All eyes were on me. I realized then that I had at least some power over them. And, I have to admit, despite my distaste for Deklyn and his gang, what Isobel was proposing excited me. More than anything I wanted to escape my mother’s oppressive silence. And that we might actually make some money, despite the danger, made it an irresistible offer. “I don’t care,” I said to Isobel, just to spite him. “Tell him I agree. Luma and I are in.”
“Fine,” Deklyn sputtered. He obviously did not like being ignored either. “Eighty-twenty split with the winnings.”
“Eighty-twenty?” I spat out.
“There are more of us,” he said. Jasper, Isobel, and Abel were all standing behind him now.
“Seventy-thirty, plus you bring me pomegranate seeds for Luma,” I countered.
After a moment, Deklyn nodded his assent. He signaled to his gang, and they began to depart.
“Hey,” I shouted at him. “Thirty!” I held out my hand. Deklyn shrugged, counted a percentage of Luma’s winnings and handed it over to me. It was more money than I had seen at once in my entire life. I grinned, rubbed Luma on the back of the ears, and left the Dragonka Exchange.
Chapter 7
The next day I went shopping. I bought a shiny brass cage for Luma, with a feather pillow to sleep on, and a portable nest that fit in my coat pocket. I loaded myself down with poppy-honey buns by the stack, porridge and molasses to sweeten it, sticks of dried bison meat and jars of jam in every flavor imaginable. I visited the tea merchant and picked up tins of jasmine, and smoky oolong tea for my mother. I had been neglecting her. At home, I made her a small feast and carried it in to her room. She must have known I had been sneaking out, but she never let a word slip. But I could see worry crease the sides of her eyes. Those lines had grown like unspoken sentences over the weeks. If she voiced them, would they disappear, like words in the air?
I put the tray down in front of her but she would not look at me. She just poured a little cream into her tea and watched it cloud up, then stirred it briskly with her teaspoon.
I began to leave, but my mother called me back when I reached the door.
“Petra K, come here.” I did as I was told. “It is time you knew. I have protected you for too long.”
“Know what?”
“Look under the bed, Petra K,” she said. I did. It was dark and musty but for a wooden box, which I pulled out.
“Put it on the bed and open it, Petrushka.”
I did: inside I found—a doll? No, it was more like a small, intricately designed automaton. I took it from the box. It was a man with a foxlike face and sly eyes, dressed in a black silk cape.
“Do you have a coin?” Mother asked.
“A what?”
“A coin,” she restated. From my pocket I drew a brass kuna.
“Hold it toward him,” she instructed. I offered the coin slowly to the automaton. But before it got close, the money flew from my hand. It landed in the open palm of the doll, which activated a gear, and the coin was passed into the sack. The doll had stolen my coin! I laughed with glee.
“That is what I was worried about,” said my mother. The trick did not please her, nor did my reaction.
“What is it?” I asked.
“That, Petra K, is Jozsef K. That is your father.” I looked at her, stunned. The doll was my father? “He wasn’t a tea trader. That was a fib I told you. Oh, he liked tea. He could steal bushels of it out from under the best-guarded Indyn caravan. He could steal the wheels of a cart while it was still moving. That is what your father was. That is why you never spent a day in the Jozseftown school, because he was so notorious that even the teachers knew of him. Amongst thieves he was legendary. The Thievery Guild had this made in his honor once he disappeared. I wanted to keep all that from you, in the hopes that you would be different.”
“He disappeared?”
“See what I mean? You only hear what you want to hear.” She sighed, took a sip of her tea, then set it down on the bedside table.
“But you just said he disappeared, so how do you know he is dead?” I asked.
My mother grabbed me. I did not know if it was out of love or anger—then I realized, by the intensity with which she was holding me, that it was both. Though it was suffocating in its firmness, I savored her touch. I could feel hot tears from her cheeks burst against my neck. Then she whispered in my ear, “I know he is dead, because I have seen his spirit.”
On the topic she would say no more.
