The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill (7 page)

Krism sprung to her mind. She peered around
for her friend but came up empty.

“Have you seen Krism?” she asked Lian.

She was answered not by Lian, but by the
excruciatingly coifed tag team of Pinks who seemed to be waiting
their whole life for this opportunity.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Your Tint friend won’t
be coming to the Gala” gushed Sharmay.

“The Guardian confiscated his ticket after
discovering he’d been uttering threats, inciting lecherous
behaviour and interacting with known Tint offenders.” Added
Pidge.

“Hilly’s mother presented the evidence this
afternoon.” Both girls ended with delight.

Hilly simply smiled like a demon at Root and
walked away.

Root threw herself at Hilly. She did not take
kindly to her friends holding her back and thought she’d go insane
as the distance between her and Hilly widened.

But then, when she heard the ripping
sound…

Woah. If looks could kill…

The boys let go and stood back.

Right along the shoulder. A flash of ivory
skin between torn pieces of Mirror Lake Blue. Root looked at her
damaged blouse, then at her friends. Tears spread like lakes into
her eyes.

The boys panicked, total deer in headlights,
their comfort zone speeding away, leaving skid marks.

“It’s okay,” tried Lian. “It’s just a little
rip.”

“Yeah, I mean, you still look…great. Your
hair looks real nice, Root.” Dwyn was already sweating.

“You can wear my sweater over…”

They watched in horror as the tears spilled,
helplessly fumbling with the seam, pinching it together as if that
would somehow fix it.

“Here.” Tamik Chillenly stepped in.

Intervention, thank god!

The boys were bustled to the sidelines,
grateful to stand back and witness a most complicated and awe
inspiring move of defense. When Tamik was done, she removed her
spool of thread and put it in her purse. Root’s blouse looked as
good as new.

“Even better.” Added Tamik. “That’s Witch
Hair and it’ll never break.”

Root captured her new friend in an embrace
that would leave thankfulness all over her for days. Dwyn
high-fived the girl-wonder, cementing a true and permanent welcome
into their fold. “Awesome save, man!”

Lian gaped at Tamik. He said nothing. He
couldn’t. His heart had shifted. And he didn’t like it one bit.

The stained glass doors to the garden flew
open and there, like so many times before was the affable, if
somewhat sweaty face of Master Hillywur Gub. He was breathing heavy
and couldn’t properly announce his greetings. But no matter, the
mob was already heaving past him.

All except Root.

“No.” said Dwyn. “You can see Krism
later.”

“But, he’s gonna be so upset. That is such
crap! It was a stupid little kiss...and it’s not like Hilly doesn’t
already go around doing that all over the place as we all know. Let
go, Dwyn, he needs me to… ”

“
We
need you!” He held her back.
“Don’t make me rip your arm next.” He smiled.

Root sighed and stopped resisting. Fine. He
was right. She needed to be here for the Quest gala, for her team.
She could see Krism after.

With only six teams competing for A-2, Root
had expected a rather smaller affair. But as the exploding applause
indicated, this was not the case. In fact it seemed there were even
more guests than the last Quest briefing. Definitely more
drama
,
she thought as the teams were whisked behind a heavy
curtain by a creepy man that looked a lot like a skeleton…that
looked a lot like a Silken Oxback.

“Waiteth here or die like scoundrels!” he
said and Root was sure he even bucked before departing.

Well, he didn’t say anything about not
peeking so Root took a gander through a gap in the curtain.
Unfortunately the only thing she could see was Studaben
Picklepug.

Gross.

He stood in the Grand Fire Blossom, lips
pasted to a loud speaker, belly hanging out over electric blue
striped pants. His square hat angled with dramatic flare.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please help me
welcome…” He paused for effect. “…the competitors of the Second
Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm!”

Music flared up like fireworks as the teams
were paraded, indeed flaunted past hundreds of smiling strangers,
all standing up, cheering. Who were all these people? Root’s name
was called. Lian’s was called. Hilly’s. Milden’s. Team names were
proclaimed, even chanted. Hands were shoved out for high fives.
Root scanned for familiar faces but not one could be found.

The team tables were lined up, six across the
front of the garden court.

