Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  Now the rain, not my tears, was blinding me. A Gramatica Curse boiled up out of my tum and I swallowed chokingly, but it was like trying to swallow lava, thick and burning, filling my mouth with viscous fire. I stumbled and almost fell, felt Sieur Wraathmyr’s steadying hand on my arm, heard him say, “Spit, for Goddess’ sake!”

  A hankie appeared in front of my face. I spat out a horrible wad of black slime that left my mouth tasting like dog poo. I looked up to see Sieur Wraathmyr tossing the hankie over the cliff and into the water below. He pulled me into the sheltering lee of another tree, then shrugged off his jacket and pulled his checked shirt over his head. I dolefully noticed that his chest was just as muscularly grand as I remembered. Sieur Wraathmyr dried Flynn off with his shirttail, and then slipped the shirt over Flynn’s head. Wrapping the sleeves around Flynn’s tummy, he then tied them tightly, making a kind of shirt-coat. “That should help him a bit. It’s wool, so it’ll keep him warm even when it’s wet.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He shrugged his jacket on. “So last night wasn’t part of the enchantment? You really did tell me all that, and I told you as well?”

  “Ayah,” I said bitterly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a snapperhead. You’ve saved my hide twice and I’ve not been very thankful for it.”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Come with me.”

  Now I looked at him. There was no sign of arrogance, only concern. “Why?”

  “Because everyone will be looking for you and me both. It’s best if we stick together and get as far away from Cambria as we can. I’m headed to Barbacoa. We’ll be safe there.”

  Barbacoa is an island off the Califa coast; it’s a pirate haven and offshore hideout, a real wide-awake place. Lots of iffy stuff goes through Barbacoa: smuggling, illegal high-stakes gambling, servitor slaving, and who knows what else. Buck often talks about cleaning the place out, but the Califa Navy has nowhere near the juice to tackle it. Now I wondered if her complaints were sincere. She was probably in league with them, too.

  “I thought Barbacoa was a pirate hideout.”

  “It’s a free port. Anyone can be there. Pirates or envoys or footloose lieutenants,” he said, grinning. “There’s a Kulani envoy there, waiting for this dispatch. So come with me, please, Nini?”

  “I don’t want to run into the Dainty Pirate again.” Nor Udo the Flapdoodle Pirate, either, though I didn’t say that.

  “He’s not there. Before I got busted, I was down at the docks, trying to get a ride over, and everyone was talking about the Pato. After the Dainty Pirate left the Pato, he sailed north, toward the City.”

  “And the Pato itself?” I asked, hardly wanting to know the answer.

  “Sunk, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, Nini. The pirates put the captain and crew into the other longboat before they scuttled the ship. They made it safely to Moros; they are fine. So please, come with me now, and as soon as the dispatch is delivered, we’ll head to Arivaipa.”

  “How do you know I’m going to Arivaipa? You looked at my map!”

  He grinned, and even with the swollen eye, it was a handsome grin. “Now we are even. Let us go together. I’ve been to Arivaipa before and I know the way. I can help you.”

  “Why would you go with me?”

  “Why the fike not? Come on!” With the charm turned on, Sieur Wraathmyr seemed almost like a different person. No longer bearish and growly, but strangely appealing. The idea of traveling to Arivaipa with him was not an entirely unpleasant one.

  “How will we get to Barbacoa?” I asked. “We’re on the run. Who’s going to take us over?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “We’ll just steal a boat. It’s no problem.”

  “No problem?”

  “I’ve done far worse things than steal a boat, Nini.” “Why do you keep calling me Nini?”

  He grinned. “I guess because the first time I ever saw you, you were dressed as Nini Mo. The name fits you. Besides, didn’t you tell me your real name was Nyana?”

  “Ayah.” I had told him that along with everything else. I felt hot just thinking about how much I had blabbed.

  “So, that’s why.” He paused, then said, “And Nini—I do like you. I like you an awful lot.”

  TWENTY

  A Ruckus. Swimming. Barbacoa.

  OUR HEARTFELT LITTLE CHAT was interrupted by a muffled explosion. At the sound, I almost jumped out of my skin and Snapperdog let out a yelp of surprise.

  “What the fike was that?”

  “I expect it was the jail,” Sieur Wraathmyr said, heading down the path. I followed him. A fire bell began to ring.

