A captured cauldron, p.3
A Captured Cauldron, page 3
“Yeah,” he said weakly. “Ames’ll be thrilled.”
In truth, Ambrose would be thrilled for the same reason Eli wasn’t. No jungle journeys or river cruises meant no danger for Eli, and no anxious heart attacks for the potioneer.
But it still wasn’t the news he had been hoping to bring back.
“Hickory!” Oren called. “Let’s go with that reset!”
The rest of the party groaned. Eli sighed and jogged back to the rock.
RULE 3:
ARRIVE EARLY
Ambrose
It was the night before Potion Con, and Ambrose could hardly sleep.
Not because of the kidnapping news, of course. Potion Con was perfectly safe. So many people, thousands of eyes, plenty of guards. No, Ambrose was busy warring with his feelings—most of which he couldn’t possibly confess to Eli.
He tossed and turned, finally nestling against his boyfriend’s chest to soak in his warmth and listen to his steady breathing. Yes, it was terrible that Eli hadn’t been picked for the Vineheart quest. Yes, he was missing out on experience and glory and gold and…whatever else came with slaying fey raptors.
But secretly, Ambrose held two guilty joys in his heart: one, that Eli was in no danger of being eaten by a fey raptor, and two, that he was going to attend Potion Con instead.
“Let me guess,” Eli muttered at the breakfast table the following morning, his eyes barely open, hair mussed. “You’re loving this.”
Ambrose tried not to crack a smile—a wicked, guilt-ridden smile—as he poured coffee for both of them. “I am not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am…” He set down the coffee in front of Eli. “A tiny bit happy you’re not galloping off into danger, yes.”
“But I was supposed to be galloping off right now!” Eli gestured sharply to the window, his complaint emphasized by the miserable morning crackle in his voice. “I should be flying away on a griffin, not…” He slumped. “Babysitting some artificer at Potion Con.”
Ambrose piled bacon onto his plate. “I am sorry. Truly, I am. But…”
Eli glared up at him. Ambrose quickly set an extra piece of bacon on his plate as an offering.
“It’s just you’ve never been to the convention before,” he continued. “I know it’s not as exciting as fey raptors, but…I think you might enjoy it. A little.”
He bent down and kissed Eli’s forehead. Eli slurped his coffee noisily in response.
Fortunately for Ambrose, after Eli left to meet with his charge for the day, Dawn arrived at his front door with more genuine enthusiasm.
“Tessa’s going to be at the wand demo today,” she said, rattling off her acquaintances as they walked toward the convention arena. “And Kels said that she’d be at one of the after-parties tonight. You remember her, right? The leatherworker with the green braids?”
“I remember her fawning over you three years ago.”
Dawn waved off his words, her nails immaculately painted in fresh, sparkling gold. “She wasn’t doing that.”
“She absolutely was.” Ambrose smiled. Dawn had dressed more beautifully than the actual dawn this morning. She floated along in an amethyst silk dress that clung to her round figure, her eyelids dusted with a matching tone. And all down her long, pointed ears, rows of gold earrings chimed with her every step.
If she was planning to spark some romance today, there was going to be a bonfire by lunch.
They slipped into the morning crowds of the Scar, navigating easily around confused tourists and bleary-eyed Scarrish folk. When Ambrose caught sight of the convention plaza and the check-in tables, he had to restrain himself from picking up speed and losing Dawn in the shuffle. Just a few more minutes, and he’d be wading through the convention instead of the streets, meeting friends, preparing for his first panel—
A hand grabbed his arm. “Ambrose!”
He yelped and reeled back—but the hand was firm, yanking him out of the crowd, away from Dawn, and toward a series of…
Dainty café tables.
“Sherry!” Ambrose glared at the woman holding his arm, his heart still pounding. “What are you doing? I can’t be late for the convention—”
“Ames?” Dawn burst out of the crowd, then smiled in relief. “Oh. Hi, Sherry.”
