Milo and the Dragon Cross Page 3

  “And now to make it reappear,” Milo said, thinking that a man in his position might get nervous about seeing kuzurians disappear, unless they reappeared pretty quickly. Bori was sitting on the desk beside him, watching the display with great interest.

  “Now, where might that coin have gotten to?” Milo said with dramatic effect, while he secretly transferred the kuzurian from his left hand to his right. “There!” he announced, reaching toward Bori, and ‘drawing’ the coin out of the cat’s ear. He held it up triumphantly for the banker to see.

  Bori was amazed. The banker not so much. “I don’t think I’ll be needing any advertising,” he said.

  “I thought it was a great trick,” Bori said when they were back in the street. “I didn’t even notice that I had the coin in my ear. Perhaps I don’t even need pockets.”

  Next they tried some other prospects. The butcher. The baker. Even the candlestick maker. Actually, the candlestick maker might have been interested if the strong scents of lavender, patchouli, cinnamon, mint, pine, sandalwood, etc. hadn’t started Bori sneezing. First once, then twice, then in a stream of explosions that sounded like he might be choking to death or something. The candle lady became distracted, then frenzied. She wanted Bori out of her shop. Milo took him out, got him settled down again, and went back in. By then, the woman had soured on the idea, and didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Okay, what do we do now?” he asked Bori. They were sitting on the stone wall along the side of the park, overlooking the River Dulcy. The day was getting late, and the mayor’s office would close in about an hour.

  The park was teaming with other contestants setting up their camps. At the nearest one a man with a full black beard and wearing a fine, silk turban sharpened a long, curved scimitar. He had a servant who was trying to put up a black-and-white striped tent and at the same time stir a thick stew that steamed with the aroma of curry. Tethered alongside was a magnificent black stallion cropping grass. He would have been a remarkable horse even without the huge wings folded alongside his body.

  “That’s Ali-Sembeck, of Qutan,” Bori explained.

  The aroma of cooking made Milo’s stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. To make matters worse, food aromas from other camps wafted through the park. To the other side of Milo and Bori was a camper who looked more like a wild man. His hair and beard were tangled and he was almost naked, with a tattered rag wrapped haphazardly around his middle. The only thing he had was a staff that looked like something he had picked up in the forest, but he was using it to conjure morsels of food out of thin air. His name, Bori told Milo, was Tivik. Milo looked away from him, finding the whole thing rather disturbing.

  The contestant beyond Tivik was disturbing too, but for a very different reason. She was as alluring as the wild man was repulsive, and nearly as undressed. Milo felt embarrassed even to be looking at her, but compelled to glance just the same. Her costume—or its lack—was made elegant by ornate jewelry that gleamed through gossamer fabric of a color Milo could not ascertain, because it shifted constantly with her motion. He tore his eyes away from her, thinking that she really was nothing like the ladies he was accustomed to seeing around his own neighborhood.

  About then another person approached the spot where he sat with Bori. She was rather normal looking—thank goodness—in corduroy pants, sweater, and one of those many pocketed vests bulging with small notebooks, pencils, and pens.

  “Hi!” she said. “I’m from the Odalese Observer. You must be one of the contestants. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Well,” Milo said uncomfortably, “I don’t know if I should. I mean, I’d be happy to, but I guess I’m not really a contestant.”

  “Why?” she retorted. “You look like a contestant.”

  Milo looked at the man in the turban, then to the wild man, and next over to...and skipped back to the newspaper reporter, wondering what made a contestant look like a contestant.

  “I got here to be a contestant, but I don’t have fifty kuzurians to enter. All I have is one.”

  “Really?” the woman said, scribbling into her notebook. “But you came to be a contestant?”

  “Yes, I guess so. I’m here, and earlier today I wasn’t. So I guess I did.”

  She scribbled furiously.

  “And this”—she indicated Bori with a flick of the eraser end of her pencil—”is your familiar?”

