“More of the usual?” asked Isla, lying back against the cushions and flicking a few locks of her silver hair behind her shoulders. Unlike Persis’s hair, Isla’s color was natural. Everyone knew the hair of Albian royals went white in their teens—it was such a genetic signature of the dynasty that even if Isla still had the dark Polynesian hair of their youth, she would have had the color removed. It was hard enough gaining recognition as the island’s rightful ruler.
Persis giggled. Loudly. “Are you telling me you’re bored by my efforts to bring you the best Galatea has to offer?”
“Not at all,” Isla replied, darting another glance at the king’s nursemaid, “but I find myself more curious about another Albian smuggling Galatean goods to my shore. I’ve heard rumors the Wild Poppy has just concluded another raid today.”
“I’ve heard the gossip, too,” replied Persis, taking care that her tone was every bit as gossipy. “Apparently, he rescued Lord Lacan and all his family.”
“Even the children?”
Persis nodded.
Isla could not contain her smile. She immediately sobered, however. “But that’s only six. I heard the Poppy made off with ten refugees.”
“Goodness, Princess!” Persis exclaimed. “You can’t expect me to know anything about that!”
“Persis …” Isla could look very royal indeed, when she chose.
“A few regs who ran afoul of revolutionary principles …” Persis confessed, “most likely.”
“Most likely,” Isla repeated, pursing her lips, “knowing what a soft sell the Wild Poppy is. I wonder whatever he thinks I’ll do with all the reg refugees he crowds onto my shores.”
Persis gave her friend a hopeful smile. “He probably thinks you’ll do right by them, given what a benevolent despot you are.” She’d been teasing Isla with the title for years, ever since they’d learned it in ancient history classes. But school was out now, for both of them. Isla was the de facto ruler of the island, and Persis—well, Persis had other activities to keep her occupied.
“And give my Council members yet another reason to suspect I know his identity?” Isla asked. Albie’s nursemaids were maintaining a respectful distance, but you never could tell.
“Surely they don’t think that?” said Persis, looking skeptical. “I thought everyone in Albion knows you care for nothing but competing with me for being the prettiest dressed woman on the island. You’re regent in name only, and you intend to let the Council decide the direction of the country until the king comes of age.”
Isla stared at Persis, a warning blazing in her dark eyes. Persis stared at Isla, a twinkle in her amber ones.
“Fine,” said the princess at last, giving her friend an indulgent smile.
Inwardly, Persis breathed a sigh of relief. Isla might be the most regular-friendly ruler Albion had ever known, but she felt no particular obligation to the regs from Galatea, especially since it had been their revolution that had torn the country asunder.
Yet Persis couldn’t help but pity the poor regs she’d rescued while on the Lacan mission. They’d been trying to lead simple lives, untouched by the perverted aims of the revolution, and had been Reduced merely for standing in support of the innocent Lacans.
This war was a travesty. If only she could save them all.
If only Albion would. But Persis knew Isla’s hands were tied. And while her friend focused on the needs of her nation, Persis did what she could to provide the assistance both girls wished the country would.
“What do you think the Council would say to the Wild Poppy, if it had the chance?” she asked the princess.
“‘Stop bringing us poor people?’” Isla suggested.
Persis snorted with derision. “Even the Galatean aristos are poor when they get here. They’ve been stripped of their estates and all their worldly possessions.”
“If not their brains.”
Persis rolled her eyes. “Thankfully, that wears off.” Detoxing from the Reduction drug wasn’t a pleasant process, but it was better than the alternative.
And until the Galateans stopped punishing their regs along with their aristos, the Wild Poppy would be an equal-opportunity rescuer. Persis was a Blake, and an aristo, too, but her mother was a reg. And, more important, suffering was suffering. No one should have their mental capabilities stolen from them. Ever.
