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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mr. Ignat’ was inside the operator’s area, greasing the dragon’s front axle. I ducked under the fence and joined him.

“Good morning,” I said.

He glanced at me over his shoulder with a smile that faded a little as he turned completely around to face me.

“Have you been having adventures, Pirate Kate?”

“You could say. I absorbed a bunch of stray
jikinap
that somebody had carelessly left in a configuration that could have damaged the Gate. It made me sick, so I gave it back.” I tipped my head, seeing the flames dancing in the centers of his eyes. I didn’t want to ask the next question, but I figured it was better to know.

“Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Mr. Ignat’s brows pulled together, and he turned back to finish his greasing.

“I wouldn’t say
wrong
. You may find that you know some things that you never learned, if you take my meaning.”

“Because the . . . other Ozali knows it?” I asked, feeling a little queasy.

“That’s right,” he said. “When powers mingle, information is shared.”

I thought back to those moments when Mr. Ignat’ and I had faced each other across a cement table in Fountain Circle, and he had insisted that I take his hands. Of course, Mr. Ignat’s power hadn’t tried to kill me, because Mr. Ignat’ loved me. And I hadn’t gotten the sense that we had
mingled
, so much as gotten the true measure of each other.

This business of having mingled
jikinap
with the Varothi was . . . unnerving, and slightly nauseating, but not, I told myself firmly,
threatening
. Even less so, if Vassily was telling the truth—and he was, according to the land—and the Varothi had left the building.

Right, then,
I thought.
On to the reason for the visit.

“There’s a citizen of Kashnerot hiding at The Last Mango,” I said, as Mr. Ignat’ returned to the axle. “She was brought here against her will, and she’d really like to go home now. Her clan amulet is being used to anchor her. She’s tried calling it, but it won’t—or can’t—come to her.”

“Is there a reason why she cannot physically recover it?” Mr. Ignat’ asked. “Power is
a
tool; not the
only
tool.”

“Actually, yes; there is a reason. She’s at The Mango because the man who’s holding her prisoner beat her up pretty bad. She ran away or he threw her out—I’m not sure which. In either case, it’s probably not wildly safe for her to go back to his house in search of jewelry.”

Mr. Ignat’ finished the axle, and snapped the lid onto the grease can.

“I was wondering,” I continued, when the can was sealed and he still hadn’t said anything, “if you might be willing to help her get a fix on her amulet; and either call it, or walk me through the process.”

He held up a finger—
wait
, that was—and carried the can and rag into the shed. He came out, and closed the door.

“I believe that you want Arbalyr for this,” he said when he was back with me.

“If he’s willing to help, I’m more than willing to have him,” I said.

“Well, let us see.”

Mr. Ignat’ closed his eyes.

Two blasts echoed over the whole of Fun Country, announcing that the park was open.

Mr. Ignat’ opened his eyes.

“I’ve put the question,” he said. “You should have an answer quickly.”

He ducked under the safety fence and mounted the stairs to the operator’s station.

I walked out from under the shade cast by the boarding platform’s roof, into the sunshine. Right now, it was pleasantly warm. Later, when the sun was at zenith, the tired asphalt that was Fun Country’s common ground would act as a reflector, baking happy thrill-seekers from below while the sun burned them from above.

The good news was that there would be thrill-seekers aplenty, according to what the land showed me about the crowd entering the park. I might have a hard time navigating Baxter Avenue against the river of bodies.

A shadow flashed, momentarily turning the gray asphalt interstellar black. I glanced up, and spied a largish black bird spiraling lazily above me.

Apparently, Arbalyr had decided to take the job.

“Thank you,” I called to Mr. Ignat’.

He looked over his shoulder and up, then gave me a smile and a nod before turning back to his controls.

I’d ducked out of the park via the service alley, and jogged down Grand Avenue, across the least-crowded edge of Fountain Circle, and into the midway.

