A captured cauldron, p.4
A Captured Cauldron, page 4
A thoughtful voice hummed next to her. “Someone’s vibe isn’t matching the aura of Potion Con today.”
She took a loud sip of the coffee. “Hi, Banneker.”
Banneker sidled up with a kebab in hand, its bright red sauce matching the hue of his hair. For having gotten up early to set up his booth in Vendor’s Alley, the artificer hardly looked worse for wear. Even his freckles looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“I see you at least had fun at the Alley,” he said, pointing with his toe to the bags at her feet. “Rest of the day not matching up?”
“Not quite.” She leaned against the striped stone wall of the sinkhole, taking in the bustle of the open-air food court. “Was hoping more of my friends would be here.”
“I get it.” Banneker rubbed his pointed ear. “A few of my regulars decided not to come, with the safety concerns and all.”
“How’s your booth doing?”
“Oh, it’s hanging in there,” he answered modestly. Dawn knew that was a lie—when she had passed by his table earlier, half his devices had been marked as sold, with eager customers eyeing the remainder.
Banneker nudged her. “Hey, if you come back around to my booth, I’ve still got some free marbles to give out.”
Dawn smiled. “Shouldn’t you be trying to get those marbles back in your head?”
“No point. You know they’ll just fall out of my ears tomorrow.” He waved his half-empty kebab stick in the air. “Don’t worry too much about your friends, my dudette. There’s two more days of the con. Why don’t you go relax for a bit, and we’ll see you at the debates?”
Dawn’s gaze wandered up the sinkhole walls, taking in the tiers of visitors mingling above the food court. Several of those higher nooks and crannies had been turned into overpriced bars, eager to get people primed for a rowdy debate session in the afternoon. Not that she could blame them; a drink sounded nice right about now. She dug up her schedule and gave it a once-over. The debates weren’t for another hour—she could fit a cocktail in between now and then, easy.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot. See you later?”
Banneker gave a wide gesture. “Go be one with the universe!”
She shook her head, drained her coffee, and wound her way across the sinkhole, passing by more booths, panels, demonstrations…
“And this here is Noodle. She’s a rock pygmy dragon native to the area—”
“Now, this dreaming potion by itself will only last a few minutes, but if you combine it with this solution—”
“Get your quartzes here! Crushed, tumbled, and columns, pre-cleansed and ready to go! Griffin shipping options available!”
…until she finally found the stone-carved stairs leading into the convention’s main bar: The Crazed Cauldron, its temporary wooden sign hanging crooked over the door. Dawn grimaced. Given the vastness of the arena, she likely had only a half hour to spare on a watered-down drink before she had to hoof it to the debates, but it was better than staring out at the food stalls and feeling sorry for herself—
The door before her slammed open, and a body came hurtling out.
“What the—?”
It took all her strength to hold onto the railing and not tumble back down the stairs, while the body in question sprawled on the floor at her feet, both panting and laughing. The woman looked a mess—rumpled tunic, dust-streaked vest, purple hair splayed over her tawny face—but she clearly didn’t care. She grinned and waved up at Dawn from her spot on the dirty floor. “Hi.”
Dawn blinked at her. “Hi?”
“Sorry about that.” The woman staggered to her feet and dusted herself off. “Let me just clear this guy out real quick.”
“What?” Dawn stood on tiptoe to look over her shoulder. The convention bar was a shambles. Chairs and barstools lay scattered on the floor while peaceful patrons crowded into the side booths, giving the woman and the aforementioned guy—a beefy human with a terrible sneer—space to brawl.
“Come on, Franz.” The woman stalked back in, fists raised, smile wide. “If you really call that a punch, I’m gonna tell your editor about it and get you kicked off the adventuring beat.”
The man lunged; she ducked, fluid as water.
