by Tara Omar
“I trust you can overlook my actions in the same manner I overlook yours, mer of Larimar.”
David gasped. “The shield. If Mount Leah erupts, I won’t be able to get the—”
He paused. “You’re probably wondering why the guards were after me.”
“Not particularly,” said Sasha.
“I came to Saladin with a gift as repayment for a debt, but we were ambushed when I arrived. The attacker stole something from me and gave it to Petra for safekeeping, all while framing me for Saladin’s murder. I’ve been trying to get it back—which is why they chased me from Petra Jakobson’s shop—but she’s hidden it in the Triumph of Reason.”
“The fountain in the Zodic?” asked Sasha. He stroked his beard. “That sounds like something Petra would do. She won’t give you to Ibex herself, but she would make it damn easy for you to get caught. You’ve had some hard luck, my friend.”
“Yeah,” said David.
“Well, I can probably help,” said Sasha. “I have a pretty good understanding of Mount Leah’s structure. I can help you navigate through the tunnels and provide cover so you don’t get caught.”
“Really?” asked David.
Sasha shrugged. “You can always use another inflatable rodent, if you’d prefer.”
David grunted. “No, I doubt that will work.”
“Mhm,” said Sasha, grabbing a copy of the Rosy Herald. “I think I read something about the Zodic toward the last page that might be helpful. You’ll have to look.”
David flipped through the paper. At the bottom corner of the Arts and Culture section was a short column about casino renovations. David read.
A new figure has been successfully installed on the Zodic’s famous fountain, Triumph of Reason. Sculpted in bronze by J.L. Casting Incorporated, the figure is the first of at least two other planned additions, with the next one set to be installed in the coming weeks. Gabriel Silbi, owner of the Zodic casino, commissioned the renovation to commemorate…
David looked at the photograph of workers huddled around the fountain as they eased the new piece into place. A short woman with a face hardened into a permanent frown stood behind them. David recognised the woman as Jia Li, the mother of Hiram, the renowned bronzeworker. He tapped the paper with his finger.
“Petra must have slipped it into the fountain when they added the new figure. Maybe I can look for it when they add the next piece.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Sasha, turning to leave. “Make yourself at home. If you need anything, give either me or Yasmin a shout.”
“Shall do,” said David. He settled onto a comfortable spot on the floor, studying the article as Sasha left the yurt. Even in a blurred photo, the bronze fountain still commanded an air of seriousness like a well-studied work of art. A bare-breasted woman rode a roaring lion, under whose paws lay a sprawling man with a fig leaf, and a mera with a bouquet of lotus flowers tied with pearls. The rider held her arms outstretched; in her hand she grabbed the wrist of a struggling figure—the one David had watched Jia Li’s son carve from wax so long ago.
The man is Adam. He represents humans’ victory over legends, and the mera is for victory in the war, Dominic had told him. But what does the new figure mean?
David reached into his shirt and pulled out a smudged drawing of himself and Natalie together with Albert, her pet octopus and Stew, the cockroach. He held it to his lips.
Wish you were here, Nat, he thought.
Stirred by memories, David dumped his dusty satchel on the ground. Among a pile of wet sand and mushy papers fell an empty tuna can from Norbert, Imaan’s spool and knitting needles, and Natalie’s abalone-shaped slippers. He froze. An odd, tingling feeling brushed across his neck. He had felt this feeling before, when Petra had been spying on him at King’s Beach. David heard a sound.
Chht.
He looked around. It sounded again.
Chht. Chht.
“Sasha?” he asked. David stood up and crept toward the hall. He ran straight into Yasmin.
“Oh, sorry,” said David. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Is Sash here?” she asked.
“What is it, Yazzi?” asked Sasha. She turned toward the voice.
“The radio says there’s trouble in the City,” said Yasmin. “Come listen.”