  “My...familiar?” Milo asked, unsure of the term. “He’s more like my guide. He’s helping me figure out the Kingdom of Odalese, because it’s not very much like where I come from.”

  “And just where is that?”

  “I don’t think I have the faintest idea,” Milo replied.

  At this point Bori broke in. “As you can see, Milo is a very clever young man. He’s generous and forthright, but he keeps his own counsel. I expect him to do very well in this competition if his entry is assured.”

  A laugh from another quarter followed Bori’s pronouncement and interrupted the reporter’s scribbling. “Clever? Cleverly said, at least. Perhaps this cat should be the contestant. If his tongue is tricky enough to make magic for this young pup, he should be able to compete with real sorcerers and sorceresses like Ali-Sembeck, Tivik, Aulairess, or, for that matter, myself.”

  “So you would go on record,” the reporter said, turning to address the intruder, “that this contestant, because of his youth, should not be allowed to compete?” Her pencil was moving as fast as her tongue.

  “He’s a baby!” the man exclaimed. “What can he know of the demands of a high-level competition like this? Look around you. The contestants assembled here are the cream of the wizarding trade. Each of them is a master of his or her craft. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here.”

  “This boy is here, just as you are, Count Yeroen” the reporter pointed out, identifying the critic in the process. “Isn’t that the core qualification for joining the Magical Scavenger Hunt? In fact, isn’t it the only requirement?”

  Count Yeroen threw up his hands. “Yes, that and having fifty kuzurians as an entry fee. Which the boy does not have.”

  “But that could be provided by anyone,” Bori put in. “Even yourself, if you chose to do so.”

  “Ahh, you are a clever cat. Yes, I could pay his entry fee—if I chose to do so. But if I chose not to do so, he wouldn’t compete, would he? The office closes in about half an hour.”

  “Why would you wish to prevent this young man from competing?” the reporter asked. Her pencil scratched swiftly as the Count answered.

  “I have no personal reason to bar this young man from the competition,” the Count stated. “I do, however, believe it would be very risky for him and the other contestants due to his inexperience. The Hunt is a serious, even a deadly, undertaking. But since I believe that poverty as a single condition and a factor certainly unaddressed in the rules of competition, should not prevent an otherwise—as our feline friend here has astutely stated—qualified...” Yeroen edged the word with such a smear of sarcasm that the reporter’s pencil seemed to get stuck in it. “...competitor from joining the Hunt, I will pay his fee and allow him to fail on his own merits.”

  Off they all went: Count Yeroen, Milo, Bori, and the reporter. As they entered the treasurer’s office at the Courthouse, the clerk was clearly closing for the night.

  “I would like to pay the entry fee for this young man,” the Count stated.

  “Oh my goodness,” said the clerk. “I’ve just closed my lock box, and Hilda upstairs will be shutting her office before I can make out the receipt.”

  “I’ll run up and stop her,” the reporter offered, and dashed away.

  “I hope you have the correct change,” the clerk said, peeved. “I’ll have to redo the bookkeeping record as it is.”

  Yeroen counted out the appropriate number of kuzurians and the clerk wrote out the receipt and marked it with the seal.

  “There you go, young man,” the clerk said, handing it over to Milo. �
�Next time you should consider being better prepared. Good luck in the contest.”

  Up they went to the Mayor’s office where the reporter stood talking to Hilda, the receptionist. “Here they come,” the reporter said, and the two turned back into the office just ahead of Milo, the Count, and Bori.

  “Very close, cutting it like that,” Hilda said. “In the next two minutes I would have been locked up and gone.”

  A sixth person burst into the room. “I would like to register for the Hunt,” she announced breathlessly and waving her receipt from the clerk.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake!” exclaimed the receptionist, taking the sealed receipt.

  The reporter was scribbling madly. “And who are you?” she asked the newcomer.

  “My name is Analisa, and I’m a fully trained witch, the best in my class!” she insisted, as if someone had contested it.

