The Secret of Zoone Read online

  “I’m quite aware of the state of Glibbersaug,” Lady Zoone said evenly. “Why do you think I’m so upset that you went there?”

  “There’s something going on here,” Ozzie rambled desperately. “There’s talk of a glibber apprentice lurking around the station. Maybe even Crogus himself. What if he opens the door? What if the glibbers are let loose on the station? On the ’verse? Even the wizards are worried.”

  “Oh? And how do you know that?”

  Ozzie swallowed. He couldn’t tell her how, that he had been at the opening ceremonies of the convention; both he and Salamanda were already in enough trouble. He settled on staring down at his right shoe. The left one, of course, was in the process of being slowly digested inside a glibber stomach.

  “Don’t let your imagination run away from you,” Lady Zoone advised him. “Remember what happened with Miss Mongo’s suitcase?”

  “You found out about that?” Ozzie asked, keeping his eyes planted on his shoe.

  “Ozzie,” Lady Zoone said, “I’m up here. Look at me.”

  And he did. Way up, along the line of her impossibly long neck, to see her vibrant green eyes intently contemplating him. He noticed that there were dark rings beneath those eyes. Ozzie had never seen her look like this before. She was exhausted, he realized, probably from the stress of dealing with Nymm and the other wizards . . . not to mention him.

  “Only a dead buzzle floats with the wind,” she said softly.

  “What?” Ozzie asked.

  “It’s a saying we have in Zoone,” she explained. “It means you shouldn’t go with the flow just because everyone else does. And you, Ozzie, certainly seem to do your own thing. But that doesn’t mean that you can take matters into your own hands. You heard Master Nymm. Visiting forbidden worlds isn’t helping our chances of putting you in front of the council.”

  “I just don’t understand why they won’t open my door,” Ozzie persisted.

  “Frost and fungus!” Lady Zoone exclaimed. “It’s not as simple as that. The council is not even sure they can open it. And, from their point of view, it’s not the most pressing issue.”

  “But Aunt Temperance—”

  “Is a woman who doesn’t feel very well at the moment,” Lady Zoone interjected. “To you and me, it may be of the utmost importance, but not to the council.” She released a long, creaky sigh. “It’s just the way it is.”

  Ozzie found himself staring at his feet again.

  “I know you’re worried about her,” Lady Zoone said. “I know you feel guilty about how you left things with her . . . but it isn’t a reason for you to go traipsing through unknown doors. Don’t you understand how serious this situation is? You could have been killed in Glibbersaug. And what about your friends?”

  That gave Ozzie pause; he was usually the kid everyone thought of as a loner. A loser. “Friends? You mean Tug and Fidget?”

  “Is there anyone else who would be willing to cross a dead world with you?” Lady Zoone wondered.

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “And I see you’ve lost Tempie’s key. A shame. It’s a family heirloom, one that is hundreds of years old.”

  Ozzie winced.

  “Listen, Ozzie,” Lady Zoone said, “I’m doing my best to convince Master Nymm to let you talk before the council—and to make fixing your door a priority. You have to be patient.”

  “But—”

  “It’s my job, Nymm’s job, the council’s job, to worry about things like the glibber king and collapsed doors. Not yours. All I’m asking is for you to trust me. Leave these matters to me. Can you do that?”

  Ozzie nodded, even as his insides were twisting into a knot. On one side, there was Lady Zoone’s hard and sure logic. But on the other, he felt helpless. Images of Glibbersaug prowled his mind. How could he just stand idly by and wait for something to happen?

  “Come on, Ozzie,” Lady Zoone said eventually. “Let’s not tarry any longer by this terrible door.”

  She headed toward the station in her slow and measured way, and Ozzie plodded after her. Looking ahead, he saw Cho standing on the station steps, being mobbed by porters and security staff.

  “I suppose they’ve heard about his heroics,” Lady Zoone observed.

  “You know, there’s something I don’t understand about Cho,” Ozzie said. “He said that a sabermage has to hunt magic in order to make his sword work.”

  “Yes,” Lady Zoone agreed. “That is the belief of the Nedra.”

