Malcolm pushed the up stone hard into his navel, willing it to sink through his flesh. He knew the magic didn’t work that way, but even so he’d repeated the movement so many times over the past week that the skin on his stomach bore a permanent red mark in the shape of his stone.

What was wrong with it? Was it broken? Or was it him? Was he the broken one? Why hadn’t he triggered his skill yet?

In his more desperate moments, the kitten stone Declan had given him slid into his mind like a bad omen. Weak as a kitten. Mal had moved the stone from under his bed, so his brother wouldn’t come across it during one of his mad cleaning sprees. Now, he kept it tucked inside the cover of his dictionary, where no one was likely to find it since it rarely left his trousers. He’d wrapped the stone in a scrap of baking parchment to make doubly sure it wouldn’t touch his skin. Imagine accidentally triggering the thing! He shuddered. The sooner he took that stone to the finders’ market, the better.

He yanked up a handful of grass and closed the huge tome in front of him. After a litany of warnings about spines and corners and finger marks, Zippo had grudgingly allowed Malcolm access to her hoard of precious books, all three of them. The first was a falling-apart recipe collection come almanac. A gift if Malcolm wanted to know when to speckle eggs, pickle corn or relish the moment. The second looked like an old journal, a pile of loosely bound pages filled with a spidery script that proved impossible to decipher. The third, Figurations, was an age-old encyclopaedia of magic that promised the answer to all his prayers! Page upon page of surefire ways to link stone words with their original spells. The methods involved everything from burying the stone in a fallow field to throwing it down a well at midnight. Malcolm gave up entirely when he reached the bit that said all he had to do was to choose the spell he wanted his word to be in and imagine that it was! Apparently, the author had no more idea how the damn magic worked than he did.

Malcolm ran a finger over the book’s cracked spine. He was officially out of ideas. He’d pestered Zippo for help so often that she’d banished him from the cave three days ago and forbade him to return until he had a skill – signed, sealed and delivered.

He poked a stalk of grass into the soft, dark soil. If only he could get the up stone into his core as easily. The archive hunt was due to start at the end of the month. How many of his peers had already triggered? Albert could probably shoot the head off a grey at fifty paces by now. Who else? The suspicious-eyed girl? Little Ernie? Was Slater still recruiting the best skills for his archive team? Not enough for him to kill a dragon and steal her magic? Malcolm sprang to his feet in a shower of shredded grass. It was time to find out.

* * *

All he had to do was follow the noise. It was Saturday - nothing like the promise of a fight to the death to bring the good citizens of Feor out in their droves. Malcolm had never seen the grounds so crowded.

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“Muuuum! Tabby hit me with her cheering stick!”

“Quit whinging else I’ll be hitting you an’ all!”

“Listen to your mother, Benji.” The man dropped his voice. “Her brolly’s a darn sight pointier than our Tabitha’s cheering stick.” He rubbed a bloodshot eye. Malcolm sidled past. A family was no good. They’d notice him straight away.

He wove his way through the crowds, considering and discarding potential targets as he went. Ahead, a group of men bickered loudly, coins changing hands.

“Benson reckons this week’s grey is a bloody great mountain lion type. Teeth as long as Ferret’s bar tab. Got a divil of a temper an’ all. It’ll rip Bora to pieces!”

“Aye, that’s ‘cause it’s got the brains of a cat, see. Cunning, like. Bora won’t have a chance. Who’ll take ma silver?” The man fished around in his pocket. He waved a coin in Malcolm’s face.

“Sorry – I – ”

“Ye talkin’ out ya arse, mate. Bora’s a force to be’old. Ain’t never let me down yet.” The weaselly- looking man next to Malcolm reached over and snatched the silver coin.

“’Ere, you can have mine an’ all then!” said the first. “My missus reckons she could hear that monster from our bedroom window - roarin’ and carryin’ on all night long!”

“Nah, that was Ferret and his girl so it was!”

The weaselly man blushed.

They were under the gate now. The barrier was raised, and a constant stream of people pushed their way through, eager to find the best seats. The two guards on either side of the gateway barely had chance to check tickets, let alone count how many were in each group. Malcolm hung back a few steps, then slotted into place behind the still bickering men. Too easy!

“Oi, you!” Mal’s heart sank. He stared up into a hand the size of a dinner plate, blocking his way. He peered around it. “Hey, guys! Wait for me!”

The men took no notice. They rolled into the arena, still laughing. Only Ferret bothered to look back and flash Malcolm a sly grin.

Mal dug through his pockets, frantically searching for the non-existent ticket.

“Come on, kid! Either you’ve got a ticket, or you haven’t.” The guard loomed over him. “We don’t have all day, you know.” He tapped a foot. “Hang on a minute! Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Yes!” shouted Malcolm. “Yes. You do. You do know me.” He did as well! It was only the other day the guard had refused him entry to the library.

The man frowned. “What’s your story, this time then?”

“Ha-ha-ha, erm…” Malcolm trailed off and wished his brain godspeed. The crowd behind made a determined surge forward. Come on, come on, think of something! “We-e-ell, you’re never going to believe this,” said Malcolm. Something tingled at the back of his throat. “I’ve got this problem, see.”

“You’ll have two of them if you don’t hurry it up.”

“I am! I am! No. What it is, see, the archivist, you know, the chief one…”

At the word ‘archivist’, the guard puffed out his chest. He straightened his name badge and gave it a quick rub with his sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s him." Mal nodded. "Well, the archivist told me I have to find a clever guard.” There was an awkward pause. Even the crowd stopped pushing.

“And now,” said Malcolm. “I’ve found one.”

The guard blinked owlishly.

“It’s you! You’re the one I’ve found!” said Mal. “You’re the clever guard! You saw right through my little ruse at the library. None of the other guards did. Not one of them! They’re not clever enough, see. I couldn’t fool you though, er -” He leaned forward. “Mr Cockett, Sir.”

The guard nodded. He stepped to one side and waved Malcolm into the arena.

Mal stumbled past, carried by the momentum of the crowd, his whole attention fixed on the glowing, green words floating in front of his eyes.