“He is not racing,” Isobel said. “He is just speeding through the course to get the pomegranate seeds.” Indeed, he was missing his marks, and he veered wildly, colliding with another training dragonka mid-air, sending them both tumbling. When they hit the ground, the larger one attacked Luma, going for his neck with his whiskered jaws. Luma rose in flight again, the two squaring off like boxers.
“Luma!” I beckoned, but he would not come. Instead he let the other beast attack, dodging its bite, and inflicting one of his own on the passing dragonka’s tail. This incited the larger one even more, who immediately took off after Luma. A chase ensued, despite Isobel joining the call to bring Luma down. There was nothing to be done. After another skirmish, the other dragonka pursued Luma through a second floor window.
With no time to bicker, Isobel and I sprinted up the building stairs and down the hall. We listened at the doors until we heard a commotion behind one, and thrust it open.
Upon entering, five faces looked at us in surprise. At first I thought we had stumbled upon a burglary, then I realized that we were witnessing something very secret. On the floor there was a great map of Pava, detailing the streets that led to the Palace. But also, I noticed a stack of iron weapons in the corner and a stock of bayonets, broken down and oiled. An old hand-operated printing press smelled freshly inked. Bottles of potion were resting in crates in the corner, their contents emitting a soft green mist. One boy was busy trying to subdue Luma and the other dragonka, while the rest were shielding the weaponry from the rumbling dragonka. On the wall hung a banner with handwritten scrawl that read: JOZSEFTOWN RESISTANCE MOVEMENT.
Suddenly, I was pushed from behind and fell into the room.
Then the lights went out.
WHEN A CANDLE WAS LIT, the first thing I saw was Deklyn’s face, a few inches from my own, his eyes piercing and full of rage. His breath came heavily, smelling of cabbage and night air. At once, it seemed like we were both orphans, like he had taken me into his world of street life—for all its adventure and loneliness. He needed comfort. It didn’t matter if it was me, or Archibald, or anybody, Deklyn would push back when pushed. It was all in his eyes.
Then Luma flew to me, breaking his gaze.
“What is going on here?” I said.
“It is not for you to know,” said Deklyn.
“Come,” said Isobel, ushering me from the room.
“It would be best to forget what you saw,” she said.
“But what did I see?” I asked. In her usual fashion, Isobel kept quiet. We ended training for the night, and I did not hear from Isobel until the next tournament.
Chapter 9
Even though Luma was mine, I still hadn’t made any progress in answering my questions about him. So the next day, I took a walk over to the Karlow Bridge, to the spot where I had seen the man throw the beast over the side. I looked out over the Pava River at the swans that clustered around the riverbank. Above me, on one side of the Bridge, loomed the Palace, dark clouds hovering there year-round. On the other side of the bridge was Jozseftown, and the man hadn’t come from Jozseftown. Something about the Palace repulsed me; it was so old and foreboding, like some bitter old woman full of scorn. I instantly felt that if I really wanted to investigate, I would have to go there.
I started off toward Palace Hill. I didn’t know what I hoped to find, only that there was something to find. On the way up the narrow street that led to the building, I saw in the distance that huge metallic ornaments had been hung from the trees. It was only when I got closer that I realized they were not ornaments, they were cages. Inside, prisoners begged for water or food. I stopped in my tracks. Beneath their shivering bodies, my former neighbors strolled, ignoring the desperate pleas of their fellow citizens. These were the same people I had lived amongst when we resided on the Palace Hill. A bolt of shame shot through me. Or maybe it wasn’t shame, maybe it was awakening, like a dark, night-blooming flower opening its petals.
I understood that the differences between people were enough to provoke cruelty. The differences between me and my classmates, the differences between the Boot and the clerics. This would never happen in Jozseftown, where everybody was—in their own way—an outcast. From my pocket, I withdrew a dried apricot, and tossed it up into a cage, feeling sorry and ashamed that I didn’t have more to offer.