  “What do you mean?”

  “On our way out, I threw some shotgun shells in the stove. I guess that’ll keep them busy while we get the fike out of here.”

  “What about the sheriff and the deputy? We left them locked in the cells!” I said, horrified.

  “They’ll be fine, Nini,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “It’s mostly just noise and smoke.” He halted. The path had turned along the top of a cliff; below, we saw the harbor and the town. Thick black smoke was pouring from the direction of the j ail and the wind carried with it the sound of bells and yelling. Clearly, the good townsfolk of Cambria were going to be too busy to be looking for us for a while. But Sieur Wraathmyr was scowling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “On a clear day, you can see Barbacoa from here. It’s only about five miles offshore.”

  Today was not a clear day Rain and mist blotted out the horizon and a stiff wind was blowing —away from Barbacoa.

  “It would take ten men to row against the wind,” Sieur Wraathmyr said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Oh, we’ve not escaped enchanters, bumpkin sheriffs, and Birdie agents—not to mention pirates—to be stopped by a little bit of wind.”

  “How? You are only one man, and I can’t row at all. Neither can Flynn.”

  “I might be only one man now. But I can be stronger than ten men if need be. Come on.”

  I followed him through the woods a distance, along the cliff tops, and then we skittered down a narrow path and onto the beach. We were beyond the harbor now, and the waves here seemed terrifyingly large, flinging onto the beach with a thunderous roar and immense spray.

  “Now what?” The wind blew my words away and he didn’t hear me. Sieur Wraathmyr was taking his furry coat off and rolling it up. When it became obvious to me that his jacket wasn’t all he was taking off, I turned my attention to the horizon, which had turned a stripy pink. A few shafts of golden sunlight were spearing through the dark smudgy clouds. I heard his voice, but the boom of the surf drowned out his words.

  “What?” I bawled without turning around.

  He came up behind me, and I felt him lean down, felt his breath gust against my hair. “The wind is too strong for me to row against, and too strong for me to haul a boat. But I can swim it.”

  “Swim it?” It took me a moment to catch on, and when I did, I felt myself flush with fear—and something else. “You mean—”

  “Ayah, as my other self.”

  “The waves are huge!”

  “Once, I spent three weeks in a small boat with six other men and a pig. We rowed from Far Island to Keohe’le. Sometimes the waves were as tall as mountains. This is nothing. But we have to wait until the tide goes out; I can catch the current and that will help.”

  “When will that be?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “It will be dark by then!”

  “Then, you won’t see how tall the waves are. Won’t that make it easier?”

  “But what about me and Flynn?”

  “ It will be no trouble. I can carry you and Flynn on my back. Wear my jacket—it’s waterproof. I must leave you now. I—well—I don’t like to change in front of people. I’ll be back before the tide slackens.”

  “Wait a minute—” I turned around hastily and saw him holding up his
furry jacket and his satchel. In the grayish pink light, his tattoos bisected him into fragments of a man: an arm, a leg, strips of chest. Most of his face was covered by his wind-whipped hair, but I got the sense that he was embarrassed—not of his skin, but of his wer-bearness.

  I said awkwardly, “You won’t, uh, I mean, as a bear, you won’t go after me—”

  “I will know you, Nini. You will be in no danger from me, I promise. I do not lose all my humanity I can still think and reason; I know my friends. You will be safe. When we get to Barbacoa, go to the hotel. Get a suite there, the best they’ve got. Make sure you sign the register as T. N. Wraathmyr and Associates, Representatives for Madama Twanky’s De-Lux Luxury Goods.”

  “What about the Wanted posters? What if they are on Barbacoa, too?”

  “Everyone on Barbacoa is wanted. No one would dare try to claim a bounty there. Do you have any money?”

  I nodded. I had a letter of credit, drawn on Buck’s bank, and Poppy’s cash roll. I didn’t want to use the letter, of course, but cash is cash everywhere, and happily anonymous.

  “Good. I must go. I need to eat before we begin, and I prefer to eat as my other self because I like my food raw.” This was said somewhat defiantly, as though he was afraid it would disgust me. Udo always fusses over his steak being well done enough, but I like some food raw myself, so who cares?

  “Um ... didn’t you already eat as your other self?” I asked.

