor. Not that he blamed people for not sponsoring him. No one in their right mind would take a chance on a word like up. He held his stone up to the night sky. Anger gnawed at the back of his throat. “I put all my stupid hopes into you!” he yelled, fighting back the tears.

Behind him, someone coughed. “Ditto.”