“Very well. How shall we proceed?”
After the entire household had gone to bed, Harrington took the chair from Madelaine’s bedside and set it by the open window where he could keep watch. The sounds of voices and carriage wheels subsided. Lights in nearby houses began to go out. The waxing moon rose, throwing silvery light into the garden and casting inky shadows. By the stiffness in Harrington’s legs, he guessed two hours had passed, perhaps more.
Out in the garden, something hit the ground with a soft thump. Paws dug at the sand spread in a thick layer under Madelaine’s window. Harrington shut his eyes and listened, every nerve alert. He’d embedded a hook in the largest chunk of sea bream. Fishing line ran from the hook to the trap’s trigger, which would respond to the slightest tug.
The small dish that held the sea bream scraped against the sand. The creature was eating. A sudden click made the four corners of the fisherman’s net jerk upward from beneath the sand. In the net thrashed a large black cat. Its furious yowl split the night.
Madelaine flung aside the bedclothes and stumbled over to the window.
“Maddy,” Harrington whispered. “This looks like an ordinary house cat.”
“This, Papa, is a bakeneko, a cat monster. They’re vain, bad-tempered, and they like to play tricks.”
The cat glared at Madelaine with eyes like weird green flames.
“Bad cat! Putting on airs, pretending you’re a lady!”
The cat hissed, straining toward Madelaine with claws bared.
“The Abbot knows about you!”
Clouds drifted across the moon. Shadows covered the cat. When the moon came out again, the net sagged under the weight of the larger shape it now held. Harrington leaned out over the sill.
Beneath him lay Myoko, stark naked. Harrington spun around and pushed Madelaine back from the window.
“Tasukete, kudasai!” Myoko cried. “Tasukete!”
“What is she saying?” Harrington asked.
“She’s shouting for help. She looks human now, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. Quite human.”
The door slid open. Nurse Danforth hurried in, tugging a robe on over her night dress. “Doctor! Whatever is that noise outside?”
“Get me another blanket, please.”
“Yes, doctor.” Nurse Danforth took one from the chest at the foot of Madelaine’s bed.
Constance appeared in the doorway. “Madelaine! What are you doing out of bed?”
“Mama! I caught that nasty cat who hurt Bartholomew!” Madelaine turned to Harrington. “Be careful, Papa. They’re very clever.”
“Don’t worry, Maddy.” Harrington patted the three ofuda in his jacket pocket. “I’ll take care of Miss Meow-ko.” He took the blanket from Nurse Danforth. “Stay with Madelaine. Keep her away from the window.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Harrington left by the kitchen door. Out in the garden, he spread the blanket out next to Myoko. When he reached for the net, Myoko hissed at him. He slapped her across the face.
“You hurt my little girl. You could have killed her!” Harrington composed himself with an effort. “Be very grateful I do not believe in cruelty to animals. Otherwise I would gladly stuff you in a sack and drop you in the river.”
He unhooked the four corners of the net and rolled up Myoko in both net and blanket. Using two drawing pins, he secured the first of the Abbot’s ofuda to the blanket, locking Myoko into her human form and limiting her powers. Harrington carried her into the garden shed, set her down on some bags of fertilizer, then shut the door. Another drawing pin and the second ofuda sealed that door.
Out of the shadows behind the shed stepped a monk from Kiyomizudera. The monk offered Harrington an envelope addressed in Fujita’s handwriting. Harrington tore open the envelope to find a single sheet of writing paper.
Dear Harrington-sensei,
Please allow the monks to remove the cat monster. The Abbot will see to it the bakeneko does no further harm.
Your humble servant,
Fujita Masayuki
How had they known the trap would catch Myoko tonight? The Abbot must have sent a message to Madelaine, or vice versa. Harrington stepped aside, waving the monk toward the shed. The monk bowed, then clapped his hands twice. Through the gate at the back of the garden walked two more monks. They carried a palanquin, something like a long wicker basket slung between two poles. The first monk opened the doors on the side of the palanquin, entered the shed, and came out carrying Myoko. He tucked her inside the palanquin, closed the doors and tied off the handles with red cords. The three monks bowed to Harrington, took up their burden, then departed through the back gate.
