A captured cauldron, p.8
A Captured Cauldron, page 8
“But—”
“She’s right,” Viola said firmly, gesturing to the street. Behind Dawn, Eli turned to Grim.
“How quickly can we find a way to talk to Ames?” he asked.
“Not sure. We’ll need to be careful about it,” Grim said. “Aphos is likely watching him closely—”
Rory’s eyes widened. “Aphos?” she repeated. Viola tried closing the door, but Rory shoved her foot into the doorway, keeping it jammed open.
“So, you know?” she continued. “You have confirmation it was Aphos that took him?”
Just like when she had fought Franz at the bar, her eyes lit up with a wild sort of light, and before Viola could move, she had squirmed her way into the shop.
“Look, if you’re trying to break him out yourself,” she rambled, “you’re going to run into trouble. I’ve been reporting on Aphos’ movements for years, and they’ve only increased their security over the past few seasons. Their secret entrances have been rotating every month, and with the Deadleaves’ presence growing, their cant has evolved to encompass a lot of passphrases from…” Her eyes landed on the sand model of the Scar, and she gasped. “You tracked him?”
No one had time to stop her—she rushed forward and crouched to examine the gem. “Yeah, they’ve got him deep in their domain, all right. The Deadleaves are usually farther north, and the Harfoots ceded that territory almost twenty years ago. If they didn’t teleport him straight in with their own devices, they probably went through the entrance over…”
She looked up, caught onto the comparative silence of the rest of the room, and straightened with a sheepish laugh.
“Sorry.” She took a respectful step back, glancing at Dawn. “I—I’ve just been on this beat for ages. If he was really taken to Aphos…maybe I could help. You know, advise on the situation.”
Banneker tilted his head. “You can do that as a journalist?”
“Sure.” Rory waved a hand, then quickly added, “I mean—I can’t actually go down into Aphos for you. Too risky for undercover work.” She straightened. “But I can still help you. I know I can.”
Dawn only curled further in on herself, her hope and guilt sparking against each other like a wand gone wrong. They needed the help, there was no denying that. But to see this woman here all the time, reminding her of what she had done, why Ambrose was down there—
“Thanks,” she tried, “but I think we can figure it out—”
Eli stepped in. “No, let’s hear her out. If you know anything about Aphos, we want to hear it. All of it.” He looked at Grim for confirmation, who reluctantly nodded.
“Don’t think we have much choice,” they said, their voice carrying an air of finality. “We’ll take the help as long as you’re willing to give it.”
Rory’s face lit up. “Yes!” she blurted out, then immediately tried to adopt a more professional posture. “I mean—yes. Happy to help. Help you’’—she smiled at Dawn—“find your friend.”
The terrible sparks in Dawn’s chest sputtered and smoked.
RULE 10:
FIND A LAB PARTNER
Ambrose
Ambrose didn’t realize how much he enjoyed the concept of windows until the following morning.
At least, he guessed it was morning. Without sunlight or his pocket watch to refer to, his only indication that a day had passed was Cassius’ change of clothes. Yesterday, he had dressed like any other Scarrish citizen—tunic, vest, a pair of sturdy boots against the chasm dust. Today, he had shed that part of his disguise, along with any scrap of patience.
“Come along,” he called sharply to Ambrose, his blue coat flowing around his knees as he strode through the tunnels. When he snapped his fingers, a heavy gold ring glinted in the crystal lamplight, and a brief wave of golden light flashed through his sleeve. Ambrose wrinkled his nose. Of course this man had illusion magic sewn into his clothing.
“Your lab work starts today,” Cassius continued. “The slower you walk, the less time you’ll have to brew.”
Ambrose glared at the man’s shoulders and kept his pace exactly the same.
The tunnels today were just as infuriatingly blank as the ones he had stumbled through yesterday, giving his thoughts nothing to catch on. So, he tried to focus on the only thing that had helped him sleep last night—Rosemond Street.