FOR THE FIRST DAY OF TRAINING, Isobel met me on Newt Island, which sat in the Pava River in between the large and small sides of the city. By decree of an ancient treaty, Newt Island was a place free of Imperial authority, and was safe from the Boot Guard, at least for now.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“We don’t need them. We will be training Luma in the Half Not way. It is subtle, and demands great gentleness and concentration. Deklyn and the boys would just get in the way.”
Isobel’s fazek—her Half Not costume—had been redone in a bright, striking design, like that of an ornate Persian carpet. It was legend that rare Half Not girls were born with wings, which were a source of great embarrassment for the parents. These girls were forced to wear the woven fazeks that hobbled the wings beneath the yarn, making them deformed and unusable, for a Half Not girl who could fly away would never be found again—such was their wanderlust.
“Are those really wings under that yarn?” I asked impetuously.
“Don’t concern yourself with things that aren’t your business,” said Isobel, giving me another sharp look. “Let’s begin,” she said.
“Begin how?” I asked. This question only proved my ignorance of Half Not ways. They rarely responded to such direct questions. Isobel only stared at me blankly, leaving me stung by how unfair it was to forbid me from asking questions. It was as if she was training me, not Luma.
“The trick to real dragonka husbandry is not to make the dragonka conform to your behavior but to find a way to make their own nature flourish. You have to find the individual characteristics within the dragonka and bring them out into the open for the entire world to see: this is the artistry. This is a Half Not talent.” Isobel demonstrated what she meant by whispering Luma’s name on the breeze. Soon enough the beast perked its head up, then trotted over to us.
“Now sit,” she instructed me. “Look into each other’s eyes.” I did, gazing deep into the coal black pits of my dragonka’s eyes. How strange to acknowledge his own particular existence and soul.
“This is called spirit breaching,” Isobel told me. “It isn’t enough to just feed and pet the dragonka; there needs to be an exchange that can only come in this way.” Indeed, after a while—like when you repeat a word enough times—I began to forget who Luma was. First he was just a pair of dark glossy eyes gazing back at me; then it was as if Luma was being reborn in front of me, like a seed drawing nourishment from the soil. How difficult to recognize the intelligence behind Luma’s eyes as different than my human one, but somehow not inferior—and what a crime it would be to try to dominate and exploit that intelligence. In the face of this, the past and future disappeared: there was just a live being, whose body harbored every bit of love and timeless cold passion in the universe.
The young Half Not broke the spell after a period of time that I could not measure.
“It was a good try, but watch this,” said Isobel. She repeated the exercise, gazing into Luma’s eyes with her own. But after only a few minutes she broke the spell. Isobel put my hand to her chest, then put my other hand over Luma’s heart. They were beating at the same pace.
“It is how my ancestors used to travel with so many horses,” Isobel said. “Driving a herd across all Dravonia and not one horse lost, because they moved as one creature, with one heart. You cannot fully train a dragonka without knowing how to master this.” I wrapped my loden cape tight around myself and nodded. “You see, all these wizards and potion-makers like Deklyn, they think magic
is something you force into the world with ingredients and spells. But that is not the Half Not belief. Magic, if there ever was any, comes from inside. And it is in everybody, not just a chosen few. That is the real practitioner’s secret.”
We stayed in the park until late, having lost track of time. Though Isobel made attempts to master Luma, he still displayed a strong will against ownership. After I tried again to spirit-breach with Luma, Isobel ended the session.
“It is taxing for him, and you,” she said. “Let’s relax now.” She passed me a bottle of elderberry juice, gave me a handful of pomegranate seeds to feed Luma, and then pulled a violin from its case. When she began to play a strange, eerie tune, Luma immediately perked up, and, like a dog howling at the moon, began to sing in a high-pitched, atonal braying. Before long, a few other dragonka, who had also been surreptitiously hiding in the park, came out of their refuges and joined the chorus. Suddenly, I could see the notes of the song hovering there in front of me. They were colored: deep lavender and purple, fuchsia and crimson, and colors wholly new to my experience or to this world, colors that must remain unnamed. I felt calm, and for the first time since the dragonka fever, happy.