LIKE I SAID, I didn’t know what I was looking for. With that in mind, it was quite easy to find things that seemed important. The front of the Palace was well guarded, but one could walk around back, even lean against the gray granite of the palace walls, which I did, cocking my head toward the sky, wishing for one ray of sun to come down and warm me. It felt like lingering at the backdoor of a haunted house. Then suddenly, I did feel warm—though there was no sun. It was a nice feeling, for the brief time I was able to savor it.
“Who’s that, lurking about?” came a voice. I spun around to find a Boot guard approaching.
“Please sir,” I said, putting on my most miserable pitiful beggar voice. “Just a crust of bread. And some jam. Quince jam. And a walnut.”
“There is nothing here for you,” he said. “Now get on out of here.”
I did just that, but the warm feeling remained for a little, like a lantern I carried with me as I traveled. I had discovered something, because what I felt was the unmistakable charm of living dragonka behind that wall.
THE NEXT DAY MY MOTHER asked for a second helping of cream for her tea. I couldn’t tell her that the money had already run out, just as the cream had the day before. Instead, I ran from the house and used the last of my winnings at the Goat Square market to buy it for her, and spent the rest on pomegranate seeds. As for myself, I would have to wait for nightfall to eat, when the trash bins were full again.
One thing I knew: Luma needed to win and win big. The next tournament was to be held underground and in the dead of night, such was the fear that Boot agents were closing in on the illegal events. Isobel waited for me at the broken fish fountain, which had become our regular meeting place.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Right here,” she responded. But we weren’t anywhere as far as I could tell, except standing on a deserted street corner. Isobel looked around, then bent down and with her stubbly, clawlike fingers, pried open a sewer grate over which we were standing.
“Don’t worry,” Isobel said. “I know the way. We won’t be harassed.”
I stopped myself from asking, “Harassed by what?” I did not want to know the answer.
We used a metal ladder to lower ourselves down into the dank, dark sewer.
“I can’t see,” I said. At least I did not have to worry about Luma, whom Abel had brought to the tournament earlier that day, “to prepare,” he had said ominously.
“Stop complaining,” responded Isobel sharply. I hadn’t thought I was complaining; it was so dark that I had to reach out and test the space with my foot to find the ground, and could barely see an arm’s length ahead of myself. When we both arrived safely on the ground under the brick tunnel, Isobel began to whistle an atonal tune, which she followed by a chanting that echoed off the walls and seemed to travel by itself down the passage. She was beckoning somebody, or something.
I kept quiet and waited. Soon a lilac-colored glow came from the end of the passage, like a candle that was floating toward us. It moved slowly, drawn in by Isobel’s summons. As it approached I saw that there was no flame at all, only the light, surrounded by wispy mist.
“It’s a glow cloud,” Isobel said. “There’s a piece of lightning trapped inside the cloud, unable to find release. Created by magic refuse washed down the drains of long-dead sorcerers. They are basically friendly, unless they are too old.”
“What happens then?”
“They begin to rupture, and like an old light bulb, they explode. You don’t want to be around when that happens. Lightning gets everywhere,” she said as if she were talking about spilled ink. “Come,” Isobel commanded. The glow cloud obe
yed, leading us down the ancient brick passageway. We continued on through the musty-smelling place, breathing air that had been still for hundreds of years. The cloud stayed faithfully by our side, occasionally letting off a slight muffled thunder. Once we had to stop as it rained briefly. Before long we arrived at a cavernous room. Isobel explained that it was once an event room for the Urban Druids, a long-disbanded association that was briefly seated in Jozseftown.
All the usual suspects were there, their dragonka ready for the races. We found our places in the competitors’ box. There, I recognized members of other gangs, some dressed in scavenged and moth-eaten formal attire, in imitation of the elegant Dragonka Balls that were the mainstay of society before Archibald the Precious had them banned. I searched the floor for Luma and the Blackhearts, but could not spot them.
“What now?” I said impatiently.
“Watch,” Isobel said. “The festival will begin, and Luma is up first in a mock joust.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Two flying dragonka circle each other in the air baring their teeth, making horrendous faces as they stalk one another. The point is to try to get the other to bite first. It is an exercise in self-control. It is in a dragonka’s nature to attack, so the one that can be mocked long enough without cracking wins. We call it the Mock Joust of the Minor Pup, because Minor Pups are the newest, uninitiated dragonka.”
