Hitching a ride to Malibar on a military supply barge reminded me of public transportation because the ship regularly ran to and from Jarva. Western flatboats on the Arlington River didn’t work by schedules. They launched only when completely packed, rendering departures unpredictable. Passengers missed rides or wasted time waiting for cargo to fill. It never ceased to amaze me that living in Miros made me appreciate modern conveniences like schedules.

  Riding a flatboat gave me a chance to summon Beaker. His companionship comforted me, amusing me with antics in the ever-changing environment. Soon, I found myself reigning in his impulses to fly off. As he eyeballed the Beaker-friendly tree limbs, I warned him to be careful. “No. Stay here, Beaker. Stay on the boat.” I compromised by permitting him to fly up to the flatboat’s mast. The crew didn’t mind, and the vessels featured no swinging beams to knock him off. After a few seconds of hovering, my pet considered the crossbeams too rickety and settled for a lower position on the starboard gunwale.

  My pet clucked to himself in anguish as the scenery rolled by—so many branches beckoned him. Eventually, I relented and cut the cord. “Go ahead and fly. Just be careful.” Beaker pumped his wings in a burst of power to gain altitude and kept pace with the watercraft after picking up speed. I telepathically reminded him to stay within eyesight. Of course, griffons had better vision than humans, so he wasn’t easy to track.

  I played the role of the watchful parent and passed the time by monitoring his whereabouts.

  My Familiar surprised me by plunging into the water and emerging with a fish. His exit from the river lacked grace, being wet and clutching a twitching meal in his talons. Yet he overcame the struggle and landed on the deck with a plop. Appearing too tired to eat, he stared at the flopping fish and judged the reactions of others on the boat.

  My pet had crossed another maturity milestone. “Good boy! You’re hunting now!”

  After catching his breath, he screeched in triumph and telepathically staked his claim. “ My fish! My fish!” He watched us closely while he ate the catch. Since I’d not given the food to him, his attitude toward his meal showed more possessiveness than usual.

  I played with him. “That fish looks delicious, Beaker. Mmmm.”

  Beaker immediately voiced a complaint with a loud screech.

  Fabulosa laughed at us. “Aww, is Patchy teasing you, hon? You go right on and eat your fish. I’ll pitch him in the water if he makes a false move.”

  After hours of watching the griffon, I relaxed and let him explore unsupervised until we reached the next town—marking another precedent. Beaker wasn’t the only one maturing.

  We switched rides in Jarva, a town larger than Belden, but the layover didn’t give us time to explore before the next flatboat left the pier. My only impression of Jarva came at a distance. Glossy glazes covered its bricks and tiles, giving the city a metallic shine.

  The settlement of Azay stood beyond Jarva. It seemed the same size as its neighbor, so sailing past it didn’t make me feel like I missed anything special. Its buildings used more colorful glazes, and the bricklaying achieved a curved rhythm and reflected the sun like ocean swells.

  After two days on the water, we reached Malibar. It looked older than the previous towns. The facades of buildings bore several types of brick, some older than others. Exposed wooden beams protruded from the buildings, which looked slipshod to my modern eyes. Vestiges of worn cladding and decorations gave the architecture a timeless allure as if it celebrated its history.

  Malibar’s more exciting elements included elevated walkways, high arches, and painted tiles. I associated colorful buildings with the desert, where the weather didn’t peel away the décor, though the trees covering Malibar’s terrain indicated a temperate climate. Shiny brass fences and dull copper rooftops gave the city a plastic, toy-like appearance. Skinny spires and metallic minarets topped the skyline as if the population received radio signals.

  Statues, integrated into the architecture, observed the populace below. Sculpted cladding and cornices rimmed the walls with festival scenes, celebrated tradespeople, and symbolic monsters. Cornerstones and arches sprouted gargoyles carrying everyday tools, flowers, and food. Friezes depicted animals at play or important people clutching wreaths, weapons, or parchment.

  Fabulosa had missed Fletcher’s Arlington tour, and I couldn’t decide which impressed me more. As our flatboat cruised downriver, we pointed out features, like children on their way to an amusement park. Malibar looked undoubtedly bigger than Arlington, but its flat, spread-out streets offered no picturesque cliffs or roaring waterfalls. Nothing dominated the cityscape.

  A crewmember recommended an inn in the West Acre District, one of the pricier parts of town. It wasn’t centralized, but it stood near a university and home to some of the wealthiest merchants in Malibar.

