CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

My mind worked its way around to the obvious answer. The answer I provided everyone else with a problem, no matter how large or small. No matter how truly solvable or impossible: buy a potion. One of the potions I would sell would do no good; I needed the real stuff, the magic. And thankfully, this town had exactly what I needed.

Consulting the map Winsor had given me a few times, I ran to the Potionary shop from earlier. The marker was where it had been before, albeit slightly fainter. It had lasted surprisingly long for food sauce.

I arrived at the Potionary. The door was closed, the moonlight bouncing off its brass handle. The lights inside were on. I could see the warm licking of the gas lanterns inside peaking around the wooden shutters. I paced in front of the door for a second. I could break in, but I remembered it had been sturdy on the inside, the door featuring triple bolting and the interior of the windows set with thick poles placed too close together for a man to slip through without hacking away all of them with an axe. Assuming I could even do such a thing (Mallow usually cut the firewood), I would be arrested before I got ahold of the item I needed. The lights inside shifted slightly as a figure moved in front of them.

Anxiously, I knocked on the door. I then listened as close as possible with the general noise of the festival still streaming at my back. Nothing. Then something wooden scraping against the floor. I knocked again, more insistent this time. I heard a cough. I held my breath, ears straining. Nothing followed. Agonized, I slammed on the door with my fist. I felt it bruise instantly from the impact, and pulled back, hissing. I knocked with my other hand while keeping the abused, pulsing one at my side.

The door cracked open. The old man's face peered out at me. I could see myself reflected in the small lenses of his glasses. His aged forehead wrinkled.

"Yes? How can I help you sir?"

"Emergency. I need to buy a potion immediately." Wait, why was I being charming? Perhaps I should opt for desperate. I let the smile crumble.

"We're closed," he said uncertainly, regarding me with pity. "You'll have to come back tomorrow—"

I jammed one of my feet in the door. I wasn't ready for the sudden, splintery pain as the Potioneer tried to close the door harder than I expected. I yowled, but instead of retreating, lashed my fingers around the frame of the door and pulled myself further inside.

"Please! My master will not accept failure!" I whined at him, my eyes brimming with real tears as the unforgiving, uneven wood crushed my feet.

"Your master is not the master of this town. I understand sorcerer's are important but us ungifted have our own—"

"One of my master's magical beasts have gone missing—" A good lead, I saw the old man's face twist with fear. "-and my master is otherwise preoccupied and has yet to discover this fact. If I cannot recover it before he unveils my failure, he may take the price of the magical being out of my hide." I simpered. "He has a terrible temper."

The Potioneer's scowl surrendered into an expression of exasperation. He stepped back and swung the door open.

"Make your selection quickly. I'll write up the transaction as the first one for tomorrow so it doesn't mess up my count for today." He grumbled. He shuffled over to a stool he had pressed against one of the walls of shelves. His age-worn body stretched with uncharacteristic spryness to reach a high shelf, the feather duster in his hands flitting across the surfaces with each flick of the wrist. Shimmering clouds of gray-white particles fell from the surface and wafted through the air, inevitably searching to settle somewhere else.

"I need a tracking potion," I said, still panicked even though the obstacle of getting inside had been conquered. I knew I bought one here earlier, but I couldn't slow down enough to find it. I impatiently scanned the shelves.

"Another one?" he asked. He lowered the duster to his side and adjusted his narrow glasses. "You sure need to find an awful lot of things. I'm surprised you didn't have enough left over to use as soon as the magical creature escaped."

"Yeah, you know, crazy party going on outside." I gestured impatiently toward the door. "Also, I'll need instructions on how to use it."

"Didn't you use the last one?" he asked. "I told you then."

"Uh... yes and no," I huffed impatiently. I gestured at the wall. "Anyways, where is it? I don't see one the shelf."

"Well, no." The man set the feather duster down on the counter top and then moved to sit behind his ledger. "Neither Divinis Wenrick, or his two sons have made a tracking potion recently. That one you bought was probably two years old. Winsor went through a helpful potions phase before he became obsessed with enchanted weaponry and offensive potions... oh, forgive me, Winsor is the son—"

"I know who Winsor is." I snapped. Even more of the sympathy fled the man's features. I steepled my fingers together and tried to sound appealing again. "What about the Avalons, wouldn't they make many such potions?" I asked. "They've got to be useful."

The Potioneer crossed his fingers, subconsciously mirroring me and then shook his old head.

"Of course not. Avalons cannot enchant or brew potions, because the magic they possess is only granted by the Avalon stones. It is a gift; it cannot be materialized into permanent corporeal form like a potion because at any second, a moral misstep can revoke their magic. You know this as an Assistant. You're trying my patience by playing ignorant."

