by Tara Omar
“What in the blazes were you doing? Do you think you’re a chicken or something?” shouted the man. He dropped her and tore at the buckles on his parachute, pacing as he talked. “Save the flying for the birds, Miss, or if you’d like a rush maybe race a falc—on.”
Liza started sobbing.
“Biy’Avinoam! What did I almost do?” cried Liza. “Imaan was right. We are poisoned! We are poisoned and I nearly sent myself to the ground because of it. I believed her before but this proves she was right. The Leviathan is taking over. Saladin’s dead. Imaan’s dead. The Temple’s closed. He’s got Dominic in the palm of his hand, and now he’s after me. He’s after me now, and I almost—”
The man grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her in for a kiss. After a moment, Liza pulled back, staring at him. He wiped his mouth and shrugged.
“Sorry, Miss, normally when a falcon is squawking too much, we shove a flaming pinecone down his beak, but that seemed a bit derogatory.”
“Aren’t they machines?” asked Liza, distracted.
“Of course they’re machines, Miss. It still works though. They say it loosens up the gears or something.”
“Oh,” said Liza.
“Don’t let the machinery fool you though. Falcons are highly sophisticated automata; each has its own personality and such. This one here is La Cloche.”
The peregrine stood a few metres away with its reins dangling, engaged in an intense staring contest with a toad. Annoyed, La Cloche thrust its beak at it, and the toad hopped away. Liza shook her head.
“They look so real. How did you—”
“Know? It was all La Cloche’s doing. I was putting her through the paces to keep her gears up to scratch for the eyas sale and she just took off. There was no stopping her. And she knew because she saw you. Falcons can see over two kilometres away. The Palace, I reckon, is about that distance. Why she was inclined to come, I don’t know. Maybe she thought you were a chicken or something. Must’ve sensed it.”
“So you’re—”
“A jockey, Miss. What else would I be? You don’t just go riding magnificent racing peregrines such as this for amusement. You have to specialise. Name’s Nick, by the way.” He held out his hand.
“Liza Hart,” she said.
“I already know who you are,” said Nick, shaking the feathery hair from his eyes. “Everyone knows. Pleased to meet you…alive.”
Liza watched as he folded the parachute. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Don’t think so, Miss. I probably would’ve remembered.”
“No, I do. You’re the gentleman I caught selling contraband outside the Temple.” Nick smirked.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss. Last I read in the Rosy Herald, you were the one caught with contraband. Don’t be trying to pin your sins on me.”
“Why did you do it?” asked Liza.
He leaned nearer to her and lowered his voice. “Now, I’m not saying this happens, but it would be kind of tempting for owners of certain persuasions to send their jockeys to sell sand on the black market. The glassblowers would like it a lot because of the quality of glass it makes, and they’re not too keen on the high regulatory tax they have to pay normally. Cheaper glass gives them a selling edge, so I could see how it’d be pretty tempting. If an owner was so inclined—and like I said, I don’t know a single owner who is—us jockeys would probably have to make the deal because we’re easy to replace.”
“Why would you ever agree to such a thing?” asked Liza.
“Oh, I’ve never agreed to nothing illegal, Miss, but to be honest, I might consider it. I’d probably get beaten if I didn’t obey orders. Or worse, I won’t get a mount. I’ll never get to ride in high stakes races if I don’t get mounts.”
Liza grabbed his arm. It was covered in long cuts and bruises. “Is this your owner’s handiwork as well?” she asked.
“Falcon bites,” he growled, pulling back.
Liza’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you. I know jockeys wear arm guards when a falcon’s not muzzled.”
“Oh, well, excuse me, Miss Expert,” said Nick, grabbing La Cloche’s reins. “In any event, it’s none of your business what I do with my hands.”
“Yes, well, abuse can never be tolerated. Who’s your owner?” asked Liza. Nick stared at her.
“Are you for real right now? I saved your suicidal ass less than ten minutes ago, and now you’re judging me like it’s a damned inquisition? No offence, Miss, but you’d be better off fixing yourself first before you try to impose on others your highbrow morals. And you’d do damn well to keep your beak out of racing,” said Nick, mounting the falcon. He tapped it lightly with his feet. “Come, La Cloche, we need to fly.”