Fishbowl seating. So much for choosing our
own thought Root, and yay, now we can be gawked at like Koi…

“Who are these people?” Dwyn finally asked
for everyone.

“No idea.” said Lian, shifting awkwardly in
his chair while a blur of smiles and winks zeroed in on them.

“They’re honourable guests.” whispered a
voice beside Root. She looked to see Milden’s very bright green
bowtie at the table next to her. “My dad told me the Guardian
invited them for this special occasion.”

“Oh. But who are they?”

“Mostly high enders, y’know money trees and
butt kissers.” Milden snickered at his own words. “So my dad
says…”

Studaben Picklepug cued the music to stop.
His eyes were ravaging the room. He was seriously licking his
chops. “And now before we begin, let me take this time to thank our
honoured guests for sharing this very special evening with us all.
I’m sure each and every team is grateful for your support. Isn’t
that right, kids?”

Conflicted applause emerged from the team
tables, most of it stemming from Hilly and Kor. Yet, it was enough
to satisfy the burgeoning purses that were doting upon them.

“And let us not forget one of our greatest
supporters, the illustrious Master Grotius Vulcherk…”

Grotius Vulcherk stood from his position in
the Fire Blossom. A gangrene ghost. His cold detestation of Root
still fresh in her mind. She lost her appetite.

“…whose generous donation brought you this
spectacular evening!” Studaben Picklepug’s tongue looked like it
might actually hang to the side and pant like a dog’s.

And yet, as Root looked around, she couldn’t
disagree with him. The garden was as glorious as ever. A
glittering, golden feast befitting fairies and kings and goddesses.
With only one exception: What was with the serving staff?

“Skullks.” Lian explained with his usual
encyclopaedic flare, which included the appropriate mix of
historical references. He seemed to admire Skullks and by all
accounts Root could find nothing to debate other than how to
address them. Mister Skullk? Missus? How could you tell?

“Excuse me, Miss?” She had finally
ventured.

Wrong.

“I am no Miss!” the Skullk lambasted her. “I
am Bartimus Flat, Silken Oxback of the Regal Seven! And thou shalt
hath the head of ye cut from its body for suchlike slander!”

Root’s admiration became rather less at that
point.

Another Skullk, this one thankfully more
polite, arrived with piping bowls of Springtide Stew. At once the
thick spicy smell brought Root’s appetite back full force. Soon she
and all were gobbling and gorging in gluttonous delight.

When the last mouthful of his neighbour’s
Maple Cherry tart was stolen into his mouth, Studaben Picklepug
stood, loosened his pants waist and moved toward the podium. He
loved, loved, loved the silence this brought about the room and
milked it to its last expended drop. He didn’t have to
ahem
as he arrived, he just chose to, for effect. “Ahem”

Root’s eyes met Picklepug with open disdain
and she hoped he could see her. She had never respected him in the
first place and now, with Krism’s bogus exclusion, she had joined
the ranks of those that despised him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, good
people of DréAmm. I am Studaben Picklepug.” He paused. Root took up
the stupid applause cue like the best of them: reluctantly. “Thank
you. Thank you so much. You are too kind. Ahem! I am honoured to be
here again for the Second Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm.

“The first, as you well know brought with it
hundreds of tales of fantastic adventure and from these rose the
six that would earn their places here and now. The six teams that
had set out last spring and returned with one each of the mystical,
powerful Miists of Kalliope, the likes of which has not been seen
for generations.

“And so now, we are here to support and
honour these six as they embark on their second great adventure.
And to what, pray will that adventure lead?” Again Picklepug paused
as the air crackled with intrigue. Root found herself leaning in as
if that would somehow tell her sooner. But the Guardian would not
be so generous. Instead his lips flapped on about courage and
loyalty and perseverance, none of which he exemplified in his own
life.

From this they were introduced to more of the
echelons of the Guardian’s society. Mostly fat, old people with
suspicious grins. Root spied Lian’s dad, Lord Blick whom she was
sure had come to respectfully dislike her. Or maybe it was simple
distrust, the same distrust he seemed to be right this minute
projecting onto the whole of the room, indeed the whole of life. He
was sitting in the Fire Blossom with…

“Madam Mordgidika Keen!”