C h a p t e r 1 4
Dominic sat at a long table in the Palace study, flipping through a magazine filled with glossy photos of glass peregrine racing falcons. The annual eyas sale was approaching, and it was tradition for the King to have falcons in the major races. He scanned the specs of a cerulean and white falcon with gold detail, comparing its design pedigree with a log book of former winners. Gabe leaned over him.
“Do you see any you like?” asked Gabe.
“Mhm. I’m sending the mechanics to check out 56, 104, 33 and 27, at least from what I’ve seen so far,” said Dominic.
“Did you see 61?” asked Gabe. “Its beak looks exceptionally aerodynamic.”
Dominic flipped the page. An Ibex guard burst through the door to the study, panting from lack of breath. The King looked up from his magazine.
“Sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty, but there is a situation in the City,” said the guard.
“What situation?” asked Gabe.
“The Fraternity. They’ve burned the library.”
Dominic rushed to the window, from which he could see an ominous column of smoke billowing in the distance. He swallowed hard. “Any casualties?” asked Dominic.
“No, Your Majesty,” said the guard.
“And arrests?”
“A few, Your Majesty. Tristan Ensulde from Ibex, several of Imaan’s former maidens, among others. Some got away.”
“Tristan from Ibex?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Dominic’s eyes darted from side to side, his face creased with deep brooding. “Gill warned me this would happen. He thinks there are people in Aeroth that will fight for the Lady no matter what evidence we bring against her.”
“Do you think Gill was involved?” asked Gabe.
“Maybe,” said Dominic, shrugging. He paused. “No, he couldn’t possibly cause that sort of trouble.”
“You know, people are not always as they seem,” said Gabe. Dominic shook his head.
“No, I know Gill. He wouldn’t stir the pot unless it was burning. I think his warnings came from legitimate concern.” Gabe nodded, thoughtful.
“He perhaps has a point,” said Gabe. “You are implementing ground-breaking advances in Aerothian culture. It will be difficult to woo an entire nation to your cause.”
Dominic stared at Saladin’s portrait, a look of longing stretched clearly across his face. Suddenly Dominic’s eyes lit up. He trembled with excitement as he ran to the door. “A whole nation might be difficult to woo, but not one, Gabe,” said Dominic, shaking his finger. “Not one.”
C h a p t e r 1 5
A shout came from outside her cell, and Liza didn’t bother to look up. It had been weeks, maybe months since she had seen daylight. She was crouched over her knees in the corner, her eyes swollen and baggy from too much crying. The shout came again, this time accompanied by a sliver of light and the rattle of a gate unlocking.
“Hoy, you still alive in there?” asked the guard.
This time Liza looked up.
“It’s time to go. Get up,” said the guard.
Liza felt a shiver run through her chest. She was due for a trial soon. Under Dominic’s new laws, a confirmation of guilt would mean an immediate hanging. She swallowed.
“Is it time for my trial?” asked Liza.
The guard chuckled. “Follow me.” He led her to a sterile-looking, tiled room lined with showerheads—the guard’s changing room. The guard threw her a bar of strong lye soap and a scratchy jumpsuit. “Clean yoursel
f up,” he ordered. “The boat leaves for the mainland in thirty minutes.”
Liza did as she was told and eventually found herself in the back of a rickety dinghy accompanied by two guards and a skipper. She squinted at the sky as if in a trance, unfazed by the rocking waves or anything around her. A guard poked her as the boat docked. She shook her head and looked to the shore. A spiny woman in olive green, cat-eye glasses was waiting for her.
“Hello, Miss Hart? I am Madame Soiree, at your service,” said the woman, offering a slight bow. “This way.”
She led Liza to a tram near the docks. Inside sat several crates and a braying goat. Madame Soiree motioned for her to enter.
“I do apologise for the transportation arrangements, my dear. We chose the royal baggage tram to avoid publicity.”
She closed the door and handed a set of clothes to Liza, who began to change behind a crate as the tram sped down the rail.
