The Crown of the Bandit King Page 2

  “You mean kidnapped me,” I said.

  Sweet Pea shrugged. “You have the gift, the Finder’s instinct. You can sense when magic is at work around you. Very few people can. Trust me, it’s better this way. For you. For your family. For us. For everyone.”

  Maybe Sweet Pea seemed nice, but honestly. Better this way? In what alternate universe did that make sense?

  “Why can’t I remember anything?” I asked. “My family, my life, my name. Was it that penny?”

  “The Finder’s Penny didn’t take your memory.” Sweet Pea exchanged looks with Deeter. “The Ragman did.”

  “You keep talking about the Ragman, but who is he?”

  “You can ask him yourself,” Sweet Pea said. “In fact, I think he already has a special job for you. He wants to see you in his study. Immediately.”

  Chapter 2

  The Ragman

  “Do you think you’ll defeat me!” a man’s voice shouted from the other side of the door. The voice had an accent. British, probably. “I’m the Ragman! A genius! A mastermind! No one defeats me!”

  I glanced at Sweet Pea standing beside me in the hallway.

  “It’s all right. You can go in. He’s expecting you,” she said.

  “How dangerous is he?” I asked. “Does he have a gun?”

  “A gun? The Ragman?” Sweet Pea snorted. “He’s a Collector. He doesn’t need a gun. He has…other things. And he has your memories. Be careful.”

  She gave me one last smile before she returned to the living room, leaving me alone to face the Ragman. I inhaled a deep breath, ready for anything. A fat, hairy gangster with a magic wand. Even a giant space octopus with twenty tentacles. But when I entered the study, I didn’t see the Ragman anywhere.

  Was he invisible? How weird was this going to get?

  “Hello?” I called.

  A clock ticked nearby, lazy and muffled, buried beneath the books and papers scattered on the floor. The Ragman’s study looked a lot like the living room. Same boxes and crates. Same piles of clutter. Same shelves thick with dust and full of junk. That must’ve been the common decorating theme of the house.

  Junkyard hoarder chic.

  “Ha! Thought you could slip that last one by me, did you?” The voice came from the leather armchair near the fireplace. “All right, then. Beat this!”

  I stepped towards the voice, closer to the armchair. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the Ragman.

  There had to be some mistake.

  This was the guy who’d kidnapped me? This lanky, clean-shaven guy in a gray business suit? He looked more like a kid than a kidnapper, sitting there in his armchair with his legs crossed up underneath him. Just like they make Kindergartners sit during story-time. Not to mention the blue baseball cap he wore on his head.

  This guy, dangerous? Yeah. Right.

  “Is that the best you can do?” he asked. “Ha!”

  He was talking to a laptop balanced on his knees, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. Completely oblivious to me.

  Now what?

  Near the study window stood a heavy wooden desk heaped high with old coffee cups, mechanical toys, books, silverware and even a lava lamp. If what Sweet Pea said was true, if the Ragman really did have my memories, then where were they? On that desk? Hard to believe my memories could be stashed somewhere under a bunch of dishtowels and yo-yos.

  No. That was impossible. The Ragman was some normal psychopath, and I must have lost my memories some other way. Maybe I’d hit my head. That must have been it.

  “Pardon the mess,” the Ragman said.

  I jumped so high at the sound of his voice that I could have leapfrogged over his desk easily. He set his laptop on a side table by his armchair and approached me.

  “I need to hire a good housekeeper.” He frowned at the desk. “In fact, I should add that to the list.”

  From inside his business jacket, he took out a thin black notebook and scribbled a few words.

  “Acquire—good—housekeeper,” he mumbled as he wrote.

  Then he slipped the notebook back into its place and patted his hands against his pockets like he was feeling for his wallet.

  “Look, if you want money,” I said, “like a ransom or something, I’m sure my parents will pay you to let me go.”

  “Let you go?” He tilted his head. “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t want a ransom?”

  “Don’t want. Don’t need. Even if your parents’ money was of any value to me, money is entirely irrelevant. I have something else in mind for you.”

  Something else?

  “You mean that special job for me to do? Like Sweet Pea said?”

  “Indeed! Don’t worry. We’ll get to that soon.”

  He removed his blue baseball cap and ran his fingers along the scant strands of brown hair he had left. His ears stuck out, and he grinned like he was posing for a camera.

  “Tell me, does it look thicker perhaps?” he asked. “The seller said this hat was a Collectible that would make the wearer’s hair grow back. Deeter said it was a fraud. I should have known. There are so many fraudulent Collectibles floating around these days. One can never be too careful when making a purchase. Which reminds me….”

  He dashed back to his armchair and examined his laptop again. Then he waved me closer with his long fingers.

  “I need your expert opinion. Come look at this!”

  The Ragman must have done drugs when he was a kid, and now he was like this. Brain-crazy.

  “Come on, come on,” he said.

  I zigzagged my way through the maze of boxes and clutter to stand beside him at his armchair. Then I almost laughed aloud. The Ragman was using an online auctioning site, and his screen name was PookieBoy.

  “I’m going to win this one,” he said. “LuckySmith keeps outbidding me on special Collectibles. He’s outbid me on the last three. But this time—this time I know I’ll win. Here, look.”