As though on Isobel’s command the Half Not with a greased moustache—whom I remembered from the Dragonka Exchange—came out and quieted the crowd.
“Thrill seekers one and all, I ask a warm welcome for last show’s winner in the Mock Joust of the Minor Pup: Pikatrix.” A jade-colored dragonka trotted into the circle. “We expect great things from Pikatrix, who will be facing a pup making his debut in our league: give a hand to Luma the Illuminator!” The lights were cut, and a spotlight was trained on the ring; I watched my dragonka led into the ring by Abel. Luma had been adorned with sparkles that made his natural sheen blaze like he was covered in tiny diamonds; for a moment he looked like matter from a star might if it was sanded off and rained from the sky.
“Luma!” I called reflexively. “What is he wearing?”
“Shhhh!” commanded Isobel. “It is a cheap trick, but that kind of thing goes over well with the audience. Besides, we need to hide that hideous scar on his chest.”
I watched Luma circle the green dragonka, and then at the crack of a whip the two competitors rose in the air, their wings carrying them above the heads of the crowd to the higher reaches of the cavern. I had never seen Luma navigate his space so well, rising in a perfect spiral with precision that was elegant and practiced. His training had paid off. The two dragonka ascended facing each other, squaring off like street fighters, or ballroom dancers. When they reached the appropriate height, Pikatrix began to bare her teeth, her sharp gleaming fangs visible from where we sat below. Luma was not intimidated. He circled, keeping his eyes on the other dragonka, then made a sudden, violent dive at her with an open mouth in a mock attack.
“That was close,” said Isobel. “If Pikatrix had moved toward him, his teeth might have caught her, which would mean a loss. Pikatrix is good, but she is afraid to let herself get hurt. Luma senses it, he is that cunning.” But things took a turn for the worse when Pikatrix spread her wings, which were long and had a birdlike appearance. Her eyes blazed red. I watched Luma begin to cower. And a scared dragonka was sure to lose control. Then Luma caught my eye. The beast was suddenly braced. My presence fortified him. He turned back to the other dragonka with a renewed concentration. Luma too opened up his wings, expanding them theatrically, mimicking Pikatrix’s movements. And, if it is possible for a dragonka to laugh, that is just what Luma did. This did not please Pikatrix, who tried to puff her chest out, but Luma only imitated this, too, and suddenly the crowd was roaring with laughter. It was an unusual, but very artful tactic, one that favored the smaller dragonka. This teasing was more than Pikatrix could bear, and she struck out at Luma. One bite, two, Luma dodged, then let the other attach her jaws to his protective leather collar. The whip was cracked again and Luma was deemed the winner.
WE WASTED NO TIME watching the remaining matches. Though the festival was secret, the crowd was celebrating the return of the dragonka to competition. There was a tension in the room: people were guarded. Anybody could be a spy for Archibald and the Boot. It was safer to take our winnings and depart.
Deklyn led us through the sewers until we arrived at a room that was dank and humid as an orchid hothouse. The warmth came from huge metal pipes, beneath which piles of blankets were laid out as beds. Stacked against the walls were crates of the tiny vials, which I recognized as the potions the Blackhearts sold on the streets, a faint green radiating from them. Tools and the gears of a half-assembled dragon automaton lay in the corner, like a fallen soldier waiting for surgery. Jasper began sorting through a box of tiny metal levers, searching for the one that would fit his metallic patient.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“It’s our home,” said Abel. “Above us are the Zsida mineral baths. These are the hot-water pipes. That’s why it’s always warm here.”
“Have a seat,” offered Deklyn, indicating a place in an old rocking chair next to a card table. The others took seats as well, Deklyn in a large wooden chair whose arms were ornamented with dragonka carvings. He took the pouch of coins from his jacket, poured it out onto the table, and counted out my share. From his earnings he passed Abel a few coins, then whispered something in his ear. Abel nodded and left the room.
