Whisper Alive

by Marc Secchia

  Rhyme scowled, “Animal or none, this Whisper has been sorely mistreated. The Healer only stitched up her intestines a few hours ago.”

  The Mage said smoothly, “As soon as she’s better, the Whisper can earn back the cost of that distillate. We’ll compel her. I’ll assign my apprentices to speed her healing. After all, this conjuration of the Warlock’s is nothing but a clever messenger. She exists for one function and one function alone.” His dark eyes glittered balefully. “It would be cruel; aye, a shame like unto Dragon tears to deny the fundamental purpose of her existence.”

  The door of her doom slammed like a peal of thunder.

  * * * *

  Rhyme bustled into her room for at least the fifth time, and dawn had barely dared to break. The girl’s manner was habitually brusque, yet loaded with nuances Whisper neither understood nor entirely trusted. Why should the Princess of the realm care for her? Personally? Did this bode good or ill?

  The girl said, “Well, you do sleep for the kingdom, don’t you?”

  “Shivura does seem acid-bent on getting me well,” Whisper complained.

  “He’s young and overly ambitious,” said the Princess, wrinkling her nose. “And, you’re going to eat me out of a kingdom. Sunstrike itself, Whisper, where do you put all of that food? Inside your legs?”

  “Trail-hunger. Running burns calories,” she replied.

  “You eat more than me, and I’ve a healthy appetite. That was a full bowl of margunana and semixfruit this morning –”

  “It was very good.” Whisper licked her lips. “Is there more?”

  “I do happen to possess the power to send for victuals,” said the royal, acting purposely bored. “I hear two of Shivura’s apprentices collapsed yesterday from attempting too much healing?”

  Whisper chuckled. “Too many holes in the fur.” The apprentices had been taking turns practicing their magical arts on her. So far she had a few more fur-singed patches, but generally felt much better.

  With a sharp clap of her hands – even her hands were muscular, Whisper noted absently – the Princess said, “So, royal comforts aside, the Warleader’s itches mean we have to put you to work. Today.”

  “Uh, his … itches?”

  Rhyme rattled, “You suggested mapping your trail through the Sundering. He likes the idea, oddly enough, even though he insists on calling you ‘the animal’. The strategic uses of your knowledge – understand? Secondly, you should not have irked Shivura so. I’ve not heard the end of his griping. He’s not a bad man, brain-pickling threats aside, and he’s inordinately proud of his beard hairs. I’ve the Cartographer’s Assistant next door in my study, waiting to see you. Another one you’ll need to impress. Up. Up with the dawn, Whisper. Hand up? Ablutions, if needed, are located behind that screen. Use the bucket for waste. Walking stick? Breakfast?”

  “Ah …”

  She had thought a Whisper far quicker than any Human. Where to start with all of this? Cautiously, Whisper said, “Was your father really poisoned, Rhyme? That’s awful.”

  Flatly, she replied, “Seems so. The poison was unknown, as is the identity of the poisoner – as you discovered from our little disagreement last night. The Kingdom’s affairs are a touch … tense, as a result. My younger brothers, four of the scamps, are right now in seclusion in a super-secret location outside the city. The message appears to confirm the Warlock’s responsibility, although that might be propaganda. How’s my father’s health?” Rhyme slammed her fist against her thigh. Plate armour would have been dented. Her chainmail just jingled musically. “Filthy fungazoid! Anyways, thank you for asking.”

  “Your Warleader seemed offended that I raised the subject.”

  “Warleader Ammox is offended by birds and dragonets singing their morning chorus. He is offended by flowers in bloom, good manners, and Princesses who seek to lead their kingdoms, if that isn’t a truth too close to the sharp end of a Dragon’s talon for you.”

  A dousing of Dragon acid for the dawn!

  Pulling her splinted leg over the cot’s edge, Whisper set her good foot upon the floor. “I’ll need that bucket. Then, a little fruit, nuts and water, if you please, o Princess.”

  “Just Rhyme. Or, I’ll start calling you ‘pet’.”

  “Shall I pet your intestines up through your throat?”

  “Touchy.”

  Whisper grinned, “Alright, you’re my pet Princess and I’m a magical monster, freshly blown upon the winds to Arbor in order to manipulate you all into unconditional surrender.”