“You—!” he garbled and continued swinging. She wove in and out of range, taunting him with her laugh—but her bravado had a shelf life. Franz’s punches, as drunk as they were, veered closer and closer to her jaw, angrier and faster with every attempt—
Dawn didn’t know why she did it. She could’ve—should’ve—just closed the door, returned to Banneker, and forgotten all about killing time with a bland cocktail. But when the man finally threw himself at the purple-haired woman, hands out, lips in a snarl, Dawn grabbed a glass of water from the bar and tossed it right into his face.
He spluttered in surprise, teetering halfway through his lunge. This was all the woman needed—she quickly ducked to the side and left her leg stuck out, letting him trip and smash his way down to the floor.
“All right, that’s it!” The bartender hopped out from behind the bar. “Someone get Franz out of here.”
Several other men—who were much braver now that the opponent was on the floor—leapt in and dragged Franz down to the lower levels, leaving Dawn with a stranger’s empty glass and an odd sense of accomplishment.
“You too, Rory.” The bartender glared at the purple-haired woman. “Out.”
“He started it!” She gathered up the glasses scattered across the bar and, in a blink, had them neatly stacked before him. “And you can’t stand him, either. Don’t tell me you weren’t looking forward to kicking him out.”
The bartender reluctantly took the glasses. “You’re an idiot.”
She set both hands under her chin. “Your favorite idiot.”
As he grumbled and wiped down the bartop, patrons slowly crawled out from the booths and began to flock around the bar. Dawn didn’t realize she was still hovering by the doorway until the woman—Rory—approached her once more, her dishevelment a clear mark of victory.
“Hey.” She nodded to Dawn. “Sorry again about that. You all right?”
Dawn stared at Rory’s face, absorbing the details the commotion had previously hidden. Her foolish grin did nothing to hide the entrancing sharpness of her features—the angled cheekbones, the short, pointed ears, the eyebrows studded with onyx piercings. It would have been intimidating if her look hadn’t been tempered by surprising hints of softness. Dawn’s eyes trailed over the wavy lines in her undercut, the teardrop earrings tapping against her jawline, then down farther…to the undulating strokes of a moving tattoo, barely peeking out from her wrinkled collar to caress her collarbone.
Dawn swallowed, her face warm. Yeah. She was certainly all right.
“You know,” she said, scrambling for a joke, “people normally wait until the debates to start punching people.”
It worked—Rory laughed. “Seeing as I’m not a potioneer, I gotta take my fights where I can get ’em.” She gestured to the bar. “Here, let me buy you a drink to thank you. I know the bartender—he’s moonlighting from The Rose & Crown. Makes a fantastic dragon’s tail. You like whiskey, uh…?”
She trailed off, waiting for a name. Dawn smiled. She was more of a rum girl herself, but for this woman? She’d take the whiskey neat.
“Dawn. And a dragon’s tail sounds great.”
They moved to a booth overlooking the arena, where potioneers still swarmed in tiny droves. Trying not to stare at the woman lounging across from her, Dawn watched the muted chaos below and took a sip of her drink. Just as Rory had promised, it wasn’t half-bad. The dry wine atop the smoky whiskey created a delightful two-toned twist, both in the glass and on her tongue.
“Told you he was good.” Rory leaned back in the booth, tapping her glass with chipped navy nails. “So, you a potioneer?”
“Wandmaker,” Dawn said. “Mostly here with friends.” Or at least she would be, if half of them had actually attended today. “What about you? You said you weren’t a potioneer.”
“No, I’m not smart enough for that. I’m a journalist covering the convention.”
“Oh. Science beat?”
“Magical crime, actually.” Rory tilted her drink toward the arena before taking a sip. “Interviewing all the tourists who shelled out for bodyguards this year. Not that there are a lot of them, but it’s enough for a fluff piece.” Her gaze settled on Dawn with a roguish half smile, one that sent a small tingle up Dawn’s arms. “Did your friends bring any guards? I need a few more quotes for my story before I go.”
“Nah, they’re locals,” Dawn said. “They don’t need bodyguards.” Then, in a desperate attempt at charm, something to match that smile— “I’d beat up anyone who tried to get close to them. You saw how I operate.”
She held up her glass and flexed an arm. To her relief, Rory snorted into her drink.
