I leaned on the railing and watched the red roofs and white walls of Fort Black Rock slide by then the curving green line of Cow Hollow Cove, the laundry lines flapping like banners in the wind; the Presidio, with the green swell of the Parade Ground, its summit surmounted by the pink adobe sprawl of the O club. Next, the batteries perched along the Scott Cliffs, and at the base of the cliff, the looming red brick hulk of Fort Hawkins, guarding the Gate.
And beyond the Gate, the open sea.
I couldn’t enjoy the scenery This might be the last time I saw the City And Udo—Udo might already be dead. Or sold, or taken far away. Even if somehow I returned to Califa, I might never see him again. Ayah, recently he’d been acting like a snapperhead, but maybe I’d been acting a bit like a snapperhead, too. He had tried to apologize, and caught up in my own self-righteous anger, I had ignored it.
And now it was too late. Too late for the both of us.
Fort Hawkins’s gun ports were open, ominous black cannons protruding from each little window, but the muzzles on the Fort’s upper deck were pointed slightly up, signifying they were not on highest alert. A small figure was perched on an enormous siege howitzer nicknamed the Warlord’s Hammer, the biggest of the guns. (The Redlegs called it something a little less respectable.) The muzzle stuck out from the walls of the Fort over open water, but that didn’t appear to fret the figure sitting on it. It waved a tiny black hat at me.
I was waving back when I heard an all too familiar frantic yipping. I dashed toward the barking, or at least wobbled my way toward it, for we were nearing the Gate, where the water is very rough by design. Behind a stack of crates, I found Flynnie being hoisted by his collar and shaken by none other than my maddeningly elusive wer-bear quarry, Sieur Wraathmyr.
“Hey—let him go!” I shouted. Sieur Wraathmyr dropped Flynn, who skittered over to me. “What the fike are you doing?”
A scowl darkened Sieur Wraathmyr’s face. “Are you following me?”
“Of course I’m not! What you are doing to my dog?” Flynn pressed against my legs, and I bent down to soothe him.
“He was menacing the chickens.” Sieur Wraathmyr pointed to the coop, where the chickens were fluttering and squawking. In a cage next to the coop, a pig peered quizzically at us.
“Flynn’s afraid of chickens! If anyone was being menaced, it was him!”
“I have never heard of a dog that is afraid of chickens,” Sieur Wraathmyr said scornfully.
As I started to defend Flynn, the ship heaved, sending me careening into the chicken coop and upsetting the chickens even more. The ship jerked again, this time flinging me toward Sieur Wraathmyr, but I managed to catch myself before I hurtled into him, and landed against the pig cage instead. The pig oinked in annoyance.
“You’ll end up overboard if you don’t hold on,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “You should go below. And tie up your dog, or you will lose him for sure.” With that prediction, Sieur Wraathmyr turned and disappeared into the maze of crates.
I unwound my sash and tied it to Flynn’s collar as a makeshift lead.
“Flynn, you moron,” I said. “Now they are going to get you, too.” But I was glad to see him. Whatever fate awaited me, I would not face it alone.
And suddenly I felt a dart of hope. I had thought that leaving the City meant I had lost any chance at getting the map back. But now the Goddess had given me a second chance, and I intended to make the most of it. That map wouldn’t save me from the Birdies, but at least I’d go to my grave knowing where Tiny Doom was, that my Working had been successful. Take what you can get, said Nini Mo.
The water was now churning as the two currents, bay and ocean, met in a violent froth. We were entering the Oro Gate. The Warlord had once sailed through the Gate to conquer the City and was determined that no one would ever repeat his feat. Even on a calm day, entering and exiting the Gate is dangerous. The rush of the water trying to enter the Bay meets with the rush of water trying to exit, creating waves and riptides and dangerous currents. Many a ship had been wrecked on one of the hidden rocks or tossed up against the cliffs.
But just in case nature is not a strong enough barrier, at the Warlord’s bidding, Axacaya has used his magick to churn the water into a deadly maelstrom. Only a ship carrying a Charm of Passage authorized by Axacaya can safely navigate these watery defenses. We were in for a bumpy ride, but I knew we’d make it through all right.
