Split Ends

Prologue

Two figures wearing striped pajamas tumbled headlong into a steaming, smoldering pit of red lava at the bottom of a volcano. Fright and agony were etched across their faces, but nothing—nothing—could save them now. It was the end of those terrible twins, Edgar and Ellen.

Stephanie Knightleigh sighed her disappointment at the lopsided drawing in her notebook. It was mere fantasy. In reality the twins had escaped the Black Diamond volcano, each in one piece.

Stephanie flipped through her notebook to pages filled with scribblings, scientific formulas, and other sketches of doomed stick figures. She sat at the counter of the Bandy Station Café, sipping a cranberry phosphate that was far too weak for her liking. Out the window to her left, freight trains moved through the stockyard, and the station hands scurried to and fro, loading cargo. Stephanie tapped her fingers impatiently, then perused more pages, checking off various things and making new notes. She paused on a dense grid of numbers.

They’re all a little different, but the same, she mumbled. There has to be a sequence that magnifies the power. But things in the woods seem to be going well, according to him. She sneered. Won’t he be surprised.

Everything to your liking, miss? The waitress pointed at Stephanie’s glass.

Hardly, Stephanie snapped. The porter said he’d have my things ready half an hour ago. I’m going to miss my train. Moss grows faster than you people move. She pushed her glass away. And this phosphate isn’t tart enough.

I’d say you’re tart enough as is, dearie. The waitress snatched up Stephanie’s glass and disappeared into the kitchen.

Stephanie huffed and flipped to a page that had a simple list on it:

Halfway there, she said, and glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time. What is taking that porter so long?

Finally a chap in striped overalls entered the café and doffed his cap to Stephanie.

Miss Knightleigh? She’s all packed and ready.

It’s about time, said Stephanie. Show me.

The porter led Stephanie out through the stockyard, weaving through the rumbling freight trains. They arrived at the very farthest, and the man helped Stephanie into one of the cars. She walked over to a very large crate and inspected it closely, ensuring all the nails and bolts were secure. She plucked a tuft of white hair from an airhole in one of the boards.

What you got in there anyway? the porter asked. Sure was heavy. And I think something inside growled at me when we were getting it in here.

You must be mistaken, Stephanie said coolly. This is nothing more than a new type of wool … heavier than the common variety.

Good for winter sweaters, I bet, said the porter. He pulled out a clipboard and looked it over. You’re all set. Your package will be delivered to a . . . Smelterburg? Is that right?

That is correct, said Stephanie, and she hopped out of the train car. "And now I must be off to my next destination," she added as she left the station.

1. A Game of Dice

That’s Pakatchaloosa money, snorted the captain of the Sea Witch. That rot is worthless in New Pakatchaloosa.

Edgar groaned and put the coins back in his satchel. As he rummaged about for another form of payment, he muttered to himself about exchange rates and gold standards and his general bafflement at the workings of the world’s currency. He had won a hefty handful of coins in a game of cards with some dodgy-looking crewmen, and while his winnings had bought him passage on the Sea Witch, there wasn’t enough left over to cover the candy bar he had been caught borrowing from the captain’s lunch box. None of Edgar’s usual schemes to sidestep trouble had seemed to work on the savvy crew of the ferry, and now he was cornered.

Okay, it looks like I don’t have any New Pakatcha-whatever money, said Edgar. Would you accept a barter for your candy bar? A genuine shark-tooth back scratcher, maybe? Nickel-plated pipe fitting? Mostly uncracked Erlenmeyer flask? Homemade sheriff’s badge?

Homemade sheriff’s badge? asked the captain, scratching at his eye patch. What the devil would I do with that?

Stop traffic, make arrests, bypass security, conduct investigations, question suspects—

Enough! Eh, I’ll take it, said the captain. He snatched the badge. Now get off my ship and into Grayweather country.

Grayweather? I thought this was New Palooka, said Edgar.

When you’re a-standing on my boat, you’re in New Pakatchaloosa territory, said the captain, pointing to the purple-and-yellow flag flying from an aft flagpole. Down at the end of the gangplank is Grayweather Province.

You’re sure this is where those circus performers got off? asked Edgar.

Oh, aye, said the captain. I always keep an eye on circus folk. Especially ones as chipper as that lot. Shifty, they were. Kept my one good eye on ’em till they were off my boat. Don’t know where they went after that, and don’t care to. ’Tweren’t but two days ago, so if you intend to settle a score with them, you best get a move on.

The captain practically shoved Edgar down the gangway.