  “A witch?” exclaimed the receptionist in dismay. “Even if you are here in time to register, I can’t possibly allow you to register as the thirteenth contestant. Not a witch!”

  The girl was about Milo’s age and even reminded him of Crystal, the girl in his class at his school. Like her, Analisa was dressed all in black: black pants, black boots, and a black tunic (instead of a heavy metal band tee shirt). But instead of blue, her hair was midnight black, which he liked better. In a word, Milo thought she was very pretty, with green eyes. That went a long way with Milo.

  “I haven’t registered yet,” he said. “What if you register her first, and then I’ll register as the thirteenth? I’m not a witch or anything. I’m just Milo.”

  “I suppose that would be all right,” the receptionist said. The Count threw up his hand with impatience.

  So they did it that way, and Milo became the thirteenth contestant in the Magical Scavenger Hunt.

  2

  Milo Finds His Place

  The reporter rushed off to make her deadline, and the others went back to the park. Count Yeroen, who was clearly uninterested in socializing with the young people, returned to his camp, leaving Analisa, Milo, and Bori to themselves. They appropriated a picnic table, a place they were entitled to as fully registered contestants in the Hunt. Since neither Analisa nor Milo had any gear, they had no camp to set up, Analisa sat cross-legged in the middle of the table with Bori on her lap. She was giving him long, gentle strokes, and Milo could hear him purr and see his eyes closed in ecstasy and his paws making the opening/closing rhythm of a well-gruntled cat.

  “So, is he your familiar?” Analisa asked Milo.

  “That’s the same question that the newspaper lady asked. I really don’t know what a familiar is.”

  Analisa looked at Milo with puzzled curiosity. “A familiar is your magical companion. An animal helper who you can trust completely to assist you.”

  “Except for the magical part, maybe he is my familiar then. He certainly has helped me out all day long, but I haven’t asked him if he would like to stay with me for the Hunt.”

  “Why don’t you ask him then?” Analisa suggested. “You’re going to need all the help you can get. You obviously don’t have a clue, and you’ve already made a very powerful rival of the most renowned sorcerer in the Hunt.”

  “I take it you mean Count Yeroen.”

  Analisa rolled her eyes as though she was talking to an idiot. It made Milo feel very, very small.

  “Yes, you silly. Count Yeroen.”

  Milo looked at Bori. Bori looked as if he were asleep, but the tip of his tail flicked slowly, so Milo knew that he had heard every word. Cats are like that.

  “Bori? Would you care to stay with me and be my familiar?”

  Bori stretched and yawned, his jaws opening so wide that it looked as though his head had split apart. Then he opened one green eye and fixed a gaze on Milo.

  “I might consider it. I’m a free agent, and at the moment I have no other commitments. It’s true that you’re going to need help. And I was serious when I said that I believe you’ve got much better chances at winning than the Count High-and-Mighty thinks you do. We’ll make a team, you and I.”

  That made Milo feel a lot better. He felt a frog in his throat, and not nearly so alone, even while he missed his own kitty, Gracie, very keenly. “Thanks, Bori,” he said sort of gruffly.

  “At your service,” Bori replied. “You’ll have to feed me, of course. That’s part of the deal.”

  That reminded Milo that he was very hungry himself, that he still had only one kuzurian, and now he had an obligation to his familiar. It was bad enough to be hungry yourself with no prospect of eating, but to be responsible for feeding Bori as well really was daunting.

  He still did have one kuzurian, though.

  “I need to buy some cat food,” he told Analisa. “Want to come along?”

  She hopped down from the table and so did Bori who marched along just ahead of them, tail held in a high waving pose, proud of his new, important status. Maybe the prospect of regular meals helped out, too.

  “How come you were so late registering?” Milo asked Analisa.

  “I had to get away from my mistress, and I think she knew I was up to something. I finally escaped just in the nick of time.”

