Zippo bent into the rise and gritted her teeth. The new boy was incompetent. He didn’t have a clue. Wanting to be a monster fighter be damned! He needed to find out who the bloody monsters were first. “You an’t got time to lollygag,” she snapped.
Malcolm jumped. He was only standing still to give the old woman time to catch her breath. All the way up the slope, he’d held himself back, walking as slow as he could, waiting for the count of three before he put a foot down for fear of treading on one of her ever-trailing shawls. It was like being chief mourner at the funeral for a washing line.
Malcolm turned a slow circle, taking in the landscape. They’d passed the fancy house with the flowery gardens and the healer sign in the window ages ago. Now, it was all hill and trees and hill. Where were the wordsmiths? The equipment? Surely, he ought to be in a workshop or something, dissecting spells, honing skills, devising battle strategies? Instead, he was up the arse end of nowhere in the pissing down rain with a crazy old woman. The ground was steeper here than it had been, crisscrossed with tree roots and creeping greenery. Above, a wisp of smoke curled through the branches. Zippo stopped walking. She pushed her way off the rough path into a clump of vines and vanished. Malcom’s gut fizzed with excitement. A hidden workshop! Now we’re talking!
It was cave, like something a gang of kids might cobble together and call a clubhouse. Three stools arranged around a large, stained cushion of indiscriminate colour. Some makeshift shelves stuffed with dusty bottles and whatnot. The brief hope that the smoke he’d seen curling invitingly through the trees meant fire was dashed by the mouldering pile of rotting seaweed steaming in the corner. This should be a workshop!
Zippo lowered herself gingerly onto one of the stools. She pursed her lips. How did those hoity-toity mentor folk do it again? She cleared her throat. “What I ham habout to tell you is hextremely himportant, so you need to listen… To me, boy – not to the shouldbe’s!”
How did she? Malcolm shook himself. He moved nearer.
“The first himportant thing.” She leaned forward. Something in the vicinity of her spine cracked, and they both winced. “Sod it!” she said. “Look, number one, at the end of each day, you’re going to explain to me whatever you’ve learned on your travels. Number two – the pouffe is mine.” She hooked a foot around the stained cushion.
“Thank you, er, ma’am,” said Mal. “Umm, might I ask where it is that I’m travelling to?” He bit his lip. Workshop, please let it be a workshop… or a library. Libraries are good.
“Wherever you will go.”
Malcolm stared. “But what? How?”
“Carefully, that’s how.” Zippo tutted.
“I will try to be careful, ma’am, but I’ll need to join the other new stone holders of the menagerie, won’t I? You know, for the training, the books, the workshop? Where do I?”
“You don’t.” Zippo made a sound like wind whistling. “You don’t train. You don’t meet anyone.” She enunciated each word as if he’d suddenly become hard of hearing. “And absolutely, no workshops.” She paused to let the information sink in.
“No, wor- but I thought you, er, I mean, I thought the sponsors paid for their p-protégés to take part in the wor-”
“Well, you know what thought did, don’t you?”
Malcolm thought he knew what thought did, but that was according to Declan in one of his moods, and it involved farting and following through, so he deemed it best not to say. Not that Zippo was waiting anyway. She was far too busy telling him another important thing, and he wasn’t sure he’d quite understood the first important thing. Now, she was numbering important things off one by one on her fingers. There weren’t many fingers left.
“You may go wherever you like in the grounds. You may watch whomever you wish.”
Disappointment settled in his stomach. He looked at the ground.
“Malcolm, do you think the elders needed to attend training to work out how to use their own magic?”
Malcolm hesitated. If the old woman’s lips got any tighter, they’d disappear. “No,” he muttered, fingers crossed.
“Exactly!” Zippo smiled, head cocked to one side. “Make your own way, Malcolm. I can’t abide a follower. In any case,” She laughed. “Fancy training costs fancy coin.” She waved a hand in the direction of the vines and closed her eyes.
* * *
Malcolm chose the narrowest of the paths down the hill. It ran so wild that he practically had to crawl. Many of the plants were familiar: borage for bellyache, horsetail for ulcers, the bearsfoot that Mona demanded every month. He had no idea where he was headed, but surely a path had to head somewhere. His first day as a new stone holder certainly wasn’t going how it was supposed to. His mentor wasn’t doing anything she was supposed to do either. He should have tried harder with the wordsmiths. He was an -
“IDIOT BOY.”
Malcolm stopped walking. He slid into the undergrowth.
“ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” Further down the hill, a man’s voice floated out from a large rhododendron bush. “This whole morning has been nothing but a charade! These, these…” The chief archivist emerged from the bush. He batted away the last of the branches and took a shuddering breath. His sticking up hair and the twigs in it shuddered with him. “These incompetent idiots have been pretending to fight greys for nigh on two hours, and to be perfectly frank, they are not proving to be very good at it.” He peered at the old wordsmith who accompanied him. “Do they actually know what spells they are attempting to trigger?” He sniffed. “You do have a library, I presume.”