  The computer screen showed several photographs of a red gumball machine at various angles. The seller’s description only had two words: “Gumballs included.”

  The Ragman gazed at me with his wide, shining eyes. “What do you think?”

  Oh, yeah. He was crazy. No doubt about that.

  “Um, it’s great,” I said.

  Then I saw the most recent bid—one hundred thousand dollars.

  “Whoa….”

  “You see?” the Ragman said. “He won’t bid more than a hundred thousand. LuckySmith never does. I’ve been observing his habits. Watching him. He never goes over one hundred thousand. Never. This one is mine!”

  “But it looks like a regular gumball machine,” I said. “Why do you think it’s, er, magic?”

  The Ragman scrolled down to the bottom of the page where there were two strange symbols. The first was like an open hand surrounded by seven interwoven circles, and the second was like a tiny candy cane.

  “The first symbol means it’s a Collectible, of course, and the candy cane—well, that’s an Artisan’s mark.”

  “An Artisan’s mark?”

  “A sort of signature. A maker’s mark. It means this Collectible was made by the Candy Man.”

  “Oh.”

  Maybe I was the crazy one. Seriously, what other explanation was there? The Ragman and Sweet Pea and Deeter talked about this weird stuff as if it were perfectly reasonable. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe I was lying in a hospital bed in a coma, and this all was because of the medications the doctors were giving me to keep me alive.

  “Uh-oh,” the Ragman said. “Best have a seat. You don’t look too well.”

  He helped me sit in his armchair, the only chair in the room that wasn’t piled on with stuff. Then he fanned my face with his baseball cap.

  “I want to go home,” I whispered.

  Wherever that was.

  The Ragman moved to the fireplace as if he didn’t want to look at me. Maybe he thought I was about to cry. He started straightening the knick-knacks on the black marbl
e mantel instead. Not that it made the mantel any tidier.

  “The work you’ll be doing is dangerous, I won’t lie,” he said after a minute or two. “Using children this way is a nasty business. It’s entirely against my better judgment. But, children make the best Finders—they always do—and I could hardly go to your mum and dad and ask to borrow you for the weekend, could I?”

  He laughed like he’d made a joke.

  “Rest assured, I’m not a violent man,” he continued. “I won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking. Nor will I hold you against your will. You can leave whenever you wish.”

  Was he trying to make another joke?

  He must have known I didn’t believe him, so he waved at the door. I stood slowly.

  “Of course, I can’t imagine why you’d want to leave,” he added. “This new life of yours will be one of excitement! Possibility! Wonder! I suppose Sweet Pea and Deeter have shown you a few of our rather unusual possessions?”

  “You mean that tablecloth? Deeter’s ring?”

  “Ah, yes. You think those were impressive? You haven’t seen anything yet. No Ordinary will ever be able to imagine even half of the things you’ll experience! The daring, magical life of a Finder! A life with no rules but one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  I could still feel that strange jumpiness deep down inside me, pulling at me. It was even stronger here in the Ragman’s study than it’d been in the living room. Made me wonder what kind of Collectibles he kept in here. A magic cloak? A flying carpet?

  I let out a breath.

  “I don’t need a new life. I’m happy with the one I’ve got.”

  “You mean, the life you can’t remember? Are you sure it was happy with you?”

  What kind of question was that?

  I walked to the door, but I didn’t open it. Not yet. Something about this was wrong. Here he was, acting nice to me. Promising not to hurt me. Even letting me go.

  What about my memories?

  “Clever boy,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d notice. Those pesky memories. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? They do make things more complicated.”

  He joined me at the door and leaned against the wall.

  “You can go, but your memories stay with me. Consider it my compensation. Terms and fine print for time wasted…recuperation of business expenses…profit and loss…risk management for the investment….”

  What was I doing standing here listening to him? It was impossible to steal someone’s memories. I should have left this crazy place hours ago.

  But still, I didn’t move.

  “Why?” I asked. “I mean, even if you have my memories, what good are they to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re rather pretty. Would you like to see one?” He gestured at me. “Come sit and have a look.”

  The Ragman chuckled. Me, I stared at the floor and tried to keep my nausea down. He probably wouldn’t think the whole thing was so funny if I threw up on his expensive leather shoes.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “These memories belong to you, after all.”

  I sat down in the armchair again, and the Ragman pulled a long, black silk handkerchief out of his pocket.

  “I’ll need to blindfold you,” he said, “but don’t worry. I give you my word no harm will come to you.”

  He tied his handkerchief around my eyes, and I could hear him breathing in my ear. A cabinet door opened and closed nearby. The smell of fresh-cut grass filled the room. Then I heard a voice.

  My voice.

  “Come on, Caspian! Come on, boy!”

  In my mind, I saw a broad green lawn and a golden retriever running towards me. My dog. Suddenly, I could remember him. It’d been a Sunday, and I’d taken him out to play. He had a slobbery baseball in his mouth. I’d named him Caspian after one of my favorite characters in a book. But what book?

  “That’s enough for now,” the Ragman said, and the whole scene went black again.

