In the end, it was Derrin who went with him, and Ollie was glad. If he had to go wandering into the unknown depths of the Neath, Derrin was the housemate he wanted by his side. With her lanky frame, flat profile, and saucer-like eyes, she looked like she’d be right at home swimming among the blindfish at the bottom of the lake. She oozed bad-assery. No one would mess with him while she was around; of that, he was fairly sure.
The goodbyes, however, had worried him. Derrin and Kuyu had clung and kissed like Derrin was going off to war, which couldn’t bode well for the outing. He didn’t know anything about their destination other than its name—“Moseby’s”—and the fact that someone there could get a message into the tower. That was all that mattered now.
They traveled by boat and on land for nearly an hour before finally arriving at the endpoint. At least, Ollie assumed it was the endpoint. Moseby’s had no sign; only a crowd milling outside in a loosely formed line. They seemed to be waiting for entry through a glowing, open doorway.
Derrin bypassed the line altogether, walking directly toward the two men who guarded the entrance to the gaping hole. They were tall and lithe, like her, with noses that had been reduced mostly to tiny airholes in the center of their faces. Despite the lack of bulk, they looked threatening—but not, apparently, to Derrin. One of them nodded his head to acknowledge her, and she strolled through the entryway without so much as a comment.
The waiting mob erupted in protest at Derrin’s easy admittance. The other bouncer put a freakishly long-fingered hand on Ollie’s shoulder.
“He’s with me,” Derrin called over her shoulder.
The same man released his grip, his expression inscrutable, leaving Ollie free to scurry though the dark hole. He tried to ignore the outcry behind him, and the gnawing feeling of unease in his stomach.
The opening led to a tunnel, which led to a wider, enclosed space. Live music from unfamiliar instruments vibrated his feet. Torches glowed in a variety of colors, casting a rainbow of flickering light onto the walls and the people. Hundreds of people, or so it seemed. They danced and shouted and drank, groping each other and falling into delirious piles on the stone floor.
The smell was a choking fusion of sweat, fermentation, kerosene, and smoke. To his right, a group of musicians all seemed to be playing one long, shared instrument; it looked like a table-sized guitar with six or seven rows of thick strings. To his left, huge wooden barrels stood in formation, each filled with a different type of bubbling, colored liquid. Patrons lined up ten-deep in front of each barrel; when they got to the front, they handed their coins to the server and dipped their cups into the roiling grog. Or at least that seemed to be the intention. In reality, the process was a messy shoving match in which more of the precious liquid ended up on the floor than in anyone’s mouth.
Derrin floated impassively through the boisterous crowds. Ollie followed, less impassively, ogling the shadowy, writhing bodies and smoke-choked corners. The seating areas were round, each filled to capacity and encircling a well. Just typical water wells, as far as he could see, complete with buckets and ropes. The circular arrangement of the seats reminded Ollie of a Lighter Tomorrows meeting, causing a series of faces to flash suddenly into his mind: Big Vince. Lorraine. Christine. Jose. And, of course, Nell. He clutched his stomach, feeling homesick to the point of nausea.
“Lovie, lovie, lovie,” someone crooned in his ear.
Ollie spun, startled. A woman had reached out to clutch his arm, her voice buzzing like a chainsaw. She was upside down: hanging from her knees on some sort of trapeze bar that was suspended from the ceiling.
“Lovie, lovie! Want some lovies?” the woman asked.
Ollie snatched his arm out of her grasp.
He hurried to catch up with Derrin, but was stopped again by another trapeze swinger. This one was a wiry young man, sitting upright on the bar and wearing only a linen wrap around his waist. He managed to rake his fingers against Ollie’s chest as he swooshed past.
Ollie pushed the man away. His eyes darted. Where did Derrin go? Did he lose her? When he caught sight of her stringy hair, he shoved his way through the press of drunkards until he was behind her again.
She had stopped in front of one of the wooden barrels, gazing silently at the woman who was sitting on a stool behind it.
