The Floating Island (33 page)

So now I am sitting in my new home, in front of the fire, listening to McLean singing quietly to an invisible audience, and writing in the journal that the king gave me.

I am trying to put down on paper all the things I can remember since my adventure began. I’ve tried to draw the things that I can’t describe well in words, but I am even less of an artist than a writer. I guess the king is right—all skills get better with practice.

On the morning of my birthday, I was sure I would never have a beard, a life, or a story worth telling of it. I still don’t have a beard, though it’s coming along nicely. And I’m not sure how much of a life I will have; no one ever is. But I do have a story. And that’s coming along nicely, too.

My father always said that any letter or tale should be written from beginning to end with the same quill pen. I suppose the message there is that one should keep a story brief and to the point. But some tales are longer than others. It seems to me that the more excitement a story holds, the larger the feather which is sharpened into the quill that writes it needs to be.

So you can probably guess which feather I decided to use to pen this one.

And I sharpened it with the knife in the jack-rule, so that the words it writes might be as measured and as accurate as possible.

All of this wondrous, terrifying, amazing adventure began with a birthday gift from an albatross. I have come to believe that she didn’t just lose the feather by random accident, but rather dropped it on me to make me see that sometimes it is the little things in life that carry the most magic.

I owe that bird a lot. She saved my life by catching the eye of the
Serelinda
. The feather she gave me both spared me from Ida’s itchy fingers and brought me a new, if somewhat reluctant, friend. Her actions made the king want to meet me. Everything good that has happened to me since my birthday began with her gift.

I have also come to realize other things since that morning. For a long time I believed that my father never thought I was good enough at any one thing to become a master of it. Now I realize what he was really doing when he sent me to train in each of the manufacturing areas.

He was teaching me to be the Inspector.

That’s what he was trying to tell me in his letter. He knew my strength was in looking at
everything
. He found a way to put my curiosity to work.

My father, who is superstitious but does not believe in magic, is the one who trained me to see it. Maybe I can show it to him someday.

I miss my family very much. Hard as it is for me to believe, I especially miss my brothers teasing me, my mother fussing over me, my sister treating me like a baby—all the things I hated when I was with them. I wish I could show my father that my beard is finally growing in. And I will go back home one day. But for now I have a job to do—and it’s as perfect a task as I could ever hope to be given.

I have a whole world full of magic to explore, a whole lot of pieces of the magic puzzle to find.

And I have a book or two to write.

Elizabeth Haydon is currently working to
restore the recently discovered second volume of
The Lost Journals of Ven Polypheme,
The Thief Queen’s Daughter
.

Here’s a sneak peek for your eyes only.

Check behind you before you turn the page.

“T
RY THE STOLEN ALLEYWAY.”

The three children followed her finger with their eyes. She was pointing to a dark side alleyway off the main street, where a thin vapor of mist appeared stuck between the buildings. At the opening of the alleyway there was a sign.

Steal A’way,
it read.

The old woman wiped her nose with the back of her tattered sleeve. “If yer looking fer somethin’ that was stolen, ya best check there first, laddie,” she said, her black teeth glistening in her mouth beside the holes where there were no teeth at all. “That’s the place where stolen things are sold.”

“Isn’t everything in a thieves’ market stolen?” Clemency asked.

The ragged woman drew herself up as tall as she could and snorted in contempt.

“That’s a lie,” she said angrily. “Not everyone in the Gated City’s a thief. Some of us’s just the kin o’ thieves from long ago. Many honest folk works here in the market.” She seemed to reconsider her statement. “Well, maybe not
many
, but there’s some here and there. Now, git.” She shooed them away with her fingerless-gloved hands.

Excerpt copyright © 2006 by Elizabeth Haydon.

“I-I’m not sure about this,” Char said nervously. “That place looks even creepier than the rest of this creepy city.”

“Come on,” said Ven impatiently, starting for the alley. “We don’t have time to waste—if Saeli’s in there, we have to get to her before she’s sold. Let’s go.”