“We can market that,” she said, eyes glittering. “I can put an ad in the newspaper and everything. I happen to know a guy.”
Sip by sip, their cocktails disappeared as they piled onto the joke. Full-page ads for Dawn’s services, a glittery bodyguard uniform (pink and purple, of course), sparkling waterskins strapped to her thighs and arms—
Then the bartender pounded on the bartop, cutting their words short.
“Debates start in twenty minutes, folks!” he called. “Watch some smart idiots argue and punch each other, then come straight back here for happy hour!”
All around them, people eagerly hopped out of their seats and made for the debates. Rory set down her glass, smile faltering.
“Well, I’ve got a few more people to dig up for interviews.” She checked her pocket watch. “Doubt anyone will be sober enough to give a good quote after the debates are done.”
Dawn reluctantly slid out of the booth, wracking her brain for a way to keep Rory around a little while longer. If she could talk with her a bit more, she might be able to whisk her off to an after-party. A good one at The Jumping Ogre, or maybe at The Acid Splash in the northern quarter. Eli had enjoyed that place last time he—
Wait. Eli.
“Come to the debates with me,” she blurted out. “One of my friends is working here as a bodyguard. You could interview him and his client. And one of my other friends is a big potioneer—he’ll have something to say about the bodyguards if you want a dissenting opinion.”
Rory’s eyebrows rose. “Will he be in the debates?”
“He crushes it every year.”
“How’s his right hook?”
Dawn laughed—the one time Ambrose had thrown a punch, it hadn’t worked out for him. Or…had it, in the end?
“Nonexistent,” she said. “If he actually has to throw one this year, I’m buying everyone a drink.”
“Punches, sources, and drinks?” Rory drained her glass, her eyes locking with Dawn’s in a way that suggested none of those was what really intrigued her. “I’m in, water girl. Lead the way.”
RULE 5:
SIMMER
Ambrose
The debate hall had already filled by the time Ambrose arrived. Not that he was surprised—the energy of opening day meant there would be more fistfights than usual, and that was generally half the draw of the debates. Eager students and experienced potion masters alike gathered together with snacks and drinks. One man in particular had posted up in the corner, already surveying the sign-up booth and taking extensive notes—no doubt for the unofficial gambling rings about to form.
Rosemond Street, fortunately, had nabbed an excellent spot near the debate stage, erasing Ambrose’s fear of being relegated to the back of the audience. Sherry and Banneker passed around a bag of caramel popcorn, while Dawn laughed with an unfamiliar woman beside her.
“No Grim?” Ambrose asked as he approached. Sherry shook her head.
“You know they hate watching the fights,” she said. “Last time they attended, I caught them trying to offer lessons on uppercuts to the poor boys after. They can’t stand to watch a bad punch.”
“Couldn’t be me,” Dawn said through a mouthful of caramel drizzle. The newcomer beside her stuck her hand out to Ambrose.
“You must be Ambrose Beake. I’m Rory, with the Scarrish Post,” she said with a wide, genuine grin. “Can’t believe you were the friend Dawn was talking about. Half the folks I’ve interviewed today have mentioned you, I swear.”
Ambrose gave Dawn a half-chiding look. “Roping me into interviews, are you?”
“No.” She started chewing her popcorn faster. “I just thought she might like to interview Eli. She’s writing an article about bodyguards at Potion Con.”
Judging by the way she glanced sidelong at Rory, that was most certainly not the reason Dawn had dragged her along, but Ambrose let it lie—far be it from him to get in the way of her pursuits. On the contrary, he made a mental note to casually mention Dawn’s professional accolades to Rory before he went onstage.
“Has anyone seen Eli recently?” he asked, searching the crowd for a hint of black hair and broad shoulders. Just when he was beginning to fear that Sebastian had chosen not to attend the debates, the mustachioed gnome appeared amongst the many faces.