As the ship bounced, my stomach bounced with it. I should have taken a preventive dose of Madama Twanky’s Salty Dog Sea Leg Tonick before I had boarded. The Tonick was in my trunk below. Hauling Flynn behind me, I staggered down the narrow stairs into the captain’s parlor. Since the schooner wasn’t set up for passengers, it didn’t have any real staterooms, but the captain had kindly moved his children into his own cabin and given me theirs. The children were playing cards at the parlor table, unconcerned with the swaying and jolting of the room, or the swinging parlor lamp throwing wild shafts of light on the polished wooden walls.
Down here, without the fresh air and the salt spray the motion seemed much worse and my head began to spin. Holding on to various bits of furniture, I wobbled my way to my cabin door, Flynn scrabbling behind me. I thought I’d better dose him with Madama Twanky’s, too. His tum is very delicate and there are few things more annoying than a retching dog.
“Don’t worry, the water will be calmer when we have passed through the Gate,” the girl called to me as I threw my cabin door open. On the sideboard, the glasses and bottles tinkled alarmingly. “Axacaya keeps the Gate rough so no one can get in that he doesn’t like.”
“Lord Axacaya,” the boy corrected. “Show some respect, Elodie.”
“He’s a Birdie, Theo,” Elodie said. “I don’t have to respect him. Hey, your dog is puking.”
Alas, so Flynnie was, and when I saw him, then I couldn’t help but do it myself. Leaving Flynn to Elodie’s ministrations, I staggered to the washbasin in my room. Then, adios sourdough pancakes, adios. The boat bounced and heaved; I retched and spat—and cursed Axacaya, the cause of my suffering. After a long while, my tum was empty and the ship’s violent heaving began to ebb, until finally the only motion was a slightly rocking glide. I let go of the washbasin and straightened up. My head was still feeling a little spinny, but my stomach was starting to calm down.
At least it was until I turned around to open a porthole, and saw that there was a corpse lying in my berth.
NINE
A Ghost. Dinner. A Deal.
NOT A CORPSE, I realized after that first panicky moment. The ghost of Hardhands, my long-dead stepfather, lounging on my narrow bed and licking something red off his long white fingers. Now that my nose was not full of the smell of puke, I realized my cabin was filled with another, more noxious smell: a mixture of roses, funeral incense, and decay.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Hardhands laughed and crossed his legs, which were muscular, bare, and streaked with mud. I had first met Hardhands—or at least his Anima—at Bilskinir House, when Udo and I had gone to reclaim Springheel Jack’s boots. Then, he had been breathtakingly glorious. Now, he looked a wreck. He wore what appeared to be the filthy remnants of a sangyn Alacrán Regiment uniform, the kilt tattered and bloodstained, weskit torn and stained, shirt white no longer. The cravat around his neck looked more like a bandage, and his hair hung in dirty straggles around his face, which was also streaked with dirt and blood.
He looked, in other words, like a corpse that had just been carried off a battlefield. But his eyes were clear blue glints of wintery sky.
“We took a poll, we Haðraaðas, and clearly you could not be sent into the jaguar’s den alone, unaided, with no bodyguard, despite the fact that your dear second-mamma seemed to think you should be.”
“How did you know I was going to Birdieland?” I interrupted him.
“I have very good hearing. One of us must go as a representative of all of us; you are the last hope of our family thus, all our e
ggs are in your basket. I being the most recent Haðraaða dead—barring one, of course—and thus strongest, was deemed to be your comrade-in-arms. So here I am, to nurture and shelter you, to give you succor and aid, and to make sure you don’t do anything catastrophically stupid that will doom us all.”
Oh fikety-fike-fike. The last thing I needed was a drippy ghost hanging around me, offering me obnoxious advice.
“Does Paimon know you have left Bilskinir?”
“Of course, my dove,” he said, but I didn’t believe that for a minute.
“Go home. I don’t need your help.”
“No, but you need a weapon, and I am that weapon: your sword and your shield. Have I not already long been watching over you? Not that you noticed, of course, which is very lax of you.”
Now I recalled that flash of red on the UOQ porch the night of Pirates’ Parade, the heavy stench of roses. Hardhands must have used the Current’s high tide to escape Paimon and Bilskinir.