  He looked at me quizzically. He still had that streak of blood on his temple; I reached up with my thumb and smudged it away. His blackened eye did look awful, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that.

  “Madama Valdosta?” I prompted.

  “What? Oh pigface, you thought I ate Madama Valdosta?” He laughed.

  I said defensively, “Well, there was a lot of blood.” “That was mine, mostly,” he said. “Madama Valdosta clipped me with a Gramatica Curse.”

  “You had blood on your teeth.”

  “Oh, ayah, well maybe I did nip her, but only in self-defense. Her blood was bitter—she tasted of death. The last time I saw Madama Valdosta, she was heading for the hills. Really, Nini, I did not eat her. I promise.”

  Did I believe him? He looked sincere. And hadn’t Octohands bitten her? If Sieur Wraathmyr had eaten her, he would have been poisoned, too. Besides, why should I care if he had eaten Valdosta? The stupid sow deserved it.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, but still he did not go. What was he waiting for? When I realized, my face turned hot. Our embrace was quick and awkward; his lips grazed my temple, and the top of my head banged his nose. His cheeks were scratchy. I took his coat and satchel, and he disappeared into the woods. The wind was chill, so I put the furry j acket on over my buckskin. The hem hung down to my knees and my hands were buried in the sleeves, but it was warm and smelled comfortably of apple pipeweed. A big piece of driftwood provided a bit of a windbreak, so I settled into its shelter to wait, holding my revolver in my lap, just in case.

  The pounding waves receded into a windy twilight. Snapperdog got tired of chasing birds and plopped down on my lap. I was exhausted; I guess I dozed, for the next thing I knew, Flynn had raised his head, faintly growling. I felt Octohands squirming in my dispatch case but didn’t fish him out. I was not in the mood to listen to his opinion of our current plan. The last of the light was gone, and the's and stretched before me, glimmering whitely in the windy darkness. A very large shape was loping toward me.

  I climbed to my feet, put my hand on Flynn’s head to quell him and also to give myself courage. Sieur Wraathmyr had said he would know us. Goddess, I hoped he was right. I’d like to say that I stood my ground bravely, but it would be fiking more accurate to say that I was rooted to the ground in fear as the bear ambled toward us. Flynn was vibrating under my hand, but he didn’t move.

  Even on all fours, the bear—Sieur Wraathmyr, I reminded myself—was almost as tall as I was. When he sat back on his hind legs, he towered over me. But he smelled of the salt-sea and the chill wind, and very faintly of apple pipeweed.

  “Ave,” I said. My voice sounded ridiculous and faint. The bear looked down at me, his head cocked. Then he dropped down again, and shived me in the chest with a moist nose, not so unlike Flynn’s, except that Flynn’s shivs don’t almost knock me off my feet.

  He opened his mouth—pigface, his tongue was longer than my hand—and made a low trilling growl. It was almost exactly the same noise Flynn makes when he wants to have a treat and his ears scratched. I fumbled under the furry coat and found two squares of a Madama Twanky’s Black Magick chocolate bar in the pocket of my buckskin jacket. Sieur Wraathmyr took the chocolate with one enormous paw and a surprisingly dainty gesture and crammed it in his mouth.

  “I only have one other bar of chocolate,” I said. “You can have it when we get to Barbacoa. The tide’s going out.”

  Sieur Wraathmyr made a sputtering noise and then turned, headed for the water. I hefted his satchel and followed him. The surf was not quite as high now, but it was still terrifying.

  “Dare, win, or disappear ” I said, but the wind whisked my words away. I slung the two bags over my shoulders, one to each side, and hung my boots around my neck. The two important documents—the map and the dispatch—were back in their oilcloth wrapper and tucked between my stays and my chemise, where I hoped they would remain dry Sieur Wraathmyr flattened himself to the ground, ears twitching, and I took a deep breath.

  Pretend he’s a horse, I thought. A very furry horse. I went to his left side, reached as high as I could, and grabbed a handful of fur, then bent my left knee and swung up on his back.