La Cloche trotted forward a few metres, and with a burst of energy akin to a firecracker, the falcon bolted upward, disappearing into a trail of whispery clouds like the smoke from a snuffed flame
C h a p t e r 1 7
A billowing, demonic sound clanged through the Gillypad as Hongi walloped a metal garbage can with a soup ladle just before dawn. Gill leapt from his foldaway bed in the ceiling and crashed to the carpet, his body twisted into an unusual position and his patterned eye mask askew. Hongi jumped onto his fallen body and called at the top of her voice, “Ollie-oalli-ahuu! Come now, tikihune!”
Tiny tikihune somersaulted out of their wall apartment and into Gill’s living room, growing to nearly a metre in size as they landed. Gill pressed his face into the soft fibres of the carpet, ignoring the fiery tikihune as she paced up and down his body like a makeshift stage. Hongi was covered in war paint; she swung her ladle as she spoke.
“Tikihune come here big warriors, through fire and trembling. Tikihune survive,” said Hongi. “Like deep roots and short limbs, tikihune survive. Tikihune survive. But today another great fire burns. Splinters and scorches may befall tikihune. Moments, too, when tikis wish they still be the tree. But no mountain will cut deep roots of tikihune, no island beast shall chew, and by the Great Fish Tongue who rules over all, though be fire and trembling, splinter and scorch, tikihune will POUR!”
The crowd of tikihune jumped and cheered. They scattered across the Gillypad, grabbing sacks of flour and bowls and jugs of water. Two started churning butter in the corner. Gill groaned through the carpet. “Hongi?”
“Not now, Gill-Mahn. Hongi have lots to bake for Dumb-Dumb’s wedding. No time for talk.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to bake everything at the Palace?” asked Gill. “They’re much better equipped.”
Hongi shook her head. “Eh-eh, no mahn. Hongi has very strict mis en place, and Hongi’s place is here.”
Gill grabbed his pillow and crawled out the front door, taking refuge in a spot of soft sand near his fence. He adjusted his mask and curled up around his pillow, his heavy eyelids quickly drifting to sleep, until Norbert appeared with a megaphone.
“ONION KILLER!” shouted Norbert.
Gill nearly jumped through his skin.
“Biy’avi Norbert…what…why…why?” asked Gill.
The megaphone screeched as Norbert lifted it to his welding mask, which he was still wearing, along with his waist pouch from last time. He shouted, “Justice, Gill! We want justice for Juliet.”
A group of beachgoers surrounded his house and began to pace. Some carried signs with sayings and pictures of distressed-looking onions. Gill whimpered and pulled his pillow over his head, digging himself further into the sand.
David, meanwhile, awoke to blissful silence in the cottage at the base of the mountains, a stillness only broken by the gentle rattle of pebbles being dropped in a tray, which Sasha was removing from the grill of his already-spotless off-roader. David couldn’t help but smile as the smell of Yasmin’s toasting bagels wafted peacefully toward the couch in the yurt. He yawned and wished Sasha a good morning.
�
�Morning,” said Sasha as he plucked a speck of dried lava from the grill. “Just doing a bit of cleaning.”
“You seem to be a really tidy person for someone with messy hobbies,” said David.
Sasha plucked another rock from the grill.
“Do you use it?” asked David. “The car, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to win the M-R-6 with Buttercup for quite a time now.”
“Is Buttercup the car?”
“Buttercup is the AO-RV, yes,” said Sasha.
David nodded. “What’s an AO-RV and the M-R-6?”
“The M-R-6 is a six-day rally along the edge of the Marah Desert,” said Sasha. He eyed David’s finger as it neared the waxy side of the vehicle. “Don’t touch it,” he warned.
“Sorry,” said David, dropping his finger. Sasha paused, thoughtful. “Do you want to go for a drive?”
“What?” asked David.
“I think that’s pretty self-explanatory,” said Sasha.
