Pony shook his head. “According to his Hand, Iron Mace owned a medium-sized spell-locked box for centuries before Unbounded Brilliance was born. He alone knew the key word for it. His Hand did not realize the box had been stolen. Only after Iron Mace was killed did they realize that the last time that they could remember seeing the box was prior to his nephew’s disappearance. Red Knife determined that while the song ‘knock, knock, open the box’ seems to indicate that the two events are linked, there is no concrete proof of treason on their part.”
It sounded as if Iron Mace’s entire household was questioned after Oilcan’s kidnapping. Tinker hadn’t been aware of it, so it probably had been done by the Wyverns. The Fire Clan’s sekasha were considered the head of their caste. Red Knife, Prince True Flame’s First, would have beheaded Iron Mace’s people if he thought that they were in league with the Skin Clan. The idea was weirdly comforting and terrifying at the same time.
“After Iron Mace lost the box, the Skin Clan probably didn’t trust him enough to tell him that they had found it again,” Stormsong said. “Iron Mace came to Pittsburgh to find out what you and Oilcan knew about its contents. He wouldn’t have done that if he knew that Dufae had lost it hundreds of years ago.”
Tinker agreed with that logic. “If the box from the whelping pens hadn’t been booby-trapped, I could have cut it open. Most Pittsburghers don’t know how to work with ironwood, but the oni had dozens of carpenters disguised by magic to appear human. They made the wooden framework of the gate I built. Some of them might have worked at the museum.” Tinker ticked off what they knew on her fingers. “Sparrow went to Earth during May Shutdown. She told the museum in New York that the box belonged to her. To make sure that the sekasha with her didn’t find out about it, though, she asked the staff to ship it to Elfhome separately. The museum on Earth ships it to the Carnegie during the June Shutdown. Someone cut it open and took out the egg-thingies. After the July Shutdown, Cloudwalker finds the box in pieces. It’s September now.”
“Kajo has had the dragons for months,” Jin whispered, his voice filled with horror.
“He hasn’t done anything with them yet.” Tinker stood up, her mind racing. So many problems that needed to be answered. Now. She snapped her fingers, calling to everyone that was hiding in the shadows: elves and tengu. “I need my datapad from my bedroom. Someone find me a printer, a whiteboard, some power strips, and every lamp you can bring me. There’s a cardboard box in my closet; get that.”
The box contained the original Codex. She needed to cross-reference her digital copy with it. She had noticed recently that her grandfather had deleted key information, presumably to protect her as a child. What exactly had he taken out? She needed to know what Dufae actually knew about the Skin Clan’s plan. What else? She was still in her nightgown, bathrobe, and slippers. “Get me some clothes! Pants and a shirt, not a dress! I want my boots. A couple yards of string in five different colors. Send someone to get my cousin. Tell him to bring his digital copy of the Codex. And get me another pot of strong tea.”
2: TEAM MISCHIEF
“Oilcan.” The tiny voice whispered in the ultrasonic range. “Oilcan!”
He opened his eyes and blinked. And blinked again. Four mice on tiny hoverbikes stood in the pool of light on his nightstand. They wore racing goggles perched on their heads and scarfs of various colors wrapped about their necks.
“We did it!” The pink-scarfed mouse fist-pumped its little paw. “Hooyah!”
This made the other three mice cheer and clap their hands.
“Hello?” Oilcan whispered. He might be dreaming — or his life just got a whole lot odder.
“Oilcan, we have an important mission for you!” Pink Mouse cried.
“Life and death!” the Green Mouse and Red Mouse squeaked in unison.
“Me?” He couldn’t imagine what he could do for talking mice.
“You are Orville Wright, correct?” Blue Mouse asked. Unlike the other three, this one sounded male. Like Christopher Robin to be exact.
Oilcan glanced around, trying to determine if he was actually awake or still asleep. His new bedroom at Sacred Heart still disoriented him by the unfamiliar play of darkness and moonlight through the tall windows. The bed beside him was empty. Thorne Scratch had gotten up, turned on the lamp, and gotten dressed. Her sword and armor were missing.
He seemed awake…
“And you hate your name, correct?” Pink asked. “Orrrville.”
Which was exactly how the kids in grade school used to mangle his name.
“Yeah,” Oilcan said. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“You have to find us wonderful names!” Red and Green cried. “Orville Oilcan, you’re our only hope!”
“They don’t want to call me Chuck Norris,” Pink explained. “They want to call me Charlene! Chaaarleeennnneee!”
“And they say we can’t be Jawbreaker!” Red and Green cried.
“Jawbreaker?” Oilcan echoed.
A wordless squeal of delight and the rattle of hard sugar candy within a cardboard box announced a fifth visitor. A tiny dragon phased out of his nightstand with its discovery. Oilcan thought for a moment that Impatience had somehow been reduced to squirrel size. He realized that the colors were wrong. This tiny dragon was a delicate dusky pink color instead of bold red.
The dragon held up the box of Everlasting Gobstoppers that Oilcan had bought for Impatience. In a little girl voice, it said, “Candy! Yummy!”
She tore open the box. She stuck in her arm up to her armpit, fished about and pulled out a piece of candy the size of her fist. “Nom, nom, nom!”
“Jawbreakers are Joy’s favorite candy!” Green and Red explained in unison.
“By the time we can do anything about our names, it’s going to be too late,” Chuck Norris said. “We’ll be stuck with horrible names. Once those names get pinned on us, we won’t be able to get everyone to use the ones we really want.”
Their point wasn’t completely off since Oilcan still had people who refused to call him anything but Orville. All the tax forms and legal documents too, required him to use his “real” name.
“We want cool names!” the Jawbreakers cried.
“I want to be Chuck Norris. If Alexander can be Alexander Graham Bell then I can be Chuck Norris Dufae.”
Dufae? That was his mother’s maiden name. Were these mice somehow related to him? Were they descendants of some long-lost great-great-uncle? His grandfather had handed out some stupid names to his grandchildren — Orville Wright and Alexander Graham Bell — but Oilcan never thought being bad at naming children was a genetic trait.
Two kids both called Jawbreaker was worse than anything his grandfather handed out. It should be easy to pick out something better.
“What names do you want?” Oilcan asked.
“Crimson Death!” Red cried.
“Cthulhu!” Green cried.
This wasn’t going to be simple as it sounded. This was so surreal. It had to be a dream. He glanced down at the mice feet. His notepad lay open with his to-do list written on the top piece of paper.
Find more dishes for Barley. Thrift clothes for Cattail Reeds? Sheet music for Merry and Rustle. Dog food for Repeat. Find out where the piglet came from! Tell Baby Duck no more pets!
If he could read the list, was he really dreaming? If he wasn’t dreaming, was there really a tiny dragon standing on his nightstand, inhaling gumballs? Whose “children” were these mice? Were they really related to him?