“Hello, dear.” The gray-haired woman released Ambrose’s arm and plopped down at one of the tables, surrounded by an empty tea cup and half-eaten grapefruit. “I wanted to catch you before you went in. Have you got your schedules all sorted?”
Dawn patted her pocket; Ambrose held up his heavily notated paper.
“Good, good. Now, before you go, I’ve got something for you from Grim…” She dug into her worn skirt pockets. “They’re off helping Banneker set up his vendor booth, but they wanted me to… Ah! Here we are.” She proffered her open fist with the delighted energy of a grandmother offering a stale caramel. “Go on, go on. Take one.”
Ambrose frowned. The two tiny objects in her palm were distinctly not caramels. They were simple round pins, one purple, one gold. He picked up the gold pin, and a bright little zip of magic ran up his fingertips. Of course—he should have expected something like this from Grim, given yesterday’s hubbub.
“What’s the enchantment?” he asked as he pinned the device to his potion robes, where it immediately camouflaged itself against the fabric pattern. Normally, he hated the idea of poking a hole in his robes, but he knew better than to argue against either Sherry or Grim over something so trivial.
“Just a simple location marker,” Sherry said. “Not that Grim’s looking to track you all day, of course. Or that they don’t trust you, my dears. It’s only if—”
“If we’re in trouble,” Dawn finished, fastening the purple pin to her dress. Similar to Ambrose’s, it disappeared into the vibrant color of her dress in an instant. “Yeah, we know.”
Sherry visibly relaxed the moment the pins went on, betraying the truth: the devices were far less for their safety and far more for her peace of mind.
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing Ambrose’s arm. “Do have fun, won’t you?”
“Of course.” He straightened his robes. “Will you be at the debates this afternoon?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Sherry beamed and shooed them along. “Now, go on and get out there. You’ve let me hold you up long enough.”
Ambrose and Dawn continued on at a faster pace, the flow of traffic buoying them to the check-in tables and beyond. All around the plaza, potioneers, apprentices, students, and simply curious folk chatted in the check-in lines. Some of them eagerly waved to the pair, but they could only wave back and continue on to the entrance tunnel. Years of past experience had taught them well—if they began chatting in the plaza, they’d never make it to the actual convention.
“Here’s the map.” The cheery elf at the potion masters’ table waved him along. “Check the back for the updated list of food options. Enjoy the con!”
Ambrose stepped into the tunnel and took a deep breath of the cool air while waiting for Dawn. The shade was a dependable promise of the excitement to come. He had hoped to share some of it with Eli, of course, but the chances of finding him in the crowd with his client were slim, particularly once the events began…
“Master Beake!” A mustachioed gnome approached him, tailed closely by a very familiar, broad-shouldered man. Ambrose hid a delighted grin.
Luck was on his side—Eli had found him first.
“Yes?” he said, working to focus on the gnome’s words and not the terribly handsome bodyguard behind him.
“Master Beake, how utterly splendid to meet you,” the gnome said, shaking Ambrose’s hand vigorously with both of his hands. “I’m Sebastian of Sunville’s Bewitched Bags and Belts. I read your paper on your breakthrough use of esther last year. It was positively inspiring.”
“Thank you very much. I—”
Dawn sidled up to Ambrose, neatly arranging her convention badge, and he glanced down the tunnel—it was these sorts of conversations that would ensure he never actually made it inside the event.
“I’m honored to hear that, truly,” he continued. “I’m afraid I cannot be late for my first panel, but if you’d kindly accompany me to the main area—?”
“Of course, of course!” Sebastian started down the tunnel. “Far be it from me to make you late—oh, Master Zeda, there you are!” He waved to another potioneer in long, brown robes. “How fortunate, to find both you and Master Beake here—”
The group moved forward in a loose gaggle, Sebastian pinging between introductions and greetings while Eli fell into step beside Ambrose and Dawn.
“You seem to have a friendly charge,” Ambrose observed, suppressing the urge to take Eli’s hand.
Eli shrugged. “He’ll be fine. Just gotta make sure he doesn’t run off and get lost in the crowd.”
