The Magician's Tower (13 page)

Certain spells required a conductor while others did not. It was important, she knew, to know which was
which.
Ignigtis
, the illusory fireball, was an example of a nonconductor spell, as well as
Reconcilio
, which she had once used to repair her father's broken magnifying glass. Even the extraordinary
Switch
enchantment she had used on Red Martin beneath Witch Hill was magic she could perform without wand work—but spells such as
Lux lucis admiratio
and
Duratus frigidam
demanded the accuracy of a conductor. She knew all too well that she needed to be careful. Unlike faeries, who were so in tune with their magic that they could control its direction with nothing more than their thoughts, the human body was nowhere near as accurate.

The Wizard raised one bushy white eyebrow. “Yes, you
almost
forgot, but in the end, you did it right. That is the main thing, and you should be proud of yourself.”

“Yes, indeed,” Deacon added from her shoulder. “It was most impressive.”

Oona's smile widened.

The Wizard clapped his hands together. “Now, I think it is time you got back to your contest. Samuligan can take you to the park. Meanwhile, I'll have a look through the rest of the Dodgers' inventory to make sure there isn't any more of the silk lurking around.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?” Oona asked.

He nodded assuredly. “Now that I know the proper
spell to use the first time, I'm sure I'll manage just fine. If there is time, I will take a hansom cab to the park, though I have a feeling this may take quite a while. I must be thorough.”

“Of course, Uncle. Just … please be careful,” she said, and though she did not consider herself to be the affectionate type, she gave in to the impulse and gave him a fervent hug. Deacon cawed uncomfortably from her shoulder as the Wizard patted her on the back.

As Oona turned to go, the Wizard stopped her.

“And one more thing, Oona dear,” he said with a glow about his eyes.

“What's that, Uncle?” she asked.

He gave her a wink. “Good luck.”

D
ark Street slid past the carriage windows, its crooked structures like shadowy, misshapen figures crammed shoulder to shoulder in too tight of a space. The upper stories of the buildings leaned dizzily over the sidewalks and against one another, their oddly shaped windows staring down on the bustle about town.

Horse-drawn carriages clacked over damp morning cobblestones, and pedestrians buzzed busily about the sidewalks: the ladies in their high-bustled dresses, the men in jackets and bowler hats. It was the everyday activity of a modern city.

There was nothing to suggest that the citizens lived any differently from residents of London, England—the street was sometimes called Little London Town, after
all—and yet, people aside, one could not travel far on Dark Street before coming across some peculiarity or another. Sometimes subtle (a window with no reflection, or a water fountain that ran in reverse) and sometimes not so subtle (an enchanted cello that played on its own, or the passing shadow of a nonexistent dragon), the oddities were a constant reminder of the street's deep roots in magic.

A puzzling thought occurred to Oona as the carriage clattered north toward the park, and she couldn't help but wonder why she had not considered it before now. The incident with the throttler's silk was all at once obliterated from her mind as she sat forward in her seat, finger pressing ponderously against her lips.

“There's something that I don't understand, Deacon,” she said. “Why would Madame Iree favor her daughter to win over her son?”

Deacon stood on the seat opposite her and cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why would she steal the punchbowl and use it to give Isadora the answers to the clues, and not share them with her son, Adler, as well?”

“That is a very good question,” Deacon replied. “And an even better question would be: Why on earth would you concern yourself with that now, when we are presently on our way to the second set of challenges, and you still haven't figured out that clue?”

A line creased Oona's forehead. She looked at the ribbon, running her thumb over the silky surface, and feeling as if her head might burst.

It was strange. Never before had she felt so confused about a clue. No doubt it had something to do with the fact that each time she focused on the words, more questions slipped into her mind regarding the punchbowl theft. Where was it now? Perhaps in the back of Madame Iree's dress shop. Or was there something more sinister at play? After all, if the bowl could actually answer any question, then just about anyone would have a motive for wanting to take it. Even Red Martin himself, should he come to know about it, would stop at nothing to get his hands on such a powerful tool.

And what about—

But Oona's thoughts came to an abrupt halt along with the carriage. She went forward and then back, slamming down hard on her seat.

“Ouch, that hurt!” she cried.

Samuligan had brought the carriage to a surprising
stop in the middle of the street, and Oona could hear shouts of irritation from the carriage drivers behind them. Sticking her head out the open window, Oona glanced back, seeing a line of carriages suddenly backed up behind them, each of the drivers either shouting their displeasure, or shaking their fists in the air.

Turning forward, Oona saw why Samuligan had reined in the horse. She laughed. Less than a foot in front of the horse, she could see a line of multicolored beetles crossing the street. The average human driver would have missed seeing them altogether, Oona knew, or even if they had seen them, they would most likely have ridden right over the beautiful insects. But Samuligan was certainly not human, and it was a testament to his unpredictable faerie nature that he would hold up traffic on a busy morning to allow the insects to cross the street unharmed.

Three voices struck up a cord, humming in perfect harmony, before launching into a grim ballad of love lost.

