Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “If I spot her, you will be the first to know, I can assure you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” sighed Gill.

  “Are you suresy sure?” asked Norbert.

  “I am sure,” said Gill.

  Norbert paused and looked through his binoculars.

  “Do you see her?”

  “Oh, for the love of all that is holy, Norbert, why are you so set on seeing the Queen?”

  “She has lovely artichokes,” said Norbert.

  “What?” asked Gill.

  “Exactly as I said,” said Norbert, staring at the electronic race card. “Think about it.” He patted Gill on the shoulder and skated into the crowd, adjusting his waist pouch as he left.

  In a small, windowless room near the nesting boxes at Cliffside, a race official sat at a desk behind a scale, scratching notes onto a roster. Two more officials stood near him. The official with the roster waved his arm.

  “Next,” he called.

  Liza set her papers on the desk.

  “Liza Hart, jockey for Peregrine Number 93 in the King’s Cup, La Cloche.”

  The officials gaped at her.

  “But, Your Majesty, you can’t—”

  “My jockey’s license,” said Liza, handing them a card.

  The three stared at one another as though having an inaudible conversation, each looking more confused than the next. Liza stepped onto the scale.

  “Am I the proper weight?” she asked.

  But the official still stared at her.

  “Well?”

  “Oh,” said the official, fumbling through his papers. “Yes, yes, you are. You may go.”

  He wrote the figure on the roster and, looking to the other officials, shrugged.

  Back at the Royal Enclosure, Dominic’s demeanour was growing more and more agitated, and his smile becoming more and more forced. He glanced at Gabe, who shook his head.

  Damn, thought Dominic. How does no one know La Cloche’s jockey?

  Then, as if in answer to his question, the electronic race card flashed. Surprised gasps and excited murmurs raced through the crowd like wildfire, while a team of journalists tripped over each other as they pushed toward the lifts, en route to the nesting boxes. Dominic read the name that suddenly pulsed through everyone’s lips.

  “Elizabeth Hart…Elizabeth Hart…”

  H.R.M. Lady Elizabeth Hart, H.P.A.

  C h a p t e r 4 5

  Liza watched La Cloche as she paced the edge of her stall in the nesting boxes with an irritated air about her. Her feathers shivered repeatedly, and she let out short, agitated squeaks as though wanting to scream.

  “Are you ready to race, my girl?” cooed Liza, throwing her falcon a branch. “You’re going to do splendid today. I can feel it.”

  La Cloche caught the branch in her beak and began to gnaw on it. The chewing seemed to soothe her; she flexed her wings and settled on the ground as she worked to splinter the wood into thin pieces. Buford rode up next to her box atop a glistening red and black falcon.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Queen of Aeroth here today! Didn’t expect to see you up here in a jockey’s uniform! It suits you.”

  “Hello, Buford, and thanks. Any bit of encouragement helps.”

  “I hear you; I hear you. You’ve got a lot of good nerve, Your Majesty, Nick would be proud,” said Buford.

  Liza smiled. “Yeah, Nick might have had a tinge of pride buried deep in there somewhere, if he’d been here.”

  “I’m sure he would have. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had a soft spot for you, shame.”

  “Isn’t that Rebel Fires you’re riding?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I’m his jockey for the King’s Cup.”

  “But that was—”

  Liza paused, a look of horror spreading across her face. “You set us up.”

  “Now, now, Your Majesty. It’s not good to get worked up right before a race. It’ll throw off your game if you let people get inside your head.”

  “He was your friend. How could you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Buford, “but on the rare and unlikely occasion that I did know about what you’re talking, I can assure you, Nick would’ve done the same to me in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Liza.

  “You didn’t know him like I did.”

  “He’s dead, Buford! Was his life and friendship of so little value that you’d trade it for a mount?”

  Buford shrugged. “Like I said, if that’s what happened, he’d have done the same to me.”

  “Liza! Liza!” called a distant voice. It was Dominic. Liza ignored it.

