“You need help, Alice,” Sheyenne said in a sincere voice. “It’s an addiction. Gambling makes you lose everything.”
The dragon hung her head, and her groan of sorrow was a rumble deep in her throat. “I know . . .” Then she perked up. “Would you like to play a round now? Who’s got a deck of cards? I could use the practice!”
“Sorry, ma’am, I’m on the job,” I said. “We need to find Excalibur.”
“Talk with Noxius. He put it up for sale in his sword vending stand.”
“He did. Sold it to a golem, but we don’t know which one.”
“Sure you don’t want to play a game? Not even one?” Alice whined. “Low stakes, I promise! A buck a round. I’ll bet on anything.” She sounded desperate.
Sheyenne looked concerned. “I think the Unnatural Quarter chapter of Gamblers Anonymous accepts legendary creatures.”
The dragon’s need was so great she actually trembled. “It’s a terrible disease.” She closed her basketball-sized eyes. “Go away. I need to rest before my next performance.”
Out of courtesy, we hurried out of the tent.
V.
Rettop the Cavewight had hands like lawn rakes covered with thick mud. A big grin crossed his pale, sallow face. Sitting on a stone bench next to a wheelbarrow of fresh clay, he whistled as he worked. He pumped his potter’s wheel with his feet and slapped on more mud, building up a mound that he shaped into a circular vase. His hands and fingers were so large he could manipulate a lot of mud at a time.
Werewolves, ghouls, and vampires watched him with interest as he shaped the sides, pulled up a fluted oblong container, and then poked his fingers down inside to make it hollow, expanding the waist. Next to his potter’s wheel sat a table filled with his wares: pots, vases, and ashtrays.
“Can you make canopic jars?” asked a curious mummy.
“One of my specialties,” said Rettop. “I take commissions.”
Alvina had paused to look at a crudely fashioned flowerpot. She looked up at me with those big eyes. “I’m thinking of getting a present for you and McGoo. Father’s Day is coming up. How about an ashtray?” She picked up a lumpy object that looked like a project I had made in third grade.
If my heart were still beating, it would have been filled with joy. “That’s beautiful.”
“I’ll take you shopping separately, honey,” Sheyenne said. “We’ll make it a surprise for both daddies.”
With a loud muttering, the crowd parted and a damaged golem lurched forward, twisted and misshapen. “Rettop! Need repairs! Now!” The deformed golem could barely move, trying to get its clay legs to work. I realized it was the golem smashed by the security ogres at Art’s rally. His name was Tony, according to his forehead.
The Cavewight clucked his pale tongue against crooked brown teeth. “What a shame! That’s why King Dred keeps me around. Step right up.” He helped the golem to his potter’s wheel and let out a long sigh. “I just want to make vases and pots, but I spend half my time repairing damaged golems.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth again. “Let me see what I can do.”
With spatulate hands, the Cavewight seized the golem’s chest and shoulders, then worked like a chiropractor, twisting him, straightening him. The clay was pliable enough that Tony eventually straightened. Rettop took palmfuls of fresh clay, using it on the golem instead of his pots. “Lucky you got here in time. If the damage had been more severe, your animation spell might have been broken.” He slathered Tony’s skin, bulked up his back, added to his biceps, even finished with a flourish of a cleft in the golem’s chin. “There, good as new!”
“About those canopic jars?” said the mummy, his rattling dry voice tinged with impatience.
Then, not far away, someone screamed a high, terrified shriek, which was always a good way to get attention.
As a ghost, Sheyenne could move faster than any of us, and she streaked away, waving for us to follow. Robin and Alvina bolted, and I shambled as quickly as I could, getting my body