I HAD ARRANGED with Isobel to bring Luma to the Half Not ghetto later in the week, so that we might continue training him for the tournaments. I rarely came here, and felt particularly unsure as I entered the neighborhood.
The buildings in that part of Jozseftown were mostly grand, decaying tenements that gave the impression of jigsaw puzzles that had lost a few pieces over time. While I was gazing up at one, a group of Half Not children chasing a chicken almost knocked me over, then I was spun around again by the clanging of the elaborate but dreadful astronomical clock that kept time in days, weeks, centuries, and millennia according to the planets rather than breaking time down into pesky seconds, minutes, and hours. The place itself was making me dizzy. I teetered, about to faint. Then, from behind, a hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up: it was a man cloaked in a long black overcoat. The brim of a hat shadowed his face, but in his hand I could see he held a cane, the top adorned with a carved dragonhead.
“Do you know that that clock above us has over ten-thousand moving parts? If but just one does not function perfectly, the clock cannot tell time.” I looked up at him. Though he smiled at me, it was a salesman’s solicitous, insincere smile.
“So like a heart, don’t you think? Two perfect contraptions, one of metal and the other of muscle. But both take spirit,” he continued. “I used to make clocks. But now I am concerned with matters of the heart.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I am late.” I started to walk away.
“Child,” he said with urgency, stopping me. “Where did you get that beast?”
“What beast?” I responded. Luma was safely concealed in his portable nest in my jacket.
“I can feel it,” he said. “You have a dragonka, and an exceptional one at that.” I looked around. There was no one who might help me should he cause trouble.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.
He chuckled. “You know it is now illegal to even keep a dragonka, much less train one.”
“I’m late,” I said. “My mother is waiting for me.”
“Here,” he said. “There is no reason why we can’t be friends.” He held out a sack in his hand. He shook it so I could hear the jingle of coins inside. “I will take the beast abroad, where it will be safe. There are kings and land barons who would take great care of him. And in return, you shall have enough gold to move from this decrepit place.” It struck me that I was dealing with a dragonka trafficker. The kind who sold beasts to foreign dealers as pets, or, if rumor was true, as a delicacy in fancy restaurants. I noticed the strong smell of camphor coming off him. There was something terribly wrong about him. Luma, too, began to squirm against my chest.
“I have no dragonka,” I said, “and if I did, I would not send him abroad. Not for any price.”
At first, he did not appear to register my response. Then, he opened his cloak: there, from the fabric, I could see the sleeping bodies of six dragonka stitched into pockets. He then took his cane, and tapped it firmly on the cobblestone. At contact, the dragonka head came to life, eyes glistening, its mouth opening in a fierce growl. “I can take your dragonka in body or spirit, if you refuse. But I advise you to take the gold. Perhaps you can even buy your way out of trouble with the Boot, which is surely headed your way.”
The dragonka staff began to let out a high-pitched wail, like the crying of a huge muse of dragonka. It was unbearable. I put my hands over my ears, then hid my head in my hands. Then—as quickly as it had emerged—the sound stopped. I opened my eyes to find myself quite alone. On the ground where he stood, I saw a piece of paper. I picked it up. It was a calling card. Written on it was one word: Wormwood. The man himself had vanished, as if into thin air.
I WAS EXPECTING TO MEET all the Blackhearts by the broken fish fountain, but only Isobel was there. Under the icy glow of the moon, I could see her true beauty for the first time, as though it was only revealed at night. Her black hair was sleek like a slice of ebony, and her eyes were almost impossible for me to look at without feeling a spell was being cast from them.
Isobel escorted me past Half Not betting galleries and pubs: The Golden Well, The Basilisk and the Bull, and The Stone Pillow, all full in the middle of the day; then she led me down more unfamiliar streets. She stopped in front of a dark alleyway.
“You first,” she said.
