Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog (Magic Carpet Books)

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  I said quickly, “I apologize for my brother, sieur. He’s a drover, and they have no class—” Here Udo’s foot stamped on mine, but I ignored the spike of pain. “I’ll have a Cheery Cherry Slurp.”

  The barkeep brightened up. “Ah then, a Cheery Cherry Slurp. I’ve not had a call for that in many a day. A fine choice. And you, sieur drover?”

  “A Broad Arrow Sling,” Udo said.

  “Another fine choice. Be seated, and Lotte shall bring.”

  We sat, at a table that was grubbier than Crackpot’s kitchen floor. Only a look from me had kept Udo from dropping his hankie on the chair before sitting down, but it was hard to blame him. Despite my tummy’s rumble, I was thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea to just pretend to eat the ice cream.

  The Warlord sat in the back of the room, at a round table with three others, playing cards. I recognized him immediately because, of course, his picture hangs next to Mamma’s in every classroom and public building in the City. The Warlord wasn’t exactly as his portrait showed: His hair was whiter, and his jowls heavier, but still, there was no mistaking him.

  Once the Warlord was a fearsome pirate, who stole himself from the slave mills of Anahuatl City and then stole himself a small empire. Now he’s pretty old and tired. I suppose final decay is unavoidable, unless you plan otherwise, which I do exactly—going out with a bang, like Nini Mo, long before my life descends into a whimper of old age.

  Udo hissed: “There’s the Warlord; what says your plan?”

  “It says we should wait until we get our sodas!”

  “We should move in—” Udo shut up while Lotte the Shoe-Faced Woman plunked the sodas in front of us, sloshing soda water and whip, and took my money. Now that the Warlord was sitting right there, just a few feet away, engrossed in his poker game, my nerve was sticking. The ice cream looked pretty clean, and I was starving; maybe I should eat it first and then—

  “Do you want to buy some flowers?” Something tugged at my sleeve: a small child with a smudgy face.

  “Git, sprout,” said Udo rudely.

  The child stuck her tongue out at him, and repeated to me: “Do you want to buy some flowers?”

  “You haven’t got any flowers,” I said. The kid’s dress had giant holes in it, and her little bare feet were blue with cold.

  The child looked at me as though I were an idiot. “They are outside. If you come, I’ll show you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t need any flowers. But here—” I fished in my purse and found a coin. The kid snatched the coin out of my hand and said, “Pinhead!” before flitting off.

  Udo mumbled, “That was smart. Now every beggar kid South of the Slot is going to be pushing on us! Don’t you know never to give out alms?”

  “She didn’t have any shoes.”

  “She probably did at home. I mean, who is going to give money to a beggar with shoes?”

  “Maybe she really is poor, Udo.”

  A choked sob came from across the table. Udo was sniffling into his soda, tears running down his face, his mascara blurring. I was momentarily confused. A second ago he didn’t care about the beggar, and now he was crying over her? Then I realized—blast Udo—he had started the plan without waiting for my signal.

  “Ahhhh,” Udo said, loudly, dramatically. “It’s too much to bear, hermana. It’s just too much to bear. Our poor Tenorio, so young, so young.”

  Under the table, I kicked Udo a good hard swift one in the knee, but he didn’t let up. “Give us a song, Felicia, give us a song to remember Tenorio by. Here, I shall play the tune and you shall sing—”

  We rose and went over to where a rickety pianoforte stood against the wall. When Udo flipped open the cover, dust puffed up, and when he put fingers to the keys the pianoforte wheezed just like a cat. The original plan had called for me to play and him to sing, but apparently Udo was in charge now, and my plan was nothing.

  “Sing, hermana, sing for Tenorio.” He banged out the first chords of “Who’ll Tell His Mother.” I had no choice but to sing, and so I opened my mouth and hoped that I remembered all the words;

  “Somebody’s darling so young and so brave

  Wearing still on his sweet yet pale face

  Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave

  The lingering light ofhis boyhood’s grace

  Somebody’s darling, somebody’s pride

  Who’ll tell his mother how her boy died.”

  I’m not the best singer, but in this case, my wobbly notes were working for me, sounding like my voice was cracking with tears. The Warlord is notoriously susceptible to sob stories and sad songs—a susceptibility that our plan hinged upon.