  “This is inhuman,” she whispered to Buford.

  “No, this is racing, Ma’am. See you at the starting line, Your Majesty.”

  Buford tipped his cap and rode away as Dominic stormed toward her in a fury.

  “What in the King’s name do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going to win back my falcon,” said Liza calmly.

  “Are you completely mad? Did your little tryst with that birdman smack all semblance of reason out of you?”

  “Is everything okay here?” asked Gabe, coming up behind them.

  “No, everything is not okay,” snapped Dominic. “Look at her.”

  “Why don’t you let me handle this?” asked Gabe.

  “But—”

  “Let me handle this,” insisted Gabe.

  A loud clamour echoed through the nesting boxes as a tower of metal buckets, which had seconds previously been stacked against the wall came crashing down. Norbert looked around, confused.

  “Mr Bransby, what are you doing here?” asked Gabe.

  “Why, I’m looking for Charlie,” said Norbert.

  “Charlie?”

  “My son.”

  “Oh, oh right,” said Gabe, shaking his head. “Forgive me. Is Charlie supposed to be here?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to find out,” said Norbert. “You see, I figured since the race card hasn’t posted a jockey for Leslie’s falcon yet and Charlie’s sometimes a surprising, secretive chap. I thought he might have taken up jockeying without telling me, and that he might just be up here.”

  “He’s not riding today; Liza is,” scowled Dominic.

  “The Queen is riding today?” asked Norbert. “By my blooming butterflies, that is a surprise! I never would’ve guessed it.”

  “Come, I’ll get you back to Gill,” said Dominic. He escorted Norbert out of the nesting boxes, not bothering to look back as he left. Norbert looked over his shoulder and waved.

  “Rightey-oh. Best of luck, Lisa! Sure you and Lei Conch will do just swell.”

  Liza’s mouth smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her face took on a thoughtful, impenetrable look, as though she had retreated deep inside herself and was trying to figure out what to do with the things she found there. Gabe waited with her, quiet and sympathetic-looking.

  “You know you don’t have to take such drastic measures or worry yourself, Your Majesty,” said Gabe. “I can buy La Cloche back if you lose.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr Silbi,” said Liza. “I can take care of myself and my falcon.”

  “We’re on the same side, you know.”

  Liza chuckled.

  “I understand, you know,” said Gabe, moving nearer. “For most of your life, you were told I’m a bad person whom you can’t trust, and now you’re placing all your frustrations with your husband and Imaan on me.”

  “Do you think me so weak a female that I’d allow feelings to cloud my judgment?”

  “I think you are a perfectly normal human,” said Gabe. “It�
�s been a difficult time for you, I understand, but just because I understand your position doesn’t mean I deserve your reaction. I can help you, Liza. I want to help you, if you’d let me.”

  Gabe was very near to her now, barely a hands width away from her back. Liza scowled.

  “I need neither your help nor your patronising judgments, however compassionate-sounding they may be, and if I had my way, my husband would be rid of you also,” said Liza. She jumped into the stall and mounted La Cloche, just as Catherine could be heard entering through a screeching gate at the other end of the nesting boxes. Gabe smiled.

  “It seems La Cloche has had no shortage of visitors today. I shall leave you to the latest well-wisher. May you have a safe and prosperous race.”

  Catherine, who was carrying a wrapped parcel in her arms, paused to watch Gabe leave. She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

  “Hmm, you could have him executed. I mean you are queen now,” said Catherine, staring after him.

  Liza glared at her.

  “It’s just a suggestion,” said Catherine, “but yeah, that’d probably be awkward.”

  “I’d rather just beat his peregrine,” said Liza. She led La Cloche out of the stall, who suddenly took a keen interest in Catherine’s parcel. Catherine nudged La Cloche’s beak away with her elbow.

  “No, there’s nothing for you, Closhie. This is for the Lady,” said Catherine. She frowned. “I know you don’t put much value in anything from Lady Imaan, but I thought you might consider wearing this.”

