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

  The cab pedaled up under a large blue silk awning, and a snooty doorman handed me out of the cab. I paid the cabbie out of Poppy’s cash, then crossed the enormous lobby, Flynn trailing behind me. We passed a dark bar screened from the lobby by a long, open fireplace. Bright blue flames danced along the hearth’s length. Just like the lobby, the bar was empty I was surprised the hotel was so fancy, but I guess pirates, outlaws, professional gamblers, and slavers have lots of money to spend.

  The clerk at the front desk didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned that I was damp and probably smelled of upchuck, or that I was accompanied by a muddy dog. As soon as I mentioned Sieur Wraathmyr’s name, she was all smiles and upgraded us to a double suite. But before she called the bell girl to escort me to the room, she made me check my pistol, explaining that it was the house rule for all guests. I hated the thought of being unarmed on an island full of criminals, but then, they were unarmed, too, so I supposed that made us even. I handed over my gun belt, accepted the claim check, and followed the bell girl to the elevator. As we passed by the front doors, I saw that the fog outside was fading into pink dawn.

  It had been a very long night.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Octohands’s New Trick. A Plan. Breakfast.

  IN DAYLIGHT, THE VIEW outside my hotel window showed the sweeping vista of a natural bay harbor chock-a-block with ships; there must have been at least fifteen at anchor within the harbor, and more were visible just beyond the bay’s mouth. Most flew no colors, a clear indication that they were outside the law. A few brazenly exhibited pirate flags, but I didn’t see the Dainty Pirate’s colors among them. Good. I wasn’t eager to run into him, or Udo, again. Ever.

  The streets of Barbacoa were now awake, but not widely so. The buildings were stolidly spruce, and the people moving briskly about did not look like murderers and thieves; they looked like people anywhere. But, then, what do a murderer and a thief look like, really? Their deeds set them apart, not their faces. Should I be surprised to find that the Califa Police Gazette had been slightly exaggerating? No, I should not.

  Hours earlier, as soon as I had tipped the bell girl and the door closed behind her, I had dumped Octohands into the bathtub, kicked off my boots, and fallen onto the plushy bed, asleep almost instantly. Now I felt bleary but rested, a bit achy but ravenous, and ready to be clean.

  The door to Sieur Wraathmyr’s room was closed; by this, I assumed that he had come in after me and was sleeping. The tub was empty, but after a few seconds of searching I found Octohands wedged between the potty and the wall.

  When I poked him to make sure he was still alive, he grabbed my finger with a tentacle.

  Are you all right? I asked.

  I’m fabulous, oh, you clever girl. What a coup!

  What do you mean?

  Now he owes us twice — he’ll not be able to say no!

  Will you just drop it?

  You have no idea how important this is. Look at what happened with your dear mother—she almost left this family high and dry —

  When I tried to pull my finger out of his grip, Octohands hung on stubbornly, still chattering on about duty, honor, and baby names. He didn’t even let go when I carried him, dangling from my hand, into the bedroom. There I pried his grip off and dumped him in a heap of writhing tentacles into the trash basket, then covered its top with a towel weighted down with the room service menu.

  Now I could get clean in private.

  After my bath, I cracked Sieur Wraathmyr’s door and saw only a tuft of curly hair sticking out from under the fluffy white duvet. I’d give him a little longer to sleep and then wake him. We had to get that dispatch delivered.

  While I waited, I sat on the bed and unfolded my map, to look again at the flattened contours of Arivaipa Territory. I still wondered why Tiny Doom would hide out there. If I were hiding from the Birdies, I would have found Varanger not far enough.

  They’ll shoot you from the hip, out in old Arivaipa again. The words of the song ran through my head, which reminded me: Hadn’t Hardhands spent time in Arivaipa, back during the Bronco Wars?

  When I took the towel off the waste basket, Octohands sprang into the air, startling me. He soared by, and then swooped and swirled around the room in giant figure eights. Wonderful, now he could fly. He jetted around the room, tentacles trailing, sometimes briefly alighting on a piece of furniture and using his tentacles to creep about before launching back into the air.