“Nor do I need your supervision,” I said firmly. “You can go back home to where you belong. I can summon Pig if I need to. He’s all the protection I need.”
“Pig! You’d pick Pig over me?” the ghost said scornfully. He picked at his teeth with a long black fingernail, and at that gesture, I couldn’t stifle the tickle of revulsion that ran up my spine.
“He’s cleaner. He’s a Protection egregore. You are just a ghost.” Pigface, the smell was awful! If I didn’t get rid of him soon, I was going to puke again.
“Just a ghost? I am the Anima of Califa’s greatest heroes, a military genius, and an excellent musician, not to mention handsome as hell.”
Not anymore, I thought. “Well, maybe all that once, but you are dead now. I don’t need you. You can either go back to Bilskinir on your own, or I will banish you back there. Your choice.”
The ghost grimaced at me. “You have no respect for your elders, Nyana Haðraaða.” I respect those who have earned my respect ’’ I answered, quoting Nini Mo.
“I doubt you can banish me, girl. I was an adept when your mother was still in her mother’s womb. I know such tricks as you can hardly even imagine. And,” the ghost said cunningly, “you must quit playing in the Current or you’ll doom us all. Remember?”
Alas, I remembered. Before I could issue another threat (that is, before I could think of a threat that did not involve magick), the door to my berth began to creep open. Hardhands vanished, leaving behind muddy sheets and a moldy smell. A curly head poked inside. “I cleaned up the doggie puke. I gave him some medicine and now he’s better. Do you have any candy?”
“No.” I flung myself over the muddy bed and opened the porthole, gulping in large lovely breaths of moist air. I’d have to brush my teeth to get the taste of puke and the smell of death out of my mouth.
“It stinks in here,” Elodie said, “and there is dirt in your bed. Why is there dirt in your bed?”
“I spilled my flowers. Do you think I can get fresh sheets?”
“I don’t see any flowers.” Elodie squeezed her way into the cabin and poked at my dispatch case.
“I threw them out the window.”
“Oh. Poor drowned flowers. I like chocolate best, but I would take swizzlers. I deserve something for cleaning up the dog puke.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with her there, plus I wanted her out of my cabin as quickly as possible. So I gave her one of my bars of Madama Twanky chocolate, and asked if she would like to help me take Flynn for a walk. After I had a long swig of Madama Twanky’s Tonick, we went back up top, Elodie scampering like a monkey up the swaying stairs and hauling Flynn by my sash, me following slowly behind. Even the faint motion was making me feel slightly queasy I hoped the Tonick would kick in soon, or it was going to be a very long trip. I did not want to spend what were possibly my last few days alive puking.
Up top the weather had improved mightily Now that we were outside the Oro Gate, the fog had vanished into the bluish haze. The schooner skimmed through the water like a swallow, swooping and speedy.
With the wind and sun on my face, I felt much better. We perambulated around the deck, dodging sailors and cargo. Elodie was a chatterbox, which was good. I needed information, and she was only too happy to provide it. She was six; her favorite color was purple; she had been born on El Pato; she was going to be an actress when she grew up; her pet monkey had fallen overboard on the last trip, et cetera, et cetera.
Eventually I managed to turn the conversation to the subject that interested me most: Sieur Wraathmyr. Elodie didn’t know much about him, but what she knew, she was happy to share. He was only going as far as Cambria. He had a lot of luggage in the hold, cases of stuff he was selling, she supposed. He wasn’t very nice. He didn’t have any candy.
We were supposed to dock at Cambria tomorrow morning. That gave me the rest of the afternoon and the evening. Now, we were both trapped on the ship; he would not escape me. It occurred to me, also, that my certain Birdie doom afforded me some freedom. I no longer cared much if he tried to expose my magickal dealings. Buck could hardly court-martial me for illegal magick if I were dead.
Alas for me, as we rounded Crescent Bay, the ocean became rough again, no match for the Madama Twanky’s. Leaving Flynn, who seemed to have found his sea legs, with Elodie, I was forced to take to my berth. I lay for hours upon the clean sheets Elodie found for me and stared fixedly at the ceiling, trying very hard not to think about food. Or the Birdies. Or anything else that might make me puke.