“Oh, there’s Master Beake!” Sebastian called, then tugged on Eli’s sleeve. “Are you quite sure we’ll be all right to stand with your friends? I’ve never been able to stand so close to the stage before—”
“It’ll be fine,” Eli reassured him. “It’s, uh…safer this way.”
“Right, right. Brilliant idea.” The artificer’s head bobbled. Eli winked at Ambrose and made space next to Sherry. Ambrose fought the urge not to immediately push his way over and take his hand; instead, he nodded politely to Sebastian, then made his excuses to Dawn and Rory.
“I’m afraid I must go sign up and see what’s in store for me,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Ambrose made a point of never signing up a topic himself, not for any category. In his opinion, those who actively presented a topic were the brash ones, the ones who wanted to yell rather than communicate an informed opinion. He himself almost never planned to go up—but more often than not, someone would sign up a truly heinous take, and he would find himself verbally beating said point to death onstage a half hour later.
Unfortunately for him, this had become a well-known habit of his—particularly well-known by Xavion—and Xavion took it upon themself to taunt him with horrible opinions. That crushed silverweed was more effective than dried. That uncleansed minerals couldn’t be used in effect reversals.
(That particular topic, at least, had only taken five minutes to beat into the dirt. Xavion hadn’t thought that challenge through.)
Ambrose strode up to the booth and searched for what his debate rival had posted today. With their greeting that morning, there was no possibility they weren’t on the list. But as he flipped through the pages, Xavion’s name wasn’t appearing. Not when it came to ingredient theories, or research practices, or historical analysis…
He flipped to the last page, Dragon’s Advocate, and sighed.
Dragon’s Advocate was intended first and foremost as a learning tool. Two people argued a well-known and well-ascribed theory in the same way a jeweler tumbled a rock. Examining it from all sides, using creativity and problem-solving to unearth new perspectives on old ideas.
And today, Xavion had dared sign up an argument that, whenever it was brought up, threatened to cleave every panel and debate in two.
True illusions are impossible.
Of course they were. Everyone knew that. No one had ever been able to manage a full illusion that perfectly looked, felt, sounded, tasted, and smelled like the real thing. There were too many factors at play, too many magic components that could dangerously backfire against each other in pursuit of all of those aspects. Sure, some people could manage three of the five and make the illusion passable—Aphosian artificers had gotten the closest—but no one had actually achieved perfection.
And given the Guild’s strict restrictions on such dangerous experimentation, no one ever would. Trying to argue against it was like arguing that water wasn’t wet.
He bit his lip, his quill hovering over the paper. Xavion had done this on purpose. They had seen Eli, knew who he was, knew he would be in the audience. They wanted to watch Ambrose fail in front of him, and indeed, they were one of the only ones with a chance of doing so.
But Ambrose wasn’t going to back away from a challenge simply because his boyfriend was watching.
And he wasn’t going to fail, either.
He signed his name next to the topic, gave a short nod to the orc manning the booth, and walked back to his friends.
The Dragon’s Advocate topics didn’t take place until later in the debate slots, giving him time to frantically form an argument in his head while others sparred out loud onstage. One such debate turned into a clumsy fistfight, which rewarded both Eli and Dawn for their patience.
“Give him the chair!” Dawn yelled and passed Eli the popcorn.
“Keep your guard up!” Eli shouted before cramming a handful of popcorn into his mouth and offering Ambrose the bag. “Want some?”
“Hm?” It took him a moment to wrest himself from his thoughts. “No, thank you.”
Eventually, the two potioneers shuffled offstage with nosebleeds and bruised egos, and Eli turned to Ambrose. “So, what’d you sign up for?” he asked, handing the popcorn bag over to Sherry. “Something fun?”
Well, it would certainly be fun for Xavion to watch Ambrose lose—which he would if he walked up there with nothing in his head.
“Something difficult,” Ambrose admitted. Eli squeezed his hand.
“Good,” he said. “That means it’ll hurt them more when you destroy them.” He glanced at Sebastian, who was deep in a conversation with the elf beside him, then started rolling up his sleeves. “Now, do we need a quick refresher on defensive stances?”