Okay, okay, I’m going, said Edgar. Cripes, I thought that badge meant we were square.

"Even when I get the mustard stains off my steering wheel, the bilge water out of the diesel tanks, and every last pair of boxers untied from the flagpole, we still won’t be square, you imp, growled the captain. Take your high-seas mischief and be gone."

Edgar walked down the gangway and took in his surroundings. Grayweather Province was mountainous country: The land beyond the harbor spread out in densely forested foothills and peaks and looked uninhabited. Without further guidance it would be nearly impossible to know which way the Midway Irregulars had gone.

But I know those circus freaks came this way, and I’m going to catch them, said Edgar. Since parting ways with his sister almost three weeks ago, he had taken to talking to himself. (I know who’ll appreciate hearing my brilliant insights, he had said. Me!) The reindeer he had ridden out of the Arctic wasteland hadn’t seemed to mind his prattling—though one night Edgar’s snores grew so loud they spooked the beast, and it ran off. Edgar had had to follow the trail of the Midway Irregulars on foot, which had been fairly easy until he reached the coast. Fortunately, he had come to a harbor where he met the captain of the Sea Witch, who confirmed ferrying the circus kids over to Grayweather.

Now on the far side, Edgar thought to seek out more information on the Midway Irregulars and where they might have gone.

Walking along the harbor, Edgar came upon a group of dockhands playing a game of dice. Edgar felt in his satchel for his own pair of dice, which looked normal to the naked eye but really were fitted with remote-controlled gyroscopes of Edgar’s own design.

Hey, fellas, mind if I rest my feet for a bit and join you?

The dockhands looked up at the scrawny boy in striped footie pajamas, then at one another. Smiles broke out across their sooty faces.

Why, sure there, lad, said one, who was missing most of his teeth. Pull up a stool right next to me, here. You ever play dice before?

No. Never, said Edgar innocently.

Even better, said Toothless. The guy next to him, who had a black eye, elbowed him in the ribs.

What my friend means is, we’ll be happy to explain the rules, said Black Eye.

That’s mighty nice of you, said Edgar, and he settled in.

Sevens and elevens easy up, no loosey deucies, boxcars on top, said Black Eye, rolling the dice.

You all haven’t seen a gaggle of ragtag kids come through here, have you? Edgar asked as the dice were passed around.

"Yeah, yeah, the Sea Witch ferried a crew of nutters like that across the channel a couple days ago, Toothless said. All smiles and juggling and carrying on, the five of them. What you want them for?"

They’re traveling the world stealing a rare substance that can make a person live forever, Edgar said. We’re not sure what they’re doing with it. I suspect they’re mixing samples from different locations to make something terrible.

Edgar palmed the dice when they reached him and secretly replaced them with his own gyroscopic dice. He rolled a pair of sixes. Is that good?

Beginner’s luck, growled a dockhand whose entire neck was covered in tattoos. Each man handed Edgar a coin.

Sounds like a pack of right rotten souls you’re after, eh? said Black Eye.

Not usually, said Edgar. But at the moment, the Midway Irregulars are under the influence of a hypnotic potion made from the tears of a near-mythical beast.

You don’t say, said Toothless. Bah, he added as his dice turned up snake eyes.

I’m carrying some unique seeds that are the antidote to their hypnosis, said Edgar. The fate of humanity hinges on me catching up to them. Er, so I’m told by my two-hundred-year-old mad-scientist friend.

Boy, I have heard some whoppers in my day, but this takes all. You hit your head when the ferry docked? asked Black Eye.

No, just an overactive imagination, I guess, said Edgar, rolling an eleven. The men all groaned and handed over more coins. You wouldn’t happen to know which way they went, would you?

Toothless gestured toward shore, where a path wound up into a pine-lined mountain pass. They went thataway.

What’s up there? asked Edgar.

The dockhands eyed one another warily.

Trees, said Black Eye. Miles and miles of ’em. And wild creatures none too friendly to humans. No one goes into Footwood Forest without a guide. If your circus friends went up there by themselves, likely as not they’re dead already.

The men shuddered. Edgar pretended not to notice and picked up the dice, rolling a seven.

Well, it must just be my lucky day. He chuckled, gathering up everyone’s coins. But as he did, Tattoo grabbed his wrist, and the remote button used to control the dice fell out of his sleeve.

I knew it! Cheat! shouted Tattoo as the other dockhands jumped to their feet. Edgar backed away from them toward the shore.

"Gee, fellas, it sure has