“Are you my lawyer?” asked Liza. Madame offered an embarrassed laugh. “Lawyer? My dear I am the royal assistant, and at the moment, I am also your wedding planner.”
Liza’s head popped up from behind the crate, her arms tied in the sleeves of a dress. “Wedding planner?”
“Yes, for your marriage to King Dominic.”
Liza shivered. “My—Dominic—marriage?”
“Yes, the invitations are going out first thing tomorrow morning. Didn’t he propose?”
“No,” cried Liza, “and quite frankly I don’t think I would’ve accepted if he had.”
“Oh, well, I guess it was best to keep it a surprise then,” said Madame Soiree, tapping her fingers. The goat brayed again as the tram zipped down the rails toward the Palace. Madame glared at it dangerously.
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Liza, taking a seat. “I…am going to be married…To Dominic?”
“King Dominic, my dear. You are to be Aeroth’s first queen.”
Liza stared at her, confused. “But what if I don’t want to marry Dominic?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“What if…I refuse?”
Madame smiled.
“Ah, yes, the King did say the shock at being offered his glorious presence might be too much to bear. I did not think he was serious, but I should’ve known he would know his woman.”
“I am not his woman,” snapped Liza. “And this is not shock; this is blatant refusal. I was engaged to marry Saladin; I can’t marry Dominic. I won’t marry him. I refuse. What would the Lady say?”
“It no longer matters. The Temple has been closed, and the Lady was found dead in her prison cell over a month ago.”
Liza felt a heavy weight drop to her stomach.
“She succumbed to cancer of the lung,” said Madame.
Liza felt her heart fluttering unevenly, as though it might give way at any moment. She felt a sharp pain in her chest and her throat closing; Liza started to heave and gasp for air as she spiralled into panic. Madame Soiree glared at her.
“Mademoiselle, before you make a frightful display that will be promulgated to your embarrassment across The Rosy Herald, I would like to remind you that you are to be Queen of Aeroth. Any affection for a treasonous criminal is highly unsavoury,” said Madame. “In actuality, Imaan’s death before her trial was quite convenient considering the evidence mounting against her, and your antics do nothing but cause yourself ill.”
“But she was innocent,” cried Liza.
Madame Soiree slapped her across the face.
“Enough, I will have no more of this nonsense,” said Madame. “If Imaan had been sentenced, you would have been tried for association in addition to your other crimes. Now she is dead and cannot be tried, and you have been offered the crown. It is a great mercy you do not deserve.” Madame Soiree lowered her tone. “I also must inform you that the King has intimated to me that should you refuse his most generous offer, he will be too heartbroken to expunge the egregious track record of your first lady and maid of honour.”
“What?” asked Liza.
“Catherine Fairfax helped burn down the royal library. Arson leads to the gallows, does it not?”
“Dominic wouldn’t.”
“It is the law,” snapped Madame.
“Can I at least speak to him?” asked Liza.
“I am afraid his appointment schedule is fully booked until the end of the year. Shall we press on?”
The tram hissed to a stop inside a back courtyard of the Palace, where busy servants were bustling about the day’s duties. Liza followed Madame Soiree from the tram. Madame walked briskly through the fray as she spoke to the trailing priestess.
“Right, then. The date for your wedding has been set for the eve of the new year, and the King has tripled the budget for your wedding. We have moved the reception from the hall to the newly-finished—”
Madame shrieked as a fuzzy, brown blur no bigger than a chocolate truffle scurried past her feet. She screamed.
“Did I just see a mouse run past here?” bellowed Madame. Several servants came running toward her, cowering apologetically.
“Is the Madame okay?” asked one.
“We’ll call the exterminator immediately,” said another. “It shan’t happen again, Ma’am.”
“It had better not,” scowled Madame Soiree. “You know how I hate mice.” She pushed past them and continued on her way, with Liza following behind.
“As I was saying, we have moved the reception to the newly-finished ruby room, which should make it a night unlike any hitherto beheld. Due to the shortness of the preparation time and the length of your recent—”
“Imprisonment.”