  “Cho doesn’t hunt magic,” Ozzie countered. “But when he rescued us from the glibbers, there was definitely magic in his sword. Even in that dead world, he had magic! How can that be? That’s not how it works in Ru-Valdune.”

  Lady Zoone smiled. “Captain Cho doesn’t live in Ru-Valdune anymore, Ozzie; he lives in Zoone.”

  “So . . . he’s changed?”

  Lady Zoone laughed. “Haven’t we all? But, yes, Cho has changed. Perhaps he’s discovered the secret of this place. And let me tell you, when that happens, there’s potential for all sorts of magic.”

  23

  A Ticket to the Magic-Makers’ Market

  Over the next few days, everyone wanted to hear about Glibbersaug. Ozzie wasn’t used to being the center of attention; he might have enjoyed it except that everyone badgering him for details about glibbers only served to remind him of how badly he had screwed up.

  “I’ve already told you everything,” Ozzie complained after Piper pestered him for the umpteenth time to retell the story of being attacked by glibbers. “Besides, Cho’s the one who did all the actual fighting. Why don’t you ask him about it?”

  “Because,” Piper countered, “you know Cho. He doesn’t say anything. Just politely nods like all he did was tie a shoe. By the way, now that Mr. Whisk made you a new pair, don’t you think you should tie yours?”

  Eventually, even Piper petered out of questions. Life settled back into a busy routine—in fact, an extra busy routine, because it was the last three nights of the convention, and that meant the start of the Magic-Makers’ Market. Vendors began to stream into the station, and along with them came all the magical wares they hoped to sell.

  Ozzie had thought a wizard’s luggage was tricky, but it was nothing compared to the pallets that began to arrive on the platforms in vast quantities. The porters had to use special trolleys and work in teams to move all the merchandise to the rooftop terrace. In addition, all the vendors needed rooms in the inns. So, Ozzie ported, Fidget clerked, and Tug . . . well, he Tugged.

  Fidget complained about the extra work, but Ozzie was glad for it. For one thing, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be allowed to go to the market once it opened, so porting for all the vendors was about as close as he was going to get to anything remotely magical.

  The work also helped distract Ozzie from the gossip that was trickling down from the conference center. It seemed that many of the wizards, Nymm chief among them, were displeased with how things were being run at the nexus. There was even talk that Lady Zoone could be fired.

  “Some of the wizards say Lady Zoone only got the stationmaster job because of her famous namesake,” Salamanda confided in Ozzie one morning. It was the last full day of the convention, and she had slipped down to sit with him on a bench in one of the quiet outdoor alcoves of the station, away from prying eyes. It was the first time they had been able to talk since the mix-up. “They say,” Salamanda continued, “that Lady Zoone has taxed their patience by making all sorts of controversial decisions.”

  “Controversial decisions?” Ozzie questioned. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you know,” Salamanda said, nervously wringing her hands. “They say she’s hired too many undesirables. A magic hunter, a winged killer, a pampered princess, a boy from a dead world, a—”

  “My world’s not dead!” Ozzie interrupted hotly.

  “It’s not me who’s saying these things, Ozzie,” Salamanda said in a fluster. Her cheeks were looking blotchy, a telltale sign of her stress
level. “I’m just telling you what the council is murmuring about. I’m on your side, Ozzie. If I had my way, I’d get that door open to your world in the flick of a quirl’s tail.”

  “Do you think I’ll be allowed to speak to the council?” Ozzie asked hopefully. “Tonight’s my last chance. If they don’t decide to do something about the door tonight, they’re all going away and then, and then . . .”

  “I wish I had something definitive to tell you, but the truth is that I just don’t know, Ozzie. It’s not like I can press the matter with Master Nymm. As far as he’s concerned, I’m on probation.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

  “I guess you never found anything about Fidget?” Salamanda wondered. “If we had some news about the glibber apprentice, it might change everything.”

  “She’s not a glibber,” Ozzie informed Salamanda. “Going to Glibbersaug proved that much at least. Are you going to the market tonight?”

  “Only if Nymm is going,” the apprentice replied. “I basically have to be his shadow. You?”

  “Not allowed,” Ozzie griped.