  Liza opened the parcel. Inside was Imaan’s golden spider’s silk breastplate and ivory horn, items from Paradise that had become symbols of the High Priest. They had gone missing during her arrest.

  “Where did you get these?” asked Liza.

  “I managed to go through the prison’s confiscated items when you were…well, never you mind. At any rate, they’re here now, and they’re rightfully yours. I think you should wear the breastplate for the race, for protection.”

  “I’ve already been weighed,” said Liza.

  “Right, I should’ve figured that,” said Catherine, turning to leave. “Well, good luck with the race.”

  Liza smiled. “I appreciate you coming, Catherine. It means a lot.”

  A loud bell rang through the nesting boxes, calling the racing falcons to the skies. Liza squeezed the falcon’s hind area with her knees; La Cloche wiggled her tailfeathers and broke into a trot. “See you at the finish line,” called Liza.

  “No, I’ll see you at the winner’s circle,” called Catherine, hanging the horn on the stall.

  Liza smiled. La Cloche jumped onto the rail and leapt into the sky.

  The guests of the Royal Enclosure moved to the veranda and pointed their binoculars toward the flying peregrines, who were circling not far above them. Betting attendants weaved through the crowd, taking the last wagers before the race. One of the attendants approached Petra, who was twisting a large diamond necklace around her fingers as she looked toward the birds.

  “Any last bets, Ma’am?”

  “I haven’t decided,” said Petra. “What do you think of La Cloche?”

  “Well, if you have the feeling for her, then I can’t speak against it. There ain’t nothing so strong as a feeling in racing, and the reward’s at least a hefty one even if the odd’s aren’t so good, so I guess there’s that also. How much shall I put you down for?”

  “Would you bet on La Cloche?” asked Petra.

  “Honestly, Ma’am, I think La Cloche has less chance of winning than my Great-Auntie Juniper riding a tin can,” said the attendant. “Rebel Fires is where my money’s at; that’s where my feeling is.”

  Petra scanned the skies.

  “Hmm… you’re right. It’s a pity she’s going to be mine tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t mean no disrespect,” said the attendant. “I’m sure she’s a fine falcon, maybe needs a bit of work but—”

  “I think I shall bet on her anyway,” said Petra, following the crimson bird with her binoculars. “There may be a spark in her after all.”

  “Sounds all fine and good to me, Ma’am,” said the attendant as he pulled out his book. “How much shall I put you down for?”

  “Three million,” she said.

  The attendant’s eyes widened. “Three…million? On La Cloche?”

  “Yes,” said Petra with a smirk. “Three million on La Cloche, for second place.”

  A bugle sounded and the riders broke formation as they began their ascent to the starting line. Catherine, who had since made her way from the nesting boxes to the Royal Enclosure, stepped off the lift and scanned the area for a good spot to watch, but she was stopped by Madame Soiree.

  “I’m sorry, but this area is available by invitation only,” said Madame.

  Catherine stared at her. “I’m first lady in waiting to the Queen. Isn’t that enough of an invitation?”

  “Do you have a badge?”

  “What badge?”

  “Guests of this enclosure are required to wear a badge,” said Madame.

  “But—”

  “Ladies are also required to wear a hat as indicated on the invitation to this enclosure. The dress code is strictly enforced.”

  “But, you know I’m a maiden of the Temple. The veil is worn for religious reasons.”

  “Any request for exemption should have been made in writing at least a month prior to race day, to be reviewed by the committee,” said Madame.

  “Committee?” asked Catherine. “What nonsense are you—”

  “I hate to cut this conversation short, but as the race is about to begin, it would be best if you found a suitable viewing area soon,” said Madame, pressing buttons on the lift. “You shall find the Grandstand very accommodating.”

  “But—”

  “Good day,” said Madame Soiree. The lift doors closed, and Catherine descended diagonally toward a lower area on the opposite side of the track, which marked the entrance to the moving grandstand.