“…holiday,” corrected Madame. “We have had no choice but to salvage a few items from your previously-planned wedding to Saladin, namely, the guest list and seating arrangement, and we need to do some final alterations to your dress.” Madame Soiree opened a door to a room buzzing with sewing machines, where at least ten seamstresses were cutting, sewing, embroidering and beading the metres of fabric that were slowly shaping into a wedding dress. Madame Soiree clapped her hands. “Tailor? Where is the tailor?”
“I shall call him, Madame,” said one of the seamstresses. She left her sewing machine and scurried from the room. Liza spotted a mannequin in the corner. It was wrapped provocatively in a few bits of lace and ribbon. Liza turned.
“And this?” she asked.
“For the wedding night.”
Liza’s face flushed red. “No, absolutely not. There is no way I am going to wear this.”
Madame Soiree stared at her as Liza choked on the words.
“It’s indecent and revealing and frankly quite sl—indecent,” said Liza.
Madame Soiree leaned nearer, her voice discreet. “My dear, unlike our former King—Avi rest him—King Dominic is young, exciting, adventurous—”
“Kinky?”
“Kingly,” said Madame. “We need to accommodate his particular tastes.”
“But—”
“Saladin’s the past, love. Look to the future. Onward and upward.”
Liza sighed.
“That’s my girl,” said Madame Soiree, patting her back. A servant approached them.
“Madame?”
“Not now,” said Madame.
“But it’s urgent,” said the servant. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. Madame gasped.
“They ordered how many crackers?”
“They’re delivering now,” he said.
“Biy’avi it’s just one crisis after another,” said Madame Soiree, taking the servant’s arm. “We’ll finish this later, Liza. I trust you know your way around the Palace.”
The servant glanced from the mannequin to Liza, his eyes widening. He looked over his shoulder to Liza as he followed Madame Soiree out the door. Liza cringed. She wandered into the courtyard
as though in a trance, unfazed by the bustle around her.
Then she saw it, a slight gleam through a wooden garage door that was cracked slightly open. Liza bent her neck to get a better look before slipping inside. She gasped.
Out from the shadows it shined like the harsh metal of a threatening knife, picking from the depths of her mind Liza’s most horrific memory. It was the L-E Spectre pteroduck Dominic had used to carry Saladin’s body to the hospital outpost. Liza had been waiting with the paramedics when it arrived. Lady Imaan, who had previously been cold to her since her engagement to the King, had opened her arms like a mother. Liza had collapsed inside them as they declared Saladin dead.
Liza shut her eyes as the memory ended, her chest filled with a cold, hollow feeling of deep sorrow. She opened the hatch to the pteroduck and climbed inside, lying down near the stained carpet that marked where the King had lain. As she lay, she noticed a ring full of keys and a plastic card wedged between two cabinets against the wall, the spare set undoubtedly thrown by Dominic after he landed. She crawled to them and plucked them out from the wall before hurrying to the pilot’s seat. Soon the luxury pteroduck burst through the garage doors and was soaring upward. Liza manoeuvred it near the highest tower of the Palace, positioning it so it gripped the topmost part with its talons. So sharply was the pteroduck angled that her feet were above her head. She opened the hatch and slid from the pilot’s seat on her knees until she was grabbing the very edge of the wall. With a final breath, Liza let go of the edge and dropped from Spectre, her body plummeting toward the ground as she faced the sky.
C h a p t e r 1 6
As Liza fell, a blur of red light hurled toward the ground so fast it looked like a solar flare. In a split second, it was next to her. Liza felt the hard push of a man tackling her in mid-air as he threw himself from the blur. He grabbed her around the stomach and pulled a cord, disengaging a parachute on his back. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Liza found herself floating toward the ground in the arms of a vaguely familiar man. A crimson racing falcon with an empty saddle on its back strutted around on the cobbled pavement, waiting for them to land.