The woman was tiny. Her body type made Ollie think of Mr. Bonfiglio—stocky and stiff—though this woman had none of Mr. B’s warmth. Her eyes were like colorless beads. Four long, reddish braids dangled from her head; two on each side.
“Derrin!” the woman said, stroking one of her braids appreciatively. “My God, would you look at this. Has hell frozen over already?”
“Moseby,” Derrin replied. Her face betrayed no emotion.
“Come for a pint, have you?” the small woman asked in a cockney accent.
Derrin shook her head, then tipped it in Ollie’s direction.
Moseby looked from one to the other. “He’s come for a pint, then?”
“He’s come for your services,” Derrin answered.
“Ah!” the woman said, giving Ollie a once-over. “Well, we’ve plenty of those. What’s your pleasure?”
Ollie stepped forward. “I need to get a message to someone.”
“What kind of someone?”
“Someone inside Herrick’s End.”
Moseby took a drag on the hollow stick in her fingers and blew out a puff of shamrock-green smoke. “That so?” she finally said. “That’s a big ask, handsome.”
“Yeah, well, it’s important.”
“How much is it worth to you, then?”
Ollie didn’t know how to answer. It was worth everything. Anything. Tera’s life depended on it.
“He can’t pay,” Derrin interjected. “But he can do one better. I hear you still haven’t found a worthy adversary for your favorite game.”
At this, Moseby perked up. “Not in a while, no.” She looked Ollie up and down. “He is a big one, isn’t he? What’s your tolerance, son?”
“My…?” Ollie looked at Derrin in confusion.
“It’s high,” Derrin said, folding her arms. “Just look at him. He can hold his own.”
Moseby stroked her braids again. “All right. Sure.” Excitement had started to creep into her voice. “We can give it a try. But if he dies, you’re responsible for getting him out of here.”
“Wait, what?” Ollie asked.
Derrin looked unconcerned. “And if he wins, you deliver the message. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” the woman objected.
“It’s urgent,” Derrin said.
Moseby thought about this for a moment, then lifted her chin. “Right, then.”
Ollie watched them shake hands. “Wait a second!” he yelped. “What do you mean, if he dies?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Derrin said.
Moseby, meanwhile, reached for a round wooden disc and used it to cover the open top of the barrel. Then she stood on her stool and placed her plump hands on her hips. Even standing on furniture, she was shorter than Ollie. A grin of anticipation spread across her face.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Moseby bellowed. “Tonight is a special night, indeed! Gather round and stack ’em up! We have a new contender for Aristotle’s Bottles!”
A cheer erupted. The music sped up as the strings on the strange, giant instrument twanged in sudden double-time. The crowd began to gather and push, shoving Ollie’s body closer to Derrin’s.
“What the hell is Aristotle’s Bottles?” he hissed.
“It’s a drinking game,” she said. “Moseby’s favorite. But she hardly ever gets to play because…you know.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Because no one ever wants to go up against her,” she shrugged. “She’s kind of a legend.”
“What kind of a drinking game?” Ollie asked fearfully. Despite the name, there didn’t seem to be any actual bottles involved at all. Instead, servers had started arriving with trays of squat, empty jars.
“The usual kind. Where you drink. A lot.” Derrin paused and looked at him sideways. “You do drink, right?”
Ollie paused, debating his response. Back at home, he was still years away from legal drinking age. His mother had usually allowed him a small glass of red wine with Saturday supper, and he’d once had few shots with a plumber who’d been hired to snake the clogged drain at Bonfilgio’s one rainy night.
But that answer would not get him any closer to finding Tera. So instead, he said, “Sure, I drink.”
“Good,” Derrin nodded. “A guy your size, you can probably knock ’em back, right?”
“Right.”
Moseby was still standing on her stool, waving her arms and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Even the trapeze swingers had paused their swaying, with many standing or sitting on their bars to watch the mounting action below. Someone brought a second stool for Ollie, who sat with a thud.