He had been gone for a day now. An entire night had passed not in his shop, not next to Eli, but in a cell far below. Were they at all like him? Scared, unsettled, uncomfortable in the strange air? What was Eli doing now—or more specifically, what was he trying to do?
And, perhaps most importantly, was Dawn there to stop him?
He touched his shoulder, confirming that Grim’s tracking pin was still camouflaged against his robe there. Aphos hadn’t found it, which meant Grim could still track his location. They’d sort out that he was underground eventually, and cooler heads on Rosemond Street would keep Eli from doing anything too reckless. They’d make some sort of plan, to be sure. A careful way into wherever he was.
But he couldn’t simply wait for them, not entirely. He’d have to follow the Guild protocol to the letter here—delay the project as much as possible, lead these underground fools on until Rosemond Street could make their move.
Ambrose regarded Cassius once more; his coat had been tailored to widen his shoulders, turning him into an intimidating presence in the empty hall. There was no mistaking him for an officer of Aphos now…but how much did he actually know about potioneering?
Ambrose cleared his throat. “While I’m working, who will I request ingredients from?”
Cassius didn’t bother looking behind him. “Me.”
Ambrose bit his lip. He had hoped it would be a lackey of Cassius’, someone more easily tricked.
“What about more particular ingredients?” he pressed. “I’m not taking any risks with faulty components. If your couriers deliver me anything subpar—”
Cassius’ gaze finally flickered back to him in annoyance. “I will inspect them myself.”
“And are you Guild certified?” Ambrose latched onto the annoyance, trying to make himself sound as haughty as possible. “How can I trust your discernment? I’ve no idea of your background nor your specialty in certain brews, your ability to determine if the ingredient’s magical saturation level is satisfactory—”
Cassius stopped and turned on his heel, his coat forming a brief whirlwind around him.
“If something truly isn’t satisfactory enough,” he hissed, “we will have a discussion about your involvement in their procurement. Until then”—he shoved open a door to his left—“you will work here and I will bring you what you need.”
Ambrose glared at him, then cautiously stepped forward and peered into his new cell.
He had to work hard not to let Cassius see his surprise.
On his walk there, he had formed an expectation of a low and cramped laboratory, full of shadows, rusting equipment, and broken safety regulations. But this—this was practically a Potion Con showroom.
Cauldrons of all sizes and metals lined one wall, each with its own set of fume pulls and heat wands on charging racks. All around them, polished tables and cabinets stood sentry, partitioned for cleaning, charging, storing, mixing, and good, old-fashioned thinking. And the dust that plagued the halls was nowhere to be found here—the dark woods and metals gleamed as if they had just been bought and assembled.
The only evidence to the contrary was a stack of journals tucked to one side of the largest desk. Those had certainly been used before, judging by the wrinkles, tabs, and ink stains.
“Go through those notebooks if you like,” Cassius said. “Not sure what good they’ll be. They’re from our last potioneer.”
Ambrose perked up. Last potioneer? So, there had been someone before him. Someone who had clearly failed Madam Mila in their impossible task. A dozen questions burned on his tongue. Who were they? How long had they been here? Where had they gone?
But Cassius had neither the time nor the patience for such questions—he continued on in a bored tone. “Oh, and there’s this, I suppose.”
He tapped a slim wooden box by the doorframe, and the walls disappeared.
The striped stone that dominated the hallway suddenly stopped at the door, giving way to warm wood, flickering sconces…and bright windows, with nothing but fields and flowers outside.
Ambrose approached one of the windows in awe. It all felt so real—thick glass warmed by the midday sun, grass and blue sky stretching far beyond, the smell of lavender and soil beckoning him to step outside…when in reality, all the sunlight and greenery were leagues above him.
He drew his hand away from the wall. It was a prime example of Aphos’ specialty, and Ambrose’s future task: immaculate illusions. But if he was to truly imitate what Aphos loved—and sold—he needed more than a simple wall panel as an example.