Harrington leaned against the garden shed. He took from his pocket the third ofuda, the one meant for the front gate. The Abbot said Harrington had become a guardian. If that was true, he’d do well to follow in Madelaine’s footsteps. Her knowledge of folklore, her talent for machinery, and her sewing skills had protected the entire neighborhood from the murderous habits of the bakeneko.
Wild Card
by Dover Whitecliff
Unlike arena fighting, intelligence work generally doesn’t involve any. Intelligence that is. It does involve more work than is strictly necessary, especially collaborating on foreign soil. But this time I found myself in Te Raro. City of Lights, Vices, and Guilty Pleasures. Absolutely no comparison to that courier job to the Uyat. No slurping down grubs or pulling off sand-leeches in this place.
It took a bit of work to keep from grinning like a bloody idiot in front of the bellboy when I peeked into the bath and saw a tub big enough to swim in. And the bed — royal size with six (SIX!) pillows. I could smell fresh almond cookies from the suite’s entry hall as I walked in and spotted them laid out in a perfect flower pattern on the night table’s doily. Pure, unadulterated joy. Until.
I stared dubiously at the eight aithergrams in bright yellow envelopes laid out on a polished silver salver. Oh the joy of working in someone else’s sandbox. The bellboy anticipated my question before it was even a thought.
“Those started coming in about twelve hours ago, Miss. Right after we confirmed your reservation. Will there be anything else, Miss?”
“No. Thank you.” I handed him a tenner and he left, closing the door behind him. Well, if it’s your duty to clean the jacks, best do it sooner than later. Eight aithergrams. All addressed to Kenna Wolfesdaughter. Not She-Wolf. Not Lupa. A proper greeting then. Eight. The number for air, for vision and far-seeing. A clue. How quaint. I picked them up and read them top to bottom.
Some seemed friendly: SORRY I MISSED YOU. SEE YOU AT DICKSON’S.
Some sounded like warnings: CEASE YOUR SCURRILOUS SCRIBBLINGS OR ELSE!
And some were just bloody odd: AARRRGGGG! LOVIN’ THE FUDGE! THANKS, MATEY!
Now what am I supposed to make out of that?
Qin-To being the most civilized of nations on three continents evidently meant their intelligence agency operated on the principle of form over substance. I flipped through the aithergrams again. Took them out of the envelopes. Sniffed them for lemon juice in the hopes of some sort of simple solution or invisible ink. No such luck. Oddly enough, some of the words were blurry. Almost like the aithergraph had been jiggled and parts of the messages double printed during transmission. Qin-To, self-professed center of the greatest in all modern wonders, wouldn’t tolerate a faulty aithergraph in any of their cities. Would they?
Right then, let’s take it from the top, reading only the offsets: “Sorry I missed you. Obey my instructions. Discover the ides of dogs. The password is ‘Aarrrgggg! Matey!’.”
“By all the sacred Elements, please tell me this is a joke.” I dropped the aithergrams on the posh sheets I obviously wouldn’t be enjoying any time soon, walked to the window, and stared at the city laid out below, banging my forehead on the slanted glass in disgust.
Nothing for it, Girl. Out you get. Just keep thinking about chocolate stout and truffles and the midnight ice cre
am buffet.
I pocketed the key, left my room with one last longing look, and went in search of dogs. And pirates. In a land-locked city. The things I do for my liege lord.
I gave myself a once over in the polished brass doors of the lift and wondered just what was under the eyepatch. Mr. Black Heart Pin hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said my new mechanical eye had all the latest enhancements. I still had no idea what it looked like nigh on three months after Nigel’s bomb had taken my real one in the Solstice Games. Every time I tried to see with it, my head split from pounding. I always slammed my eyelid shut before I got a good look. Well, at least with the scar and the patch I’d fit right in with pirates. Aarrrgggg, Matey, indeed.
And once I delivered the programming card Fa’s boffins had extricated from the guts of the IKAROS wings, I would have a whole month until they reined me back in to provide for Fa’s security at the Great Exhibition of Duoros. Te Raro was mad in the midst of preparation for the Exhibition like nothing I’d ever seen. Even the hoopla surrounding the Sword Dance held a dim candle to the excitement buzzing everywhere I looked.