Wordsmith Mathers shifted uncomfortably. Had they really been out here for two whole hours? And no one had triggered? No one at all? Deep down, it didn’t surprise him. There was something about the chief archivist that made his own skills desert him, and he was a stone holder with… well, a lot of years under his cloak. The archivist made him feel incompetent, that’s what it was. No wonder the youngsters hadn’t managed to trigger, with him leaning over their shoulders. The man had an uncanny knack of turning up exactly where he wasn’t wanted and… and he had funny eyes too. Whenever the archivist so much as glanced his way, Mathers felt his sensibilities get up and vacate the area. He schooled his expression into one of polite deference. “I must say, Sir. Each year, I generally have several youngsters who trigger their skills during the first morning’s combat practice.”
Seconds passed. In the undergrowth, a caterpillar coughed. The archivist nodded to one of the black-cloaked guards, the clingy one who’d barely left his side since he stepped off the ship. The guard grinned and reached for his sword.
Mathers swallowed “My apologies, S- your G-gracious-est. You are of course quite correct. It is indeed high time that we abandon this, ah, charade, and proceed forthwith to the library.” He wiped his palms down his cloak. Grovelling enough? The guard’s hand still rested lightly against his scabbard. A touch more then. He turned to the gathered new stone holders. “Yes, off to the library with us all! A grand suggestion from our learned visitor - yet again,” he added, just to be on the safe side. The archivist smiled.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Malcolm followed, moving from tree to tree, making sure he stayed close enough to hear, but far enough away not to be seen. If anyone was about to start spouting handy hints for triggering skills, then he did not intend to miss out.
“Sir! Sir! I’ve triggered. Sir! I’ve triggered. Sir!” Ahead, Albert, the blacksmith’s son, hopped from foot to foot, his hands clasped as if in prayer. His eyes ranged from side to side, reading something only he could see. “I’ve done it! I got a skill…on my scroll. It says…”
A gloved hand slid around Albert’s shoulder and up over his mouth.
“Whoops! I wouldn’t do that again if I was you. Albert, isn’t it?” The boy with the gloves looked older, moneyed too, judging by the silver-trimmed jodhpurs and riding crop at his side.
Malcolm shook his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd even seen a horse on Feor. The dragons ate the last one years ago.
Glove boy’s arm tightened round Albert’s shoulders.
“Al for short, is it? I bet they all call you Big Al. Well, Big Al, I’ve got a little proposition for you. I need someone extra powerful like you on my team for the archive hunt. What d’you say?” He rubbed his gloved hands together.
Albert grinned.
Under his tree, Malcolm gasped. No teams allowed in the archive hunt! Wordsmith Mathers was famous for going rabid if anyone so much as suggested it. He said it went against the spirit of the hunt. The new boy was headed for big trouble. They’d heard him.
Wordsmith Mathers picked his way back up the path. Someone planning to form a team? They’d need a team to wipe their own bottom by the time he’d finished with them. He dabbed his brow – perspiring again. It didn’t help with that black-cloaked guard breathing down his neck and fiddling with his scabbard every two steps. He’d never known an official visit like it. Last year, Fowk sent a wet-eared shelf stacker who’d spent most of his time recovering from the mayor’s hospitality and trying to buy back his own briefcase. This year – this year was different. At some point, the archivist’s arrival had started to feel like less of a visit and more of an inquisition. Perhaps, there’d been a complaint. Neah probably! They’d been jealous of the menagerie for years – always putting in official recommendations to the council, declaring their island would be a much better site. They’d love it if Feor was found lacking. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen. There were no flies to find on WS Mathers (senior).
“A-hem.” The wordsmith stepped off the path and drew himself up to his full height. “Allow me to remind you, Master…” He paused in front of Albert and the other lad. What was the boy’s damn name again? Come to think of it… What stone did he even choose? He’d obviously picked something out at the Choosing. Afterall, he was here, wasn’t he?
Mathers blinked the sheen away from his eyes. Yes, he was here alright…. slouching against the tree, twirling that silly riding crop around his wrist, in front of a senior to boot. Was the lad raised by wolves?
“Slater, my name’s Slater.” The boy’s lip curled.
Not an ounce of respect. Young Slater obviously hadn’t experienced the wrath of a wordsmith (senior), yet. Mathers smiled with his lips. “Well, boy. You appear to have forgotten something very important. Your, aha, little team idea contravenes the rules… My rule no less! The no teams rule! Section 33! Mathers Mutual Mandate! The most important -”
Slater laughed.
Mathers nodded. He was proud of that rule. It was a good rule, very succinct, catchy even. He’d had it engraved on a plaque and everythi– “SHOW SOME RESPECT, BOY!”
The old wordsmith had forgotten quite how loud he could shout when his dander was up, but Slater didn’t look fazed. There was a glint in the boy’s cold stare. He smiled! Mathers followed his gaze. The chief archivist stalked towards them. A sword whispered in the wordsmith’s ear. He clutched his cloak tight to his neck. “The library, a wonderful idea, ha-ha-ha. Wish I’d thought of it myself. Can’t wait to get there!” He set off down the hill at a brisk jog, throwing the occasional “Tally-ho!” over his shoulder for good measure.
