Abarat

Pixler ? Candy said to herself. Was it possible that this little man was in fact the master architect of Commexo City?

'What do you make of it, Birch?' Pixler asked his companion.

The man came to Pixler's side. He was fully two and a half feet taller than his boss, and despite the insipid, functional cut of the pale suits they were all wearing, he wore his with a curious elegance. 'I've been going through Willsberger's Flora and Fauna of the Islands and—'

'There's no entry for a giant moth?' Pixler said, gently patting his quiff to be sure it hadn't lost its shape.

'No.'

'I'm not surprised,' Pixler said. 'It's my opinion that this thing was made by magic. Look at the color flowing out of it, Birch. It was a conjuration that made this. And a powerful one.' Pixler smiled. 'It's going to take time to root out all the magic in these islands. We've got a lot of books to burn, a lot of spirits to break—'

Candy listened to the man speaking of book burnings and spirit breaking with a little smile of anticipation on his face, and it made her shudder. So this was the philosophy of Rojo Pixler, the great architect of Commexo City. It made grim listening.

'I don't want them going to their local shamans and witch doctors for their healing and their revelations. I want them coming to us. To me! If people want a taste of magic, let it be our magic. Sanitized. Systematized.'

'Hallelujah,' Birch said.

'You're not mocking me, are you?' Pixler snapped, reeling around on the man, his finger jabbed in the man's face.

Birch raised his hands in surrender, the tablet slipping from his hands. 'Good Lord, no. Absolutely not, sir.'

Pixler laughed out loud. 'A joke, Birch. A joke!' he said.

'What?' said Birch, his expression empty.

'Where's your sense of humor?' Mr. Suspicion said.

'Oh. A joke.'

'Come on, Birch, lighten up. I trust you.'

Birch bent down and picked up the tablet he'd dropped. As he did so, he shot Pixler a glance that the boss-man didn't see, but Candy did. It spoke volumes. Under Birch's loyal manner lay a deep-seated contempt for his employer.

'Write this down for me, Birch,' Pixler said. 'I want to announce an amnesty on all books of magic. If they're turned over to us in Commexo City for burning in the next thirty days, I will personally guarantee that whoever hands the books over will be immune from prosecution.'

'With respect,' Birch said, 'there are no laws, sir, forbidding the practice of magic outside Commexo City. And again, with respect, I think it would be very hard to get any of the Island Councils to agree to put such a law into effect.'

'What if we told these two-bit councilors that they could never have any further dealings with Commexo unless they did create such a law?' Pixler said.

'That might work,' Birch said. 'But what about the big players? The Carrion family has a vast magical library, I hear. Probably the largest on the islands. How do we get them to give that up?'

'I'll find a way,' Rojo said, his manner oozing confidence. 'I always find a way, you know me.'

'Wait,' said Birch softly.

'What is it?'

'Would you mind, sir?' Birch said, handing his glowing tablet over to his boss.

'What's the problem, Birch?' Pixler said.

'None, sir,' Birch said, taking a small step away from his employer, toward the copse, then another, then a third.

'Birch?'

At that moment Birch's steps became a long-legged dash into the undergrowth.

Too late, Candy realized that she was the target of his pursuit. She turned and started to run, but before she could get more than a yard, he had his hands on her.

'A spy ?' Pixler yelled.

'It's just a girl,' Birch said, as he pulled Candy out of the shadows and into the blaze of light from the balloons. She complained loudly about his manhandling of her, but she had no choice in the matter. He was considerably stronger than she was, and he didn't seem to care that he was bruising her in the process of holding on to her.

'Are you our moth maker?' Pixler said. 'Did you do that ?' He pointed to the dead moth, which was still in the trees, despite the attempts of Doggett and his team to bring it down.

'She's probably one of the local tribespeople,' Birch said, still holding Candy tight. 'Some of them are mute, I believe.'

'Are you mute?' Pixler said.

'No,' Candy replied.

'Ah. That's one theory that bites the dust,' Pixler said.

'Then who are you?' said Birch.

'My name is Candy Quackenbush and for your information I was being abducted by that thing in the trees when you brave, clever gentlemen shot it out of the skies. You could have killed me!'

Pixler listened to this little outburst with a mildly amused expression on his face.

'I think you could probably let the young lady go now, Birch,' Pixler said.

'She may be armed,' Birch said, not releasing Candy.

'What have you got in your hand?' Doggett demanded.

'That's Squiller,' Candy said, looking down. To her distress she realized that in the last few minutes— while she'd been listening to the book-burning nonsenses Rojo Pixler was spouting—the life had finally gone from her little squid. Most likely it had been out of its native element too long.

'Let me go !' she raged, digging at Birch with her elbows to get him to release her.

'You heard what the girl told you,' Pixler said.

Birch let go of Candy, but stayed within six inches of her in case she attempted to make a move on his boss.

'Shall I take that from you?' Pixler said, his hands extended to receive Squiller's body.

'No, you can't,' Candy said. 'I'll bury him myself. I want to say a little prayer.'

'For a squid ? My lord,' said Birch, 'you are a primitive lot on this island.'

'Don't be so judgmental, Birch,' said Pixler. His voice had become softer. 'My sister Filomena used to bury all her pets in the back garden when we were young. We had quite a little cemetery back there. I used to dig the hole, and she'd write a little prayer. These little rituals are important. Where are you from, child?'

'A long way away,' Candy said.

She suddenly felt a deep tremor of sadness go through her, and she wished with all her heart that she could snap her fingers and be returned to her own backyard in Followell Street, where she could lay Squiller to rest beside Monty the canary and several deceased goldfish: the companions of her childhood. She could feel tears not that far off, and the last thing she wanted to do was weep in front of a couple of total strangers. So she said:

'If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bury Squiller in the woods. It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Pixler. And you'—she looked at Birch—'not so nice.'

'Well, that's plain-speaking,' Pixler said.

'We speak plainly in Minnesota.'

'Minnesota?' said Birch. 'What island is that?'

'Minnesota isn't in the Abarat, Birch,' Pixler said.

'You mean—?'