  Since I agreed to hunt down the meaning behind parchment squiggles, Fabulosa acted as Hawkhurst’s representative. She knew enough about the sales pitch from our meetings in Fort Krek to handle everything herself. She’d reeled in Glenn and Oscar from Grayton, and focusing on merchants gave her a chance to see exotic outfits.

  My only concern involved splitting up. Fabulosa had to travel on the street, tracking down dignitaries on Greenie’s list. It exposed her, whereas I’d hide somewhere in a library or office. As possibly the largest city on the continent, Malibar likely harbored several of the 30 remaining contestants. We had the double-damage buff from Aggression going for us, but fighting alone on someone’s turf wasn’t a bright idea. If a wererat could overtake a kobold city, who could predict what sway players might hold over Malibar?

  We rented rooms in a red terracotta inn called The Gatehead. Before eating a late dinner, we got our bearings from the establishment’s owner. The innswoman never introduced herself, but her nameplate read Moody, though I’d say the word served more like a warning than a moniker.

  The graying matron quickly rattled off answers to common questions, but I stumped her by asking about archeological research.

  “Archeology? Whassat for? Ye, find some old bones didja, now?”

  “I’m trying to identify symbols from an old language.” I pulled out Thaxter’s parchment from my inventory and showed her.

  Moody wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “That’s a scholar-type inquiry—or maybe something for antiquers.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Fabulosa overheard her answer. “Do you know if antique dealers carry weapons or magic items?”

  The innkeeper sniffed. “Nah. They might find them in Arlington, but not ‘ere. But they got all sorts of finery. Try The Bell Basket in the Everyday Market or The Rusty Nail by the Swallow’s Gate.”

  I cocked my head. “Swallow’s Gate?”

  Moody shifted her weight impatiently, making it clear I’d gone one question too far. “I’ll set ye up with a carriage in the morn. I’ll tell ‘em where to go. Our boy Hickering knows the streets—he’ll take you.”

  Fabulosa lifted her hand. “Could you also find a carriage for me, too? I’m looking for these people.” She slid a list forward on the innkeeper’s table.

  The older woman arched an eyebrow as she scrutinized Greenie’s list. “Everyone knows most of these names. You’ve got some notables here. I hope ye have a patron or appointments. Micky Red will point ye in the right direction.”

  Fabulosa opened her mouth to ask a question, but the innswoman spoke first. “Micky’ll be yer coachee tomorrow. He knows the streets as well as Hickering. Does that settle everything?” Moody’s hands fell on her hips, showing she had better things to do.

  I gave her a couple of silver pieces for her trouble. Silver wasn’t as extravagant as in Belden, so the tip only earned a nod before the woman turned away.

  The following day, Fabulosa and I boarded our respective carriages at sunrise. Both vehicles featured a wrought iron frame. The frame contained wooden panels inlaid with floral patterns. The opulence reminded me of a wealthy cabin on an early steam engine, and it seemed a small wonder a single torodon could pull the thing. Unlike the coaches in Grayton, the cab gaped open on the front and sides, another sign that rain played a minor role in the weather. It offered a better view but exposed my nameplate to players on the street.

  Hickering touched his cap. “Morning, sir! Moody informs me you’re chasing books and scholars. I dunno if scholars wake this early, so I figured we could kindle your day at The Bell Basket—perhaps shake a few books from their shelves, eh?”

  I took exception to his estimation of bookish types being late risers, but Hickering seemed friendly and well-informed. “Yeah, let’s head there first.”

  “Everyday Market—next stop!” Hickering swished the reins, prompting the torodon to lurch the carriage into a steady pace.

  The street’s immaculate tiles and strings supporting the cab made for a smooth ride. I enjoyed the tour. The experience would have fascinated Beaker, but the streets might overload his senses. I couldn’t predict how he would react to everything in the city—nor could I guess how much attention a screeching griffon might garner. Out of respect to the late sleepers, I kept things simple and rode sans Familiar.

  Occasionally, I asked Hickering about a strange sculpture or a busy shop, and he gave me a long-winded account of its owners, history, or affiliation. His pleasant manner convinced me to tip him handsomely at the end of the day, hoping to have him again for tomorrow.

  We reached hundreds of adjacent tents, each bustling with merchants and delivery wagons setting up for the day.

  “Everyday Market!” Hickering announced our arrival while steering the carriage to a giant tented structure. The sign over a wrought iron door read The Bell Basket, but the building’s shape resembled neither a bell nor a basket. I thanked Hickering, and he reassured me he’d wait while I went inside.

