Malcolm crouched on the moss covered stone and levelled his eyes at the bottle of ink. It had to work this time! He pushed a sliver of will into his core and cleared his throat. “You’re erm great, er, really great. Yeah, you’re all dark and mysterious and, um, flowy…”

  “FLOWY!” Nev squawked down his ear. She had a laugh like a constipated hen.

  Mal jumped at the sudden sound, sending dark splodges of ink spattering onto the paper. “You could have warned me! That was my last piece, and I still haven’t got an invite worth having!”

  “Well, why not? You’ve got the fancy paper. You’ve got the fancy ink.” She peered over his shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem...” Malcolm waved a square of paper under her nose. The whole page was covered in shaky swirls. It looked like spider sick. “The problem is that the writing that the archivist didn’t write doesn’t look like the archivist wrote it.” He sat back against the cave wall and sighed. He’d blown it. Yesterday morning, Todd had found him mooching round the grounds and presented him with half a dozen pristine sheets of top-quality paper and a full bottle of rich, black ink. Mal had spent hours hunched over them. Nothing he’d produced came anywhere near up to snuff.

  “Have you tried asking Zippo for help?” Nev glanced uneasily over her shoulder. It was fast becoming apparent that the fiery girl with the dark eyes and even darker temper wasn’t quite so confident when his mentor was around.

  “I’ve not seen her for days. There’s no sign of her anywhere. I’ve waited here every morning. I’ve tried hanging around up at the towers. I even asked Roly if he’d seen her leaving the grounds.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said ‘the eyes of the guard belong to me’. He read it off the palm of his hand, then his head went all wobbly, and he took a coughing fit so bad ol’ Blakey had to send him for a lie down. I don’t think he’s very well.”

  Nev frowned.

  “We’ve got three days till the archive ship leaves.” Mal was pacing around the cave again. “I need a plan. Mathers’ll be easy enough to fool, but there’s no way chief whatshisface is gonna let that ship set sail for Misthe without his men crawling all over it. They’ll have counter charms coming out of their ears. There’s not a chance I’ll get on it.”

  “What, not even with this?” Nev brought her hand from behind her back with a flourish. In it, she held a sheet of fine, scalloped paper. “Take it.” She grinned.

  “Malcolm Hobs, by invitation of….” Mal’s eyes flicked from the page in his hand to Nev’s original invite – the one he’d been trying to copy. It was exactly the same, the same swooping letter y, the same twirly line under the signature. By the gods, she’d only gone and done it! He stopped reading and almost flung his arms round her, then settled for a quick thumbs up. “How the hell did you get that?”

  “Clarice, the salter’s girl, down by the docks, she owed me.”

  “How did she get it?”

  “Adds up to the same thing – that’s her skill. It’s some sort of replication spell. She’s brilliant with it. Look, she got the cursive down perfectly.” Mal stared at the invitation. This changed everything, starting with the fact that he now had a couple of hours to kill, and there was a spare skill stone burning a hole in his dictionary.

  ***

  Malcolm made for the gates at a jog. Every so often, he stopped running and gazed into the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of Endeleas somewhere up in the blue. He’d not seen the phoenix since she sent him on the feather errand. He wanted to tell her how the mission had led to him getting invited to Todd’s team meeting. He wanted the great bird to know he hadn’t missed the opportunity she had given him. Todd still hadn’t seen his skill. Not finding Nev in the oak tree the other day must have put him off his stride. He’d searched for ages, then simply declared himself late for work and pelted off, yelling something about the greys not being able to kill someone if they couldn’t find them. He’d looked happy enough about it, and now, for the first time in his life, Malcolm was part of a team.

  If they worked together, they were going to do amazing in the archive hunt. Ernie would be able to listen out for attacks, and he could deploy Fred the super-flea – How many of those things could he call up at once? Nev was practically the invisible girl and, if what he thought happened in the CRaP cages was anything to go by, their team leader could put monsters to sleep! All they needed now was for Mal to have a skill worth having. He patted the tiny bump in his dictionary and quickened his pace. The earlier he got to the finders’ market, the more bargains to be found.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Despite the hour and the heat, the place was heaving, the walkways packed, every stall surrounded. Banners were strung between rows of striped tents and stalls and the dozens of food carts which sent all manner of delicious aromas belching into the air. A tiny, green bubble floated past his head. Mal opened his mouth, and the bubble burst into icy, peppermint shards on his tongue. For an instant, colours looked brighter, sounds sharper, smells even more delicious. Any change left from selling his kitten stone, and a bag of mint sensations was top of the list.

  The further he got down the aisle, the more the crowds thinned. Obviously, the popular stalls were all at the front of the market. At the very end of the row, someone had set up an old, two wheeled cart, paint peeling, missing spokes from the wheels. The torn bedsheet draped over the shafts declared, ‘Walter Browne - Purveyor of fine artefacts’. Underneath, someone, probably Mr Browne, had painted in wobbly letters – Best bargins! Blinding deals! Somehow, Malcolm doubted it.