Clemency nodded and followed Ven, with Char catching up a moment later.

The booths of this alleyway were not as brightly colored as the ones in the main streets. Instead of the carefully painted banners and the carved boothplates there were simple signs above each stall made from ragged gray cloth, each bearing the name of the goods offered, printed on them in ink.

Char and Clemency both stopped in the middle of the street as Ven approached the first booth. He squinted to read the sign.

Kisses

Ven’s eyes moved down from the sign to the person sitting beneath it.

A white-haired woman, or what appeared to be a woman, grinned back at him toothlessly, the wart on her chin sprouting hairs as long as the ones on her head.

Ven backed away in alarm.

Clem grabbed his arm and led him deeper into the alleyway.

“Might want to avoid that one,” she said.

“Er—yes,” Ven coughed.

“This is the oddest place I’ve ever been, and I’ve been in some doozies,” Char muttered as they made their way past the huddled shoppers, looking at the strange booths and the signs above them.

“What can this possibly mean?” Clemency asked as she read more of the signs on the booths.

Thoughts

Moments

Glances

“They’re all things that can be stolen, just like actual stuff,” said Ven, passing a gray rag banner reading Dreams. “Stolen thoughts, stolen moments, stolen glances, stolen dreams—I’ve heard of all of those things, but I never thought they could be resold.”

“Well, if you ever had a kiss stolen, you can go back an’ get it from her,” Char said, pointing over his shoulder at the booth where the warty old woman had been. “But she can
have
the one Lucy Dockenbiggle took off’a me when I was nine, thanks anyway. I can’t believe anyone would buy that one—it was pretty awful.”

“Who is Lucy Dockenbiggle?” Clemency asked curiously.

“Keep moving,” said Ven under his breath. “I don’t think we want to linger long here.”

They continued down the Stolen Alleyway, past signs for Youth, Knowledge, and Time. Some of the booths were empty, while others had a single person sitting within them, waiting for customers. Ven slowed down for a moment in front of one reading Shirts. Within the drapes of that stall they could see shirts of all sizes and colors hanging, flapping gently in the foggy breeze.

“This one doesn’t make sense to me,” he said, coming to a halt. “Shirts? What is this doing in the Stolen Alleyway? Shouldn’t it just be in the Outer Market with all the rest of the goods?”

“No,” Char said quickly, tugging at his arm. “Haven’t ya never heard of someone losin’ his shirt? It means he got taken for
everything
he had. I don’t think we want to be near this booth especially.”

“Yes, my guess is that the residents of this place could steal the shirts from our backs and we might not even notice,” added Clemency. “Keep moving.”

“I only see three more booths anyway, and no sign of Saeli,” said Ven anxiously. “It was probably a mistake to come here.”

They hurried down to the end of the alleyway, passing booths for stolen ideas and futures, until they came to the last stall on the street. The ratty, gray sign read:

Childhood

“Saeli!” Ven shouted, looking up and down the street. His word seemed to be almost instantly swallowed; it did not echo as it should have.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Clem, glancing around. “She must be somewhere else. I think we should look for a flower seller—that’s the kind of person who might make use of a Gwadd.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Char urged. “I wanna go back to the normal part of the market, where everyone is just a thief looking to take your money. This place is givin’ me hives.”

Ven nodded, and turned to head back out the way they came. Just as he did, he and the other children heard a soft female voice behind them call out.

“Char!”

The three turned around in shock.

There was no one in the street looking their way, just the same shoppers with their heads down, their eyes averted, milling through the alleyway toward the booths they sought.

“Saeli?” Char called.

“Over here,” replied the voice. It was coming from within the last booth, the one labeled Childhood.

“Saeli!” Ven shouted again as the three ran toward the booth.

Just as they came to within a few feet of it, the drape in front was pulled back. Inside the booth was a young woman with dark eyes and hair, and a bright, warm smile. Her eyes never glanced at Clemency or Ven, but rather went directly to Char. Her smile widened.

“Char,” she said softly.

Char’s face was as white as snow.