  Salamanda laid her head on Ozzie’s shoulder. “If I could, I’d sneak you in. But . . . well, we better not risk it. Though I’d sure like to spend as much time with you as possible before the convention’s over.”

  “Er . . . ,” Ozzie stammered. He wasn’t sure what to say. It was particularly hard to think with Salamanda leaning on his shoulder.

  “Look, I have to go,” Salamanda said, rising to her feet. “Try to cheer up. You know, think positively. I, for one, think there’s potential for something big to happen tonight. Really big.”

  Ozzie nodded. Potential. There was that word again. There was potential all right—he just wasn’t sure what kind.

  Ozzie had just finished his shift and was sitting down for a moment’s peace in the porters’ headquarters when Lady Zoone made a surprise visit. She still looked worn out, but smiled as she took a seat next to Ozzie.

  “Do you have news?” Ozzie asked eagerly. “Did Nymm say I can speak to the council?”

  “Not yet,” Lady Zoone said. “It may still happen, so don’t give up hope yet. And rather than having you mope around the station all night, I thought you might want to go to the Magic-Makers’ Market. I have three tickets—you can take Tug and Fidget.”

  Ozzie gasped and stared at the bright orange tickets being offered in her long willowy hand. He reached for them only to hear a screech from Fusselbone’s office.

  “Lady Zoone!” the mouse-man cried, scurrying over. “You know we don’t normally allow station staff to attend the market. It’s for wizards, apprentices, and preapproved travelers. According to the regulation handbook, Section Twelve, Rule Three, staff shouldn’t fraternize with—”

  “Well, I’m approving Ozzie,” Lady Zoone interrupted. “I’ve decided he needs some cheering up. It’s been a difficult time for him, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, certainly, but . . .” The fussy little man trailed off. Then he scowled. “Well, if you say so, my lady, if you say so. But, Ozzie, you’ll have to mind that skyger’s tail. Hold it like a hand—like a hand! Otherwise, we’ll have a preposasterous situation to deal with!”

  Lady Zoone laughed. “Just try to enjoy yourself, Ozzie. Maybe you can buy a spell that will automatically tie your shoes.”

  “Well, I don’t know if that’s possible,” Fidget told Ozzie as they made their way up to the rooftop that night, along with hundreds of other visitors. “But do you think I might be able to find a cure for my you-know-what?”

  “And my wings?” Tug purred.

  “I sure hope so,” Ozzie said, carefully clutching the skyger’s long tail.

  Fidget opened the door to the terrace and Ozzie came to a sudden halt, mesmerized by what lay before him. Because of his porter duties, he had been to the rooftop before, but never at night. The market was open to the sky, and he felt like he was standing amid the stars and many moons of Zoone. The rooftop was a vast circular space, ringed by flowering trees. The middle was sunken down a few steps, and it was here where all the stalls and kiosks were situated, buzzing with sellers and buyers. Ozzie recognized many of the wizards and their apprentices from the convention browsing the aisles. A cacophony of cheerful sounds drifted up from the market floor, along with many delicious smells (Ozzie had to clench Tug’s tail extra tight as the skyger detected these). In the very center was a dais where a band was playing a lively jig.

  For a moment, Ozzie just stood there and inhaled the scene. “This place is amazing,” he gasped.

  “Come on,” Fidget urged. “Let’s explore!”

  Off they went, into the cheerful fray. Anything and everything to do with wizards seemed to be on offer. One booth featured elegant robes spun with diaphanous fabrics of gold, silver, and midnight blue, while another was piled with peculiar books. Some of them were so tiny that they could balance on a finger, while others were heavy tomes that would take several people to open, let alone lift. Many of the books were propped open, revealing strange, unrecognizable lettering decorated with illuminated illustrations.

  “Hey!” Ozzie commented as he happened upon a book that seemed entirely empty. “The pages of this one are blank.”

  “Not at all,” explained the merchant, scurrying over. “’Tis written in invisible ink! This grimoire can only be read by a wizard using the light of a candle made from the wax of a dragon’s ear.”

  “Uh . . . gross,” Fidget said, grimacing.

  The next stall was selling magical cosmetics. Ozzie had seen Aunt Temperance’s makeup kit, and it didn’t contain anything remotely similar to what was on display.