“The place is packed already.” Dawn looked around her. “Better keep an eye out for Xavion.”
Eli rolled his eyes; Ambrose deflated. Xavion Demachel: talented potioneer, incorrigible egomaniac, and the one person at Potion Con who could sour his mood.
“They’re likely farther inside,” he muttered. “Signing autographs or something. Did you see that magazine article about them last month?”
Eli snorted. He knew all about Xavion, of course. With how many dinner conversations Ambrose spent ranting about them, there was no way he could escape the knowledge. “What, My Time in Titan’s Nails?” he said. “The tell-all about their quest to find purple variegated ice flower in the mountains? Pile of dragon dung. Bet you twenty talons they’ve never even seen snow.”
“Precisely. They wouldn’t last a day twenty leagues from Titan’s—” Ambrose stopped and centered himself. It didn’t matter how many false articles Xavion had written about themself. He wouldn’t let them get to him, not this year. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see them soon enough.”
But as he reached the end of the tunnel, his eyes roamed instinctively over the crowd, and he kept folding and unfolding the corner of his con schedule. Dawn hid her smile behind her map. “Mm-hm. It doesn’t matter, huh?”
Ambrose glared at her. “They will not ruin my day.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it!”
She just laughed. “All right, all right. Meet you at the panel?”
Eli raised an eyebrow. In any other large outing like this, they would not be simply meeting at the panel. Ambrose would have neatly arranged in his head a list of potential meeting places. A spot for food if they were hungry, a café getaway if they hated the place, a pre-prepared excuse to leave early if necessary…
But this was Potion Con. There was no reason to fear.
“I’ll meet you at the panel,” he said confidently and stepped into the sunlight of the open sinkhole arena.
Every year, the convention expanded farther and farther into the Scar’s famed Gods’ Print Sinkhole. Booths and wooden partitions stretched across the vast, sandy floor, forming discussion rooms, demonstration areas, debate stages…
But recently, the convention had begun to crawl up the striped walls of the sinkhole, too—taking advantage of time-worn nooks and crannies and turning them into bars, relaxation spaces, and private event areas. As a result, every layer of the sinkhole buzzed with both sunlight and noise.
And when Ambrose descended to the floor, the noise spiraled into a fever pitch.
“There he is!” An orc tugged on his friend’s sleeve and gestured with both arms. “Ambrose, over here!”
Ambrose grinned. “Mr. Wyndham, how are you?”
He had barely shaken that man’s hand when another potioneer rushed up. “Master Beake, it’s so good to see you,” she said, a blush crossing her cheeks. “I don’t know if you remember me from last year, but we’ll be on today’s panel together—”
“I remember.” Ambrose gave her a small bow. “I’m thrilled they selected you to join. Your paper on Driftwood dragons and their role in shaping local ingredients—”
But he hardly had time to finish his sentence before another person approached, then another, and another. All friends from past conventions, all overflowing with updates and news and questions.
And Ambrose, for his part, brimmed with joy—particularly when he dared a glance at Eli next to him and found him gaping.
“Ames.” Eli leaned in while Sebastian chatted with another artificer nearby. “What exactly is going on here?”
Ambrose bit back a smile. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he whispered, gesturing at the crowd. “You didn’t tell me you were a celebrity!”
Ambrose scoffed. “I am not.”
“Then what do you call all this?” he demanded. His eyes were as bright as his earrings, as if his suppressed smile was instead shining out of them. Ambrose bit his lip.
“I did tell you that you might enjoy Potion Con a little.”
Eli leaned in closer, his voice lowering to dangerous levels. “Only because I have a crush on the convention’s biggest star,” he said. “I am seconds away from ditching this guy and following you around instead.”
For a weak-willed second, Ambrose seriously considered begging him to do just that.