At first, it didn’t seem as if the crowds were as strong here, then I turned the corner into the little half-street where The Mango was situated—and I hit gridlock.

The land growled.

I blinked, sent a query, and turned my head, my eyes drawn to a young man in new jeans and a plain T-shirt, who seemed to be . . . watching, but not like he was happy with what he saw.

I tried to inch forward, and bumped into the side of a shirtless teen boy.

“Cool it,” he said, automatically.

“Sorry,” I said. “What’s the holdup?”

“Couple guys up ahead not letting anybody past. Says there’s a repair being made, and it’ll just take a couple minutes.”

That . . . wasn’t how Fun Country did business. Any repairs that had to be made were done in the dead of night, not when paying customers were roaming the grounds. Unless one of the juicers had gone on the fritz, and Peggy had to call in a repairman. But . . .

The land growled again—and I suddenly saw The Mango, admirably isolated, fruit littering the asphalt, along with the mangled remains of the cheery red hanging baskets, and a smashed rectangle of plastic, that might’ve once been a cell phone.

There was the sound of things being broken; I thought I heard someone laugh.

The land, though, was focused on the unequal struggle between a beefy guy in T-shirt, jeans, gimme hat, and businesslike boots—and a small, roundish woman with pink hair. He had her by the arms, and she was fighting as best she could. With the land’s ears, I could hear her yelling, but it wasn’t getting through the noise of the crowd. She kicked, hard, but she was off-balance, and missed his balls. He was going to have a helluva bruise, though—and he wasn’t happy about it.

“Fat
bitch!
” he snarled. He shook her so that her head snapped, and spun her, one arm up behind her back. She gasped—
and I had to get over there!

I pushed, trying to run—air whooshed in my ears; the crowd and the alley smeared into a rainbow of colors; I momentarily lost track of my body—and recovered it abruptly as I slammed to my knees by the edge of the fence, directly behind the guy who was holding Peggy.

Gasping, I grabbed a handful of
jikinap
and spun a shield—an invisibility spell, you would say—and laboriously climbed to my feet. After a moment, I created a net of
jikinap
and stretched it from one side of the alley to the other. That would keep helpful folks out, and mischievous folks in.

At least for a little while.

“She too much for ya, Sam?”

Another guy in the same jeans-tee-boots ensemble stalked toward them; he looked right at me over Sam’s shoulder—but the spell held firm.

“Here, I’ll help.” He swung a casual arm, and backhanded Peggy across the face.

“Quiet, bitch.”

“Stop it!” Ulme rushed out of The Mango, and ran toward the three of them. “I will not allow you to hurt Peggy!”

The nameless guy turned.

“How you gonna stop us? The same way you stopped the Coasties from picking up Julie’s crew? Stupid cow.” He stepped forward into his swing, but Ulme ducked, and the blow went past her.

“Keep a lid on it!” snapped the third member of the crew, a wiry woman in what seemed to be the crew’s uniform. She had a beer bottle in one hand, and a lighter in the other.

“We’re here to deliver a message, that’s all. If you mess around in Joe Nemeier’s business, you get messed up. You followin’ this, fat girl?”

There wasn’t an answer. The boy who’d backhanded Peggy grabbed her by the hair, and yanked. Peggy cried out.

“She’s talking to you, cow.”

“Leave it,” the woman said. “She’s listenin’. So, Ulme.” She smiled. “Think you can run away and hide with your friends? You do that, then Joe sends us, we hurt your friends, then we take you back to Joe. What Joe does to you . . .” She shrugged, her smile widening.

“But before we take you home to be spanked, we need to finish cleaning up here.”

She flicked the lighter, and lit the beer bottle’s wick. Then she threw it over Ulme’s head . . .

. . . into the The Mango.

Glass shattered, and flames roared, licking hungrily up the wooden frame.

Peggy screamed.