“Um…”
“Look, if you’re worried I’m going to drive you straight to Ibex or something unpleasant, it would’ve been much more convenient to call them here,” said Sasha. “And you’ll be inside Buttercup the whole time. No one will see you.”
David shrugged. “Yeah, okay, I guess. Let’s go.”
“Great, I’ll get Yasmin.” He headed toward the kitchen where Yasmin was sitting with a mug of tea. Sasha called, “Yazzi? I’m thinking of taking Dave through the mountain circuit. He’s never been off-roading. Will you come?”
“Sash, you know I don’t drive anymore,” said Yasmin. “Can’t you get one of the boys?”
“It’s too close to race day,” said Sasha. “Anyone else will be busy with the wedding. Please.”
Yasmin sighed. “Okay, but just this once.
“Excellent,” said Sasha, kissing her cheek. “Dave, let’s get you suited up.”
David soon found himself riding next to Yasmin in the back seat of Sasha’s vehicle, dressed in a padded racing suit. Sasha pressed a button on the dashboard, and the side of the yurt folded upward. Buttercup rolled into the veldt, cracking the grass underneath as they headed down a pebbly road toward the practice grounds, the cottage slowly shrinking behind them. Yasmin rolled up a booklet in her hands. “Do you know how rally racing works, Dave?”
“No,” said David. She handed him the booklet. Each page was divided into boxes, with columns of numbers, lines and symbols in each box. Yasmin tapped the page with her fingers.
“This is the navigation book for the circuit we’re going to do. Since there are no roads, we rely on this and the GPS to tell us where to go. Part of it tells you what you need to do—like turn right, keep left, and so forth—and part tells you when it needs to be done in respect to the last command. So, for example, the book might say, turn left after fifty metres, and then the next box says to veer right twenty metres after your left turn. The final part tells you any special instructions, like if there’s a danger that might require slowing down or extra caution, as well as the degree you should be going. Directions like left and right are too relative, so we usually work in degrees.”
David looked at a page and deciphered the symbols.
50,22 to 42-43 degrees (stay right) …triple danger, cliff’s edge.
“Interesting. How does the driver read this while driving?”
“Oh, he usually doesn’t,” said Yasmin. “We race with a driver and a navigator.”
“And you use this book? Can you—um…” David paused.
Yasmin giggled. “No, I can’t read it.”
“Which is why Yazzi will be doing the driving,” said Sasha as he rolled through an empty parking lot. A plastic archway at the end of the lot marked the start of the mountain circuit. Sasha parked the car. “You’re up, babe. Wheel’s all yours.”
Sasha moved to the passenger seat as Yasmin slid behind the wheel. David handed him the navigation booklet, and everyone buckled up. Sasha turned on the GPS in the middle of the dashboard and checked the controls. He nodded. “Looks, good. Ready when you are Yazzi.”
“Ready, David?” asked Yasmin.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
“Then let’s go,” said Sasha. “Three…two…one…”
The car roared to life as Yasmin threw it into gear and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The atmosphere in the car instantly hardened into seriousness as they climbed the rocky slope of the mountain. A control on the dash clicked away like a stopwatch—counting aloud the passing metres so Yasmin could hear, and it was gaining in frequency. Sasha read the booklet.
“Forty-five to fifty in 12,3 metres. Tree ahead.”
Yasmin turned the wheel exactly twelve clicks later, missing the tree that whizzed past them in a blur. David was sure they were going at least a hundred kilometres per hour, and Yasmin was still pressing the accelerator. Sasha rattled off instructions.
“Fifty to seventy in 28,2…seventy to one-sixty in 18,4…caution, boulder in 4,8.”
The car rolled through muddy rivers and climbed over rocks; with each turn of the steering wheel, Yasmin sent them flying through the wilderness at dangerous speeds, often just missing blocks that, if hit, would most certainly have ended disastrously. David pawed the window, looking for something to hold. He glanced down at the winding road; the edge was a sheer drop of at least a hundred metres with no guardrail. The GPS in front showed triple danger after triple danger. He felt his heart hit the roof of his mouth.
