A Mischievous Tale of Magical Mayhem

8 | Smoke and Weeds

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Ben flew down the narrow alley, hung a sharp left, and scaled the wall of a stucco-sided building with the agility of the little monkeys that lived in the jungles along the coast. The dress hampered his progress, but he gained the top without being spotted. Collapsing, he rested for a moment with his back against the short wall that surrounded the rooftop.

He'd come up here for two reasons. First, to get out of sight, and second, to get out of the dress.

The houses near the docks were often home to multiple families, packed like sardines, and the rooftops afforded some much needed space for things like laundry. Lines strung across and between the roofs sagged under the weight of garments hung out to dry. Ben snatched a pair of rough trousers, a well-worn shirt, and a cap (which he prayed was free of lice) from a nearby rope, stripped out of Benna's clothes, and tossed them over the line. Whoever owned the threadbare things he'd taken could at least get a few silver bits for the dress.

He scrubbed the makeup from his face with a rag at a basin of washing water, and stuffed his curls beneath the cap. When Sprout squeaked in protest, he plucked the twiggy creature from his hair and held it in the palm of his hand.

"You've a set of teeth on you, huh?" He hadn't known Sprout could be so fierce.

The sproutling tilted its little leaf-crested head and squeaked at him, button-like eyes shining with innocence. The blood staining its thorn-toothed mouth told a different story, however, and Ben wondered what sort of creature this tiny fiend might one day become.

"I'm glad of your help, anyway," he said. "You saved my neck. Well, you and that elf."

He winced. He'd left his rescuer in the lurch, though he'd had little choice. He supposed he ought to thank him somehow.

The thought gave him an idea. He couldn't go back to the Tularul while the guard was after him. Besides, it wouldn't take the guard long to figure out that Brixby had only one helper at the inn, who was not a girl; he'd be recognized easily enough once they knew what they were looking for.

He had to leave Ballsdeep. Maybe that elf could help him one more time—maybe they could help each other. It was worth a shot, and it was the best (and only) idea he had.

With his curls concealed, Sprout tucked in his shirt pocket, and his costume change complete, he descended from the roof and slipped back through town toward the Opalescent Otter. There, he circled the grand edifice, keeping his distance to avoid drawing attention, until he saw his chance.

A group of laborers unloaded tools and equipment from a cart, and Ben fell in with them, grabbing a rake and a cloth sack for gathering leaves, and followed them into the gated gardens. No one noticed there was one more worker than there should be, and no one noticed when, after he concealed himself in the dense foliage beneath the back wall, there was one less.

There, he waited until nightfall before emerging under cover of darkness. Stiff with cold and sore from lying on the hard ground, he studied the back of the inn to ascertain which window belonged to Room 18. He figured it out easily enough when the silver-haired elf himself emerged onto a private balcony with his winged ferret perched on his shoulder. In his hand was a pipe, and soon, the foul odor of weed permeated the garden below.

No other guests seemed inclined to take the air, perhaps discouraged by the strong scent of whatever the elf had in his pipe, so Ben stepped into the light cast by a lamp, whistled softly, and waved up at him.

Blessed with advanced hearing, Scamp and Tallon started at the whistle coming from below. Scamp did her Weasel War Dance in the air while flapping excitedly, chittering and bouncing in chaotic movements.