Eventually, Elodie appeared at my cabin door with a giant cup of hot chocolate, which she insisted that I drink. The chocolate was thick, mudlike, and not very sweet, with a dark orange undertone. Within a minute of finishing it, I felt fine. Elodie refused to tell me what was in the drink, only ordered me to get dressed for dinner. Fifteen minutes earlier, I had thought I would never eat again. Now I was ravenous.
My dress uniform was a bit creased, but again I was grateful for it. The uniform is one aspect of being a Blackcoat that I actually enjoy I never have to worry about being in fashion. No matter how bad my hair looks, the wig covers the sin. No matter how pallid my cheeks, regulation rouge makes them rosy Ayah, there are a lot of silver buttons to polish and the aiguillettes can be somewhat strangling, but it’s worth it to always have something cool to wear.
The cabin was so tiny that winding my red sash the mandated three times around my waist proved to be a bit of a challenge. I left off my saber sling; it kept whacking against the furniture. The mirror above the washstand was small; tarnished and dark, it showed a narrow slice of my face. By craning my neck and leaning against the edge of the basin, I was able to get my left eye into the reflection. The eyeliner is liquid and easy to smear, but the line came out perfectly I shifted over, and this time my hand was not so steady The brush slipped and I ended up with black liner trailing down my cheek. I scrubbed the black off and leaned in again.
And froze.
There was something off about my reflection. The eye in the mirror was green, not blue. It was already smeared with thick smudges of kohl. And the pupil was a catlike slit.
I took one step back and was blocked from further retreat by my trunk. The eye stared at me, unblinking. I held the liner brush like a weapon; the brush was shaking. The eye closed, revealing a second golden eye painted on the lid. The golden eye gazed at me, and the force of the gaze nailed me to my place. The eyelid flickered and there was the green eye again. It receded and a nose appeared in the mirror, sharp and with a golden ring through its septum, and then another eye, equally green. Angular cheekbones and wisps of long black hair. Thin lips opened to reveal black teeth, a crimson tongue—the mouth pursed in a Word—and suddenly I was flung sideways onto the bed. Hardhands slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass spidered and shattered, spraying the cabin with knife-sharp shards.
“Well, now,” the ghost said.
I lumbered to my feet. There was broken glass everywhere. The mirror frame gaped emptily. “What the fike was that?”
/>
“You were being scried, Almost Daughter,” Hardhands said. Mirror shards glittered in his matted hair. Flecks of glass sparkled on his cheeks.
“Scried? By who?”
“Do you not know?”
“No! I have no fiking idea. Fike.” I sat down on the bed. I still had the liner brush in my hand; I threw it away Fike. My heart was walloping against my rib cage. I took a deep steadying breath but that didn’t help.
“It was a small mirror,” Hardhands said. “I don’t think he saw you very clearly. Let’s hope not.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go home?” I snapped.
“And well it was that I did not. You standing there like a gaper. If I hadn’t broken the mirror, he’d have seen you for sure. And that Word he was about to speak was a hot one, I could tell—”
There was a quick knock at the door, Elodie hollering, “It’s dinnertime, Flora!”
Hardhands evaporated. I opened the door and told Elodie I’d fallen against the washstand and broken the mirror. She helped me sweep the mess up and we went to dinner. Dogs, Elodie explained, were not allowed in the parlor during mealtimes, so she’d left Flynn in the galley. Apparently he had been a real hit with the cook.
The rearrangement of the furniture had transformed the parlor into a dining room. Captain Ziyi and Sieur Wraathmyr were already drinking sherry Captain Ziyi greeted me politely, but Sieur Wraathmyr bid me ave in a voice that could have frozen boiling hot tea, and received my own cold hello with a slightly raised eyebrow. Udo had more manners in one strand of his golden hair than Sieur Wraathmyr had in his entire body.
Dinner was brought to the table by the cook, and then served by the captain, who took our passed plates, filled them, and passed them back. As you would expect on a ship with a full cargo of vegetables, the menu was comprised mostly of salad and asparagus, with one of the chickens from the coop as the centerpiece.
Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo Page 8