“This is mad,” shouted David. “Can’t you slow down?” Sasha continued to navigate.
“Stay right 50,22…42-43 degrees…we’re nearly at the top of the circuit now.”
David leaned toward Sasha. “For the love of life and limb, why can’t we slow down?”
“Hush, or Yasmin won’t hear the clicks,” said Sasha. David ducked to the seat as Yasmin swerved, nearly sending the car flying off the cliff face. David grabbed his hair in his hands.
“Can we please slow down?” he cried. Sasha turned around in his seat.
“Dave, if you don’t keep quiet, you’re going to cause us to crash,” said Sasha.
“I’m going to cause the crash? But—”
“Sash, pay attention to the road,” said Yasmin.
Sasha went back to navigating as the car bounded down the zigzagging slope of the mountain. The temperature inside the car had reached nearly boiling. David was sweating through his racing suit, his body at the very limit of stress. Sasha turned the page. “Almost to the end now.”
“Isn’t there a danger coming up?” asked Yasmin, but Sasha didn’t answer.
“Sash, isn’t there a danger coming up? I remember there should be one coming up.”
Sasha kept quiet. Beneath his calm expression, David noticed a wild look had gripped his eyes. David looked from the crazed navigator to his blind driver, to the GPS in between them. It flashed a danger signal. David leaned forward.
“Yes! Yes! The GPS says there’s a danger—”
But it was too late; Buttercup hit a protruding rock and flew into the air, sailing over a gorge. They landed with a hard thud on the other side, a few metres from the end of the circuit. Yasmin whacked his arm. “Sash, you’re too naughty sometimes. Too, too naughty.”
“Shortcut,” said Sasha with a grin. Yasmin shook her head.
“Are you okay, David?” she asked, but there was no answer. A crumpled David sat slumped against his safety belt, unconscious. Yasmin shook her head.
“You are horrible,” said Yasmin, giggling. “Absolutely horrible—making the poor guy faint on his first race.”
Sasha smiled. “Come let’s go.”
He took the driver’s seat, and Yasmin squeezed herself under David, gently stroking his hair as they drove off at an unhurried pace, the mountain circuit slowly disappearing behind them.
Madame Soiree peered out from behind a Temple door with a flutter of excitement, scanning the more than three thousand guests who had come to view King Dominic’s wedding. They sat in near darkness among colonnades of roses, bristling with whispers and anticipatory gossip. Madame closed the door, her face instantly hardening to disdain as she turned to Liza, who twisted her hands around an unlit torch, looking like she might be sick.
“Right, then, let’s not forget the rehearsals,” said Madame, adjusting Liza’s cape. “You will smile. You will look like you’re enjoying yourself. At the dinner you will deliver a stirring speech about how you mourn Saladin, but that Dominic has been your shining light in this time of grief. You will look lovingly toward your husband and say that you cannot thank him enough for choosing you, just as we practiced.”
Liza’s chest started heaving. “Can’t…breath…”
Madame Soiree popped several pills into Liza’s mouth and handed her a glass of water.
“What was that?” asked Liza.
“To make sure you don’t mess this up,” snapped Madame. She looked again to the crowd, her flutter returning.
“There’s the sign; the King is in position,” said Madame excitedly. “Orchestra at the ready, and begin.”
The Temple darkened. Liza’s torch was lit. She carried it through the crowd as Dominic started from the other side with his own torch, the two lights dancing through the darkness as they neared each other. Liza and Dominic walked up the centre aisle together to a fanfare of music, both looking the pinnacle of youth and beauty.
To the crowd and camera, the spectacle looked like the stuff of dreams—the proud king and demure priestess walking down the aisle swathed in richly dyed fabrics brocaded with crystal, flanked by roses, their torches held high. The Rosy Herald would say the bride walked lightly, with an ethereal air about her befitting a queen. To Liza every step was a struggle, weighed down by an immensely heavy dress and cape, drowsy from Madame Soiree’s pills. Her gold jewellery felt like chains, and her bracelets like shackles; they made her arm ache as she carried her torch.
