The Secret of Zoone Page 20

  “She started it,” Salamanda told Ozzie over the hubbub. “She tripped me as I was running through the crowd.”

  “And you tripped Ozzie,” Fidget snarled at the apprentice. “I saw you.” She cast a glance at Ozzie and added, “I didn’t have a chance to tell you before. But she’s the reason you bumped into that Ophidian woman. I saw her flick her fingers, perform some sort of Sminky spell.”

  “That’s not true!” Salamanda cried, her face flushed a bright and spotted red. “Ozzie, you know I wouldn’t do that.”

  Ozzie didn’t know what to think, especially amid all the commotion. He had spent so much time worrying that Fidget was a glibber spy, but all she ever seemed to do was take his side. She had even stood up for him against Miss Lizard. But Salamanda was on his side, too. Why couldn’t the two of them just get along?

  “Everyone calm down,” Ozzie said, though first he had to duck to avoid being hit by a bottle of witchy perfume that had come hurtling in his direction.

  “She’s up to something, Oz,” Fidget insisted. “I know it.”

  “You know what I know?” Salamanda taunted. “I know that you’ll love this pie. It’s a Quoxxian quiche.”

  All the color drained from Fidget’s face. “But under the crust, its filling is mostly . . .”

  “Yes,” Salamanda sniggered. “Water.”

  “But how do you . . . ,” Fidget began. She flashed a glance of definitely hostile periwinkle in Ozzie’s direction. “What have you been telling your girlfriend?”

  Ozzie felt his cheeks burn hot. “She’s not my . . . ,” he sputtered. “I didn’t tell her anything! Listen, Salamanda. Just put the quiche down. If you throw it at her—I mean, if she gets wet . . .”

  “Ozzie!” Fidget snapped. “Don’t say it!”

  “He doesn’t need you bossing him around anymore,” Salamanda said, her eyes bulging with emotion. “He’s had enough of you—and so have I! Always treating me like I’m some sort of witch!”

  “Well,” Tug offered, “you are a wizard’s apprentice. So, if you think about it—”

  Salamanda threw the quiche.

  “No!” Ozzie shouted.

  He leaped forward and batted the quiche out of the air with a desperate swing of his fist. It was a one-in-a-million shot. Not only in the sense that Ozzie actually managed to connect with the quiche, which was a miracle in its own right, but because he deflected it in a perfect arc, so that it careened through the air and landed right smack in the face of . . .

  Master Nymm.

  Ozzie thought he was going to be sick. Of all the people to soak with a pie, it had to be Nymm. Leader of the council. Perhaps the most powerful wizard in the multiverse. The one who might ultimately decide whether or not to open the door back to his world.

  “What is the meaning of this?!” the incensed wizard roared as he wiped at the sopping mess that completely covered his beard and eyebrows. He glared down at Ozzie, his eyes as cruel as talons.

  “Er . . .” was all Ozzie managed to say. He looked to Salamanda for help, only to realize she was gone.

  “Conveniently slipped away, didn’t she?” Fidget muttered, climbing to her feet.

  But Ozzie didn’t have time to worry about Fidget’s personal feud with Salamanda. The entire market crowd was swarming around them. The attendees had stopped attacking each other. Now, it seemed, they were just intent on attacking Ozzie and his friends.

  “It was those kids!”

  “They started the whole thing!”

  “I saw them knock over the cosmetics stall!”

  “Clumsy fools!”

  “Who let children up here, anyway?!”

  Then Mr. Plank, the vendor of the magical wood grease, squeezed his way through the mass of people. “Someone ’as stolen an entire tube of me grease! It was this boy—I know it. He wanted it, but didn’t ’ave enough money. Said so ’imself!”

  “He didn’t take it . . . ,” Fidget tried to say.

  No one listened. Her words were drowned out by the seething rumble of the mob. Then, like a saw blade through jelly, Master Nymm’s voice sliced through the complaints of the crowd. Everyone went silent as the wizard spoke.