“I”—he fumbled—“I don’t think your charge would appreciate that—”
“Oh, I see you’ve met my bodyguard!” Sebastian bounded jovially back into the conversation. “Apologies, I should have introduced you two earlier.” He peered around Ambrose, and his gallant smile flipped into a concerned frown. “My dear boy, I’m terribly surprised you don’t have one of your own, what with all these blasted kidnappings going on.”
Ambrose held back an eye roll. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be quite all right, thank you—”
“Ah, there he is.”
Ambrose looked up, briefly grateful for the distraction—then realized who had spoken.
The newcomer was an unusually tall elf, bedecked in potion robes twice as dazzling and half as practical as those around them. A golden shimmer on their copper cheeks and across their pointed ears directed attention to their face, all sloping, sharp angles and toothy smiles. They approached Ambrose with all the grace of a shark with fashion sense, several admirers trailing behind like little bubbles.
“Master Beake,” they said, bowing deeply in a parody of respect. “Finally, the convention can begin.”
Ambrose stiffened. Eli quickly claimed his place not at Sebastian’s side but at Ambrose’s, shoulders square, smile tight and prickly. The elf was undeterred, their gaze roving over Eli in a flicker of interest. “A new…friend?”
“Eli Valenz,” Ambrose said, “may I introduce you to Xavion Demachel, a Guild potioneer from the Driftwood.”
“Charmed,” Eli said charmlessly.
“Enchanted.” Xavion showed every one of their teeth. “I was so hoping you’d make an appearance this year, as the man who finally melted Ambrose Beake’s icy heart. Tell me, did you ever manage to sell that shop you blew up?”
Whispers shot through the observing crowd. Rage boiled in Ambrose’s chest, and beside him, Eli clenched his fists—but Xavion was never one to make just one verbal jab.
“My dear Amby”—they shifted their gaze before Ambrose could respond—“I didn’t see any of your work in the last Potioneering Quarterly. Slowing down, are you?”
Ambrose wished his gaze could transmute into knives. “I’m afraid I’m still waiting on peer reviews, unlike others I know.”
Xavion gave a hum, flitting right over his counter-attack. “Perhaps you should try getting out in nature for a change. Going straight to the source of the magic.”
Ambrose noticed the pen in their hand and glanced at their followers. Several were toting signed magazines with a unique illustration on the cover: Xavion’s smiling face against a backdrop of snowy mountains.
“Oh, yes,” he drawled, flicking his gaze over their immaculate robes. “Proper mountain climber, now, are you?”
Xavion grinned. “It’s certainly more thrilling than a musty old potion shop.”
Some of their admirers giggled; Ambrose thought his rage might spill out through his ears.
“Oh, like you ever actually—” he started, then reeled himself back in. This was precisely what Xavion wanted—a show of his anger to kick the convention off in their favor. He took a breath and set his hands behind his back. “I’m afraid I must go,” he said, forcing every word to be steady and even. “I have a panel starting soon.”
“Of course.” Xavion waved him off as if they had been the one to dismiss him. “Will I see you at the debates this afternoon, Amby?”
Ambrose’s next word was through gritted teeth. “Indeed.”
“Excellent.” Another bow, one last curious look at Eli, then they swept away, glitter floating off their robes as they went.
Eli folded his arms. “You’re going to crush them at the debates, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Ambrose muttered.
Eli paused, then leaned toward him with a wicked grin. “You got this, Amby.”
Ambrose shuddered. “Don’t.”
RULE 4:
MIX AND MINGLE
Dawn
Dawn moped by a food stall, overpriced coffee in hand. How could there be so many people at Potion Con, yet none of them were who she wanted to see?
Tessa had gotten delayed due to weather and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Kels had chickened out on attending due to the kidnappings. Then there was Rin, whom she couldn’t find at all, and Aurelia, who had decided to only attend day three…and now she was over halfway through the day, with absolutely no flirting prospects lined up for the evening.
She gave a huff. Water, water, everywhere, or however that stupid phrase went. At least the wand demonstration had been entertaining. And she had done some retail therapy and bought several bags’ worth of crystals and wood samples from Vendor’s Alley…