  Rhyme’s hands flew to her axes, sheathed crosswise upon her back despite the early hour, before she stopped the motion with a rueful laugh. “I guess ‘surrender’ isn’t a word to which I take kindly. Point made, Whisper. Now, kindly go produce some garden fertiliser. I shall whistle up a few servants to pamper your impossible pseudolegendary presence – where did you say you came from, again? The world exhaled a magical Whisper, and –”

  Whisper drew the curtain shut behind her, calling, “That’s as good a theory as any.” Privacy for ablutions? Humans were the very definition of peculiarity.

  She had constantly been trying to read the Princess, but there was much about her that seemed as guarded as the armour she wore all the time. She wore hardness as a shield, Whisper had concluded, for she ruled the Kingdom of Arbor during her father’s illness. That was a burden etched on her young face, and seemed even to weigh down her limbs. Rhyme sighed often, and trained obsessively with her axes. Whisper wondered who or what exactly she was slicing up every morning. One thing was for certain, this girl was a composite of tough materials. When that grim mien came upon her, the Princess Blue looked as if she could and would carve her way through Dragons without batting an eyelid.

  The Princess called from somewhere across the room, “You’re touchy about your identity, I meant.”

  She considered this. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Your tail’s regenerating itself, the Healers assure me.”

  Whisper came within a small wobble of falling right off the bucket. “What? I … am?”

  I am regenerative!

  “As surely as I’ve a bad habit of trimming my fingernails with my axe blades. Drives the protocol bores up the proverbial sentikor tree,” said the Princess, with an oddly constricted sound to her voice that caused Whisper to tune her pointy ears very, very delicately indeed. “So, not wanting to rush you anywhere myself, Whisper, I wanted to suggest … why don’t you make Arbor your home? Just for a time – until you discover yourself, I mean. Not because my Mage with the pickling-jar wants it, but because … more fungazoids! I can’t even articulate what I feel.”

  Whisper said, “Isn’t Arbor a rather perilous location, as far as prospective homes go?”

  “I know. Dirt-poor offer, isn’t it? One city soon to be under siege by a ruthless Warlock, a population of nasty furless Humans and no other Whispers, and a friendless Princess who is far too fond of her axes …”

  “I’d love … all this.”

  After a long pause, Rhyme inhaled sharply. “Are you crying, Whisper?”

  Chapter 7: Cartographical Whispers

  THE CARTOGRAPHER’S ASSISTANT was somewhat startled to encounter a leaky Princess with a red-eyed Whisper in tow. Rhyme’s study commanded a view beneath the flying buttress, which protected the city from above, over the Palace grounds and many city dwellings scattered amidst lush foliage to the tall retaining wall at the city’s rear entrance. The dawn’s clean tangerine light filtered around the massive, auburn-shaded shendite rock buttress above, spanning the mid-reaches of a canyon a mere quarter-mile wide, highlighting the city’s many levels. Verdant gardens tumbled down cliff faces and gushed over stone bridges and flyovers in great sprays and clusters of flowers. The original architects had fashioned beautiful curlicue frames of a metal alloy Whisper did not recognise to anchor the blossoms and flowering vines, which served both as guard railings to protect from falling into the depths, and fanciful, soaring decoration where non
e was strictly needed. The homes mostly delved into the cliffs, with balconies overlooking the views to the lower canyon.

  Strongside and openside of the city, great fortifications protected the main routes into Arbor, fused to the buttress in places and completely spanning the canyon – but not beneath, where a five-mile drop sheared away to a pretty river that led to a natural, emerald-green lake beneath the Sundering-side of the city. Beneath was a vector instantly vulnerable to attack by flying Dragons.

  Already, engineers swarmed down there, dangling from safety ropes as they laboured to affix massively heavy, metal-reinforced nets in place.

  Two hours into their conversation, the Cartographer’s Assistant set down his draconid-fang pen and said, in a shocked whisper, “I-I-I … I think I’d better g-go get the M-M-Master!”

  He fled.

  Rhyme, panting after her morning exercises, settled her axes against the balcony railing and wandered over to the gorgeous, emerald-tinted maragazawood table, which was liberally spread with cartographical instruments, maps, sections and trail descriptions. Scanning their work, she said, “You’ve a way about you, Whisper.”