The nursemaids herded King Albie off for his nap. Isla watched them until they’d left the room. “With any luck, this revolution will wear off, too, and the Galateans flooding our shores will regain their fortunes and find a way to pay us back for our kindness.” Isla shook her head. “I was not supposed to rule, let alone do so in such interesting times.”
Persis placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. There were whispers in court that Isla’s father might have prevented the revolution. He could have counseled Queen Gala at the start of the strife. There were still claims that the revolutionaries had played a part in the boating accident that had claimed the old King Albie, his wife, and his eldest son’s life a little more than six months ago.
Persis didn’t believe that, but she could put stock in the theories that Citizen Aldred and his army acted when they did six months back because they knew that Albion, still reeling from the loss of its king and grown heir, could hardly step in to help when the Galateans deposed, and then Reduced, their own queen.
Queen Gala had been the first victim of this monstrous new “Reduction drug” the revolutionaries were calling pinks. Two weeks into her sentence, she’d been found dead in her prison cell. Another accident, the revolutionaries had claimed.
Then they’d fed the queen’s corpse to her own guard beasts, the pod of mini-orcas she’d kept in her private cove near Halahou. After that night, Persis had been sure her own country would speak up against the revolution’s tactics, sure that Isla’s righteous fury over the death of her neighboring monarch would translate into action against her killers. But six months later, the Albian Royal Council was still dithering and, worse, preventing the princess regent from doing anything at all.
Some said they wished to avoid war at all costs. Others feared the revolution might spread to their shores. But the loudest voices of all were the ones that were using the strife as an opportunity to advance their own causes—especially the cause of making the princess look weak.
Now Isla stood and shook out her pants, which fell in creamy wrinkles to her feet. The white was strategic, too. Against the lush colors of the courtyard and the garish dress of the other courtiers, Isla stood out. Cool. Unapproachable. Unmistakable. Persis grabbed Isla’s cape off the floor, but her friend made a face as she took it. “I hate this thing.”
“Trappings of power.” Persis said, helping her friend with the clasp. And Isla could use all the trappings she could muster, too. The Albian laws against female inheritance not only kept Isla from becoming the true queen but also made even her temporary regency suspect in the eyes of most of her people.
When the king was still alive, the Albian Royal Council had been held up as a model government compared to the Galatean queen’s absolute power. In Albion, the monarch was subject to checks and balances by the Council. But now Persis and Isla saw the truth they hadn’t learned in school—the Council could also hamstring the ruler and blame lack of action on her.
Their only recourse was the Wild Poppy—and they could never let anyone know.
“Ah, well. Kings of old wore feathered cloaks and giant metal crowns every day. It’s a wonder they could walk.” Isla sighed. “Fifteen years before my brother can take over.”
“And how many before you do?” said Persis, then immediately regretted it. Isla got enough doubt from the Council and the populace. She didn’t need it from her best friend.
Isla’s face turned grim. “Galatea is Reducing its citizens at the rate of dozens per day. The country is being torn apart by a war. With that on the horizon, how do you think it would be viewed if I condemned the Council for their inaction?”
“I understand that
, but—”
“But what, Persis?” Isla’s commanding voice was tinged with an edge of frustration. “I don’t want a war in Albion. If that means playing nice with the Council until the dust settles from my father’s death, so be it.”
The Council argued that intervening in Galatea might cause a commoner uprising on their shores. But Albian aristos were none too happy to see the court do nothing while Galatean aristos were tortured and Reduced. Isla knew it. The dangers of an aristocratic coup would hurt her, not Council members. And Persis was sure the Council leaders—mostly aristos—knew that.
“And if the Council leads us into civil war?”
“Then I’ll count on the Wild Poppy to save us.” And with that, Isla brushed aside the bamboo blinds and the two girls exited into the courtyard. Even the silly girl Persis pretended to be could read her friend’s intent. The conversation was over. And perhaps that was for the best. It wasn’t as if they could change anything. All Isla had was Persis, and all Persis had was the Poppy.