“You’ll do fine,” Derrin said, leaning over to shout in his ear. “Do it for Tera.”
Ollie gripped his knees and watched as one of the bare-chested waiters began to flip the jars upright and fill each one with a bubbling brew. The liquid hissed and popped, sending up sparks in a dazzling array of purples, greens, and whites.
He looked across the makeshift table at the small woman, who grinned.
“All set, boss,” the server said, backing away.
The crowd began to chant: “Stack! Stack! Stack! Stack!”
Moseby gave a sweeping bow. Then she dropped into a sitting position on her stool and started moving some of the jars around.
Ollie turned to look at Derrin, confused.
“Make a pyramid,” she shouted above the crowd noise, pointing.
Tentatively, he followed Moseby’s lead and began stacking the filled cups. Five on the bottom, four on the next row, three on the next, two on the next, then one on top. Fifteen cups for each of them. All filled to the rim.
The yelling and cheering had reached an almost deafening level. Moseby seemed to soak it in, placing her own cups slowly and theatrically. When her stack was finally complete, she pumped her fists at the gathered mob.
“What are the rules?” Ollie yelled across the table.
“What?”
“The rules!” he yelled again, even louder.
“Ah, the good gentleman wants to know the rules of Aristotle’s Bottles,” Moseby called out to the crowd, garnering a response of laughter. They quieted somewhat as she continued: “The rules, my friend, are simple. You start here”—she pointed to the lone jar at the top of his pyramid, then made a zig-zag motion with her finger to indicate all the following rows—“and you end here.” At the last word, she jabbed the final jar on the left of the bottom row. “The first person to drink that one, and keep it down, wins.”
Another cheer went up. Ollie swallowed.
“My dear Derrin, will you do us the honors?” Moseby asked.
The willowy woman walked behind the barrel. She placed one hand on Moseby’s shoulder, and one hand on Ollie’s.
“All ready?” Derrin asked them. When both nodded, she lifted her voice above the din and said: “No one would choose a friendless existence on condition of having all other things in the world. So says Aristotle, and so say I.”
“Hear, hear!” the crowd said.
“Hear, hear!” Moseby repeated, reaching for the single glass jar on the top of her pyramid. “To new friends!”
Dazed, Ollie followed her example and lifted his own top jar.
They clinked the glasses together. Then Moseby held her cup up to the spectators and tossed the liquid—all the liquid—down her throat in one smooth gesture. Cheering surrounded them on all sides as she wiped her mouth with one of the thick braids.
Ollie looked down at his own glass. The curdled smell was worrying enough. But the mysterious, fizzing brew was also setting off sparks, most of which were landing with painful acuity on his cheeks.
For Tera, he thought. Then he closed his eyes, brought the glass to his lips, and took as hearty a swig as he could manage.
The burning was immediate, and agonizing. The liquid slid down his throat like a snake wrapped in tire spikes; every drop seemed to claw and scrape and fight its way from mouth to esophagus. It did not taste like wine. It did not taste like bourbon. It tasted, as far as he could tell, like rancid apple cider blended with jalapeno peppers and actual, boiling lava. It was truly, truly awful—the worst thing he had ever tasted, including the slop he’d been subjected to at Herrick’s End. It was fire and brimstone, liquified. And he’d only had one gulp of one glass, with fourteen left to go.
When he managed to unsquint his eyes, Ollie saw that Moseby the Pint-Sized Drink Destroyer was already on jar number three.
He had to hurry. Bracing himself, Ollie took another swig, and another, then twisted his body into contortions. He couldn’t breathe. And already, the effects were kicking in: Not a drunkenness so much as a throat-clogging, vision-blurring, panic-inducing haze of misery. Not even one jar finished, and already he was having trouble sitting upright on his stool.
What the hell was in this stuff?
Moseby chugged the fourth glass, and the fifth. She laughed heartily and did a little butt-wiggling jig on her stool, much to the roaring pleasure of the gathered crowd. Then she swallowed down her sixth.
