by Tara Omar
“And if Petra’s missing son was caught the opening night of the play, which was the same night we were supposed to steal the shield…”
David couldn’t finish the sentence. He knew exactly what it meant. His face flushed hot as he thought.
Sasha hadn’t told Petra about his plans to steal the shield. He had told her about his nephew.
But he didn’t have much time to think on the subject, for, at that moment, he heard a sound from the other side of the door. Someone was scratching at the lock.
C h a p t e r 4 2
David pushed his head against the small flap at the bottom of his cell door, shifting uncomfortably against the gravel as he strained to see into the corridor. Faint sounds of scraping metal echoed from near the lock to his cell. As David pushed his forehead against the opening, he could just make out the wispy shadow of a spiny creature hanging above him. It looked like a hermit crab.
“Hey,” whispered David.
The gravel floor shifted near his feet. David pulled himself up and found his shadowy cell crawling with several more crabs. They huddled around a small, mobile aquarium with thick, reinforced walls and mechanical arms that had just tunnelled up through the rock. Through the dirty glass David saw the familiar, bug-like eyes of a flamboyant, lobster-looking creature stationed behind a control panel. David smiled.
“Maude! Are you here to rescue me?”
The mantis shrimp pressed the levers in front of her, sending the aquarium speeding toward the corner of the cell where Maude inspected a mound of powdery dirt that had just vomited up more hermit crabs carrying a vinyl bag and the largest pair of scissors David had ever seen. He frowned.
“What are those for?”
But the shrimp didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the scissors and turned toward David, her eyes angry and threatening. David swallowed and backed against the wall.
C h a p t e r 4 3
The Warden of Kakapo sat at his desk in the bowels of the rusting wreck, a needle and thread in his hands. His second pair of uniform trousers lay crumpled in front of him. He pushed the needle through the bottom part of a trouser leg, grumbling to himself as he sewed.
“These uniform makers don’t secure hems like they used to; it’s an embarrassment to the establishment,” said the Warden, shaking his head. A loud knock banged on the metal door to his office. It reverberated through the walls like a baton hitting a tin can.
“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t knock!” shouted the Warden. The old man at the door nodded, looking to the floor.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but it’s time to feed D-Block.”
“Let’s get on with it then,” said the Warden.
The wrinkled man followed the Warden down the passage, carrying a wobbling tray of newspaper boats full of porridge. He was the resident cook on Kakapo and had been for more decades than he could remember. The Warden banged on the first metal door.
“Roll call,” he shouted. A prisoner inside stirred.
“Present,” shouted the voice from inside. The elderly man with the tray of porridge stared toward the ceiling, looking dazed. The Warden nudged him.
“Oh, right, enjoy your dinner,” he said. The cook slid a lopsided newspaper boat under the flap at the bottom of the cell door and shuffled toward the next cell. The Warden repeated the command.
“Roll call.”
With each response, the cook’s awkward dance commenced again, delivering a drooping boat of porridge under the door flap. Boat by boat, the tray lightened as the old cook and grumbling warden moved along the row of cells until only one boat remained, which now looked like a soggy shipwreck on the flopping tray. Instead of calling, the Warden took the tray.
“That will be all,” he said.
The old cook stared at him.
“Move along then,” said the Warden. The cook shuffled away as the Warden banged on the door. It was David’s cell.
“Roll call,” shouted the Warden.
But there was no answer.
“Roll call,” shouted the Warden again, banging more harshly.
A raspy voice sounded from inside. It was rickety and hoarse, as though the prisoner had swallowed a mechanical toad. The warden spun around.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave?” he asked, but the cook, who had stopped to watch the spectacle a few metres away, pointed a withered finger toward the flap at the bottom of the door. A pool of red liquid had gathered along the cracks in the ground; it looked like blood and was coming from inside the cell. The warden lunged for his keys.
“Sound the alarm! We have a suicide attempt,” he shouted to the cook. The Warden stuck his key inside the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. The lock was jammed.
“Damn!” he shouted. He ran past the cook who still hadn’t gone very far even while shuffling at full speed. The Warden slammed his fist onto the button for the alarm buzzer and raced to the safe in his office. Inside, sat a box full of tools on the bottom shelf. He grabbed a grinder and cord from the box and hurried back to the cell, where he was soon joined by other guards. The cellblock filled with sparks and the high, scratchy noise of metal ripping apart as the warden and guards struggled to cut through the door. The Warden pried the door open as the last of the lock gave way.
“What the—”
Inside the cell hung a tangled mass of thread, clothespins and wire hangers which seemed to connect the cell door to an unusual contraption made from thread spools, tailor’s wax and a sewing needle. At one end of the device was a cone made from wire hangers and bits of heavily starched fabric; at the other end, a crank connected the device to the web of t’hreads. A guard repositioned the sewing needle and turned the crank. The air filled with a raspy, tinny voice.
“Present,” it said.
The guard looked up. “It’s a phonograph. He’s made a phonograph from sewing supplies and recorded his voice. Where did he get the sewing supplies?”
Another guard examined a broken packet near the door. “The blood…it’s fabric dye thickened with chalk. Genius.”