  “Your mistress?” Milo asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. Technically, I’m still an apprentice. For another ten years, unless I can win this contest.”

  “Ten years?” Milo whistled. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah, it is. She’s a real...well, a real witch! She makes me do all her domestic work, like washing her clothes, making her meals, helping her dress, but never teaches me anything useful. About witchcraft, I mean. I just can’t stand it any longer! So winning this contest is my only way to escape. Now that I’ve registered, she can’t make me come back to her. For now, she and I are equals as contestants of the Hunt.”

  “Who is she?” Milo inquired.

  “She’s at the table on the other side of Tivik the wild man. Her name is Aulaires.”

  “You mean the one...,” Milo broke off, blushing, because if Aulaires was who he thought she was, he’d spent half the afternoon trying not to look at her. “The one with the red tent?” he asked, rather lamely.

  “Yes. The one with the red tent. Like you didn’t notice,” Analisa answered wryly.

  “Uh...where were you?” he asked.

  “What? Why, I was right there, all day long, working like a slave! I saw you. And your cat. In fact, I got out from under her eye only when you and Count Yeroen distracted her long enough for me to slip away. Milo, you had to see me!”

  No, Milo had not. He had noticed only Aulaires. Her image seemed burned onto his retinas. And now, because of the way Analisa’s eyes flashed, he realized he had made a major blunder.

  “I...I was trying to figure out how to get the entry fee,” he said, knowing that it was a weak excuse.

  “You had your eyes glued on our camp all afternoon!” Analisa spat.

  They walked on in an uncomfortable silence. Bori steered them to a shop where Milo could buy cat food.

  “I’m sorry,” Milo told Analisa. “I would like to buy us supper, but this is my last kuzurian.” He paused. “And I’m sorry I didn’t notice you this afternoon. Well, I did, but I didn’t. You see, I’ve never seen anyone like Aulaires before. She’s not your... ahh...typical witch.”

  “What would you know about witches?” Analisa snarled. “I don’t believe you’ve ever even seen a witch.”

  “You’re right,” Milo admitted. “I haven’t. Until today.”

  The shopkeeper who had sold Milo the cat food was still standing right there, having heard every word.

  “Aren’t you two the Hunt contestants who are in the paper this evening?” he asked.

  “Yes, we’re contestants, but I didn’t know we were in the paper,” Milo answered. “We did talk to a newspaper person, though.”

  “You must be the young man who didn’t have his registration fee. The one whom Count Yeroen sponsored. And you must be the young wit
ch who would have been the thirteenth contestant had it not been for this young man.”

  Analisa nodded, reluctant to acknowledge Milo’s helpful gesture.

  “And you just spent your last kuzurian to feed your cat,” the shopkeeper stated. “But now how are you going to eat? Don’t you have anyone backing you? How can you compete with no support?”

  “I didn’t exactly plan any of this. All I know is that I got here, so all I can do is the best I can. Like Analisa. She’s got no better support than I do.”

  The shopkeeper looked at the girl and shook his head. “You’ll both need sponsors, I think. But for now, I know you must be hungry. Come along back to the kitchen and let’s see if my wife and I can’t get you something to eat.”

  Supper was omelets with fresh-baked bread and butter, cheese, and fruit. Bori got a sardine and a saucer of milk. Then the shopkeeper and his wife served them hot tea with honey while they all sat around the kitchen table.

  “How did you get to the Kingdom of Odalese?” the shopkeeper asked Analisa.

  “It’s been my dream—ohh, for as long as I can remember,” she answered. “It was the reason I wanted to enter training in the first place. My mother is a witch, and of course I first learned from her. But I knew how tough the competition is for the Hunt, so I got into the best witch school I could.”

  “You’re still so young, dear!” the wife spoke up. “The other competitors have been wizards, warlocks, witches, sorcerers, shamanesses, and mages for years before they put themselves into the Hunt. Don’t you think you should wait for the next Hunt?”