  “Tell me, Eridean boy!” Nymm blasted. “Have you intentionally set out to ruin this entire convention? According to Zaria, you are supposed to represent the best of your world. And you yourself, on this very night, nearly had me convinced that you were something more. Something better. But instead, I find that—once again—you and the blundering buffoons you call friends are at the center of complete and utter catastrophe. And to think I was actually going to allow you to speak to the council!”

  Ozzie braved a miserable glance at the wizard, only to instantly regret it. Nymm usually looked like a hawk on the hunt—now he looked like a hawk that had already ensnared its prey and was preparing to rip it to shreds.

  “Zaria Zoone has made one inept decision after another!” Nymm continued, his eyebrows flitting with rage. “She’s hired every miscreant and misfit in the multiverse to staff this station. And look at the result! But I tell you this: Her overgenerous heart has performed its last deed upon these hallowed grounds.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Ozzie stammered.

  “I’m dismissing Lady Zoone from her post,” Nymm proclaimed.

  A gasp of astonishment reverberated through the crowd of onlookers.

  But Nymm wasn’t finished yet. “And she can be joined in her unemployment by that magic-hunting captain of hers, along with you three meddlesome wretches. It’s exile for you! Zoone will be your home no longer!”

  “I don’t have another home,” Tug protested. “I can’t go to Azuria without wings!”

  “And what about Ozzie?” Fidget cried. “The door to his world is closed.”

  “DOOR?!” Nymm thundered. “You dare to ask me about doors? Let me tell you about the door to Eridea! If I have anything to say about it, it shall remain closed. FOREVER!”

  For the next few hours, Ozzie, Tug, and Fidget toiled beneath Nymm’s watchful eyes, cleaning up the mess in the market. The once-festive rooftop was now quiet and deserted. It made Ozzie think of a face that had been walloped right in the mouth; now all there was to do was pick up the broken teeth. No one came to see them—not Lady Zoone, not Cho, not even Fusselbone. Ozzie wondered if Nymm had prevented them from doing so. Perhaps the ornery wizard had already fired them.

  Finally, just before midnight, Nymm declared, “There is much more to clean, but I can play your warden no longer. Tonight is the last night of the convention. It’s scheduled to go until dawn—which is when the conference should end, and the wizards depart for home. But I fear our meeting will now take much longer than planned—thanks to the events of this evening.”

  Ozzie stared down at his feet. He knew better than to press his case to the council. It was Fidget, though, who said, “What about us? Are you going to let us try and explain what happened here?”

  “A wizards’ conference is no place for the likes of you,” Nymm seethed, shaking a gnarly finger at them. “I have arranged for a security team to meet you at the bottom of the stairs and escort you straight to a detention chamber. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

  What will Lady Zoone say about all of this? Ozzie thought miserably as he and his friends trudged down the stairs. What about Cho? The captain’s eyes wouldn’t be like hot chocolate on Sunday afternoons now. More like burnt coffee on Monday morning. But at least Ozzie had a chance of seeing Cho again. He couldn’t say the same for Aunt Temperance. She was lost to him now—permanently.

  “It’s all Salamander’s fault,” Fidget grumbled as they spiraled downward. “She tripped you, Ozzie. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  Ozzie had listened to Fidget rant and rave all through their clean-up duty. He had done his best to ignore her, but now his patience was spent. “Just leave it alone,” he said. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “It’s the truth,” Fidget insisted. “She’s at the root of everything.
She sent us to Glibbersaug. She started the chaos in the market. I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with her. Did you see what she looked like tonight when she was holding that quiche? Crazy. Deranged. And hungry.”

  “What’s wrong with being hungry?” Tug asked from the rear.

  “Not the kind of hungry you get when you haven’t had dinner,” Fidget explained. “The kind you get when you want to hurt someone. She looked like . . . like a . . .”

  “Like a glibber?” Tug offered.

  Ozzie came to a halt, so suddenly that Fidget bumped right into him.

  “What did you say, Tug?” he asked, slowly turning around.

  “Just that glibbers are the hurtful kind of hungry,” the giant cat replied.