From the side of my eye, I saw a stocky figure moving up behind Sam, the guy holding Peggy. Felsic put long hands on Sam’s shoulders, and he seemed to lose focus . . . to sag, as if his bones weren’t quite as strong as they had been, just a moment ago. He let go of Peggy, and turned to face Felsic.

I darted forward, low and quick, caught Peggy and pulled her back with me behind the invisibility spell. Once we were out of sight, I made a request of the land, and was pleased to see the asphalt soften immediately under the boots of the boy who had hit Peggy, then firm up again, locking his heels to the ground.

Nobody seemed to have seen me, or Felsic, or noticed that Peggy was gone. The second guy was watching the fire hungrily, not even aware that he was bound.

“Oh, and?” The woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a chain, a glittering disk at the end. “I hear you can’t go home unless you have this—is that right?”

“Yes!” Ulme cried.

The woman smiled.

“So you want it bad, then.” She gathered disk and chain slowly into her hand, then jerked her arm back and threw the bauble into the heart of the fire.

“Go fish.”

With no hesitation whatsoever, Ulme turned and leapt over the counter, vanishing into the leaping flames.

“No!” Peggy screamed.

I threw my arms around her, pushing her face into my shoulder, so she wouldn’t have to see.

“She’ll be fine; she’ll be fine,” I whispered, watching the flames—the whole booth was engaged, now. “She’ll be fine.”

“
Fine!
” Peggy struggled and I let her turn, keeping a hand on her shoulder, in case she decided to run.

I’m pretty sure I was the only one who saw the black-winged shadow swoop into the engulfing flames. Everyone else was staring at Ulme, as she stepped casually out of the wall of fire, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and not even marked with soot. Both hands were up and behind her neck, as if she was fastening a chain.

“What the
hell
!” snapped Joe’s female enforcer, moving forward.

The asphalt rippled before her; she staggered, snatching at the air for balance, catching it—and losing it.

She hit her head hard when she went down, but the land told me she was still alive. I pulled a thin strong string of
jikinap
out of my supply, and trussed her up, nice and tight.

The guy with his boot heels stuck in the asphalt tried to run. That was comical. He got trussed up in turn.

That left Sam, who was standing quiet and scarcely seeming to breathe under Felsic’s hands.

“Let him go, Felsic,” I said, walking over. “We’ve got a limited time to clean up before the cops get here.”

“He hurt Peggy,” Felsic said calmly. “He will not survive that.”

“Not your call,” I snapped.

Felsic looked at me . . . and smiled, showing teeth.

“Felsic!” Peggy snapped, voice strong despite her bruises. “If you hurt him, we’re through.”

The truth jolted through me like electricity. The woman was
serious
.

Felsic thought so, too. One long look at her bruised face, and Felsic thrust Sam at me. He staggered; I administered the magical equivalent of a cosh to the head and wrapped him up, too.

Then I turned to Ulme, who had been standing politely out of the way.

“The fire’s out,” Peggy said suddenly. “Who put the fire out?”

“A firebird came, and drank it,” Ulme said helpfully.

“That’s right,” I said briskly. “Now, Ulme, I’m sorry to rush you, but we’ve got a very tight window of opportunity here. We need to get you on the way home before the cops arrive and everything gets
a lot
more comp—”

I felt something stir along my magical nerves, and turned toward the charred remains of the juice stand.

As if my words had created it, a window was forming in the smoky air. A window that was getting more solid the longer I looked at it. I went forward to meet it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Felsic step to Peggy’s side and put an arm around her waist, preventing her from following me.

I pulled a defensive spell to my fingertips, and held my breath.

The window . . . opened.

A slightly pudgy man, a shock of Crayola-red hair standing straight up on his round head, peered out. I eased another step forward, and he looked at me.

He blinked, mildly. I felt
jikinap
flutter over me, and withdraw.

“I beg your pardon, Ozali,” he said. “I felt the presence of one of my clan, distinctly here. Have you perhaps—”