Phony Potions

Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

So Winsor, the only other suspect I could find, was at the circus. As my feet automatically drew me toward the outside of town, with its towering circus tent and the cries of the crowd, my mind was trying to figure out what sort of connection the Avalons had to the sorcerers in Blythe. They were usually amiable, being part of the very small Enchanted caste, but Osoro was coming across more like a baby sitter than a warrior. I thought of his patient lecture to Mallow. His scolding of Bernard, which was triggering severe déja vu. And then the reported consoling of that Winsor kid, who he didn't even like. If that wasn't behaving in a parental way, tolerating brats you couldn't stand in the most civilized manner, I didn't know what was.

The city smelled better outside the walls. The summer breeze caught the wildflowers that grew in the surrounding fields and their scent overpowered the small farms scattered around. I thought back to the first day Mallow and I had entered the city. It had all smelled good back then. Blythe's sewage tunnels probably were having trouble keeping up with all of the waste the festival was creating, whether or not Osoro could control the weather.

There was no line to get into the circus tent, which surprised me, since the chatter I'd been overhearing had implied everyone had stopped by at least once. As I got close to the gate keeper, I noticed there was a second exit flap for the tent. The Potioneer came out of it, holding the hand of frail woman about his age. They were both laughing about something.

"Ah, hello sir," the admissions guard said. "Go on in, I like your sash."

He paused. His eyes fell from my scarlet colored sash, one of my finds at an estate sale, to my bare feet.

"Are... you're not a sorcerer's Assistant, are you?" he asked.

"Sure I am, how much is it to get in to see the show?" I asked. The admissions guy shook his head.

"Sorry sir, only sorcerers, Avalons, and their Assistants today. Come back tomorrow."

"Oh, I'm the Assistant of Fushon of Merode. Perhaps you've heard of him?" I asked, leaning forward.

"Afraid I haven't."

"I need to get in to see him, so I'll just go..."

"You're no Assistant barefoot like that. No sorcerer would let you walk around so. Even if you were, you've obviously been disgraced now." The admissions guy said. "Please leave."

"But—" I began.

"The call was fair and just." The shout came from behind me, the accent heavy.

Four plump women stood, paired off and glowering at each other. They were sweaty. They had exited the circus tent, and it made their hair cling to their faces in the most fetching way. They were wearing the peek-a-boo dresses, fashionable even when contorted by confrontation.

"It was complete nonsense, Wishid Fatima. They had no right to take that territory from Mysti Henry." The paler woman retorted. She was local with brown hair and green eyes. Next to her stood a woman whose clothes had no jewelry on them. She was also pale, but scowled silently, hands crossed over her chest wordlessly.

"Former Mysti Henry hadn't paid his tribute in two years. What was the Cosmotic Demicanter of Tributary supposed to do, keep ignoring it?" the woman, Wishid Fatima, who had started all of this replied. She was stunningly gorgeous, with sun-kissed tan skin and dark ringlets of blacker than charcoal hair that spilled across the peek-a-boo spot on her loose fitting dress drawing attention to her large chest. I assessed at a glance that most of the stones that pinned together her outfit were semi-precious, but who needed diamonds with curves like that...