"But... I need a potion. I need to find her." I had sworn I'd never be this way again, helpless as I had been when my dad was slowly dying. If only I could get my hands on magic, I could save my family. But promise or no, how could I not feel the way I did then? Time was precious for Mallow; whoever had her had taken her by force. They meant her ill. Yet, like before, here was this person. This well-fed, safe person who could save my family with the smallest of efforts, and instead he treated me with the same regard he would an irksome fly.

"Trust me when I say I don't have any more," he wheezed. "And please, for your own safety, don't go buying any potions from an unlicensed merchant. I have personally seen half a dozen people come in with questions about potions they bought this week that are no more magical than curdled milk."

The hair on the back of my neck rose up. No! It was bad enough that he wasn't helping. He couldn't now become part of the problem....

"In fact, the only..." He stopped "... the only magical whiff any of them had was... tracking..." He rubbed his chin. More of it moved with his hand then it would have on a younger person. "Did you... did you sell that potion diluted?"

"No, of course not. If I were going to need to buy another one, why would I sell the first one I bought?" I asked with false chagrin. "That would be foolish, wouldn't it?" Usually acting outraged helped keep the scent of guilt off me.

The Potioneer stood up from his chair behind the counter.

"The customer's physical description they gave of the character matched you." He peered at me, his old mouth twisting in disapproval.

"Handsome is kind of ambiguous..." I joked, trying to hide my nervousness. I forced my body to be open, calm... but wasn't I playing someone desperate? So how to be? Open and carefree, or hunched with anxiety? My limbs twisted into the casual entreaty too unnaturally. Now it looked like I was a liar. I saw from the way the man's eyes went wide with righteous indignation that I had made a mistake.

"I really, really need that tracking potion." I was honest. No act.

"It is a pity that you wasted all of it, because I will never sell you another vial of any potion," he said. He pointed stiffly at the door, the loose furrows of flesh around his elbow swaying with the force of the gesture. "Please leave."

"Why are you so hostile?" I hated the ache of sincere anger in my own voice. If I was genuine, I was vulnerable. I was no better than those grasping hands in the crowds in front of the Avalons. I was immersed in it, not above it. I was drowning in want. "How can you even stand there like you're any better? Your potions are so expensive that the truly needy cannot afford them. You and that con man are both letting them die; the con man just gives them hope." I sputtered my protests. "No, not just hope. Sometimes hope is all they need to succeed. It's more than you've ever done."

The old man's arm held steady, not shaking from age or intimidation, drawing an invisible line through the air to the exit of the shop.

"You're a liar and you are dangerous. Leave or I will call the guards. The only thing that has stopped me is that I don't want to shame your master any more than your deplorable behavior already has."

"Fake potions don't do anything one way or the other," I said, eyes skimming the shelves one last time for that glinting liquid that I had so foolishly wasted yesterday. The gold at my side felt like an anchor, dragging my right hip down. "Like you, you let them die while those who don't even need more magic buy it up."

"It would be unfair to give them away to some and charge for others. There's nothing wrong with earning a profit, just with lying to do so." The man's voice softened, his hand fell to the counter.

"Oh, so the costs of these aren't inflated?" I sneered. "Four figures for one dose that probably took the sorcerer all of five minutes to brew?"

"It is so people use them preciously," he said. "I cannot control the sorcerers, supplies are limited, and I must charge enough so that only those that are serious can buy them," he explained. No, lectured. He was talking down to me. What he was really saying was this is why people like you have to die while other people feast on chocolate and oranges and rest in gold trimmed blankets. It would be immoral to cheat the system. Accept it and suffer; it's the only decent thing to do.

"Serious need? More like the flippant and rich."

"You would be the first I've ever had in that category. I'm calling the guards." He reached for a string hanging from a bell near the counter. It was made to be subtle; I hadn't noticed it until he drew attention to it. I hurried to the door, consoling hands stretched out before me to calm him.

"I'm going, I'm going. No need for that." I stumbled out the door, to the stone street outside. His shuffling feet followed after me. I walked away, not a run, but a quick jog.

"Young man," he barked.

The stinking city air swirled around me in a warm summer night breeze and choked me for a second.

"Using a tracking potion is really quite easy. Drip a few drops in your eyes, drink a little sip with your mouth, and then sprinkle some on the last spot you saw what you are seeking. It will make a glittering trail of light leading toward what you seek that only you can see." He said, his face lit white by the moon hovering above.

"Why... why explain it to me?"

"Because I believe you've already wasted it and to have the knowledge and be unable to act on it is the best punishment I can think of for you." The Potioneer slammed the door shut. I heard the clinking of the triple bolt system latching into place.

(( And the consequences of Azark's actions return to haunt him! How is he going to solve this problem with magic? Keep reading next week to find out! Share if you've enjoyed! ))