  At that precise moment, something clicked inside Ozzie. It was like staring at a pile of building blocks and suddenly discovering how they all fit together. One of those blocks—something that Fidget loved to harp on about—was that Salamanda had intentionally sent them to Glibbersaug. But there were other pieces, Ozzie realized, parts that he just hadn’t been able—or willing—to connect. But now he was connecting them, and it made him feel sick, like someone had just jabbed a plunger into his stomach and sent everything flushing free.

  I should have seen it, he thought.

  Salamanda. There was the way she had cried when watching Crogus being locked up on Morindu. There was the way she had promoted the idea that Fidget was a glibber. Then there was the elixir that Ozzie had smelled coming from Master Nymm’s chamber. It had smelled so terrible, just like . . .

  That potion wasn’t for Nymm, Ozzie realized. It was for Salamanda. She brewed it for herself, to disguise her appearance. Her true appearance.

  “Mr. Crudge’s tonic,” he gasped out loud.

  “What?” Fidget said. “What are you talking about?”

  I was right about Mr. Crudge’s tonic—it was to keep him human, Ozzie thought, his mind now zooming back to the scene of Nymm’s memory. The irascible wizard had never actually answered the council’s question about where Crogus was; he had simply showed the scene of him being thrown into prison. But that didn’t prove he was still there.

  “I’ve been such an idiot,” Ozzie told his friends. “You know what? I don’t think Salamanda is like a glibber. I think she is a glibber. Just like her boss: Mr. Crudge, the glibber king.”

  26

  Salamanda’s Story

  For a moment, Fidget just stared at Ozzie with a look of disbelief. But Ozzie knew he was right—both about Mr. Crudge being Crogus and that Salamanda was his apprentice. It was the part about Salamanda that made him the queasiest. He had considered her to be a friend and a confidant—to the point that he had even wrongly suspected Fidget of being a glibber.

  But there was no time to dwell on the past now. Ozzie had seen the complete and utter devastation the glibbers had caused in Glibbersaug. He wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to Zoone—or anywhere else in the multiverse.

  “Come on!” he urged, bolting down the stairs. “We have to stop them.”

  “Wait!” Fidget cried as she and Tug chased after him. “Stop them from what? Where are you going?”

  “To the east platform!” Ozzie called over his shoulder. “Don’t you see? Salamanda’s not working for Nymm. She’s working for Crogus—the glibber king! And I know exactly where he is—trapped on the track to my world. I’ll bet you anything Salamanda’s going to try and release him. Tonight, while all the wizards are in their meeting. She mentioned something big was going to happen.”

  “But the door’s wrecked,” Fidget said.

  Ozzie was taking steps two at a time, his mind spinning as rapidly as he was running. “It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “Salamanda will fix it somehow. You’ve got to trust me, Fidget. I’m sure of this.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, where a tall blue door stood, leading to the hub. Ozzie already had his hands on the handle, but Fidget reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “I do trust you, Oz,” she said. “But shouldn’t we tell someone?”

  “Who?” Ozzie asked. “The wizards? They’re not going to listen to us. Not after what happened in the market.”

  “You’re right,” she conceded.

  “It’s up to us,” Ozzie said. “Come on!”

  He burst through the doorway, only to find his way blocked by two security officers: Needles and Bones.

  “Ah, my favorite porter,” Needles said sarcastically. “Causing mayhem as usual.”

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Ozzie protested. “Where’s Cho?”

  “And Lady Zoone?” Fidget added.

  Bones tugged uncomfortably at his collar, his face turning paler than usual. “They’re . . . they’re in the conference hall. With the wizards.”

  “Look,” Fidget said, “there’s something we have to tell y—”

  “You’ve said—and done—enough for one evening,” Needles interrupted. “Now, are you going to behave and come with us? Or do we have to drag you?”

  “Just to tell you, skygers are rather hard to drag,” Tug declared.

  Fidget gave Ozzie a knowing look. “Meet you at your door,” she mouthed. Then she kicked the nearest security guard—it was Bones—in the shin and yelled, “RUN!”

  Ozzie and Fidget took off in separate directions.