  He cast his eyes over the cart – a jumble of old bottles filled with a variety of murky liquids, a few raw crystals, a couple of hag stones. He picked up the nearest bottle. The handwritten label proclaimed it to be Mana-Multiplier. He could do with some of that – if he had any mana left to multiply. He peeled back the label on another bottle, Trigger-Ade. He certainly didn’t need any help with that! The thought of accidentally triggering the kitten stone made his mouth go dry.

  “May I help the young Sir?” Mr Browne leaned across the table. His bald head shone; tiny eyes peered out from flabby cheeks. He wiped a meaty hand down his pants and grabbed for Mal’s shoulder. “Ready to, huh, haggle!” he wheezed.

  “Er…” Malcolm stepped out of the man’s reach. “I was more hoping to sell,” he said. His hand went straight to the dictionary in his pocket.

  Mr Browne frowned, his eyes disappearing under folds of skin. He rubbed his hands together. “Got a spare stone to part with, have you?”

  Malcolm nodded doubtfully. He gripped the dictionary tighter.

  “Wonderful! Wonderful! Well, if the kind Sir would wait one moment.” The stallholder struggled down to his knees. The whole cart lurched with his movements, bottles rocking from side to side, hag stones rattling. Malcolm slipped the kitten stone from its flap and palmed it. This was a bad idea. Everything on the stall looked like junk, and Mr Browne looked like he had no coin to part with even if he wanted to.

  Mal was on the point of walking away when the stallholder rose from the bottom of the cart. He puffed and panted under the weight of the large woven basket in his arms. It was heaped to overflowing with familiar, grey objects – skill stones! The basket was full of skill stones. Malcolm’s doubts sailed away, and he clamped his lips together to stop a squeal of excitement. Holy moly! Was he about to make a killing! He screwed up his eyes, desperately trying to read the tiny words engraved on the stones. Bloody hell! Did that one say ‘bullet’?

  “A-hem!” Mr Browne coughed.

  Malcolm paused his frantic inspection. “I’ll trade! I’ll trade! I got mixed up. I don’t want to sell! I want to trade!”

  Mr Browne smiled, and his eyes disappeared again. “Ha-ha! Keen, are you, eh? I bid you go easy on a poor, old man.” He wiped at his brow. “For I fear my wits aren’t what they once was.”

  Malcolm dropped the kitten stone into his pocket and rolled up his sleeves. He was about to come out of this deal a hell of a lot richer than he had been going into it. He breathed deep and reached for his core.

  “Before we begin,” the stallholder interrupted. His hands felt around under the display board. “Let me just get you a sack.”

  A sack! Good grief! This could be the greatest haggle Feor had ever witnessed. Malcolm attempted to steady himself. The deal needed thinking about. He squashed down a wave of excitement and took a deep breath. He’d aim for four. If he could butter up Mr Browne enough to give him four, no, actually five spell stones – three for him and two for Dec. No, make it six. Malcolm stretched out a hand to take the perfectly round, grey stone on the very top of the pile. At the same time, he reached inwards for his skill. The trick was not to look too deliberate about it.

  SNAP!

  A sheet of blinding green light tore through his vision. Mal stumbled forward. The world spun sideways. He grabbed the edge of the cart to stop himself sprawling in the mud.

  “What happened?” he asked. His voice echoed strangely in his earsw.

  “What happened, my arsthe!” yelled the stallholder. His palms slammed down. Potion bottles scattered. Glass smashed. An acrid stink filled the air. “Bad move, laddie! Very bad move! Fanthy me thinking you a thmart punter!”

  Malcolm stared. Mr Browne seemed to be having some sort of trouble with his mouth. His face didn’t look at all the same as it had a minute ago. His nose had grown for a start, and it was still growing, swooping out into a long, pointed arc. The stallholder’s face was darker now, the same colour as the little wooden desk that Declan said once belonged to their mother. Mr Browne’s nose shone like freshly polished rosewood.

  Mal turned to bolt. A strong hand clamped about his neck and spun him around. The stall holder straddled the cart. The vicious horn jutting from his face prodded at Malcolm’s chest.

  “Thought you could charm me, did you?” Mr Browne struggled to get his other leg over the side of the cart. If he succeeded, Mal was dead in the dirt. He squirmed desperately. “Leave off! I haven’t done anything! Let me go!” The words rattled in his throat.

  “Don’t they teach you nothin’ at that menagerie o’ yours?” Mr Browne laughed. “Ain’t no one can uthe charithma on Wally the Wheedle!” The tip of his horn sliced through the flimsy fabric of Malcolm’s shirt like it wasn’t there.