“In addition to ingredients, I’ll need a sample of Aphos’ current work.” He turned on his heel. “An illusion device you find sufficient as an example of what I need to replicate.”
Secretly, he hoped for a device he could use to escape. To create a decoy of him brewing, while the real him scuttled away to the surface—
Cassius merely stiffened. “This wall should suffice.”
Ambrose pressed his lips into a line. “But how am I to—?”
“I have faith you’ll figure it out,” he said impatiently. “Meals will be brought to you three times a day, and I will inspect your work twice a week. Give me your list of ingredients tomorrow. Unlike our last potioneer”—his eyes flicked to the old journals—“we will expect progress from you.”
“Very well,” Ambrose responded stiffly, and Cassius was gone before he could finish, closing the door and turning the lock. Its heavy, final click drew him fully from the sunlit illusion and back into reality—no matter how nice the room, he was still trapped here.
He waited for Cassius’ footsteps to fade, then quickly hid Grim’s tracking pin in a drawer and headed for the wall panel.
“You’ll figure it out.” He mimicked Cassius’ tone, then tried to pry the panel off the wall. If there was an ingredient he could extract from this and add to a potion, he could fool Aphos with their own work…
But the idea fizzled before it could spark. The panel wouldn’t budge.
Now as impatient as Cassius, he set his jaw and made for the journals on the table. There was no point in planning how to delay the project if he didn’t know where his predecessor had left off. One could only hope they had been organized, with handwriting he could decipher…
He opened the first journal, and the work within reassured him. Written by a potioneer named Octavia, the notes weren’t exactly Guild standard, but they were decent and readable. He ventured through pages of ingredient lists, recipes, little boxes partitioning ideas and thoughts…
And hundreds of small ink doodles.
They started as simple embellishments in the corner, at first—but the farther he flipped, the more he saw them. Vines and flowers running up the edge of the page, tiny little dragons drawn into the margins. They weren’t unlike Eli’s old doodles on his potion notes, though applied with a little more finesse. A side effect of boredom and isolation, he thought, and flipped to the earliest entry to see when Octavia had begun her work.
She had started almost two years ago.
He grimaced. So, this Madam Mila once had patience—but given his own six-month deadline, it had worn thin under his predecessor’s failures.
As he reached for the next journal, something thumped lightly against the door, followed by a muffled curse. He whipped around; a gray face stared at him through the small window in the door, eyes wide. Another curse and the face was gone, light footsteps scampering down the hall.
Ambrose frowned. If they were an Aphosian spy sent to keep watch, they weren’t a very good one. He knew little of the spying profession, but he could only assume they shouldn’t curse so loudly.
He waited to see if the footsteps returned, but the hallway remained quiet. Unsettled by both the appearance and the silence, he wandered over to the small box Cassius had touched and set his palm against it. The windows were nice, but he needed something more familiar.
The illusion only took seconds to change, warping seamlessly from bright sky to stone, cabinets, lucky shelves positioned just so by the door… In a blink, he was back in his workroom at The Griffin’s Claw. Crystal lanterns flickered in friendly rhythms, while the smoky scent of firewood hung faintly from the rafters. He took a deep breath, then went to the lucky shelf and tried to touch the bronze cat, his favorite lucky charm.
His fingers slipped directly through it and brushed the rough-hewn wall behind the illusion.
A pang shot through him, but he shook it off. He wouldn’t be here long, if he and Rosemond Street had anything to say about it. He hung up his potion robes, sorted Octavia’s journals into chronological order, and began his work.
He spent his first few days setting up distractions for Aphos: an absurdly long list of ingredients for Cassius and an array of bubbling vials for his workspace. These so-called brews were nothing—hardly more than colorful water, spritzed with harmless ingredients that sparkled in convincingly magical ways. As an apprentice, he had sometimes crafted such distractions when bored.