  Flynn leaped up, barking and snapping. Octohands soared out of his reach, skimming the ceiling. Flynn skittered after him, jumping up on the bed.

  “Hey—stop it, you two!” I cried. “Flynn, get down! Off the furniture! Now!”

  Octohands shot across the room and landed with a thump on the end of the bed. A tentacle unrolled and attached to my ankle. That was fun!

  How did you figure out how to fly?

  Oh, a little tiny teeny sigil. I’ve never been particularly good at subvocal Gramatica, but “where there’s a Will, there’s a way,” as our darling Nini always said.

  Can you change yourself back, then? Lift the Curse I put on you?

  If I could have, I would have done so, long time past. But as Head of our House, your magick trumps mine. Anyway, I think I actually like this form. It’s a nice change of pace. So is this hotel, after the dumps we’ve been staying in. I’m perishing of hunger. Let’s order room service!

  I was perishing of hunger, too. I found the room-service order slip, filled it out, and rang for the bell girl. After she’d taken the slip, and my laundry, too, I returned to the bed, where Octohands was creeping over the map. I let him snap a tentacle around my wrist.

  What do you know about Arivaipa? I asked him.

  Know about Arivaipa? Pigface, I lost two good years of my life there. It’s a hellhole, that’s what I know about Arivaipa. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. They say if the Dæmon Choronzon owned Hell and Arivaipa both, he’d live in Hell and rent out Arivaipa.

  Then why would Tiny Doom hide out there?

  Goddess knows. She was always a contrary one, even as a child. I’m not the least bit surprised she’s not dead. I was easily disposed of with an arrow to the throat, but it would take more than a Birdie knife to put that woman down. I’ll bet ol Tezcatlipoca ate her and then puked her right back up again. I am glad she’s still alive, though. How is dear Sieur Wraathmyr today? Have you proposed yet?

  Proposed what?

  Don’t be a nitwit. Proposed marriage, of course. You can’t do better, I am sure of it—no family to interfere, and such a handsome —

  Give it a rest! I’m not going to marry him.

  You have to marry someone, or at least breed—

  This was not a topic I wished to discuss further, and so I tried to shake off Octohands’s grip, but those suckers were very sticky He continued to babble on about ceremonies and marriage settlements, ignoring my attempts to pry him off. Thankfully, there was a knock on the door; our chow had arrived. I pried him free and answered. The bell girl had just left when there was another knock, this time at the adjoining door, and when I called, “Enter,” in came Sieur Wraathmyr, wearing a comfy hotel robe, his hair wet and curling.

  I yanked the sash on my own robe tighter and wished I had gotten dressed. Octohands was right; Sieur Wraathmyr was pretty magnificent. How had I ever thought otherwise? Udo and his overcurled hair and calculatedly square jaw didn’t even begin to compare.

  But I wasn’t interested in marrying Sieur Wraathmyr. Or anyone else for that matter. My cheeks were getting hot. Fike Octohands and his suggestions. Sieur Wraathmyr didn’t seem to notice my blush. He just poured my coffee—how did he know to add the correct amount of cream and sugar?—and outlined our plan.

  “Last night, I stopped at the newspaper office and put in a notice that I had arrived, bearing with me Madama Twanky’s spring pattern book and catalog. The Envoy will see the notice, know I’ve arrived, and contact me about placing an order.” As he spoke, Sieur Wraathmyr
kept glancing at Octohands, now stuffing himself with eggs and bacon, but he politely didn’t ask me any questions about him. Udo would have been hard-pressed to leave it alone.

  I said, “The clerk was very happy to hear you were back in town. Are you well-known here?”

  “As well as anyone else. I’ve made some big sales on Barbacoa.”

  “Do outlaws buy Madama Twanky stuff? I’d think they just steal everything.”

  “I think most outlaws prefer to save their larceny for where it counts. Besides, this is Barbacoa—no one steals here. It’s the most honest place in the world, I think, thanks to Cutaway’s iron grip.”

  “Who is Cutaway?”

  “You’ll see. Come on, let’s go downstairs and see if the Envoy has called for us yet.”

