Ch. 9
Why Britain? Where else? The America's? When they were entrusted with the library, the planet was nearly lost. They see not in it history or knowledge or something sacred, but opportunity. It's a funny word, 'opportunity'. 'Land of opportunity'. 'When opportunity knocks'. Ironic, then, that 'opportunistic' has that faint tinge of negativity. America has stained itself with opportunity. How could we trust them not to seize it again, given the chance?
Excerpt from un[classified] memorandum from MI[classified], 19[classified].
"Marlin's arse, 'Orry!"
They stand in front of an incomprehensible, ludicrously tall scroll of numbers, supported by chains on each side. Glyphs corresponding to—according to Horbid—spells and transaction participants glow faintly on each line, followed by several columns of—to quote Horbid—"wekkancraft"—and a final number that more or less directly correlates with "value".
Horbid's currently transfixed by one particular entry, which ends with a fifteen digit number.
"'Orry—you're—you're rich!"
"Oh? Oh. Neat. What does that, uh, mean exactly?" It's not that Horry isn't surprised—but exhaustion clouds his thoughts, and, to be honest, material wealth never was much of a concern for a boy who lived contented with his books in a box under the stairs.
"Well, ye could, if ya…if ye wanted to buy, ye could….anything!" Horbid stumbles over the words.
"It seems like everything I want in this crazy world is already free. Should I, um, exchange them? Er, what are they, exactly?"
Horbid taps some of the glyphs with his wand, and more bright, floating words appear.
"Well, one's a spell yer mum found a while back, makes a tea in a tea cup warm, and the cup itself cold…that one's worth the most. An' yur dad 'ad some, eh, defensive spells? Looks like a couple from a series o' puzzle books—'e musta cracked 'em in school. One slows objects near ye if they're goin' too fast. The other…huh. Also slows objects near ye. But uh, only in front o' ye? Ah well. Not worth as much."
"That seems useful?"
"Nah, kin make things go fast enough with magick that it ain't much use to try stoppin' em. Better to dodge,"
"Hm," says Horry. He catches himself blinking slowly—distracted.
"I still, like, know the spell—if I sell it, that is…right?"
"Well, most o' the time, yeh. Certainly for these. If only a few people know the spell, ye can arrange a conditional memory scrubbin'. But these spells are all about showin' off ye own somethin' 'Orry Patter once 'ad," Horbid whistles again, as he reads over the prices.
"I think I'll, uh, hold on to them. Until I have a better idea of how this place works…" Horry trails off.
"Right, o' course, 'Orry. O' course. But, jus'—wow!" Horbid gawks at the scroll.
Horry jams his hands deeper under his armpits, and looks around the square. The constant rotating has gotten better in some ways, and worse in others—no longer nausea inducing, but increasing unsettling. Nonetheless, weariness wars with dizziness for the privilege of being the most unpleasant thing assaulting Horry's mind.
Horbid transfers some of the glyphs onto a scrap of paper, and slides it into Horry's spellbooks. He shakes his head, laughs again, and turns to Horry, "Come on, student store's this way."
They take a series of lefts that definitely should mean they went in a circle—more than once—but each turn greets them with an entirely new alley, with storefronts of positively Suessian variety. Only a small fraction of the stores have signs in English—most are in Asian scripts, or vigorously accented English letters—or, apparently, non-Human altogether.
A pair of short, thin-limbed creatures brush past Horry and Horbid, clicking at each other in staccato bursts of hard consonants. Each has a locked spellbook on their backs, and rings and shiny chain looping around their arms up to the tips of their ears. They pause, and turn to stare back at Horry. Horry turns his head, embarrassed, but he can feel their eyes on him as they make their way down the street. Their eyes shine like a night-time predator—curious, but unmistakably hungry.
"Nilbugs look scarier 'en they are. Mostly care about tradin' spells," Horbid says, unprompted. Horry feels their eyes on him well after they round a corner, out of sight.
The student store is fairly obvious. If the bright, pulsating "CHOGBORT'S" hadn't tipped him off, it might've been the continuous streams of Chogbort's-school-colors confetti gushing out of four hoses, completely flooding the street. The confetti is weightless, and seems to respond to air currents, but dissolves into sparkling dust if Horry touches it directly. He notes a fifth hose that occasionally chokes out a sad, grey-colored strip of confetti that immediately sinks to the ground.