  The crowd, not fully appreciative, began to hoot and jeer, but Udo stubbornly played on, and I kept singing, even when someone threw a glass at my head. I ducked in time, and the glass slammed into the wall behind me, as explosive as a bomb.

  NINETEEN

  A Melee. The Warlord. An Autograph.

  THE GLASS-THROWING got the barkeep to shouting, which made Udo play louder. I reached for a high note and didn’t make it, my voice breaking into a jarring yowl. Another glass was thrown, which this time hit a mark: the Shoe-Faced Woman, who went down like a buffalo. The shouting increased, and things other than glasses started to soar: a boot, a pineapple, a spittoon. Udo ducked down and I ducked behind him, but we kept on with our recital. Ice cream hit the wall above and showered down on top of us: Good-bye, Cheery Cherry Slurp.

  “Hey now, hey now!” This roar bellowed over the hooting, the piano, my wailing. The hooting stopped, Udo quit banging, and I let my wail trail away. We had finally gotten the Warlord’s attention, though not in the way we had planned.

  The Warlord rose up from the poker table. “That’s enough of that—that’s enough, there! I’ll be taking apart the next man to throw something, with my own hands, for interrupting the lady’s pretty song like that. Let the lady sing.” The Warlord might be old, but his voice was booming, and there was an expectation in it that his orders would be obeyed.

  They were. Some of the crowd grumbled, but they sat back down. The barkeep and another man picked the Shoe-Faced Woman up and carried her away. A potboy came in with a broom and began to sweep glass.

  “Go back to singing, madama,” the Warlord said. “I like your song fine.”

  “I cannot, Your Grace,” I sobbed, snuffling into the bottom of my veil. “I can no longer sing, oh, Your Grace, pardon me.” I started to make the courtesy that signifies Abasement before a Superior So Superior That No Abasement Is Abased Enough, but since it requires going down on both hands and knees and the floor was so very dirty, I pretended to stumble on my way down.

  The Warlord caught me. “Now there, now there. Rezaca, get the lady a chair and a drink of water. Come to me, my darling, and tell me what is wrong.”

  I sobbed and moaned and sat where bidden. At first it was hard not to laugh, but then the more I pretended to cry, the more I found I was actually crying, and pretty hard, too, as though something had twisted a tap inside me that I didn’t even know was closed. Now that I was going, I could hardly stop, harsh gasping sobs that made my internal organs ache.

  “Now, now, poor lady, why do you cry so?” The Warlord patted my knee with a very large hand.

  “Our brother, Your Grace, our poor brother, he has so little time left in this world,” said Udo brokenly. “And we weep for him, Your Grace. He is the favorite of our mamma, and how shall we tell her?”

  Someone shoved a glass into my hand, and I lifted the veil just enough to gulp down the stale water, turning my sobs into hiccups. I swallowed another big gulp of water, swallowing the hiccups, too. “Oh, Your Grace, can you not help us? You are so kind and generous.”

  “Now then, tell me exactly my darling, what you mean, and perhaps I can. Come, come here, take my hankie—” Out of the Warlord’s green brocade vest came an enormous lace-trimmed red hankie, already well used. I took it, glad that the veil covered my grimace, and dabbed
.

  The poker buddy who had gotten me the chair said, “Your Grace, the game—”

  “Shut up there, Rezaca. Go on, then, darling.”

  I said brokenly, “Your Grace, it is this: Our poor brother Tenorio enlisted in the Army, as our poor mother’s sole support, her favorite child, too, and she with the goiters and the lumbago and the gout from a whole lifetime of washing clothes to feed us poor little children.”

  “An admirable son,” said the Warlord. He motioned for my glass to be refilled. “Go on, dear madama.”

  “And so poor Tenorio fell in with a bad crowd, who enticed him to drink and gamble, and soon he had gambled away all his earnings and more besides and was deeply in debt. And then, when desperate to send his poor mamma the money she needed for her lumbago medicine, he borrowed from the company funds—” I paused to sniffle and let the drama sink in. “And then he was caught and sentenced to be hung, oh, Your Grace!”