  “Can’t we just go directly to her?”

  “We have to play it cool, Nini. You never know who is watching. It’s best if she comes to us. She knows I’m here for her, and she will come. You’ll see. Don’t worry, a few more hours won’t matter. I had the bell girl check with the harbor master; the next ferry to Arivaipa leaves tomorrow morning. If you still want to go, that is.”

  “I do. But I can go alone,” I said, although now, more than ever, I wanted him to go with me. Facing Arivaipa, facing Tiny Doom, was daunting. It would be wonderful to not have to do it alone.

  “I said I would go. Unless you don’t want me to. I’ve been there before. In fact, I just came from there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just carried a delivery from Arivaipa to the City—”

  “To Buck?” I remembered that request for the chupacabra hunter from the commanding officer of Fort Sandy.

  “I can’t say; I’m sorry. Deliveries are confidential.”

  I didn’t press him. I knew what the answer was. The dispatch from Arivaipa hadn’t just happened to get mixed up with Buck’s mail. Sieur Wraathmyr had delivered it to her secretly The CO at Sandy must really be afraid of the chupacabra, to send his request via an express agent.

  MY CLOTHES WERE not back from the laundry yet, but I had the shirt and drawers I had bought back in Cambria, wrinkled and damp, but clean. I got dressed and fixed my hair as best as I could, which would have to do. By the time I was done, Sieur Wraathmyr was ready to go downstairs. I left Flynn and Octohands lolling on the bed, both stuffed to the gills with room service. I took my dispatch case with me, but as a precaution, I tucked the map into one of my boots. I wasn’t going to risk losing it again.

  The front desk had a lot of messages for Sieur Wraathmyr, but none of them were from the Kulani Envoy He collected the pile of cards and we went into the dining room “to see and be seen,” as he put it.

  The dining room was elegantly decorated in marble and gilt, and giant vases of orange and pink roses. Nowhere did I see any of the outlaw dissipation so oft described in the CPG. No raucous bar fights or screeching dancehall jills; no off-tune cow-bands. No one was hanging from the chandeliers or setting the waiters on fire. I’ve seen worse behavior at staff officer meetings.

  “See the woman sitting at the table next to the painting of the ship?” Sieur Wraathmyr asked, when I whispered this observation at him.

  I glanced over the rim of my coffee cup. A silver-haired woman in a simple black sheath dress sat alone, reading a newspaper and eating half a grapefruit.

  “Ayah? What about her?”

  “That’s Cutaway Hargity She owns most of the gambling along the west coast, both in Califa and Birdieland. Also, this hotel and everything else on the island. She’s why everyone is so good. No one wants to get on her bad side.”

  “Why do they call her Cutaway?”

  “Because she cuts away bits of people who cross her.”

  “She looks like a banker.”

  “She is a banker. And a businesswoman. An extremely ruthless banker and businesswoman. I heard that the Warlord once had a twenty million gambling debt to her.”

  “Twenty million divas?” I said, aghast. “How do you lose twenty million divas gambling?”

  “By being a very poor euchre player. The Warlord’s partner, a man named Merrick, refused to pay”

  “The Warlord had a bodyguard named Merrick. He only had one hand—oh.” I looked back at Cutaway Hargity. She had finished her grapefruit and was slathering her toast with butter.

  Sieur Wraathmyr continued, “Remember that extra tribute tax a couple of years back, the one that was supposed to go to the Birdies? That’s how the Warlord raised the money to cancel his debt. After Merrick, he was very motivated to honor his obligation.”

  I remembered that tax. It had prompted quite a few angry editorials in the papers—most of them aimed at the Birdies, not at the Warlord, who was seen as an innocent victim of their greed. Pretty clever, paying off your gambling bills by raising a tax that you can blame on your overlords, thus making them even more unpopular while you look like a martyr.

  A yelp punctuated the hush of the room. We turned and saw two men scuffling at the buffet line. One appeared to be rubbing bacon in the face of the other. Judging from the screams, the bacon was very hot. Out of nowhere, two girls flanked the fighters. Suddenly the bacon-rubber was on the ground, moaning, as his victim screamed, “My face! My face!”