“Here?” I exclaimed, stalling. But Isobel only met the question with her usual icy stare. Was I about to have my throat slit and be left for dead in some dark forgotten spot? I was not sure I trusted the Half Nots. In Pava, there was no such thing as a Half Not, just a “dirty Half Not.” I fought against that prejudice, but now suspicion crept back in. No, I would not enter the alleyway, not for anything. I would go home to the comfort of my mother and a cup of tea. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again.
I went ahead of Isobel into the dark Jozseftown alleyway.
Chapter 8
“Keep going,” Isobel said firmly.
Down the alleyway I ventured. How many innocent tourists had been tempted into traps like this never to return? I wondered, occasionally craning my head back to catch a peek at Isobel.
“Why are you taking me to this stinky place?” I asked.
“It is for everybody’s safety.”
We came to a great wooden double-door at the end of the alleyway. Two faces of horned demons decorated the doors; iron rings the size of horseshoes hanging from their noses.
Isobel reached around me, grabbed one of the nose rings, and banged it against the wood. After a few moments the doors creaked open, and a Half Not with a moustache greased into fine spikes greeted us. Recognizing Isobel, he threw the entrance open. I took a step back: the cavernous room was packed with people.
“Hurry,” urged the host. “You never know what Boot spies are about.” I looked at Isobel. I still had time to flee. Instead, I ducked quickly through the doorway.
“What is this place?”
“The Dragonka Exchange, reborn,” she answered.
THE COURTYARD WAS FILLED with all stripe of dragonka and their masters. I could see a few mystics hurrying to and fro, arms full of folios and old books, and silhouettes of people toiling in candle-lit rooms.
“Here we are,” said Isobel. Luma was fighting to escape my grasp, so I set him on the ground.
“But why are we here?”
“Didn’t you see the post? On the board outside the old Dragonka Exchange?”
“No,” I said.
“All dragonka ownership is now illegal. They have outlawed it totally. This is the only safe place to train Luma.”
There were other dragonka I recognized from the League of the Maiden and Minor Pup being run around pylons or navigating a floating obstacle course. My gaze automatically tracked Luma as he scampered across the courtyar
d, frolicking with a larger, lavender-colored dragonka.
“We must be extra careful,” she said.
“But why are they doing this?”
“It is the dragonka fever. They want to cull the entire species, to eradicate it.”
“But where is this sickness? You only read about it in papers.”
“They say it is affecting the countryside, but that is not true, because those who come back on caravans have nothing to say of it.”
“Luma!” I called, a sudden feeling of dread overtaking me. But Luma was occupied, and would not come. “Luma!” I called louder. Isobel put her hand on my shoulder, silencing me. Isobel whistled gently, whereupon Luma immediately perked up and returned to our sides.
Then we got down to work. There was a lot to be done. To hone his coordination, Luma had to be trained on a levitating obstacle course of small gas balloons that were tethered to the ground. Isobel ran him through the drills: I felt a petty envy in the way she had total control of him. When she commanded a turn, he responded. When she whistled him to stop, he bounded to her side. Her side! I could feel my jealousy grow. Luma was “mine,” even if we were sharing the booty of his winnings.
“Let me try!” I said.
“You are not ready. Luma may depend on you, but he doesn’t yet respect the bond that is there.”
“I am ready!” I stammered. Isobel’s black eyes flashed in anger, then dulled. She stood back and let me take control.
“Luma, up!” I commanded. The beast looked at Isobel, then back at me. “Luma, up!” I repeated, taking a pomegranate seed from my pocket and holding it in front of him.
“That is not a good thing,” Isobel began. “You will spoil him that way.” But I paid her no mind. I wasn’t going to let a Half Not girl, with her stupid jingly fazek, tell me what to do.
“Luma,” I commanded, “fly! Go!” I dropped my hand as I had seen Isobel do, and to even my surprise, Luma was in the air, navigating the course. Only this time, he was flying at a pace far beyond how he had raced for Isobel. He tore around corners, spinning in the air, barely recovering.
Petra K and the Blackhearts Page 6