“This is no time to admire his handiwork,” growled the Warden. “Where is he?”
A buzzing hum filled the air as if to answer his question; it was the sound of a motor boat pulling away. The Warden glanced at the corner of the cell where bits of concrete and dirt were mounded, like a tunnel recently filled. He darted down the corridor.
“To the boats!” he shouted, as he ran to his office. Security regulations restricted the number of boats kept on Kakapo Wreck and required the keys to be kept in the Warden’s safe when not in use. The Warden stared at the spot in the safe where they should be and clearly were not. He banged his fist into the side of the safe. A guard ran to his office.
“Sir…the boats…they’re all sinking.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m afraid it’s true, Sir. There are holes in the bottom of all the rowboats and the other motorboat. They appear to have all been punctured with an exceptionally large pair of scissors.”
“That’s ridiculous. How can you puncture a boat with a pair of scissors?”
The guard shrugged. “Perhaps if you have enough force?”
“You know what, never mind. Get a crew to start repairing the boats. The rest must pull out the inflatable raft.”
“We’ll never catch him in the raft, Sir.”
“Just do it,” said the Warden, throwing himself into a chair near the aquamail taps. The cook, who had finally made it to the Warden’s office, watched him curiously.
“It’ll never work,” said the cook.
“Don’t bother me now,” called the Warden.
“Your call for backup will never work,” said the cook. “He’s broken the pipes and clogged the sinks.”
“What?”
The cook pointed to the pipes below the counter. Normally, a person would wr
ite a message on a stone tablet in a sink with memory ink. The ink would then be washed down the drain and carried to its requested destination, where it would pour through the tap onto a rough tablet in another sink, filling the grooves in the shape of the sender’s message. As the cook pointed out, this was now impossible because the pipes under the aquamail sinks had been broken in several places and stuffed with items from around the office. The Warden’s face turned red and puffy, and the veins throbbed under his skin as though ready to burst.
“What are you going to do?” asked the cook.
The Warden shrugged. “Looks like we’ll have to wait until the supply barge comes before we can make contact with the mainland.”
“But that’s not until late tomorrow afternoon,” said the cook.
“What else can we do?” snapped the Warden.
The cook picked up the pair of trousers that were lying on the desk and smiled.
“Well, at least there’s one positive note in this incident. It appears he also had time to fix your trousers.”
The Warden snatched the trousers from the cook’s hands, his angry rouge smouldering to an ashy look of shock and helplessness. The trousers were perfectly hemmed.
C h a p t e r 4 4
Liza sat on the bedroom floor in her pyjamas, surrounded by piles of open books. It was the morning of the Grand, a daylong event filled with several of the most prestigious peregrine races of the year, the King’s Cup among them. As Liza sat with her books, she looked haggard and sick. De Kock’s Safety Handbook lay on her lap. She blinked the sleep from her eyes as she read the numbered points.
12. Keep body parallel to the falcon at all times.
13. If parachute is needed, deploy in a direction away from the peregrine.
14. Do not commence a water landing if the pneumatic bones are damaged.
Liza paused. “Pneumatic bones?” She shook her head and continued reading. A furtive knock sounded at the door, followed by a forceful jiggling of the handle and the high-strung calls of Madame Soiree.
“Your Majesty… Your Majesty…open the door. You will be late for the parade.”
“Coming,” called Liza. She shoved her books under the bed and opened the door.
“You should have been up hours ago,” scowled Madame Soiree.
“And a very good morning to you, too, Madame,” grumbled Liza.
“Mhm,” sighed Madame. She clapped her hands. “Let’s get a move on.” A team of stylists poured past her and ushered Liza to a chair where they began to pin, paint and wrap her body under Madame Soiree’s watchful eye. After four and a half hours, Madame pursed her lips and nodded.
“That will do,” she said. “Let’s get you to Cliffside.”
The lifts at Cliffside Vertical Race Track bulged with people as crowds poured into the various clubs and stands for the most celebrated day of the racing season. A showcase of the finest fashion, glasswork and peregrine craftsmanship in Aeroth, the Grand was considered by many to be the most glamorous event of the year, especially for guests invited to the Royal Enclosure, an elite club for the King, judges and invited guests. Inside, the Royal Enclosure looked like a canvas painted in glass. Everything was draped in white linen and porcelain, while twisting, glass sculptures looked to be pouring, floating and dancing down the white linen-covered tables. Guests in elaborate hats and top hats sipped champagne under chandeliers that looked like bursting rainbows. Hongi, who was dressed in a silk frock with a tower of fruit balanced on her head, served delicate, race-themed pastries to the guests. Norbert scooted up to her table. He was wearing a pair of roller skates.
“Why, hello, Miss Honglie, you’re looking lovely with your frock and your fruit tower,” said Norbert with a grin. “Are you enjoying the happenings so far?”
“Yah, mahn, and what would the Norbert-mahn be hankering to eat now?”
“Oh, nothing for me, thanks; gotta save my appetite for lunch,” said Norbert, patting his stomach. “Unless you happen to have a caramel chocolate grasshopper among the assortment, then I might be tempted.”