  “What ridiculous behaviour,” grumbled Catherine. “This is religious discrimination!” she called toward the ceiling. “I can almost understand why the Lady may have wanted to be rid of these people. They’re positively idolatrous.”

  She found an empty seat in the throng of chattering guests and sat down. Immediately, two safety belts strapped her into place and a small tray popped up from the side of the seat and flattened in front of her. A small, holographic man smiled at her from atop the tray, using its surface like a stage. He waved.

  “Hello, and welcome to Cliffside Vertical Racetrack, the only vertical racetrack with a moving grandstand. I’m Shay, your personal betting attendant. Your next race will begin in less than five minutes. Kindly choose the falcon on which you would like to place a bet.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to bet,” said Catherine, watching as tiny falcons popped up on the tray around Shay.

  “Aw, are you sure you don’t want to place a bet? It makes the race more enjoyable,” said Shay.

  “It’s imprudent nonetheless. I believe I shall pass,” said Catherine to the tiny figure. Shay smiled and blinked at her, clearly not registering what she had said.

  “I do not want to bet,” said Catherine.

  “Okay,” said Shay. “If you change your mind and would like to place a bet, kindly tap my shoulder. For now, would you like to choose a falcon to support? Kindly touch the falcon you would like to support.”

  “That I can do,” said Catherine, touching the crimson hen. The other falcons disappeared from the tray.

  “You have chosen number 93, La Cloche. Is this correct?” asked Shay.

  “Yes,” said Catherine.

  A loud click sounded as her chair unhinged from its spot and began to move along the rail. The chair turned onto another rail as though on an assembly lin
e, en route to the small section of La Cloche’s supporters. It locked into place just as the announcement sounded through the Grandstand.

  “Welcome to Cliffside Vertical Racetrack, the only vertical racetrack with a moving grandstand. The next race is about to begin in two minutes. Kindly remain seated as we ascend to the starting line.”

  As if by cue, the entire grandstand pushed upward while Shay rattled off statistics about La Cloche and the King’s Cup. Catherine watched the rail in front of them as they moved upward, her spine shivering slightly as she realised how high they were. The Royal Enclosure now looked like a doll’s house next to the finish line, far below. The air felt thin and chilly. Catherine could feel her seat warming up as the heating elements in her chair turned on. With a hydraulic hiss, the Grandstand stopped moving and settled into place. In the distance, Catherine could see La Cloche trotting around the platform with Liza on its back, an image that was mirrored and magnified on her 4-D video tray. She watched as the race official called to the riders.

  “Right. Just so we’re clear, this is the King’s Cup. It is a 2,2 kilometre race, which means six times around the circuit. Five plunges down and five flights to the top. The sixth and final plunge will be to the finish line. As per racing regulation, your body must be in full contact with the peregrine at all times. Are we clear? Riders take positions.”

  “This is it, La Cloche,” whispered Liza. “It’s time to prove ourselves.”

  Liza slipped the hood over La Cloche’s head, and a groom guided her into the starting gate. La Cloche squirmed and shivered and let out scared, obstinate shrieks. Liza could feel her heart pounding through her chest like never before. She closed her eyes, whispering to herself as the official raised his gun.

  “Avi…Avi…we can do this…Avi…I will do this…Avi…I will d—”

  The gun fired, and the floor under La Cloche dropped out from underneath them. Liza tore the hood from La Cloche’s head and flattened herself against the falcon’s back as the peregrine spiralled downward. La Cloche gained focus and let out a loud screech as she angled her mighty wings perpendicular to the ground.

  The race for the King’s Cup had begun.

  C h a p t e r 4 6

  La Cloche sped toward the ground like an arrow shot from a bow. As they neared the end of the dive, Liza ventured a peek around her. They were in the middle of the pack now, much more forward than she had anticipated. Liza knew she would have to hold her position and conserve energy until the final rounds if she had any chance of winning. La Cloche pulled upward and began flapping as hard as she could, beginning the ascent with the other falcons toward the top, with Rebel Fires positioned several falcons off the lead.