  “What’s your fancy?” beckoned the merchant from behind a display of cauldron-black lipstick. She seemed to be made up in her own macabre products, for her lips were painted a poison green and her long eyelashes were decorated with miniature spider jewels. At least Ozzie hoped they were jewels—he purposely didn’t inspect them too closely.

  “Well?” the garish woman wondered, gesturing with long spiraling fingernails. “What’s your fancy, I ask? Stain enhancers? Wart swellers? Beard tangling spray?”

  “Maybe this is where grouchy old Nymm shops,” Fidget joked. “That would explain his eyebrows!”

  They continued to the next booth, which was labeled Madame Switch’s Pastries. It was filled with an assortment of treats that made Ozzie’s mouth water—until they came to the section specializing in pies for witches. These had the most revolting fillings: spider eggs, snake tongues, and worm intestines.

  “Do worms even have intestines?” Ozzie wondered.

  “Yes,” Madame Switch informed him, hobbling forward. “Long ones!” She was quite the crone, dressed in a humble black cloak and with a pair of eyes that pointed in slightly different directions. Ozzie instinctively stepped away from her, reckoning she was the type of witch who spent most of her time shuffling about a cottage built of candy deep in the dark woods, waiting for unsuspecting children to stop by.

  Tug, who didn’t seem bothered at all by the woman’s appearance, eagerly helped himself to a free pastry sample. “Ooh . . . delicious,” he announced. His tail would have whipped with satisfaction, but Ozzie was holding it tight. “Let’s buy a whole pie,” the skyger begged.

  “Yeah . . . maybe later,” Ozzie said.

  Around the corner, they found a shop that was selling enchanted grease.

  “Mr. Plank at your service,” the salesman greeted them. “This ointment ’ere will fix magical items made o’ wood. Don’t matter what you ’ave: an enchanted picture frame, the leg of a walking table, even the ’andle of a mischievous broom.”

  “Would it work on doors?” Ozzie asked hopefully.

  “Yes . . . certainly! Though you would need an ’ole tube for that. It’s the low price of seven hundred and eighty-five zoonderas. Plus applicable multiversal taxes.”

  “Sounds like a hoax, if you ask me,” Fidget whispered.

  “It doesn’t ma
tter,” Ozzie said wistfully. “I only make a couple of zoonderas a shift, so I sure don’t have that kind of money.” Besides, he reminded himself, I’m supposed to leave the door to Lady Zoone.

  They trekked onward and eventually came across a potion shop, which was set up in a canvas tent at the end of one aisle. A signpost above the doorway read: Hexter’s Magical Emporium—Poisons, Powders, and Potions at Practical Prices.

  “This is the place for us, Tug,” Fidget announced.

  “And Ozzie, too,” the skyger said. “We’re a team, after all.”

  Just as they were about to enter, they heard a familiar voice from inside say: “No, no, no. I don’t want the claws of a Zelantean wolf or a Morindian fire dragon. Don’t you have the nails of something a little less . . . exotic?”

  “This is—ahem—the Magic-Makers’ Market,” came the reply. “Everything is exotic.”

  They heard the customer snort in frustration. Then the flap of the tent flew open and there stood Salamanda.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, looking somewhat rattled.

  “I didn’t even recognize your voice,” Fidget said accusingly, crossing her arms. “You sound hoarse, Salamander. What are you up to?”

  “Business for Master Nymm, if you must know,” Salamanda declared haughtily, her cheeks shining a patchy crimson. “He’s quite finicky about the ingredients for his cauldron. But this particular vendor doesn’t seem to be well stocked.”

  “It looks it to me,” Fidget said, glancing over Salamanda’s shoulder.

  “Well, that’s only because you think you know everything,” Salamanda retorted before storming away in a huff.

  “Quoggswoggle,” Fidget muttered as Ozzie watched the wizard’s apprentice disappear into the market. “I don’t trust that little Salamander as far as I can throw her.”

  “Ooh!” Tug said. “How far is that?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Fidget replied. “But maybe I’ll give it a try. Off the edge of the rooftop.”

  Ozzie sighed. “Come on, let’s take a look around.”