  Here I let loose with a wail and another round of wracking sobs, waiting, hoping, praying that our plan was working.

  “Your Grace, the game!” said the poker buddy urgently.

  The Warlord raised his hand without looking away from me. He said, his voice catching slightly, “Tell me how I can help you, little lady. I cannot bear to see such a sweet face so sad.”

  All the blood that I had not realized had left my head rushed back into it. “Oh, Your Grace,” I said, and this time the wobble in my voice was from relief, “I know it was wrong, and so does Tenorio, but does he deserve to die for it? Our poor mother.”

  “Your Grace, I really think—,” said the same annoying poker buddy, but the Warlord waved another shut up, then patted my knee again, although this time his pat was a bit more like a rub. I smiled sadly at him.

  “If we were all to die for our mistakes, Your Grace, who then would still live? And how should we then learn?” Udo said earnestly.

  The Warlord said, “Have you spoken to General Fyrdraaca about this?”

  “She would not see me, Your Grace. She is strict with the law. But is there no room in the law for mercy? The Warlord’s rule has always been just and kind.”

  “Ayah, so it has been. And so it should be—Rezaca, if you say another word, I shall fry you.” Again with the rubbing hands. Then, before I could protest, the Warlord hoisted me up and perched me upon his massive knee. He might be old, but he was still pretty strong, even for a man with only one leg. “I shall speak to General Fyrdraaca on your behalf, my little parrot. How shall that be?”

  “But Your Grace.” I let the tears well in my eyes. “The execution is tonight, and by then it shall be too late.”

  Udo interjected. “And General Fyrdraaca has gone to Moro. By the time she gets back, our brother shall be gone, and our mother shall die of shame.”

  The Warlord encircled one squeezy arm around me, and this I did not like at all, but there wasn’t much to do but try to look sweet. I could smell his breakfast on his breath: pickled herring. I sobbed, bending my head and jabbing my elbow into the Warlord’s chest. He eased up on his grip.

  “Your Grace, can you not show mercy? Can you not save poor Tenorio?” Udo sniveled.

  “I can and I will!” the Warlord declared. “Get me paper, Rezaca. I cannot let this little lady be sorrowed, and for such a trivial thing. Have we not all had our bad gambling debts, a horror to pay?”

  The annoying poker buddy protested. “Your Grace, it’s hardly within our purview to interfere with the law—”

  “Whose law is it? Mine! And I shall do as I see fit!” the Warlord roared. “Get me that paper!”

  Rezaca was not moved. “Your Grace, General Fyrdraaca—”

  The Warlord rose up, dumping me off his lap. Compared to this, his earlier roar had been but a whisper. “Am I not Warlord of this Republic? Is not my rule law? If you do not want yourself to be drummed down to the Playa with the Rogue’s March, then you should be doing as I say!” Even though his ire was not directed at me, my stomach quivered. In his prime, the Warlord must have been a force. In anger, he was a force still. Now I saw a glimmer of how his earlier reputation had been founded.

  “I have a piece of paper, Your Grace,” said Udo helpfully. “And a pen and ink, too.”

  The paper was an ordinary sheet of paper, and so, too, the pen, but not the ink in the inkwell. It was an erasable ink, the idea being that when we got home, we could remove everything but the Warlord’s signature and write in our own pardon. It was a clever trick that Nini Mo used in Nini Mo vs. the Ring-tailed Alphabet Boy, and she had helpfully included the receipt in The Eschata. It rather surprisingly was made using very common household ingredients that Crackpot had actually had on hand.

  The Warlord sat back down, and I made sure I was out of his grabby range. He lay the paper down before him, sweeping the cards and piles of money out of the way. Udo uncapped the inkwell and handed him the pen. “Now, my spectacles, where are they?”

  “Around your neck, Your Grace? On a chain?” Udo pointed out.

  “Ah yes, my boy, you are a good one. Here then, give me a moment now.” The Warlord put his spectacles on and rubbed his nose. He pushed the spectacles onto his forehead and rubbed his nose again. Dropped his spectacles down again and dipped the pen. Wiped it on his sleeve, and dipped it again. Sighed and tapped his gold front tooth with one fingernail, and then, just as I was about to scream with impatience, began to write.