  I yanked the blindfold off my eyes.

  Maybe Sweet Pea was right. Maybe the Ragman was dangerous.

  “You don’t doubt me now, do you?” he asked. He took back his handkerchief, folded it neatly, and returned it to his pocket. “It’s best not to underestimate me. You’ll learn this soon enough.”

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. It was too much, happening too fast. My stolen memories…the Ragman…his crazy house full of magical junk…even his stupid online bidding war…all of it. I glanced over at his laptop. Someone had outbid him.

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “How many Collectibles do you want me to find in exchange for my memories?”

  “Hold on a minute. You want to bargain for them back again?” He cleared his throat. “Really, it’s hard to put a number on something so vague as value—”

  “One. I’ll find you one Collectible in exchange for my memories.”

  “Ha! After the trouble I went through to find you, the time it took, the planning…no, I couldn’t settle for less than twenty—”

  “Five.”

  He leaned forward. “Fifteen.”

  “Ten. That’s my final offer. Or I’m walking out that door. Memories or not. And you can find your stupid Collectibles yourself.”

  “Are you sure? Memories are precious things.”

  “I’ll make more.”

  He considered me for a moment, tapping his fingers against his lips and staring at my clenched fists.

  “You really would walk out that door without them, wouldn’t you? Deal or no deal.”

  I smirked. “It’s best not to underestimate me.”

  We glared at each other, both of us silently daring the other to back down. Finally, he threw his hands up in the air.

  “Oh, very well! If you want them back that badly. Ten Collectibles. It’s highway robbery, though. I am far too generous. It’s one of my faults.”

  He began to write in his notebook again, and when he’d finished, he tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

  “This is the special job I have in mind for you. I need you to find this for me.”

  I glanced at the piece of paper. On it, he’d scribbled The Complete Encyclopedia of Counterfeit and Fraudulent Collectibles.

  “Seriously? You want me to bring you a book?”

  “You say that like it’s some overdue library paperback. The book’s a Collectible, of course. The first of ten, in accordance with our bargain.”

  “Bring it to you, how? Steal it?”

  “Steal, buy, barter, borrow, beg…I don’t care how you get it. Just get it.”

  “Where? Where can I find it?”

  The Ragman motioned at the window as if the answer should be obvious. “Out there! Somewhere in the wide world.”

  “Why don’t you buy it?”

  “If only it were that easy. There’s only one copy, and it’s been well hidden. Trust me, we Collectors of magic keep excellent records, and I’ve checked them all. Every list. Every auction. No one has found this book yet, which means I need a Finder to locate it for me. It’s not like some publisher is popping them off the press twenty-four hours a day for the mass market. Each Collectible’s magic is unique.”

  “What if I can’t find the book? What happens to me?”

  “Well, if you can’t find it, you can be my housekeeper. Then I can scratch that off the list!”

  What a nightmare. With the mess in this place, I’d be stuck cleaning his Collectibles until I was a hundred years old.

  The Ragman patted me on the back. “Don’t worry. You’re a lad of exceptional talent. You’ll….”

  His grin suddenly vanished, and he waved his fist at his laptop.

  “Curse you, LuckySmith!” he shouted. “Curse you!”

  I glanced at the screen. The winning bid?

  One hundred thousand dollars—and one cent.

  Seemed like a good time to leave
right about then. The Ragman was too busy shouting at his computer to answer any more questions. Besides, all I had to do was find some stupid book.

  Honestly, how hard could that be?

  Chapter 3

  The Librarian

  “You don’t have to leave today,” Sweet Pea said the morning after my meeting with the Ragman. “You’ve had a big shock. You can wait if you want. You know, to get used to it all.”

  The sun had only risen an hour ago, but Sweet Pea was already dressed in a pink sweater and sash. She smelled nice, too. Like roses. She sat next to Deeter at the living room table with a black canvas bag in front of her, helping me pack.

  “Let him go,” Deeter said. “It’s not like we need him, Pea. It’s his own choice if he wants to run off and get himself killed. Just like a rookie.”

  Then Deeter swallowed a spoonful of something milky, brown, and eggy out of his breakfast bowl. He’d asked the Seven-Course Tablecloth for cornflake pancakes with peanut butter scrambled eggs on top. He still wore his pajamas, and his hair was a wad of curls. Like he’d stuck a bunch of baby mattress springs on his head.

  Sweet Pea frowned. “He doesn’t have to go. Not this soon.”

  As if I’d want to stay here any longer in this crazy place. Deeter and Sweet Pea had spent last night guiding me around, showing me where things were and how things worked. The house had to be a few hundred years old at least, and it was full of dead ends and odd corners. Every room was crammed with dusty Collectibles. And I could have sworn the house kept switching things around on me.

  Especially the bathroom.

  “You won’t get killed,” she said. “He’s only messing with you.”

  Deeter slurped down another spoonful. “Man, I don’t need to mess with the new kid. The truth is bad enough. It’s the fake Collectibles encyclopedia, Pea.” He swiveled around in his chair to face me. “You’re so dead.”

  Sweet Pea sighed at the canvas bag. “What foods do you want me to pack?”

  “What do you have?” I asked.