Ollie gripped the edge of the barrel, steadying himself. His body was reacting to the horrid brew the way it would react to any poison: It was rejecting it. He covered his mouth with a hand as the retching started.
“Hurry up!” Derrin was shouting in his ear. “Drink, dammit!”
The jostling crowd echoed her sentiments: “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Ollie staggered to his feet. He couldn’t do it. There was no way he could catch up. He’d be dead by the fifth glass, let alone the fifteenth. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He thought back to the rules of the game. Moseby’s zigzagging finger. Top to bottom. First to last. He dropped his jar onto the table.
“What are you doing?” Derrin yelled.
Ollie stared across the surface of the covered barrel, swaying left and right. He watched his opponent toss back her seventh drink. He listened to the jeers and the shouts. Then he shot his hand out, swept it from left to right, and knocked most of his precarious pyramid to the ground.
The glass and liquid landed with a shattering crash. Derrin stared at the shards, and at Ollie, with open-mouthed astonishment. The noise around them fell into sudden, almost complete silence.
Moseby jumped up to stand on her stool. “What the bloody hell?”
Ollie ignored them all. With a single extended finger, he tipped over the remaining jars on the bottom row. All but the last. That one, he picked up. Then he held his nose, choked down the sparking liquid, and slammed the empty jar onto the wood. The room spun in wild circles.
He coughed and clung to the barrel. Then he said, “I win.”
“You w—?” Moseby gave a stunned stutter. “You didn’t win!”
“Yes, I did. You said we start with the top and we end with this one.” At that, he lifted the glass he had just emptied. “You said, ‘the first person to drink that one wins.’ And that’s what I did.”
“And you have to drink everything in between!” Moseby’s voice rose to high squeak.
“You didn’t shay…say that,” Ollie said. His mouth seemed to have stopped working. He watched as the woman’s small body morphed into two blurry bodies, then three.
“But I… But it’s…” Moseby scanned the crowd, then looked up at Derrin. “That’s bollocks!”
Derrin gave a small shrug. Her shocked expression had changed to one of hesitant pleasure.
“You tollme the rules,” Ollie slurred. “I jush followed them.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Moseby’s face was turning a deep shade of purple-red. The gathered spectators began to murmur and chatter. Finally, they began to cheer.
“Winner!” someone shouted.
Moseby’s crimson braids whipped from side to side as she took in the reaction of the crowd. She sputtered and protested, but the group was already dispersing in search of the next distraction.
“So?” Ollie said, leaning over the barrel. His head was spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl and he was fairly certain he was twelve, maybe eleven, seconds away from projectile vomiting, but he had to get an answer. “You’ll do it?”
Moseby fell butt-first onto her stool. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “I won’t forget this, Derrin.”
“I would expect nothing less,” the lanky woman said, unconcerned. “The boy won fair and square. Now, you have to get his message to Tera.”
“No,” Ollie shook his heavy head. “Not Tera.”
Derrin spun back to look at him. “The message isn’t for Tera? Then who?”
Ollie pulled a rolled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Get thith to a prisoner named Dozer. Fiff…fifth floor, Labor Force. By tonight,” he said. The contents of his stomach were creeping back up into his throat.
Moseby took the paper and looked at it dubiously. “What’s so important?”
“Tonight,” Ollie said again, ignoring the question.
“All right, all right. Krite.”
“An Aristotle promise is an Aristotle promise,” Derrin said. She leaned closer to Moseby and flashed a cold smile. “I believe it was the great philosopher himself who said, ‘A wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger.’ If I find out you didn’t keep your promise, I’ll be back here tomorrow. And the next time you enjoy one of those delicious drinks of yours, you’ll be swallowing the glass along with it.”
“Yeah,” Ollie said. Or tried to say. But his tongue was too thick, his lips, too heavy. He jabbed a finger in Moseby’s general direction. Then he fell backwards, hoping that someone, somehow, would catch him.
No one did.