Malcolm stayed put, peering through a curtain of branches. The newly triggered Albert hadn’t moved, neither had Slater, and they weren’t the only ones who’d not set off for the library. A hulk of a boy loomed next to them. Malcolm knew him mostly by reputation. Bentley lived in the shacks. His dad ran them. Anything Bentley involved himself in was bad news. He was currently involving himself in twisting the shirt collar of a boy who barely came up to his waist. The boy’s feet scrabbled for the ground, his face purple.
“Where d’you want this kid, Boss?” drawled Bentley.
Slater reached for the purple boy’s shoulder and shoved him against the nearest tree.
“Right then, Big Al. Show us this amazing skill of yours.” Slater jabbed his crop at the small boy. “You can do it on Ernie.”
Albert looked uncertain. “But I’m s’posed to keep it a secret! You said I have to keep my skill a secret!” He folded his arms, pouting.
“I said you’ve to keep your skill a secret from the opposition,” purred Slater. “Not from me. You don’t keep your skill secret from your team captain. I have to know what you can do. Don’t I, Ernie?” He dug his crop into Ernie’s side. “I said, don’t I, Ernie!” Ernie nodded miserably.
“See, even he agrees! Now, show me! What can you do? I know it’s something to do with shoot. The whole town knows you’ve got a shooting skill! Come on, Big Al.” He paused. “You’re our top-secret weapon.”
That did it. Albert’s face glowed with pleasure. Not only was he suddenly part of a team, but he was also his team’s special secret weapon to boot.
Malcolm cringed. Al was going to spill his guts. This was far too much potential glory for the kid who always played ‘coat minder’ in Capture the Flag. He sighed. The childhood street game was fast turning into a bloody oracle.
Ernie dragged a grubby fist across his nose.
“Stand still!” snapped Slater.
Ernie’s hand dropped to his side. He gulped. “But I don’t wanna die, Slate!”
“Oh, stop snivelling! Ready, Big Al! Fire on three,” ordered Slater. He stepped away from Ernie and braced himself. “THREE!”
Albert froze. “But, but..”
“THREE!” Slater yelled again. “THREE, THREE, THREE!”
Albert still didn’t move. He stared wide eyed through the gaps in his bowl cut fringe. It seemed the blacksmith’s son had enough sense to realise that you don’t go unleashing untried skills on innocent little kids.
Slater clenched his fists and blew out a long breath. He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, Bentley!” he called in a sing-song voice. “You’re gonna love this, you are. Big Al here is about to show us a brilliant skill, best ever.”
At best ever, Ernie’s knees buckled; Bentley quit questing up his nose; and Albert turned his back on his last scrap of sense. He squared up to the sagging Ernie.
Malcolm sighed and got to his feet. If his up skill was thinking of triggering, now would be a really good time for it. Three against one. He could hardly count on Ernie. The poor kid could barely stand.
“FIRE!” roared Slater.
Mal stepped out from the bush. She was faster. The suspicious-eyed girl from the Choosing Day queue sprang from the branches of the oak tree and landed in a crouch, facing Albert. Her eyes didn’t look suspicious anymore. If anything, they looked kind of demonic – wild around the edges, with a glimmer of something stirring in the blackness – recognition. She’d seen him!
The girl shook her head his way. Malcolm paused.
“I too would like to see this secret skill of yours, Albert,” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “You’ll show it to me?”
Albert jumped back. He stuttered.
Slater huffed out a sharp-edged laugh. He twirled his crop. “Go on then, Big Al. Show her your skill!”
“But..” Albert’s eyes darted between Slater and the girl.
“She’s snooping, Al. Trying to get ahead of us for the archive hunt,” said Slater. “Show her!”
“But if she sees it, she might guess what spell I’ve got!”
“She won’t even have heard of it, Al. Like I said, it’s a one off, top-secret.”
Albert’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. He leaned towards the girl and hugged himself, both arms tight around his own chest. He coughed. Something shot from his open mouth. The girl’s arm blurred. Ernie’s head jerked to the left. Something blasted into the tree trunk. Whatever it was left a gently smoking, head sized hole. Malcolm could see the rest of the woods straight through it.
“Gosh,” said the girl. She batted her eye lashes at the now also gently smoking Albert. “What a brilliant skill you have!”
Albert blushed. “Th-”
The girl put a finger to her lips. “Well, this has been nice boys but… Come along, Ernie. Wordsmith Mathers will have a search party out if we don’t hurry.” She hauled the unresisting Ernie up with one hand and frogmarched him into the trees.
The boys watched them go, open mouths mirroring the still smoking hole. The girl didn’t stop walking until she reached the treeline where the manicured lawns began. She cupped both hands around her mouth. “It was nice meeting you, Albert! When you’ve worked out how to aim, let me know and we’ll get together again to shoot the breeze!”
Albert’s round face paled. “She knows my…”
Slater was already running.