Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “True,” said Dominic. “I guess we have to set a date for his execution then. Even with his admission, the people want justice. I will give it to them.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” said Liza. “Please don’t kill him.”

  “Liza, I know you don’t approve of the death penalty, but really.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, I’m not sure if Imaan planned on turning him in,” said Liza. “What if she had a need for him?”

  “All the more reason to execute him,” said Dominic.

  “No, I’m serious. We know mers can infiltrate Aeroth but humans cannot survive the journey to Larimar. What if he can be useful? He could end up being a powerful ally.”

  “Liza, if he is telling the truth, the humans have shown him no more love than the mers. He may attempt something dramatic to get back into the mers’ good graces. He might even murder you or me,” said Dominic. “Besides, what will the people say? They know the murderer’s been caught.”

  “Yes, but they don’t know he’s a mer,” said Liza.

  “So you’re saying?”

  “Keep him hidden and pretend to execute him. Make sure the Rosy Herald is there to report that King Dominic has brought the murderer to justice. Then hide him away in case you have need of him. You can always dispose of him quietly at a later stage once you know better.”

  “It would be a risk to hide him away,” said Dominic.

  “It could be a risk to murder him also, especially if what he says of merish weaponry is true.”

  “Don’t you trust the mighty Lord Avinoam to keep us safe, Lady?” asked Dominic with a grin.

  Liza looked ready to cry.

  “No, what you say sounds wise,” said Dominic. “We shall do as you say.”

  “Really?” asked Liza.

  “Yeah, we make a good team, you and I,” said Dominic. “Thank you for the counsel.”

  “You’re most welcome,” said Liza. He stared at her, and Liza smiled. Dominic cleared his throat.

  “Come, let’s get you home.”

  Back at the Palace, Catherine squatted behind a heavy barbell in Liza’s bedroom, breathing deep, concentrated breaths. She gripped the bar and with a musical note echoing from the depths of her chest, lifted the weight above her head, pushing up with her thighs until she reached a standing position. In less than a second, she dropped the barbell. It crashed to the carpet with a heavy thud, rattling the chandelier overhead. Liza entered the room, looking tired and pale.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Weightlifting,” said Catherine, rubbing her hands. “I would use the gym, but there aren’t any separate facilities for women. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Liza nodded aimlessly, her face veiled with a blank, disturbed expression, as though she had just swallowed a ghost.

  “Lady, are you well? What’s wrong?” asked Catherine.

  “She did it,” said Liza. “She killed Saladin.”

  “Who did?”

  “Imaan.”

  “What?” asked Catherine.

  “They found the man suspected of murdering him. Turns out he’s a mer, and mers cannot kill.”

  “They found the leviathan?” shrieked Catherine. “That means Lady Imaan’s legends were—”

  “No, Catherine. It’s not the Leviathan Lady spoke about. Imaan and Saladin were working with a mer to spy on Larimar, whom she blamed for the murder. The mer confessed everything.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  “Yes, and I know he’s telling the truth.”

  Catherine smiled. “Now, Lady, I’ll have none of this talk. Lady’s simply tired from—”

  “No,” scolded Liza, “I’m not tired or worked up or weak or confused. Imaan killed him.”

  “But—”

  “She said it was Avinoam’s will, Catherine,” said Liza. “When his… when his body came back all bloodied and riddled with poison, she held me in her arms and told me it was Avinoam’s will that this had to happen to him. I tried to block it from my mind. I told myself maybe she was just trying to be hopeful, but the tone in her voice…I’ll never forget the tone in her voice. It was vengeful.”

  “Maybe you’re just imagining—”

  “DAMN IT! Don’t try to rationalise now. I know what I heard,” cried Liza, grabbing her head in her hands. “She did it. I know with every fibre of my being that she did. Dominic was right. Imaan’s a murderer.”