  “Did I say something?”

  “No, the stink of your armpits chased him off.”

  Whisper laughed happily, surprising herself with the carefree sound. “According to Mage Shivura’s research, my nose is two hundred times more sensitive than yours. That’s a conservative estimate.”

  Rhyme shook her head sorrowfully. “You just don’t smell your own odour, do you?” She pretended to sniff the air. “Ah, the savour of rancid fish mingled with the fresh, whimsical tang of old soldiers’ boots …”

  These Humans. Whisper laughed aloud, even though it still pained her stomach. “All I did was fill in a few gaps in his knowledge.”

  “A few?” The Princess indicated a liberally annotated scroll. “A few thousand. And, you ran out of nuts again?”

  “If it bothers you, Rhyme, I’m happy to go graze outside the city. There’s plenty of redberry, magisberry, margunana, lixmelons –”

  “You most certainly cannot.”

  “I also eat flowers, small eggs and insects. I really like the crunchy carapaces on the little yellow siggids …”

  Her voice trailed off as the Princess made a gagging noise. “You are a guest. I do not permit guests to graze beneath my balcony’s bushes. It is simply not done, upon the honour of the Arborite nation.” She clapped her hands softly. “Yessimy, may I request more fruit, nuts and a sizeable bowl of chopped kale, koniki and yabbard lettuce for our guest? And I’ll have a glass of the tensulily cordial, please.”

  “Bah,” sniffed the servant. “That sprite shovels away more than my three children ever did.”

  Rhyme winked at Whisper. “Yessimy’s the best. She started serving here when my grandfather was still sharpening his first axe.”

  The moon-round face peered through the doorway. “Bah! Don’t think you can sweet-talk me, you little whippersnapper.” Yessimy could say that, too, given as she was quite the fattest Human Whisper had ever seen. She barely fit through doorways sideways, but she was a miraculous cook and mothered the living canyons out of the entire royal household, councillors and Commanders included. She was universally loved.

  Now, a finger thicker than Whisper’s wrist waggled in her direction. Balefully, the servant growled, “I’ll fatten you up yet, you poor waif. Shameful, having a stick like you walking my halls, it is! I’m not having it, or my name’s not Yessimy, no sir!”

  Grumbling to herself, she waddled off.

  The Princess grinned. “You’re in trouble – but tell me how, if you were practically born yesterday, can you know so much, Whisper?”

  “Magic.”

  That was a truth they both recognised. Rhyme sighed, “Shall I entertain the idea of letting Mage Shivura have his way with you?”

  “Shall I invite Prince Xan of Azarinthe to have his way with you?”

  Score! Rhyme’s colour attained a fascinating shade of hot blue-pink as she squealed, “Whisper! That is both … crude, and uncalled for.” She fanned her face, and then gulped down a glass of water for the additional cooling which was apparently required. “So help me, we will not speak so uncouthly in this Palace. Xan … Xan is a good man, and – do you even know what you are saying? No?”

  “Not entirely,” Whisper admitted. Intriguing! “You were childhood friends, not so? Why should he not … oh. Oh!”

  “Aye, exactly that sort of ‘oh’,” she snorted, and then slumped into a chair. “Why would he remember me, Whisper? Why, when he has all those sloe-eyed, tall – very tall – Azarinthine beauties to choose from? I’m just a short, chubby girl with more muscle than brains. I’m so good with axes it scares suitors silly, I play a decent hand-harp and keep my head in battle … but I’m trying so hard to lead these people and failing at every turn …”

  Was it just that Rhyme was lonely, that she had so badly wanted to make friends with a Whisper? Or was it pity for a wounded creature?

  Climbing awkwardly up onto the table just behind the Princess, Whisper lifted the long, pale blue strands from the girl’s hands and said, “I think I remember how to do braids. It’s so odd what I do recall. My brain’s like a foreign city, full of surprises – like those mirror-scale dragonets that came to sing to you this morning.”

  “I feed them. They aren’t pets, they’re more like friends,” said Rhyme, sighing moodily as she obliquely confirmed Whisper’s hypothesis. “Besides, the Dragonkind are not for taming. They’re wild, and beautiful, and free – free of responsibility. Free of demanding, quarrelling advisors. Absolved from worrying about four younger siblings being poisoned, too. Free of populaces terrified of Warlocks and their Dragon armies.”