“What are you doing?” I asked Jasper. I knew he didn’t like me, but he was happy to show me his creation.
“It’s a model replica of Ruki Mur,” he said.
“What is that?”
“Ruki Mur is the mother of all Pavain dragons. She was worshipped before the guilds decided to make lapdogs of her children.”
“I thought that was just a legend,” I said.
Jasper looked at me like toads had fallen from my mouth when I spoke.
“That is what you get for going to school,” he said. “Lies and pretty stories.”
“And you are going to ride Ruki Mur when she comes back, I suppose,” I said, having a hard time not letting the contempt for his superstition seep out.
“Look,” he said, turning toward me angrily. “They may trust you, but I don’t. So just keep out of my way.”
To avoid creating further discomfort, I left Jasper to his tinkering. By that time, Deklyn had divvied up the winnings. My stack of coins was waiting for me on the table. It was even more than the first tournament.
“Don’t let this money spoil you,” said Deklyn. “Other competitions won’t be as easy.” I kept silent: none of Deklyn’s superior, snotty comments were going to keep me from feeling pride over Luma’s victory.
“Where is the next one?” I asked.
“Nobody knows,” said Isobel. “They are kept secret until the last minute to provide for maximum safety. But we will contact you in due time.”
I noticed that I was being treated differently now. I was needed here, in this dank place under the city, a world away from the Pava School and its pristine beds of flowers. This was a new feeling, and I liked it.
By releasing a valve on the pipe and letting steam hiss into a mug, Isobel was able to make us hot ginger tea. Deklyn brought out a tin of dried figs, pickled eggs, and nuts and we shared a modest meal in silence. Before long, Abel returned. Over his shoulder, he was carrying a bouquet of tulipan.
“Over there,” Deklyn instructed. Abel set the flowers down in a corner. Deklyn must have noticed the embarrassment on my face, because he was quick to point out that they were not for me. Jasper let out a burst of mean laughter. I felt a strange shot of resentment for the slight, then jealousy rise unbidden in me.
“Who are they for, then?” I asked. Certainly not Isobel. Even casual friendships such as the one the Blackhearts shared with the Half Not girl were viewed wit
h disdain.
“She wants to meet your girlfriends,” teased Jasper.
“OK,” said Deklyn. “If we are going to be partners you might as well see how we live. Let’s go, just leave Luma here.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Special delivery,” he answered, picking up the flowers. “Come along if you want.”
I paused for a moment, then my curiosity got the best of me. Again I followed Deklyn through the underground passages.
“Have you always lived under the baths?” I asked. His intentional mysteriousness was beginning to annoy me.
“No. The Newts took care of me for a while, but I am a child of Jozseftown, so I prefer to live here.”
“And the others?”
“They all have their own stories. Jasper, for instance, came from St. Cecelia’s.”
“The orphanage?”
“Yes. But it is more like a prison to those who live there. And if you stay too long, they recruit you for the Boot, which might sound nice for somebody like Jasper, but the orphan recruits all get sent to the southern marshes, where they work in the sulfur mines.”
“And Abel?”
“Nobody knows. Not even him. He just showed up one day wandering around the streets of Jozseftown, with no memory of who he was or where he came from. We had to name him ourselves. Abel: an ancient Pava hero, you know.”
“I know,” I said.
“Of course, you went to school. But where does your schooling get you down here?”
I had no real answer, so I just scoffed. From there, we walked in silence.
Before long, a strong smell of something like rotting vegetables began to overtake me. It was accompanied by a faint but definite sound of singing. As we continued along the corridor, the stench of the place intensified: we arrived at an opening and I could see an enormous cavelike room, at the center of which light from street lamps streamed in through a hole from above, illuminating the small mountain of trash that dominated the space. I could see childlike creatures scampering over the mess. They would wait for another bundle of trash to fall from above, then compete with each other in picking out rusted metal and bits of food, throwing whatever was unusable down a sewage canal. In the corner an old Victrola phonograph was playing.
Petra K and the Blackhearts Page 7