  Hickering mentioned a gnome named Fazil owned the establishment. I’d seen gnomes before but had never interacted with one. With limbs shorter than a dwarf, this gnome didn’t fit the cheerful stereotype portrayed in books, games, and movies.

  Fazil sat atop a raised desk, immersed in a book while keeping an eye on the antique store below. In his shabby overalls, he appeared indifferent to inquiries, focused so intently on his reading that I felt like an unwelcome interruption.

  Rows of vases, empty chests, ornate baskets, and old furniture divided the building. I looked over the wares as I approached, but none enticed me after Detect Magic showed nothing special about them.

  I produced Thaxter’s parchment with the squiggly symbol for the clerk, but the gnome barely glanced at it before shaking his head, volunteering no information.

  “Perhaps a few coins—” I tried to start a conversation, but the gnome held up his hand and turned his back to me. He wasn’t squeezing me, at least.

  An ornate picture book in his hands rivaled me for attention.

  I’d inherited Mr. Fergus’s academic snobbery, which emboldened me to interrupt the reader. When Fazil’s eyes returned to the book, I held up the parchment and plied him questions. “Do you know anyone who might know what this symbol means? Do you recognize this? What language might this be?”

  The gnome spoke in a reedy voice. “I don’t carry academics. Old books are too risky and expensive.” He held up his illustrated picture book. “I have only two of these.”

  “What do you mean risky?”

  “Too risky to keep safe. Academic tomes are too valuable, and people steal them. Be off, now!” Fazil waved his hand.

  I sighed. “And you don’t know of anyone who specializes in old civilizations. Maybe as a hobby?”

  Fazil shook his head and refused to look up from his story.

  Giving up, I left The Bell Basket in a sour mood. I cast Detect Magic out of habit, but nothing glowed except something above a doorway across the street.

  Hickering caught my exit from the tented building. “A bust already, eh?”

  I held up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture. After checking for traffic, I crossed the street and approached the magic object.

  “Hello. What do we have here?”

  A small ping-pong ball-sized eye floated within the painted trim of the structure. The building seemed to be an ordinary bakery.

  The eye pointed toward the Bell Basket’s doorway, and when I approached, its iris tracked in my direction. I’d recently unlocked Eye, a spell for spying, but I could only guess how Improved Eye worked better.

  Technically, it counted as a summoned creature, but someone placed it in the bakery’s trim as camouflage, for the color near the Eye paint faded to white. The nameplate matched a contestant’s name, Darkstep. Aside from its obvious spying utility, I couldn’t fathom its capabilities. Invoking Hot Air to raise myself, I reached to touch it, poking my finger into its side like a hard-boiled egg. Pushing against it caused the eye to change shape instead of move. Improved Eyes stayed in fixed positions.

  “Hello?”

  It felt stupid talking to it, but my Hot Air had a limited duration, and I didn’t know what else to do. When my blessing expired, I guided myself to street level, ignoring stares from passersby.

  “Well, then, goodbye, Darkstep—for now.” I cast Scorch on it. Instead of dropping to the ground, it winked out of existence with a puff of green smoke like other summoned creatures.

  To his credit, Hickering didn’t pester me with questions when I returned to the carriage.

  “I’ll be back. I’m going to check out the rest of the Everyday Market.”

  Nothing about the bakery and the shops around it explained why someone planted the Improved Eye here. Someone who’s cast it 1,742 times wouldn’t place it near clues of their identity or location, so I turned my attention to the shops.

  After only a few minutes of browsing, I realized the locals had aptly named the Everyday Market. It always stood open, but its sellers carried only common objects like nuts, spoons, bowls, and basic tools. When I caught myself browsing through a shop of hides, I gave up. Where shoes counted for exotic goods, it wasn’t the right shop for me.

  I bounded into my carriage with renewed vigor. “Let’s try the other place Moody recommended. I think she called it The Rusty Nail?”

  Hickering nodded. “By the Swallow’s Gate—riverfront ways. It’s coarser than the market, but ye look like ye can handle yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  I grandly tapped the carriage, and we took off.

  Instead of spires, flatboat masts poked above the rooflines, signifying our proximity to the harbor. My tour guide pointed toward an approaching archway. “Righto, sir. Swallow’s Gate awaits your business.”

  Swallow’s Gate dominated the low-profile neighborhood. The enormous freestanding monument straddled the street, like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. When we passed beneath it, I got a closer look at the details of its gates—friezes along its trim depicted animals playing musical instruments. The decorative gates seemed permanently open, and closing them served no purpose aside from redirecting traffic to another avenue.

  I interpreted it as a welcoming sign.