Now, he made them like his life depended on them.
While the fake vials bubbled and fizzed, he jotted down the guards’ rotation outside his door. With only a small window to see through, he had to listen carefully for their approach and exit, but to his dismay, their rotation was consistent. No soft snores, very little card-playing, and only seconds between the exit of one guard and the arrival of another.
There would be no simple escape through the door, then. He had suspected as much.
He stoked the fires under the fake potions and cracked open Octavia’s notebooks next. At the very least, he hoped for some idea of where she had stopped, how close she had gotten—but her writing gave no clear answer. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t delivered anything close to a successful potion. And the further he read, the more elaborate her doodles became, and the more her notes devolved into strange, nonsensical lists and phrases. Perhaps she had grown more desperate with each failure…or more tired of being confined in this space.
He tried to picture it—picture her working here, standing at this table. But he knew next to nothing about her, apart from her handwriting and how she liked drawing daisies and dragons. Where had she come from? Had she been kidnapped, too? And what exactly did Aphos do with her after they had run out of patience?
The clattering of silverware against metal roused him from his questions.
“Don’t bother him,” Cassius hissed outside the door.
“I won’t!” an unfamiliar voice hissed back.
“I will not have you hanging about like last time. If you say so much as one blasted word to him, I’ll—”
“I swear, I won’t!”
The door opened, revealing Cassius stalking away and a gnome sticking her tongue out at his back.
Well, not quite a gnome. She was gnome-like in stature—short, with folded ears that ended in a point—but orcish in skin tone, gray with patches of iridescence. One tiny tusk poked out from her lower lip, accentuating her pout. She pushed through the door with her hip, then set a tray on the table with another careless clatter.
“Here,” she muttered, letting the apple on the tray roll around the bowl of soup. If Cassius was dressed to take up space, she was dressed to take up as little as possible. Her ill-fitting black tunic let her melt into the shadows, while her thin shoes made barely a whisper of sound over the floor. Paired with the strands of charcoal hair hiding her face, Ambrose may not have noticed her come and go at all, had she not chosen to enter loudly.
But even with her features half-hidden, he still recognized her. That gray face had been spying on him for days now, peeking through the window in between guard shifts. How strange—none of the other Aphosians seemed to care much about Ambrose or his work, only about guarding his door and delivering his food.
Perhaps this servant had known Octavia. Perhaps she knew something about the potioneer’s origins or fate.
When she turned to go, he held up a hand. “Wait!”
The girl paused, her shoulders stiff. He rushed his words through the precious moments he had left.
“I know you’ve been looking in,” he said. “I was wondering if you knew anything about my predecessor?”
“Who?” she asked, slightly tilting one ear toward him. Ambrose noticed the scarring across the other side of her face, running from the tip of a torn ear to her cheekbone.
“Did you know Octavia?” he tried once more. She nodded. Hope rising, he kept himself still, as if any sudden movement would send her fleeing. “Do you know where she went?”
The girl appraised him, eyes flitting from his worktable to his gold-embroidered robes on the wall—then shrugged. “I’ll tell you for a fee.”
He sighed. He should have expected bribery; he was locked in a criminal hideout, after all. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money—”
She pointed to the piece of bread next to his soup. He blinked at it. “Oh. Um—certainly, if that’s what you want.”
To his shock, she tackled the bread, ripping it apart and digging desperately into the little dish of butter beside it. When her cautious gaze settled on the door, Ambrose took the cue to ask his questions quickly. “What’s your name, and what happened to Octavia?” he asked.
The girl licked butter off her finger. “That’s two questions.”
Ambrose gestured to the hunk of cheese next to the bread. She nodded—an acceptable deal.
“I’m Nat,” she said. “Tavi—or Octavia, or whatever you said—was sent away when Cassius caught her trying to escape.”
Ambrose swallowed but kept his expression neutral. “Sent where?”