Outside in the courtyard, water trickled melodically through an artificial creek and down a series of musical locks. The water organ had been designed during the reign of Isla’s grandfather by a natural-born reg and was one of the prides of the Albian royal family. Their early support of natural-born regs as well as quick adoption of the Helo Cure were two facts the Council liked spread far and wide in order to keep the population in support of the monarchy. The state-run sanitarium for those with Dementia of Acquired Regularity—or Darkening, as most laymen called it—should have been a third, but no one liked being reminded of the shadow that lay over the cure.
Not even the Darkened.
All around the courtyard, hibiscus bloomed and palm fronds waved above the heads of the courtiers, who wandered in groups, gossiping about the Wild Poppy’s latest exploits or which aristo had been found with another’s wife. Here and there you heard the buzz of flutternotes winging from person to person, carrying messages or promises or even just sensations. It was a waste of energy, but all the rage nonetheless. Persis was partly responsible for that. She supposed it couldn’t be helped.
All anyone wanted to talk about was the Wild Poppy. Every aristo in Albion who wasn’t claiming to be his secret lover had broadcasted a desire to become so, should the Poppy be interested. Sometimes, Persis had the wicked temptation to play a trick or two. What would they do if they did get a wild poppy–shaped flutter, telling them to, say, meet him at dawn in the gazebo on the north promontory, wearing nothing but a lei of poppies and a smile? But she wouldn’t risk it. She had real work to do.
Which reminded her. The situation with the young soldier earlier today had been far too close for comfort. Her hand drifted up to touch the towering pile of yellow and white braids, curls, and twists that was the envy of every girl at court. Persis loved her hair. She loved the way it framed her face when she studied her reflection, the way it set off the deep golden tone of her skin. She loved how each twist and knot reminded her of the hours her mother had spent with her on the stone lanai of Scintillans, teaching her how to braid.
Her mother had once been the reigning beauty of Albion, and her thick, full hair was one genetic legacy in which Persis could take pride. But if she had to sacrifice it for the Wild Poppy, for the mission, she would. After all, the days of braiding her hair with her mother on the lanai were long gone.
A flutternote buzzed about her face, shaped like a flying fish. Andrine. Persis stripped off the wristlock protecting her palmport. The flower sank seamlessly into the disk in her hand, and the message whispered across her consciousness.
Cargo safely transported to clinic. All still unconscious.
She closed her eyes briefly, focusing to compose her reply. She coded its shape as a poppy, rather than her default, the Blake family’s frangipani.
Keep the soldier asleep until further notice.
“Persis?” Isla asked, eyeing the spun-sugar flutternote assembling itself on Persis’s palmport. “Is everything all right?”
And indeed, it was rare for Persis to conduct the Wild Poppy’s business in public.
As the flutternote was whisked away on a breeze from the sea, Persis forced a smile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
The soldier Persis had captured during the Lacan raid had been an unexpected complication. Until now, Persis hadn’t taken anyone from Galatea except revolutionary prisoners, and she wasn’t quite prepared to deal with a prisoner of her own.
“I’ve been considering some improvements to my … workout clothing,” she said meaningfully. “Conventional methods aren’t quite sufficient for our needs lately. I’m thinking of trying something a bit more … radical for my mission tomorrow.”
Isla regarded her for a long moment. “Genetemps are dangerous.”
“So is getting caught by the Galateans.”
The princess shook her head. “I don’t like it, Persis.”
“You don’t have to. Genetemps can be found fairly easily on the street in Galatea these days.”
“As the horror stories that make their way across the strait prove daily,” Isla replied. “How many deaths has back-alley gengineering caused since the revolutionaries stopped policing it?”
“Not as many as the revolutionaries’ own drugs.” Persis refastened the wristlock over her palm. Besides, the risk posed by a genetemp was less dangerous than wrestling a gun off a Galatean soldier, as she’d had to do earlier today. And if Tero had enough free time to be making palmport apps for the amusement of Isla and Albie, he could whip up a few genetemps for her.