  C h a p t e r 3 7

  Gill stood in front of a hissing espresso machine in the Gillypad, leaning over the Rosy Herald. It was nearly evening; the setting sun sent a beam of light across the counter, illuminating the bold headline.

  JUSTICE FOR SALADIN.

  He grabbed his coffee and paper and sat on the couch, reading. The mourning, mellow sounds of funeral songs echoed outside his door. They grew in strength until they bothered his reading. Gill threw the paper down and stormed out his front door. Norbert was standing in his welding mask and waist pouch in front of a crowd of solemn people holding candles. He lifted his mask and began.

  “Thank you for attending this candlelight vigil. I would like to begin with a poem, which I’ve written in honour of my beloved Juliet.”

  “Norbert,” groaned Gill.

  “An Ode to my Onion,” recited Norbert, “by Norbert Bransby. Oh, lovely onion so fair, so true…”

  “Norbert, please stop,” said Gill.

  “No words can tell how much I loved you…”

  “Please, just stop.”

  “Who are you to tell me to stop, huh? You boiled my beauty and ruined my garden design, you did,” shouted Norbert. “You have no soul nor spirit for gardening, and I shall have none of your fl’shnobbery now. Fancy talk makes no friends.”

  “Norbert, please, just come inside for a minute. I have something for you.”

  “Am I so shallow that you think I can be bought so easily? How dare you even—”

  “It’s for Juliet,” said Gill.

  Norbert paused. “Oh, well, in that case…one moment, friends.” He followed Gill inside and took a seat on the couch, glancing at the paper while Gill rummaged in the fridge.

  “I had planned on saving these for tomorrow when hopefully they would have opened more, but I think now’s the time.”

  Gill walked to the couch and pulled a massive bouquet of puffy, purple flowers from behind his back.

  “They’re alliums, also known as ornamental onions,” said Gill, clearing his throat.

  Norbert stared at the awkward bouquet, a tear welling in his eye.

  “I’ve been invited to dine in the royal box at the Grand, and I was wondering…” said Gill. “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me, to the—”

  Norbert jumped up and grabbing Gill around the middle, giving him a huge, bone-squeezing hug. “I’d love to,” he said.

  “Right,” said Gill, his voice higher than usual. “No need to get weird about it.”

  Norbert took the bouquet from Gill and leaned out the window, calling to the crowd. “This concludes our memorial service. Juliet appreciates your attendance. May Avinoam bless you all abundantly. Go back to your families. Good night.”

  Liza stared at the vase of pink roses on her vanity table, deep in thought. She glanced up at the mirror. Catherine entered from the door behind, a torn notebook page in her hands.

  “Good evening, Lady, may I have a word?”

  “Of course,” said Liza.

  “It’s about Lady Imaan.”

  Liza frowned and picked up her brush. “Leave it, Catherine. I want to hear nothing of her.”

  “Before you jump to any conclusions, just hear me out,” said Catherine, hurrying to the table. “I think maybe she was responding to your prophecy.”

  “What?”

  Catherine sm
iled. “Remember when you told us about the legend of the leviathan? About how an evil mer tried to assassinate Adam and Eve but instead of killing them outright, he only managed to poison their desires so they do wrong things and seek death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, when you told us that legend, you prophesied that ‘Kiss that bind will seal man’s fate.’ I found the phrase that evening in the letters from your performance and gave a copy of it to the Lady,” said Catherine handing her the paper. “Now, we know that Lady Imaan believed this legend with her whole being. We know that she believed without a doubt that Gabriel Silbi is the Leviathan who has come back to finish us off now that we’re weak. We also know King Saladin was close to him. Maybe she thought if you also fell under his spell by kissing or marrying Saladin, man’s fate would be sealed. The Temple and the State would be at the hands of the Leviathan. Maybe Lady Imaan was responding to that.”

  Liza frowned.