Now here was the ‘fat and suspicious’
exception. Mordge, who was the exact opposite had become like a
grandmother to Root, a warm, wise, open friend with whom anything
could be trespassed and Root felt a fierce love for her. And by the
sounds of the cheering crowd she was not the only one.

“Jorab!”

Exception number two. Root looked to the
chair beside Mordge. Jorab was not sitting in it as usual. She
scanned the rest of the Fire Blossom but he was nowhere to be seen.
She swiftly soothed the prickle of worry that leapt up from hiding.
Jorab was often called to secret meetings and mysterious events.
Most likely he was delayed by such and would be here soon. She
wondered if she should attempt Quatra but then thought better of
it. He could be in the middle of something really important.

He had said that she could contact him
anytime and, man did that make her feel like the king of the hill
but still, Jorab was an entity unto himself, revered and loved and
feared. Powerful beyond her inkling of understanding and she just
couldn’t bring herself to pop over to his mind to say ‘Hey,
whatsup.”

No, she would admire from a close distance,
happy, like most, that he was on her side.

On their side.

Over the past weeks in Gub with the Word
Pantry at hand, Root had come to grasp what the sides meant. Well,
at least the bad side. She shuddered as she thought of him. Kakos.
The Murk Lord. Though thankful that she had never seen him face to
face, still he managed to elicit a clear essence of darkness, an
evil that lingered in the scar on Krism’s forehead and in the
whispers along corridors and trees. It wasn’t the same essence that
hung around other jerks, like say Grotius Vulcherk. No, it was much
heavier, much stronger. Vulcherk merely made Root cringe. Kakos
scared the living daylights out of her.

Root could hardly wrap her head around the
fact that Kakos had once been loved. As a member of the Ring of
Antiquilus he was a powerful force of good in DréAmm. But then
something happened, something black that made Antiquilus banish him
from the Ring. And sent him along a path of evil. The same path
that Root had stumbled upon in her first race. And one she
desperately hoped to avoid this next time around.

“Milwart Ibbbs!”

Root blinked to attention. Who?

“My dad!” Milden Ibbbs poked her and pointed
to his father now rising and walking awkwardly toward the
podium.

“What’s he doing?”

Unfortunately the mentioning of Milwart Ibbbs
was a time when one would invariably feel a yawn coming on. Not
that he was dead dull but because he was…well, yeah he was dead
dull. There was no getting around it. Milwart Ibbbs was dull. His
hair, his clothes, his eyes-all watery. Even his voice. He spoke so
mummified one wanted to kick him alive at times. And now here he
was approaching the Quest podium? Root looked at Milden who was on
his knees in his chair practically fizzing with excitement. She
smiled and briefly wished she were he…a beloved child, a
bloodline.

That is, until Milwart Ibbbs began his
address. Then, as mean as it sounds, she was glad he wasn’t her
dad. He was just such a…a mess. Everything seemed to fall from him,
papers, pens, glasses. He was too short for the podium and needed a
box. Gunk seemed to breed in his throat. The loudspeaker wouldn’t
work for him. Studaben Picklepug had to yell twice for him to speak
up. Finally Mordge approached with a glass of Booster Fuel. Milwart
took a grateful swig and cleared his throat.

For like an hour.

At last the Booster Fuel kicked in and the
mousely sputtering of Milwart Ibbbs expanded. His words seemed to
liquefy and pour out into the room now, then rise like a cool mist
across sleeping lands, waking all the nodding heads and finally
giving him favour to continue. Root could feel the relief in Milden
as his father unfolded into the largeness of his new sound.

“Hello. My name is Milwart Ibbbs. Maven of
Mystic Beings. I am here to announce artifact two of the DréAmm
Quests.”

Well, if the Booster Fuel hadn’t done it, he
certainly got their attention now. Every eyeball swivelled in his
direction. It startled him and there was a wavering moment where he
could have retreated back into his tiny cave. But to his son’s
delight, he didn’t. He carried on, touched with newfound fluidity
and gestured toward the middle of the room where a giant Imaginate
appeared, hovering in a dramatic glow of light.