A gong announced the lift and I stepped in. Odd feeling going slantwise down the outside of the Tetra in a glass bubble with the gaslights flicking by every few seconds. The Arclight that crowned the capstone of the casino pierced the night sky and washed out any chance of seeing the stars, so I turned my attention to the builders and their giant Mechanicals preparing the empty lot across the boulevard they called the Kodo. ‘Lot’ didn’t do it justice really. The Tetra could have fit into the space twice over. I could even see the start of the foundations for the Grand Pavilion that would dwarf everything nearby next to the mooring yards where the dignitaries and all and sundry would disembark for the debauchery to come.
Every bit of Te Raro overloaded the senses. Size? Half a turn of the glass had passed by the time I navigated gaming tables to the door. Sound? Jingling and ringing of the pachinko boxes and clockwork fortune wheels swelled to their own symphony beneath shouts and laughter. Smells? Steaming bao and caramel apples. Plumeria and ginger. Wet stone and smoke. I dodged the steam carriages to cross the Kodo, aiming to be just another bumpkin in the herd.
The gargantuan bronze angora statue dwarfing the incoming guests to the Gratia Artis Hotel gave me a still pool of onlookers to blend into while I pried up a map of the city from a dusty corner of my mind. Pirates and dogs. Where would they be? A flash of light on the statue startled a memory out of the shadows. My first visit to ‘Raro. My coming of age. Not a party or my first pint of the stronger stuff. No, Kyree had signed me up for an out-of-class exo-suit bout to entice our target out of her suite and down to the arena so Fa could liberate I-don’t-remember-what national secret from her possession.
Not often a bantam’s first fight out of the juniors was with a middleweight in the biggest arena on the continent, but I managed to pull it off by the skin of my teeth. When the photographers flashed their bulbs and Kyree held my hand up for the crowd out front of that statue, I had still been breathing hard and grinning through a bloody nose and black eye near swollen shut. Kyree, who towered over me still, had only come up to the smallest clawed toe on the angora’s foot.
A Good Time Boy pushed past me.
Pay attention, Girl. Pirates and dogs.
I turned to make my way through the gauntlet.
“Tickets for tonight’s show, miss?”
“Our boys will take care of you, missy — free samples this way!”
“Find the ball and win big — step right up and take your chances!”
In the spin and chaos and gaslight, it was easy to forget being in ‘Raro for an actual purpose, but not so easy to quash instincts pounded in by a relentless Kyree or honed by an even more relentless Fa for half a lifetime. And there’s nothing like that hair-on-end tingle you get when a predator is stalking you. But stalking to kill or stalking to corner and converse, that was the question.
Three in the crowd defied the ebb and flow of humanity stopping to gape at this or that. That narrowed it down.
Which one? The tall one in the tuxedo? The woman in the ao dai with the cobalt hair?
Both moved gracefully, hunting cats herding prey, watching everything without watching. Either could pose a serious threat. Well, until they spotted each other and melted into an embrace. They danced past the bouncer’s velvet rope and disappeared between two shallow pools teeming with the water birds that gave the Ciconia its name. That left only number three.
Please no. Not that one.
While it’s true that a slap-you-in-the-eyeball pink and orange flamingo dancing down the Kodo in polka-dot bedroom slippers while handing out calling cards for a bawdy house would go largely unnoticed by the locals, I wouldn’t exactly consider it de rigueur fashion for tailing someone. I figure I must have cheesed off the Gods of ‘Raro something fierce considering every damn thing about this job aimed toward embarrassment. No doubt in my mind Kyree or Briar would find out somehow some way, and stories of the Great Flamingo Hunt would follow me to my grave.
Now what? Not like I could body slam an ersatz casino mascot in front of the paying customers. And one thing was certain sure: leading the flamingo to my contact was not an option.
Think fast, Girl.
I pretended to gawk at a volcano fountain erupting with crimson lights and flame, then, when the flamingo was close enough, I sauntered on, making my way through the crowds choking the Bridge of Whispers and into the Illyrian Resort with its festooned boats and singing oarsmen ferrying kissing couples hither and yon, keeping my eyes open for a place to have a quiet conversation.
There.