  “Or maybe…” gasped Catherine, taking the paper back. She scribbled something next to the phrase. “Look! See! See! If you rearrange the letters again, you get ‘The fatal stab will mask sin’s end!’ Maybe she thought if she stabbed Saladin, she would mask sin’s end—she would free humans from their poisoned desires and sin from achieving its end—the death of the humans. It leaves an extra ‘I,’ which may have told her she needed to do it herself. I mean if you think about it, it fits with everything we know about the Leviathan. Maybe it really was Avinoam’s—”

  The Queen touched her hand to the maiden’s lips, and she quieted. Liza frowned.

  “Catherine, you are perhaps too young to understand this, but one day you will learn as I have that the only ‘truth’ people speak in this world is the madness that serves them. Perhaps you will say that it is grief or anger or my own madness speaking now, but I can say without any hesitation that there is no divine authority that ordained Imaan to the priesthood, no leviathan trying to take that authority away so as to destroy the humans, no poisoned desires. There was only a woman addicted to power who happened to be good at telling stories, nothing more.”

  “But—”

  “Just let it be,” said Liza quietly, rising to leave. Catherine gaped at her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Dominic,” said Liza. “Don’t wait up.”

  The Queen disappeared into the hall. Catherine covered her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, for the love of Avi!” she sighed. She grabbed a cloak from Liza’s closet and hurried out the door.

  C h a p t e r 3 8

  Liza tiptoed into Dominic’s bedroom. It was smaller than she had expected. He sat on the bed with a book, and his closeness was enough to give her an uncomfortable feeling. By opening the door, she felt as though she had jumped onto his lap. He smiled and removed his glasses.

  “Are you reading?” asked Liza.

  “Yes, does it impress you?”

  “I must say it does,” said Liza.

  “Good,” said Dominic.

  “This is a very nice room,” said Liza, looking around. “I have to say, Madame Soiree did an excellent job with the—”

  Dominic pushed her against the wall. Liza grabbed him as his lips brushed against hers, while his tongue slid past her teeth and his hand… He paused.

  Feverish knocking rapped across the door, accompanied by Gabe’s voice, calling for him.

  “Don’t answer it,” whispered Liza.

  “Dominic,” called Gabe.

  “Sorry, it’ll just be a minute,” he whispered, pulling back. He moved to the door.

  “Gabriel,” said Dominic. Gabe offered a slight bow.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but there’s an urgent matter to which you must attend.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. If it could have waited until morning, I wouldn’t have come, but it appears the textile workers are ready to strike, and it seems to be quite serious. Is it a bad time?”

  “Yes, actually, it is,” said Dominic, opening the door a bit wider. Gabe stared.

  “Oh, hello, Liza,” said Gabe.

  Liza nodded and looked away.

  “I’m sure the textiles can wait until the morning,” said Dominic, moving to close the door. Gabe caught it with his arm.

  “Perhaps this seems trivial to you, Dominic, but to people whose livelihoods depend on this industry, this matter happens to be very important,” said Gabe.

  “They’ll be fine,” insisted Dominic, closing the door a bit more. Gabe pushed himself closer.

  “I had hoped that after your coronation, you would’ve moved on from this sort of behaviour. To choose carnal pleasures over the concerns of the State… well, I really don’t know what to think. What would the people say? Dominic…back to his old ways…not even half the king Saladin was and a disappointment to everyone? Don’t give your detractors that opportunity.”

  As Gabe spoke, Dominic looked as a man crumpling, the weight of his uncle’s legacy falling heavier on his shoulders with each word. He sighed. “And you say this matter is of the utmost urgency?” asked Dominic.

  “You must know I wouldn’t bother you unless I thought it was,” said Gabe. Dominic turned to Liza.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Shall I come?” she asked.

  “No, it’s fine. See you now,” said Dominic. He shut the door behind him and followed Gabe down the corridor, leaving Liza to wait alone in his room. Liza looked around.

  Now what? she wondered.

