Free Guardians of Ga'Hoole 08 - The Outcast by authors_sort Page B

fine Rogue smith, I don’t know who does! Next stop, Trader Mags!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Green Eye
    T rader Mags, the magpie trader of fine goods and commodities, lived in a section of Silverveil that was particularly rich in churches, castles, and various old ruins from the time of the Others. It was the perfect place for her to find the stock of her trade. For years now, she had lived in the elaborate chapel of an ancient church. From the shards of shattered stained glass she made trinkets, and in the ruins of nearby houses she found old teacups and fragments of saucers. It was only a half night’s flight to a fabulous palace that she had been ransacking for years, collecting remnants of old tapestries, silver goblets, and even scraps of paintings.
    She had one of her favorite scraps propped in her nest in the chapel. It had been torn from a painting of an Other’s face. It was just the eye. Mags found the Others’ eyes fascinating and had torn several of them from various paintings. The eyes came in all colors, black, brown, green, a yellowish color that was not as bright as owls’eyes, gray, and the most beautiful of all—blue. She was hoping to find one someday that was red or purple. So far she had had no luck. Trader Mags herself was missing one eye. It had been plucked out by a crow many years before and this possibly explained her fascination with eyes. She wore a jaunty bandanna over it and she had learned over the years how to adjust her flying to her limited vision.
    As Trader Mags sorted and re-sorted her goods with her assistant, Bubbles, she was thinking about revisiting the portrait gallery. She turned to Bubbles, a rather daft magpie, but helpful nonetheless. “Bubbles, it’s a fine night for flying.”
    “Oh, yes, ma’am, that it is,” Bubbles answered.
    “I have meself a hankering to go to the portrait gallery looking for eyes.”
    “Yes, ma’am, and while you be there, it would be ever so good if you’d pick up some of them tassels from the curtains in the main saloon.”
    “Salon, Bubbles, not saloon. There be a world of difference between the two.”
    “Whatever!” Bubbles murmured.
    “You mind the business while I’m gone, dearie. And remember the rules: silver for silver. No silver for glass. Actually, I don’t want any more glass. We’re up to ourbeaks in colored glass. And keep a tight talon on the eyes. Only trade them for something really good.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “All right, tally ho!” Trader Mags loved this expression. Madame Plonk, one of her best customers from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, had told her it was used by the Others in ancient times when they went riding on four-legged beasts. The owls of the great tree knew things like this because they could read, which she could not—or at least not very well. And Mags was fascinated with the lives of the Others, who had not lived on Earth for years. She sometimes wondered where and why they had gone, leaving all this great stuff behind.
    It was not long after Trader Mags had flown off that Bubbles heard rather loud wings beats outside the chapel. She was surprised when an owl flew in. Usually, they were much quieter. She knew immediately that it was a Rogue smith. They often tried to trade coals for things.
    Nyra awkwardly set down her bucket and the rest of the equipment she was carrying. Bubbles wondered if perhaps she had not been a Rogue smith very long, for usually they did not have such trouble coming in for a landing with all their gear.
    “Got no need for coals. Sorry,” she said without turning around from sorting stained glass.
    “Oh, it’s not coals I brought,” said Nyra.
    “All right, let’s see it,” Bubbles said, putting down the shards of glass.
    “Much more interesting than coals. Is Trader Mags about?
    “No, she went out on a business trip.”
    “Well, I’ve got some lovely silver things—not exactly useful, mind you. More like art.”
    “Oooh, art! Trader Mags, she does like the art,”