Two older kids exit out the front, smiling at each other, waving away the confetti with their hands—and Horry can't help but feel a sudden, overwhelming sadness. Like, as if it wasn't enough that this world was full of magickal, free things, with fantastical creatures and mind-bending spells and majestic, albeit somewhat terrifying castles—people are happy here too. For the first time, all at once, it strikes Horry that he's actually been missing something. His entire life.
The kids—a boy and a girl—pass by Horry and Horbid, not even noticing, as they giggle down the street. Again, Horry catches himself staring after them, and scurries to catch up with Horbid into the store.
"'Ello 'ello 'ello 'Orbid, how's the drudge?" The young man waves at Horbid, but doesn't take his eyes off a floating screen in front of him. It looks vaguely like the game Horbid had described earlier, but more elephants are flying around the pitch than players. He reaches for a mug of something golden and bubbly.
"Ah y'know, jus' taken me friend Mister Patter 'ere on a walkabout." Horbid grins.
The man's turns to look at Horry, then back at his screen—then he nearly knocks his drink over as he turns back, "Oi! … Oi!" he says, pointing at Horry.
"Ah, hi?"
"You saved me mum! You saved Britain!" the young man starts to climb over the table.
"C'mon now, calm it down," Horbid forms a welcome human shield for Horry.
"Oi, Mister Patter, take anythin' ye need. I mean—I mean, most of it's free anyway o' course hah but if ye need—actch'ally," he rummages under the desk, "I'd be downright honored if ya took this spell from me Mister Patter, downright honored! Least I can do!"
Horbid takes the book from the man and hands it to Horry.
"This 'ere is Wilcox Grant, delightful chump and fine purveyor of general goods." Wilcox nods.
Horry half-smiles at the man, "Hello, um, I'm Horry."
"Hah, o' course ya are. Please, please, look around!"
Horry holds the book tight against his chest like a shield, and looks around the store. Quills, pens, notebooks, spirals, tomes, robes, metal gadgets, colorful tubes, vials, lenses, shoes, cauldrons?—it's a quixotic collection of equal parts everyday thing and magickal menagerie.
Occasionally, Horry picks up something in his hand, trying on the thought of owning it—imagining it being a thing he might have in a corner or in a bag. But each time, he sets it back down, and continues on.
He passes rows upon rows of snacks in a rainbow of busy packaging—cartoon characters dance and pantomime noiselessly on the wrappers, beckoning him to touch them—he lifts one, and its void is immediately replaced by another. Mystery flavors from Sugarplum to Potato stew. The candy slips from his hand as he continues down the aisle.
He passes a display of four robes, each animated to float as if worn by invisible mannequins, and he touches the cloth. It's soft and warm and intrusively pushes the abstract thought of 'home' into his mind—'enchanted', it says on a tag—'Never get homesick'.
Tears drip down his face, onto his collar—onto the winter clothes that aren't his but somehow are his and came from nowhere. Onto the floor of a store of free treasures, run by a man that he saved by doing nothing. Horbid comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Ah hell, I'm sorry lad. I think I overwhelm'd ye."
"I haven't—I don't—I don't—I'm," Horry can't find any words.
"C'mon, we kin do this tomorrow," Horbid leads him back out of the store, waving off Wilcox. They pass through the arcs of the dancing, sparkling confetti.
Horry searches his mind for an anchor—some tangible thing that he can moor his emotions to, some fixture, but it's like waving a hand through smoke. He cries, uncontrollably, into Horbid's massive coat as the confetti bursts into warm little balls of light around him.
A sharp crack heralds a small cluster of men directly in front of Horry and Horbid. They look around, spot Horry, and all turn to face him. All but one on the far right are masked, and the unmasked fellow has a brilliantly blue, glowing right eye—sclera and all. They spread out, ten paces from Horry. Horbid's wand is already in his hand.
"Sorry fellas. Mister Patter 'ere's 'ad a long day." He takes a step back, shielding Horry with his arm. "I'm sure 'e'd give ye autographs another time, if ye ask nice," Horbid says, humorless, raising his wand.
"You will not threaten or harm the boy," says the man with the brilliant blue eye.
All the other men nod and advance. Horbid flicks his wand but nothing happens. He tries again, to no effect. The blue-eye'd man's wand flickers—it only moves when Horbid's moves. It matches the motions—the same, but mirrored?
"Ah, shite," says Horbid, backing up a step.