  She wandered onto the balcony and called La Cloche. It was a chilly evening with little wind. As Liza rubbed her arms together, she felt a strong breeze pick up, followed by the heavy patter of wings flapping above her. La Cloche landed next to her and yawned. Liza scratched her feathers.

  “How are you doing, my baby? It looks like it’s going to be a chilly night this evening.” La Cloche yawned again and stuck her beak toward Liza’s pockets, her left wing twitching almost in time to the cricket’s chirps. Liza frowned.

  “Is your shoulder still bothering you?”

  La Cloche suddenly became very tense and let out a loud screech. Liza followed her gaze to a figure riding a fierce-looking, navy and gold peregrine. It approached, hovering just beyond the balcony.

  “Buford,” called Liza.

  “You’ve gotta come quick, Your Majesty,” said Buford. “Nick’s in real trouble up at Cliffside.”

  “I’m sure whatever it is, he can handle it just fine without me,” said Liza, “though I appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll see you at the Grand,” said Liza. “Goodnight.”

  “It’s not so simple Your Majesty,” said Buford, following her. “Nick’s dying.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m afraid we don’t have much time. You have to come now.”

  Liza jumped on the back of La Cloche and took off toward Cliffside, flying as fast as the falcon could carry her.

  C h a p t e r 3 9

  Liza and Buford landed on the muddy ground below Cliffside, lit only by the dim lamps lining the track above them. In the shadows, Liza could see a heap of a figure lying in the distance. She jumped off La Cloche and ran toward him.

  “He had a bad fall during practice, and his parachute didn’t open,” said Buford, following close behind. “We’re not sure if it was faulty or if he passed out during the run. He’s been hitting the diet pills pretty hard for the Grand.”

  “Did you call a doctor?” asked Liza.

  “No, Your Majesty. He won’t let us. Jockey’s aren’t supposed to seek medical care without the consent of their owner since the owner usually picks up the bill. Nick was riding Ms Jakobson’s peregrine. He won’t let us move him until she gives the okay; doesn’t want to risk losing his mount.”

  “Where is she?” asked Liza.


  “We can’t find her, Your Majesty,” said Buford.

  “That is absolutely ridiculous,” said Liza.

  “That’s racing, Ma’am,” said Buford.

  “Nick,” called Liza. She knelt down next to his mangled body, which was twisted in a gruesome way. Liza resisted the urge to recoil and focused on his face. He opened his eyes and smiled.

  “Chix, nice of you to drop by,” coughed Nick. Each word came out barely more than a whisper, in between heavy breathing. He tried to shift on the ground and winced.

  “What happened?” asked Liza.

  “What’s the rule?” he whispered. “No—”

  “Personal questions,” finished Liza.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You finally remember. It’s about time,” panted Nick. He coughed again and gritted his teeth, his face twisting with pain. Liza wiped his forehead with her fingers.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” whispered Liza. “You don’t have to speak now; wait until you’re well. Once we get a doctor, all will be well.”

  Nick groaned. “You were right, Chix. You were right about a lot of things. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Nick took a breath and looked toward the sky. His eyes hardened like the glass feathers of a peregrine; his body became limp and his chest stopped heaving. In one breath, the stubborn jockey drifted from life like a whisper fading into the clouds. Liza’s eyes darted back and forth as she realised what was happening; she moved Nick’s head onto her lap and leaned over him.

  “Biy’avi, not you, too. Please not you. Why you?” she cried.

  Buford removed his hat. Liza whispered into Nick’s ear the prayer of the dead.

  Back at the Palace, Dominic sat around a table with Gabe, various leaders of the textile industry, the six judges of Aeroth and representatives from the labour force, all of whom looked disgruntled and tired. Several servants walked silently in between them, topping up half-empty glasses with more water. Gabe smiled and closed his folder.

  “Well, good people, I think we’ve reached a fairly amicable agreement tonight,” said Gabe. “Can I suggest we retire for the evening and leave the finer points for tomorrow?”