“Well,” said Hongi, an air of mischievousness about her as she reached under the table, “Hongi may just have a chocolate hop-hop for the Norbert Warrior-Mahn, hiding down in the fabric here.”
“Hongi, you know the way to a man’s heart,” said Norbert, adjusting a bunch of cherry tomatoes in his buttonhole. A low grunt sounded somewhere by Norbert’s knees. Moai, who was wearing a top hat nearly as big as his body, had just cleared his throat. Norbert smiled.
“Aw, no worries, Mooie, I was just being gentlemanly,” said Norbert.
“Is everyone having fun?” asked Gill, appearing behind them.
“Sure am,” said Norbert, as he stuffed the grasshopper into his waist pouch. “Any sign yet of the royals?”
“The parade should be starting any minute now,” said Gill, looking around. “And do you really need to wear a waist pouch and roller skates, Norbert? It’s a formal dress code.”
“I shall not even dignify that ridiculous question with an answer,” said Norbert, curling his lip. “Now, let’s get a move on. I want a good view.”
Moai grunted and joined the lady tikihune behind the table, while Norbert and Gill worked their way through the crowd toward the rail, passing a line of the latest, sporty pteroducks which were on display. Liza followed Madame Soiree to the hot air balloon where Dominic was already waiting.
“You look beautiful,” said Dominic.
Liza looked past him toward the cheering crowd and offered a demure wave as she climbed into the basket.
“Liza, you can’t stay mad at me forever. It’s not in your nature,” said Dominic as the balloon lifted from the ground. “You know you want to smile.”
But Liza continued miming greetings at the tiers of cheering people without even a glance in his direction. Dominic huffed.
“Goodness, Liza, it’s just a damn peregrine. Do you really prioritise me beneath that machine?”
“It’s more than that, and you know it,” said Liza.
Liza and Dominic left the balloon at the top tier of Cliffside and boarded the lift in silence. An attendant pressed the button for the Royal Enclosure.
“Ground floor for me, please,” said Liza.
“Aren’t you going to watch the races?” asked Dominic.
“I’m not well,” said Liza. “I’m going home.”
“As you wish,” said Dominic. An entourage of people and journalists greeted him as he left Liza in the lift. Dominic smiled and waved to them as the guards ushered him down a red carpet lined with glass shields, toward the displayed pteroducks where the King would examine them and comment. Gabe followed closely behind.
“Any news?” asked Dominic through a smile.
“La Cloche is racing today. There’s still no word as to who she’s asked to be the jockey,” whispered Gabe.
“Keep me informed,” said Dominic.
Gabe nodded and disappeared into the crowd, while Dominic stood at the head of the receiving line, welcoming all who wished to greet him.
Back at the Palace, Liza changed into her jockey’s uniform and grabbed De Kock’s Safety Handbook from under the bed, opening it to the same page as before. She dropped into a chair and continued reading.
14. Do not commence a water landing if the pneumatic bones are damaged.
15. Always wear the appropriate protective clothing.
Catherine brought her a cup of tea.
“How are you feeling?” asked Catherine.
“Like my shoes are too big for my feet,” said Liza.
“Lady, you’ve already read those books a thousand times over,” said Catherine. “I don’t think more reviewing will help at this stage.”
“Excuse me,” said Liza, grabbing her mouth. She hurried to the bathroom. The sound of retching and vomiting soon followed. Catherin
e scanned the room, eyeing a container of pills on the vanity table.
Doctor P’s All Natural and Wholly Legal Diet Capsules
Catherine slipped the bottle into her pocket as Liza emerged from the bathroom.
“Sorry,” said Liza, wiping her mouth. She grabbed her book and continued reading. Catherine frowned.
“Lady, why are you doing this?”
“The King’s Cup is a handicap race. La Cloche is the weakest bird, so she’s going to carry the lowest weight,” said Liza, “which reminds me, I have to check the scale again. Will you check it for me? I don’t have the heart to look.”
She stepped on a nearby scale. Catherine glared at her.
“Don’t say it, Catherine. Don’t judge me now. I’m having a difficult enough time as it is,” said Liza, on the verge of tears.
Catherine sighed and looked at the reading on the scale.
“It’s within regulation,” said Catherine gruffly. “You’d float on a puddle if given the chance.”
Liza beamed. “Really?”
“Yes, now get back to Cliffside. I’d reckon it’s almost time for your race.”
“Are you coming?”
“No, I think my place is in the Temple today. The races aren’t really my scene.”
“Oh, okay,” said Liza, sounding disappointed. “If you change your mind…”
“I know,” said Catherine, avoiding Liza’s eyes. “Thanks.”
Outside the Royal Enclosure at Cliffside, Norbert swung himself around in various directions as he scoured the crowd with his binoculars, looking like a rogue security camera on roller skates. He turned his binoculars toward Gill.
“Do you see her? Do you see her?” he asked.
Gill barely glanced around. “No, Norbert, as I told you five minutes ago, and the five preceding minutes and the five minutes before that, Liza is not here today. She went home ill.”
“She has to be here. I mean it’s her own falcon racing in the King’s Cup, it is. I hear she’s quite partial to it.”