  Twirling the hair in her deft paws, Whisper set to work. “Hold still. Now, I might only have been alive for a couple of weeks, but I do know a few things.”

  “Ugh. Here it comes. Lecture away.”

  “Now you are being that silly girl you just parodied.” She surprised herself with the tetchiness of her response. Maybe Human emotions were rubbing off on her?

  “Right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound nasty, but I sort of see you as a small furry humanoid with a startling appetite and an even greater predilection for being curious about everything. Like my makeup drawer. You turned it upside-down.” Whisper began to growl, but then was glad she desisted, because the Princess added, “But we’ve come canyons further than that already, haven’t we? I don’t have to close my eyes to imagine you as a good friend. A true girlfriend.”

  Whisper watched her hands braiding an intricate, inward-spiralling design into the Princess’s hair, and sighed bitterly. “Why pretend that you see me as a person? I’m quite happy with the ‘Princess and her pet’ arrangement.”

  “Well, I’m not. It’s a lie, for starters, and I’m severely allergic to lies.”

  “Your furry girlfriend? Well, you have a bit of fur too.”

  “My hair?” Then, Rhyme gasped, “You’re a wicked, wicked tease! Can you stop –”

  “Worried I’ll babble all of your secrets to Prince Xan?”

  “You’d … dare?”

  Keeping her grip on the complex braids, Whisper was almost flung off the table by the Princess’ furious headshake. Maps scattered one way, inkpots another. She giggled, “I believe this is a touchy subject?”

  “You’ve not the first idea about Human culture, apart from how to foment trouble – absolutely no difficulty with that, I’m learning! Plus, in my experience, Whispers make dreadfully messy pets. They’re nosy, quarrelsome and display an annoying tendency to voice their opinions when they should better be rearranging my boots or polishing my axes with their tongues.”

  Rescuing her stance by clawing at the table with her right foot, Whisper said, “How’s about when I do leave, you send this Xan a private message?” After a short, breathless pause on the Princess’ part, she added, “I’m convinced I could use your ears to heat up a pot
of that flower-soup you Arborites like so much. Why’s that?”

  Rhyme snorted, “Silence, pet. Finish my hair.”

  * * * *

  Five days later, Whisper was already hobbling about with just a stick, no cast. The talon-incisions across her stomach had healed to a trio of puckered, puffy scars and her tail was showing definite signs of oftentimes painful regrowth, almost an inch and a half longer now. Mage Shivura eyed the stump enviously. “If only we Humans could master such a skill.”

  His apprentices, four male and three female, had taken the day to recover from their healing efforts. Shivura himself sported large, greyish bags beneath his eyes, lending him an even more sinister look than usual. Warleader Ammox had his troops out in force Sundering-side of the city, building additional defences and traps, and laying an early warning system to detect Warlock Sanfuri’s approach – they estimated he might take a minimum of three weeks to force a passage beneath the Sundering, as Whisper had done. Almost a third of those twenty-four days had already passed.

  Whisper had worked with the Master Cartographer and his entire Guild for most of these five days, filling in the blanks in their knowledge – as best she could. She had discovered another small Whisper Beacon in the Palace grounds, but it yielded little new knowledge. Perhaps there might be another at Azarinthe, the City of Grey?

  That afternoon, she bathed with Rhyme in a secluded, private pool at the back of the Palace grounds. The Princess had not yet removed her braids, saying that the effect was stylish and gave the fashionable ladies of the city something to exclaim over – as opposed to the usual neurotic spate of axe-polishing, the Whisper supposed wryly. Apparently Whisper’s second effort, a spectacular braided crown, had almost set off a riot.

  Humans. Foolish, funny and fabulous in equal measure, they were a constant source of amazement or perplexity.

  Just now, half a dozen female First Axes, an elite squad of brawny professional soldiers, were standing with their backs firmly turned to the Princess, who swam lazily across the pool wearing exactly as much as the day she was born. Whisper badly wanted to sneak up behind one of them and shout something rude. These soldiers were not, however, the type to actually possess this Human notion called ‘sense of humour,’ which Whisper likened to her own affinity for mischief and wordplay.