CHAPTER TWELVE

"Mallow?" I called, as the door closed behind me with a heavy thud. The windows were small and stained, making the inside of the store so dim it took my eyes a moment to adjust.

I walked toward the center of the shop and noticed the ground beneath my feet had gone soft. My eyes were drawn down to a red rug, woven through with golden threads. It was worn, but the intricate geometric patterning came from Majikast or a surrounding province. It was too beautiful and well-crafted to be by a local artisan. I was stomping all over an import.

My gaze swept over the rest of the room. The smell of shoe polish and treated leather filled my nostrils, but was soon overtaken by a gentle scent of dried flower petals. Somewhere in the shadows there was a vase of potpourri.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw that most of the light was focused in recessed shelves about the size of my head. On these shelves were individual pairs of shoes, lit from above, side to side, and below. The wood that made the frames of these recessed nooks pulsed with a faint yellow glow, like star light or fire bugs.

What was that wood? Enchanted, obviously. Some far off glade soaked with magic, chopped and brought here to help this man sell shoes. How could he afford all of this stuff? The luxury and expense of this place reminded me of only one other place I'd ever been. While in the desert city of Ekonoar, I had been suffering from the heat and stumbled into a small, shadowy building. It had been a small art gallery where powerful Arcanacratic families rotated those parts of their collections of which they were tired for the season. It was open to the general public so that the public could gaze upon their wealth and beauty and be crushed by their own meager means. Or so I interpreted it. I'd never really even heard of art before that point, but from then on, the word lurked in the back of my head like lice. Art was absurd. Art was wasteful. Art was insulting to all of those who struggled to find enough food. I often fantasized about owning my own art so I could one day retire my unwanted masterpieces to that gallery.

Lucky arcanacrat icicles.

Passing a pair of short, dark, leather loveseats, I walked toward the wall to examine it better. Something scurried past near my feet, and I stumbled back. For a second I was scared, then I was glad to see even this wealthy man had his trouble with rats, but when the scurrying stopped as soon as I did, that satisfaction was short lived. I realized that I was seeing my own feet. Confused, I crouched down. A mirror, about ten inches by ten inches, was set at an angle on the floor. I saw my boots in them if I stood far back enough. There were small mirrors at ground level beneath every third shoe display, and they were glowing even brighter than the recessed displays.

I drew my attention back up to where the store obviously wanted it.

Beneath a pair of shoes there was a small plaque. It took me a few minutes, my tongue stumbling over the words as I sounded the letters out. I didn't read very much, which happens when you work, but I had never let the skill fall completely away because my parents had spent so much educating me during those brief charmed years when the ranch was doing well.

'Created on the Fourth day of the Sixth Month of the 120th Year of our Centralized Magical Arcanacracy by...' The second part seemed familiar, like I'd read it recently. Regulation? Danger? Neither of those though. I decided to try and read the rest. It was nonsense too. I recognized 'seashore' from my maps, but the rest of it was unfamiliar. The shoe was a sandal, but had multiple straps that spread out from the center toe stud like the legs of a bundle of spiders. Wait, not a bundle of spiders. Crabs' legs, notched gently and treated to come down stiffly. They connected to the sole with an infinitely small point, mimicking the gentle taper of a crab's legs. I touched the soft pad inside of the sole, and felt it squish beneath my finger. Wearing this thing must be like walking inside of an oyster's mouth, minus the biting or shell shattering and cutting up your foot.

"Ah..." A familiar voice, but barely. I saw the man from earlier, what was his name. Bertruck, Frankard... Ah! Bernard. "Please, don't touch unless you're a serious customer."

"Oh, I'm Azark, Assistant to Fushon of Merode."

He didn't look over, but finished pulling a scaly sheet that had been hanging over the chandelier in the center of the room. As it fell away, light illuminated everything in a warm, fiery glow. It wasn't a chandelier. From the ceiling hung suspended a wrought iron cage, the rounded bottom lined with scraps of cloth. A small black iron swing dangled in the center, and a pair of birds sat there. Their bodies were mostly normal, off white feathers with dark markings around the wing tips. From their heads small but brilliant yellow flames flickered. When they opened their eyes not pupils but flames gazed blindly out. They hopped around, and lit the inside of the cage on fire until it was just one large burning orb.

"You lost yourself a pair of birds." I tried to sound wry and amused by it, but it was undeniably horrifying how the birds had ignited their environment. I listened to the crackling flames inside. What did he line the cage with to get that full of a flame? I dared to look again when I heard playful chirping.

Bernard folded the cloth and set it down on his counter. "They're Charfinches. They like heating everything to ash. They're at full burn right now because I woke them up, but they'll calm down soon and give a pleasant illumination to the room." He tilted his head a little. "I'm surprised your master hasn't had you work with charfinches before; their components are very popular for potions since they're not that hard to breed."

"My master?"

"You are a sorcerer's Assistant, are you not? You were with the Moon Giant earlier?" Bernard asked, his rounded body squished as he scrutinized me. "Anyway, please don't touch the shoes unless you intend to buy... though, you are here for a pick up, right? A shame, since I prefer the client to come in person, but I understand they may be busy." Bernard waddled back to the counter. "Of course they're busy, otherwise they wouldn't have ordered you to ignore the closed sign I had out. You can read, can't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"I would think so. An Assistant who can't read isn't of much use." Bernard bustled over to me. "Name, please?"

He inspected the shoe. He was satisfied I hadn't ruined it by grazing my finger across the strap. When he finally was ready to listen, he smiled at me much more warmly beneath his bristly mustache. At first I had thought he was my elder, but this close to his face, I realized that the facial hair masked a youthful countenance. He was maybe five years older than Mallow, barely an adult.