“How—how do you know my name?” he stammered.

The young woman looked for the first time at Ven, then at Clemency. Then she shook her head.

“No, I’m sorry, I have nothing for you two,” she said briskly. “You must both have had happy childhoods—or acceptable ones.” Her attention returned to Char. “But you, now—you were robbed of yours fairly early, weren’t you, Char?”

Ven glanced at his friend. Char was trembling violently.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking him by the shoulder.

“Wait!” said the young woman quickly. “If you leave now, Char, you may never get the chance to find it again.”

Char’s eyes were focused straight ahead. He shrugged off Ven’s hand and walked slowly up to the booth.

The woman within the stall smiled again. She reached under the counter and pulled out a tiny glass box with a purple oval stone set in the top.

“How—how much?” Char asked, his voice shaking.

“Char—don’t,” Ven said, but his words seemed to be swallowed again by the mist in the alley.

The woman’s smile grew brighter, and her cheeks took on a rosy glow. “For the whole box—one thousand gold crowns,” she said sweetly.

Char’s face went slack. “I—I don’t have that kind of money,” he whispered. “I prolly won’t see that much in my whole lifetime.”

The woman nodded. “Some people are willing to spend everything they gain in a lifetime to recapture their lost childhoods,” she said. Her voice was as smooth as caramel candy. “That’s a high price to pay. But for a single gold piece, I would be willing to let you see a moment of yours.”

“I—I—”

“Leave him alone,” said Ven angrily. “You’re a cheat and a charlatan! Nobody can buy back childhood. Come on, Char, let’s get out of this place.”

“Shut up!” Char snapped; his eyes were glowing with interest and fear. He fumbled in his pockets and produced the single gold piece the moneychanger had given him, then held it out, his hand quivering, to the young woman.

Her hand shot out quickly, like all the other hands of the sellers in the market, and snagged the coin. Then she slid the box with the purple stone forward on the counter.

“Go ahead,” she said softly. “Have a peek.”

Slowly Char took hold of the top of the box and raised it.

Ven looked inside. There was nothing in it, just a velvet-lined bottom the color of a cloudless sky.

“You tricked him,” Clemency said accusingly. “Give him back his gold piece.”

The woman’s smile grew brighter still. She looked at Char, who was staring into the box, his eyes glistening.

“Do you want your coin back, Char?” she asked, amused.

“No!” Char gasped, his voice harsh. “Shhhhhh.”

“That’s all one gold piece buys you, I’m afraid,” she said to Char regretfully. “But you can take it if you want.”

She opened the box again. Char reached in quickly and pulled his hand back as she closed the top again, gently this time.

“I—I could work for it,” Char said. Ven was alarmed by the intensity in his voice. “I can cook, an’ I have experience as a deckhand—”

The woman nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose we could arrange something like that,” she said casually.

“No! Char, snap out of it!” Ven shouted, shaking his roommate by the arm. With Clem’s help he dragged Char, struggling, away from the table, away from the woman with the warm, black eyes, down the street of the Stolen Alleyway, and back into the bright light of the late morning in the open air of the Outer Market.

Ven did not stop until he had reached the well in the center of the street. He pushed Char down onto the well’s rim, then hauled up a bucket and splashed the water from it on his friend’s face.

“What happened?” he asked as Char shook his head, spattering drops of water everywhere. “What did you see in that box?”

Char looked down at the cobblestones of the street.

“I can’t explain,” he said finally. “Happy times, the warm grass—maybe a picnic. Images of things in my memory that didn’ make no sense at the time, and don’t now. But they were
real
; she wasn’t fakin’ me. Especially this.” He opened his hand.

In it was a red glass bead.

“I remember this,” Char continued. “I’m not sure how, but I remember being held and playing with this. Maybe a whole string of ’em.” He turned the bead over in his hand. “And the smell of lemon and roses. I remember that still, too. Whoever was holdin’ me smelled like lemon and roses.”

“Did you see anyone’s face?” Clem asked.

Char shook his head.