Glancing out the other side of the carriage, Oona saw that the voices were coming from the three-headed singing lamppost, which, up until three weeks ago, had been a permanent fixture in the Dark Street restaurant district. Apparently, the restaurant owners had finally had enough of what they called “the obnoxious lamp” and commissioned the Wizard to move it to another location.

The Wizard had agreed, and now the magical lamppost resided beside the joke-telling clock in front of the Dark Street Theater, where it sang songs of tragic love upon each hour.

Deacon shuttered at the incorrectness of the final sentence, puffing up his chest for what was sure to be an impassioned lesson on the improper use of the English language, but Oona held her hand up, her gaze fixed out the window.

Deacon squawked, as if the effort to hold back his lesson had been a great one, and then asked: “What is it?”

“Look,” Oona said, and pointed at the sign outside the theater. “Do you see it, Deacon?”

Deacon hopped to the other end of the passenger compartment and nodded. “Yes, your uncle spoke of it on the way to the garment district.”

Oona vaguely remembered her uncle pointing it out. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she had not been very interested, but now that she looked at it properly she realized that the sign was of the utmost importance.

She read aloud:

Two artistic sketches, one on either side of the text, depicted the images of two famous people from the World of Man: Abraham Lincoln and Cleopatra. Oona knew their faces from her history lessons with Deacon, but it was not the images that caught her attention.

“Yes, I see it,” Deacon said, sounding unimpressed. “It appears to be some sort of quick-change/one-man impersonator show. Not my sort of thing, really. I prefer the classics: Shakespeare and the like.”

Oona smiled, and her heart began to work faster. The carriage moved forward as she held the clue up to the
light and read out loud: “Take it to the STREAM of SNOT HAUNTED Faces.”

When Deacon did not immediately respond, she pointed to the theater sign, and then turned the ribbon toward Deacon. “Don't you see? The letters are all mixed up. Look at the words printed in all capital letters in the clue. Why didn't I see it before? They are anagrams.” Again she pointed to the receding theater sign. “See the word
MASTER?
”

Deacon took in a sharp breath: “It has the same letters as the word
stream
.”

“Indeed, Deacon.
STREAM
is an anagram for
MASTER
. And mix up the letters in
SNOT HAUNTED
and you get …”

Deacon nodded before leaping enthusiastically to her shoulder.
“TEN THOUSAND!”

Oona pulled the ribbon taut. “So that line of the clue should read: ‘Take it to the Master of Ten Thousand Faces.' ”

“Take what?” Deacon asked.

“Excellent question,” Oona said. “But first, look at the last line. It makes sense now.”

“At the Dark EARTH TREE TEST?” Deacon said questioningly. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“But again,” Oona said excitedly, “the letters printed in capitals are anagrams. Once you know what to look for, it's hard not to see it.”

Deacon stared at the ribbon, but could not make it out.

“I'll give you a hint,” Oona said. “Where is the Master of Ten Thousand Faces performing?”

“At the …” He trailed off, suddenly seeing it for himself.
“EARTH TREE TEST
is an anagram for
STREET THEATER.”

“Correct,” Oona said. She could feel her mind really beginning to move now, smooth and focused, taking its footing on the solid foundation of logic and reason. She felt invigorated. “Take it to the Master of Ten Thousand Faces, at the Dark Street Theater,” she said. “So apparently we are supposed to bring something to Albert Pancake, who is the Master of Ten Thousand Faces at the Dark Street Theater.”

“Again, what are we supposed to bring?” Deacon asked.

Oona glanced at the first line “Go see the RAIN AIR EVENT,” and then focused her attention out the window. She scratched at her chin, watching the street vendors hustle about the outdoor market, but she did not really see them. The letters of the clue danced in her mind's eye, rearranging themselves like pickup sticks.

Indeed, Oona was so preoccupied that she nearly missed seeing Isadora Iree exit the veterinarian's office with a box tucked under her arm.

“Look, Deacon. It's Isadora,” Oona said, quite surprised. “Where is she going? The park is in the other direction.”

“Perhaps she's given up,” Deacon said. He hopped to the windowsill and watched Isadora walk hurriedly away.

“Unlikely,” Oona said. “She's up to something. What was that she had under her arm?”

“In the box?” Deacon said. “You aren't suggesting that it is this mysterious punchbowl, are you?”

Oona squinted out the window at Isadora's shrinking form. “It is just about the right size.”

“She was coming out of the veterinarian's office,” Deacon said. “Perhaps it is a sick pet.”

Oona felt a jolt of energy shoot through her like a bolt of lighting. She sat forward in her seat. “Repeat that, Deacon.”

“I said, perhaps it is a sick pet.”

“No. The first part. You said she was coming out of the …” Oona trailed off, attempting to spell out the letters in her head.

“Veterinarian's office,” Deacon finished for her.

Oona bounced her fist against the carriage door. “And
VETERINARIAN
is an anagram for
RAIN AIR EVENT.”

Deacon was silent as he did the calculation in his head. A moment later he began to flap his wings in excitement.
“By Oswald, you're right! So the clue should read ‘Go see the veterinarian.”

“Which means,” Oona said, “that Isadora has taken the lead once again. Samuligan!” She banged several times on the roof. “Turn this horse cart around at once! We're off to see the veterinarian!”