"I'm Azark, but I'm looking for Mallow. You know." I raised my arm high above my head. "Big girl, glows in dark rooms, orange eyes the color of the blood moon..."

"Yes, yes..." Bernard waved a hand dismissively, gaze drifting down to my feet. "She considered the luxury shoes, but they're more fashion pieces than practical, and when she told me she hadn't been to a single ball in her entire life I managed to talk her down to a pair of boots."

"My coin purse thanks you," I said.

"Your coin purse could never afford one of my..." Bernard sighed wistfully at the shelves of bizarre and incredibly delicate footwear. "...special projects."

Ooookay.

"So, uh, she in the back getting measured or something?" I asked. I noticed a door along the back wall. Bernard's attention had fallen from his shelf back to my boots.

"You... I ... where did you get those boots?" He blew out a gust of breath as he plopped down onto his ankles and stared at my legs below the knees. I took a step back from shock.

"Uh, an estate sale, I think."

Bernard clucked his tongue.

"That explains it."

"What? I guess they're a bit worn?" My shoes were the talk of the town in tiny little villages, with all the clasps and flecks of gold. I wasn't used to having them criticized. His hand jutted out and grabbed my ankle. I windmilled my arms to keep from falling over as I stood on one leg, shouting.

"What are you doing?" I cried.

"Checking the sole," he said. He clucked again, like an irritated chicken. His index finger tapped my ankle as he thought. The motion made me shudder, and I jerked my foot back. He blinked up at me, and then stood. "It's too hard to see if there's a signature, the sole's been too damaged by inappropriate use."

"Inappropriate? That's rich coming from you." I tucked my poor violated foot behind the other, my legs crossed low. He crossed his arms over his apron and stared back.

"Yes. Obviously those boots weren't made for trotting about in mud and dirt and who knows what else..." He clucked his tongue. "I think, though, signature or no, those are mine. One of the early pairs, I sold them to Sir Snips. An estate sale, you say?"

"Yeah." I said. "They're... not as fancy as..." I motioned to the shelves.

"I was but a child imitating the masters of fashion in those days." Bernard exhaled heavily. "Still, it pains me to see my amateur art so misused."

I scoffed.

"I'm sure Sir Snips took them to many grand dances before he bit the dust."

Bernard huffed, shocked by my callousness. I knew I wasn't being very charismatic, but I didn't like his tone. I'd never met a cobbler with so much lip.

"So is Mallow still here?" I asked. Bernard shook his head.

"No. She put in her order, I took her measurements, and she left to find you presumably," he said. "I'd find her fast, she doesn't have a coin left to her name after the down payment."

"What? Down payment? On shoes?" I protested. "I thought you said she got the cheap ones."

"I said she got the practical ones." Bernard marched across the room to a table with a coin safe on it, covered in tidy rolled scrolls. He grabbed one with Mallow written on the outside of it. "Nothing I make is cheap, I have too much dignity for that."

This guy.

"So... wait, she still owes more?" I asked. I felt heat rise on the back of my neck. It was my job to blow all the coin when we got to town, not hers! She was cutting into my half!

"Yes. Oh, certainly, she made most of it, I wouldn't let her get away with less knowing she's not a local." Bernard held up the scroll, showing quick but skillful design work with measurements next to them matching Mallow's size. "What she has left to pay is a pittance, really."

I grumbled and dug into my coin purse. I tried to make it look like I was scraping the very bottom of the purse, and came out with ten coppery coins or so. I put them on the table.

"You're out of luck, Mister, because this is all we got between the two of us."

Bernard took the coins and counted them, before depositing them into the coin safe and marking down the remaining total she had left on the shoes.

"Hmmph," Bernard said. "It's fortunate for everyone involved that your daughter's more reasonable than you. She admitted she didn't have all of the money. I, wanting to see my customer happy, gave her a little delivery errand to work some of the difference off, and then directed her to an opportunity to make some more coin."

The only two things Mallow did to make quick cash were arm wrestling at the pub or selling off locks of her hair. I was opposed to both, the former on the risk it posed on ticking off a group of tough guys and the latter on principle.

"Which was...?" I asked.

"With this festival going on, there are a lot of volunteers needed to host and participate in all of the events. Keep them lively. The Age Day boy himself certainly isn't going to help." Bernard said, marking idly on the scroll from Mallow. He had said they were going to be simple, and the shoes drawn there currently were. He etched a delicate, decorative knot along the trim of the top. "So I directed her to an event I volunteered my talents to."

"I wouldn't think the attendance for a shoe show would be too overwhelming," I said. Bernard lifted his quill calmly from the scroll. His mustache may have hid his top lip, but the corners of his bottom pulled downwards.

"It's not a fashion show. It's a play. I made one of the key costumes, and am quite proud of it, actually." He blew on the scroll gently to dry the ink, then touched it lightly with his pinkie finger. He rolled it up and placed it along the wall on a narrow shelf. "It starts in about fifteen minutes, I believe you can get there. I don't know what they'll use her for, maybe setting up the props."

"I can't afford to go into a theater," I said.

"It's open air. Mostly for the children." Bernard pulled a map out from under the desk and showed me. He pointed at a spot half a dozen buildings from here, a small amphitheater that only seated a few dozen.

"You keep a map under the table?" I asked.

"People come far and wide for my wares, and they don't always know their way around Blythe." Bernard folded the map and placed it back. "Hope to see you again, Mister...?"

"Azark," I said. "I told you already." Now I wished I would have called him Frankard.

"Mister Azark." His mustache twitched as his lips curved upwards. "Perhaps we could patch up those boots."

I threw a glance up at the birds in the cage on the ceiling. They were indeed visible again, although flames danced around them. They weren't withering, but wallowing in the flames, their feathers cutting through the heat without damage. Charfinches, huh?

"I like them as is." I declared as I opened the door. "They've got character."

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