  “Which way do I go?” Tug cried, but Ozzie was so intent on fleeing that he didn’t reply. He dodged and dashed through the knots of travelers still loitering in the hub. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know that the skyger was trying to follow him. He could hear the sound of the clumsy cat plowing through the hub, bowling over people, luggage, and everything else that wasn’t nailed to the floor. Ozzie was thankful for the distraction; it allowed him to escape through the nearest gate and into the night. He didn’t stop until he reached the grass, where the paved part of the platform came to an end. Leaning on his knees to catch his breath, he stared into the Infinite Wood for a moment, then turned to gaze back at the station. No one seemed to be following him. He had even managed to lose Tug—though he hoped both the skyger and Fidget had escaped the guards.

  Because I’m going to need them, Ozzie thought.

  He continued into the forest and navigated his way to the east platform, toward the door to Eridea. It was quiet on the outskirts of the platform, with the buzzles fluttering quietly from tree to tree and the stars shining above, like keyholes in the night. It didn’t feel like disaster was about to strike.

  But Ozzie knew better. He soon reached the door to his world, or what was left of it. It still lay in a pile of busted wood, encircled by a glowing rope, alone and somber. Ozzie cautiously approached the pile.

  “Looking for me?” rasped a voice.

  Ozzie whirled around to see a figure slipping through the shadows, straight toward him. It was Salamanda; even though she had swapped her crimson cloak for black, Ozzie still knew it was her. He gulped. Now that she was here, he had no idea what he could do to stop her. She had magic on her side. What did he have? Not even a plan.

  Salamanda came to a halt in front of him and threw down her hood, revealing a hideous face. She hardly had any hair now; even her long eyebrows had receded. Her skin was pale and gray, flecked with giant, warty spots. Sharp needle teeth glinted between a pair of slimy green lips.

  Ozzie winced in disgust.

  “What? Don’t you like me anymore?” Salamanda croaked.

  “You . . . this whole time . . . ,” Ozzie sputtered. Then, daring to glance at her, he added, “What happened to your potion? Yeah, I know it wasn’t for Nymm. It was for you.”

  “I ran out of ingredients to make more. But it doesn’t matter now.” Eyes gleaming, Salamanda stepped toward the rope that surrounded the collapsed door.

  “It’s a magical barrier,” Ozzie warned. “If you try to cross it, the station will know.”

  Flashing him a coy look with her giant eyes, Salamanda pulled out a peculiar pair of scissors. “I have my own magic,
foolish boy.”

  Ozzie watched, partly in horror, partly in fascination, as she snipped the rope. He was terrified by the thought of her releasing the glibber king, but if he was being completely honest, there was a part of him that wanted to see if she could repair the portal. So many people had said it would be difficult, maybe even impossible . . .

  Salamanda stepped toward the wreck. Then, reaching into her robe, she fished out a tube.

  “That’s the magical grease from Mr. Plank’s shop!” Ozzie cried. “You’re the one who stole it.”

  Salamanda laughed. “You’re not as stupid as I thought,” she said as she opened the tube and began vigorously applying ointment to the broken door.

  “It probably won’t work,” Ozzie balked, remembering what Nymm had said. “True magic—”

  “Is something you know nothing about,” Salamanda hissed. “I bought a bit of this gunk two nights ago from old Mr. Plank to test it out before stealing the whole tube of it. It’s a crude concoction, but it’ll work well enough to open this door—at least for tonight. After that, what do I care?”

  Ozzie gaped as the magic grease began to take effect. The wood creaked and groaned, mending its shape. In only a few moments, it stood before them, dull and gray. There was no ornamentation other than a metal plate that read 871 and was placed near the top center. It looked like a door that would lead to an abandoned house.

  I guess it’s supposed to represent my world, Ozzie thought, or maybe the state of the track, just like the door to Zoone on the other end of it.

  Then a realization struck him. “You can’t open it,” he said. “You don’t have a key. Nymm said ones to Eridea are hard to come by.”

  Salamanda shrugged. “That’s why I had to steal one.” She reached back into her robe, this time revealing an old, tarnished key.

  “That’s Aunt Temperance’s!” Ozzie cried.

  He charged her, but she brought him to a halt by raising a single slimy finger at him. “I’d keep your distance,” she hissed, her warning punctuated by a crackle of green electricity emanating from her fingertip. “Unless you want to taste my magic.”