  The bacon-rubber started to sit up and Bouncer One kicked him neatly in the head with a pink-toed boot. There was a sickening thud, and the bacon-rubber’s head jerked back and he flopped over, suddenly very quiet. Bouncer Two grabbed the screaming man, threw a towel over his head, and steered him toward the kitchen. Bouncer One hoisted the bacon-rubber over her shoulder and hauled him away.

  The whole incident had taken seconds.

  “I beg your pardon, gentle guests.” Cutaway stood beside her table. “It is very silly to fight over the last piece of bacon. There is always more bacon. I am sorry that your breakfast was disturbed. Champagne is on the house.”

  This announcement brought a smattering of applause and a shout of, “I’ll take vino over bacon anytime!” Cutaway turned a quiet look in the shouter’s direction and the applause abruptly stopped. Waiters began to distribute champagne glasses. Cutaway sat down and Sieur Wraathmyr continued, as though he’d never paused. “Over there, by the pillar, that man in the green and yellow ditto suit is the head of the Waco Slave Syndicate. And over there is the Bouncing Boy Terror himself, Springheel Jack—”

  I turned my head so quickly that my neck cracked. Springheel Jack? Springheel Jack was dead, and his boots in the possession of ... Oh, fike. That wasn’t Springheel Jack at all.

  It was Udo.

  Wearing Springheel Jack’s boots.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jack Boots. An Argument. Interruption.

  NOT COPIES OF Springheel Jack’s boots this time. But the Jack Boots themselves, in all their glittery, snaky glory.

  Udo, that fiking idiotic fool! Hadn’t he learned his lesson? The last time he’d put those boots on, they’d ensorcelled him. Springheel Jack’s boots aren’t just a fashion accessory; they are Springheel Jack. It’s the Jack Boots that make the outlaw, not the other way around. They take over whatever poor snapperhead wears them, turning him into Springheel Jack.

  And once they have their victim in their grip, they do not let go. Last time I’d only managed to get them to release Udo by promising that if they let him go, I’d find them another and much better snapperhead to ensorcel. I had broken my promise (is a promise to a pair of homicidal magickal boots really a promise?) and given the boots back to Udo because he had sworn he would turn them in to the police and collect the bounty on Springheel Jack. Apparently I was not the only oath breaker around.

  Speaking of which, I glanced around the room but saw neither the Dainty Pirate nor the Zu-Zu. Udo sashayed toward a table like he was Choronzon, Lord of All Creation. He was dressed head-to-toe in white—sumptuous, not funereal. Puffy white sack hose, white velvet doublet with white silk puffs on the enormous sleeves, frothy white lace at his cuffs and neck. He looked subdued but el
egant. Of course, white was the perfect foil for the red sparkly boots with the snappy snake heads on the toes. They stood out like blood on snow.

  “I heard that Springheel Jack had been killed in a shootout in the City a year or so ago,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “I guess that rumor was wrong.”

  “No, it wasn’t wrong,” I answered. Udo sat down at his table. We were not the only ones looking in his direction. In fact, Cutaway Hargity was now gazing with sparklingeyed interest at him.

  “I gotta get out of here,” I said. “Before he sees me.”

  “You know Springheel Jack?” Sieur Wraathmyr asked, surprised.

  “That’s not Springheel Jack. It’s Udo Landaðon.”

  Or was it? From this distance, I couldn’t read Udo’s face well enough to tell if he was himself or if he had been subsumed into Jackness again. The outfit, though, screamed Jack; the Jack Boots had much better taste than Udo himself did.

  “He was at the Zu-Zu’s party, don’t you remember?” I said.

  “Udo? You mean the idiotic courtier that dumped you? What is he doing in Springheel Jack’s boots?”

  “It’s a long story, but I really don’t want him to see me.” Yet, if he looked toward our table, he’d see me for sure. Sieur Wraathmyr gestured, and we quickly changed seats. Now his bulk blocked me from Udo’s view. But if Udo couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him, either. I could, however, see Cutaway Hargity’s table.