“What if you get sick?” Isla asked. “How ever will I explain it to your parents?”
Persis bit her lip. How would Isla react if Persis revealed that a genetemps accident might be the least of the Blake family health concerns? “You’ll tell them it was in the line of duty. That should be sufficient for Torin Blake.” And her mother, if it happened to be a day she remembered she had a daughter.
“And to the court? To the Council?”
“Easy.” She shrugged, pushing thoughts of her mother from her mind. “Everyone knows Persis Blake is foolish enough to try anything.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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Three
AS THE SUN PEEKED its head over the lip of the sea, lighting the shore with a rosy golden glow, the Ford children stopped writhing and fell into an odd, restless sleep. Sharie hoped this was normal. Her contact hadn’t told her exactly what to expect from the pinks—just that the children would be easier to transport to revolutionary officials if they were already Reduced.
She didn’t like the look of them, lying there on pallets with the remnants of pink foam drying around their mouths. She didn’t like the fact that her contact was supposed to have been here well before sunrise. If the Fords noticed the children were missing—if they found her with them like this …
Finally, she couldn’t stand the sight of their pathetic little figures anymore, and she escaped to the beach. Soon enough, the shadow of a skimmer loomed long across the sand in front of her. She hadn’t expected it from the direction of the beach but instead from the road. It didn’t matter. The pickup was here at last. The driver was … not exactly the police escort she’d expected. Then again, maybe the revolution preferred to do such dirty work through unofficial channels. The woman was a crone, hunched and craggy, with ropes of gray hair and deep-set eyes surrounded by masses of wrinkled, peeling skin. She was swathed in a heavy, hooded robe, and as she moved to lower the skimmer’s brakes to the sand, Sharie could see that her hands were encased in long linen gloves.
“You’re late,” said Sharie, wondering if the old woman would even be able to help her move the bodies.
The woman rolled her ancient shoulders. “Money doesn’t have an expiration date. But the revolutionary army’s offer does.”
Sharie quickly ushered the lady into t
he house before she could change her mind. There, on a pallet, lay three children, still unconscious but sleeping fitfully. Pink stains crackled along their cheeks and throats and lay in spongy mats in their hair.
“You gave them pinks,” the woman stated flatly.
“Yes,” said Sharie. “As instructed.”
But the woman made no response other than, “Where’s the fourth?”
“Couldn’t get to her. She’s the heir, so she gets her own wing.” Sharie rolled her eyes. “You know aristos. Even under siege, they have to keep up appearances.”
The old woman snorted, a phlegmy, disgusting sound, and reached for the leather purse hanging at her side. “So, the agreement was a hundred each, right?”
“Three hundred,” Sharie corrected. She hadn’t braved smuggling the children out of the Ford estate’s blockade for pocket change! “Three hundred each.”
The crone paused, thinking. “Well, without the heir, I won’t get full price for the lot. The plan’s to trade these children for Lady Ford and her husband. It’s them Citizen Aldred wants—they’re leading the royalist resistance. But without the heir, Lady Ford might just decide her other children are spares, necessary sacrifices, just like all those guards who’ve been dying to keep the blockade strong against the revolutionary forces.”
“They won’t,” Sharie insisted. She could see the deal crumbling before her eyes. “They might be aristos, but the Fords love all their children. Believe me, I was their nanny for five years.”
“Five years,” said the crone. “You took care of these brats, and now you’re Reducing them?” She whistled through her teeth. “What are you gonna do with the money? Buy a nice new life in Halahou where you never have to take care of some aristo’s spoiled spawn again?”
Of course. Sharie had no experience other than child care, and with the aristos dropping like flies, there was no one left to hire her anymore. Might as well get as much as she could while the getting was still good. The Ford children were doomed anyway. The blockade would fall, and when it did, the whole family would be Reduced—them and anyone caught helping them. Sharie could see the writing on the wall, and she had no intentions of being there when it crumbled.
Across a Star-Swept Sea Page 3