I sidestepped into an alcove behind a marble column, and counted to twelve. Pink fluff hove into view and I struck, grabbing the flamingo round the neck and twisting its wing behind its back. It was taller than I was, and I made a guess at where the neck was; hopefully, I was in the right spot. Not that a flamingo’s squawk would be noticed in this place.
“Is there a reason you’re following me?” I pulled my elbow tighter, trying to feel for body parts under the fleece and foam.
“Mmmrph.” I kept pressure on the wing and let go the neck long enough to yank off the flamingo’s headpiece and drop it.
“You were saying?”
“I’m from — ow — from Headquarters.” The flamingo, really a mop-headed effete with a weak chin and pouty lips, would have kowtowed if I hadn’t had him in a hammerlock. “An honor to finally meet you Lady Kenna, an honor.” I let his arm loose. He tucked the feathery headdress under his arm and tried to kiss my hand.
Oh no you don’t.
I turned his attempt into a death grip handshake. “Your exploits are legend.” He winced, but continued pumping my hand up and down. “Quite the pleasure.”
I extracted my hand with some difficulty. “And you are?”
“Garrick Winslow. I’m your liaison here in Te Raro. Station Q is small, what. We had word you were coming of course. I’m here to help you with the wild card. Sorry about the flamingo, but it was the easiest way to follow you without being noticed.”
“Without. Being. Noticed.”
He actually blushed.
“Yes. Well. We’re a backwater really. This is the first bit of excitement we’ve had in some time. I am so looking forward to working with you.”
Working with me? You want excitement, Winslow? I’ll give you excitement — far away from me.
“Good timing, Winslow. Someone’s on to me. From the airship. Purser called him—”
Name. Name. I need a name. Ah! The aithergram.
“Dickson, I think.” I made a show of peeking around the column, looked down the Kodo, and picked at random. “Damn all. I thought I lost him in the Tetra. There. Do you see him? Tall. White moustache. Deerstalker and cape. I think he may be after the card. He won’t be expecting you. Lead him a merry chase to buy me some time.”
“But. But. The wild card.” He sputtered. “Shouldn’t we hide it?”
“I’ll keep it safe. Meet me at the Frozen Bar at sunup. Go. Now.” I grabbed the flamingo headdress and jammed it back on Winslow’s shoulders, pushing him out into the crowd to be swept away.
WHOOM! The blast ripped my thoughts away from the flabbergasted flamingo. That sounded just like — a cannon. WHOOM! This time followed by rollicking music. Rollicking pirate music. How could I have forgotten? Briar would say something snarky to that, something about getting hit in the head one too many times.
I weaseled my way through the throng to Buccaneer’s Cove. Two model ships manned by scantily-clad, incredibly clean pirates (you expect filthy, pockmarked pirates in ‘Raro?) battled each other, lurching to and fro on tracks beneath the lagoon to the blast of air cannons and pyrotechnics.
A herd of younger males ignored the ships and crowded around a street performer, just come of age by the look of her, posing for photographs in a short, blue-spangled skirt, crimson corset, and stomping boots, an interesting take on one of the heroes from the marvelous dreadfuls. Keeping the oglers at a respectful distance were a semicircle of knee-high foo pups, sparks illuminating their lightning-stone manes. On a whim, I counted them. Fifteen. Ides. I suppose foo pups counted as dogs, all things considered. The alpha curled his lip at me. I growled back. He lolled his tongue and barked. Their mistress turned her gaze on me, took in the eyepatch, and arched an eyebrow expectantly.
Fine. Have it your way.
“Aarrrgggg, Matey.” My best bucca-sneer.
“Come with me.” She tossed me the leashes. “Sorry boys. Short break. Back in a bit.” She blew her admirers a kiss. The foo pups cleared the way, pulling me along after them to Sarn’s Palace.
Funny what people in ‘Raro thought the palace at NorFort looked like. Last I was there, I don’t remember seeing a fountain statue of Maralissandra Alstashevana Trientanis, Sarn of Sarns, Savior of the Nation, posing half-naked with arm raised high and water spewing every which way from the tip of the Dragon Sword.
Thirty Days Later: Steaming Forward: 30 Adventures in Time Page 11