  Sieur Wraathmyr huffed at Flynn, who had retreated a few yards, staring skeptically at us. It look several seconds of urging before I could get Snapperdog to come over, and then I had to tempt him into jumping, with a nibblet of forbidden chocolate. Sieur Wraathmyr growled impatiently under me, but finally Flynn leaped up. I settled him before me, tying us together with my sash and then buttoning the furry jacket around him, so he was tucked snug inside, settled against my chest. He felt very bony and knobby. Sieur Wraathmyr didn’t wait for me to signal. He took off toward the water line in a slow walk. His gait was smooth and comfortable, but it felt odd to look between small fuzzy bear ears instead of pointy horse ears.

  And then a wave flung up and hit us full on.

  Fiking pigface, the water was ice cold. I closed my eyes, tucked my head in, and clung to Sieur Wraathmyr, feeling Snapperdog shiver against me. But Sieur Wraathmyr was right; the jacket was waterproof, and from the waist up I was well insulated. From the waist down, my wool drawers, stockings, and kilt didn’t provide much protection from the wet, although Sieur Wraathmyr’s fur did help keep some of the chill away. He plowed on through the surf, and then I felt him launch onto a wave, felt the water pick us up, felt his muscles strain and pull beneath me as he began to swim.

  The journey was a blur of waves, wet, cold, chill, darkness, and stark-raving fear. Sieur Wraathmyr swam steadily strongly, without faltering, allowing the surge of the waves to lift us up and drop us down again. Sometimes I saw the night sky high above; sometimes nothing but the curve of the wave crested above our heads. I closed my eyes and clung to him, trying to keep my mind blank, trying to ignore the surging of the cinnamon rolls in my tum. If we made it to Barbacoa alive, I would never get anywhere near the ocean ever again—fike, Barbacoa was an island; I’d have to take a boat to get off it—but after that, never again.

  Darkness, water, waves, up and down, up and down. I lost all track of time. Had we been in the water an hour? A day? Forever? Once, I opened my eyes and saw a wall of water towering over us, reaching as high as the sky. I shut my eyes and crushed Flynn against me, cringing, waiting to feel the crush of water sweep us away But instead, the wave bore us aloft, and then the next wave wasn’t so high, nor the one after that, and soon the waves had calmed. Still Sieur Wraathmyr swam steadily on. When I opened my eyes again, I saw silver water and a scrim of s
ilvery clouds above.

  And then suddenly, it was over. Sieur Wraathmyr’s feet scrabbled and caught and he was wading through the surf. He heaved himself out of the water, waddled a few yards, and then collapsed. My hands had frozen into stiff claws; it was a moment before I was able to let go of his fur. I fumbled at the buttons of his furry coat and untied Flynn, who catapulted down. I managed to sling my frozen leg over and then I slid to the ground in a cold wet heap. The ground heaved and swelled beneath me, and my cinnamon rolls were done. I leaned over, puking, feeling the blissful grit of sand beneath my hands, and swore I would never eat another cinnamon roll again. Ever.

  A muzzle shived me. Sieur Wraathmyr sat on his haunches, flicking at his ears with a massive paw. Thanks to the furry jacket, my shirt was dry; I pulled my shirttail out, and when he bent his head, carefully dried his ears until they felt as soft as velvet. He hoisted himself up and shook himself like a dog, spraying water everywhere. My socks were also still dry; I pulled them on and then yanked my boots on.

  We had landed on a small foggy beach that smelled strongly of fish and wet seaweed. A dock loomed out of the mist, and beyond that, I saw the shadow of buildings.

  “Should I wait for you to change?” I asked.

  He shook his enormous head.

  “So I should go on to the hotel? And you’ll meet me there later?”

  He nodded, and then shived me one last time. I slid my arms around his head, and kissed his muzzle. “Thank you.”

  He licked my face, quickly, and then loped off into the darkness.

  “Come on, Flynn. Let’s get a room.” I put the jacket back on and hefted our luggage.

  As we neared the promenade, I heard the sound of squeaky wheels, and then a pedicab loomed out of the fog. The driver was insistent and we didn’t need much persuading. Flynn and I settled back into the plushy velvet seat and the cab puttered off. Barbacoa did not look like a wide-awake place, but maybe that’s because it was the middle of a blustery night. The Califa Police Gazette often reports on the lurid goings-on in Barbacoa; they made the lurid goings-on South of the Slot seem like a picnic. But tonight there was just wet mist, an occasional dim light, and, once, the cheerful jangle of distant music. It was a little bit disappointing, actually.