  He wrote several lines and signed his name with a flourish, and then, after dipping again, drew his seal from his weskit pocket. Udo continued his helpful theme by producing a stick of sealing wax and a trigger. Within a second, a nice round blob of wax had fallen on the paper and was pressed into the Warlord’s personal seal: a hammer.

  “There you have it, my dear. Mercy has a human heart, does it not? And let no one say that Florian Abenfarax de la Carcaza is not merciful. Blow.”

  I blew on the paper as directed, and then he rolled it up and handed it to me. “There shall be no more crying, eh?”

  “Oh no, Your Grace, you are so kind, how can I ever repay you?”

  The Warlord grinned and pinched my cheek. “Oh, we can discuss that later, my dear. Perhaps over an oyster supper?”

  “Your Grace, we must hurry this to the Presidio,” said Udo. “But after that, my sister would be most honored to share an oyster supper with you.”

  I would have kicked him, but he was too far away. I could only smile and say through gritted teeth, “Of course, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

  “I shall call for you. Where do you live, my dear?”

  “Oh, I would be ashamed to have Your Grace call on me; it would hardly be proper. I shall come to Saeta House.”

  “No, no, my dear,” the Warlord said quickly. “Meet me at the Empire Hotel on State Street, 10 P.M.”

  “Your Grace,” I fluttered, and Udo fluttered, too, and then we fluttered our way out of there as quickly as possible.

  We made it outside and were getting ready to make the return slog home, jubilant and crowned with victory, when a voice said, “You there!”

  Our continued skedaddle was blocked by an enormous barge of a man wearing the Warlord’s livery; our about-face was blocked by Rezaca, whom I suddenly recalled as the Warlord’s Chief of Staff.

  Were we caught? My tum sank into the toes of my boots and there quivered.

  “You will hold up and listen to me well,” Conde Rezaca said sternly. “You have received the Warlord’s graciousness this time, but don’t let this be a precedent. If you are wise, little woman, you shall not keep that appointment with the Warlord. In fact, I don’t ever want to see you or your brother ever again, do you understand?”

  My nerves twanged with relief. I had been afraid the Conde would demand the paper back, but this order was easy to agree to: Of course I had no intention of keeping the appointment. Udo nodded vigorously, and I said: “Yes, sieur, of course, thank you.”

  “Now get out of here before I decide to ensure your permanent absence f
rom my sight. But wait—”

  Our exit remained blocked by the Hulking Minion. Conde Rezaca stared at Udo, his lips pursed in consideration.

  “Have I not seen you somewhere?” he said. “You do look familiar.”

  “I don’t think so,” Udo said falteringly.

  “I am sure, sieur, that we are too low for your acquaintance,” I said hastily. “Come, brother, and let us bother the august lord no more.” I grabbed Udo’s arm to hustle, but the Hulking Minion did not give way. As far as I knew, Conde Rezaca and Udo had never met before, but Udo does bear a striking resemblance to his two fathers, and Conde Rezaca probably knew them.

  I pleaded, eager to get gone before Conde Rezaca’s memory improved. “Please, sieur, let us pass and we shall trouble you no more.”

  Conde Rezaca nodded and the Hulking Minion stood aside. We put some speed into our skedaddle and were about half a block away, with the Slot well in sight, when another voice arrested us: “Hey!”

  I turned and beheld the small beggar girl. Only this time she wasn’t begging: She had a pistol and it was pointed straight at me.

  TWENTY

  Jacked. Mud. Tussling.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT, sprout?” Udo demanded. “Put that toy away.”

  The Stealie Girl said stoutly, “It’s not a toy, pinhead, and I want your purses.”

  “You are too little to be a criminal,” Udo retorted. I elbowed him in the ribs, hard. If there is one thing I don’t need Nini Mo to teach me, it’s that you shouldn’t be uppity to people with guns. Even if those people look about ten.

  “Come on, Flora, let’s go.” Udo made a move to continue on, but I grabbed his sleeve. The Stealie Girl meant business; I could see it in her narrow eyes.

  Though we were standing in full view, with wagons jolting along in the street and people passing along the boardwalk, no one seemed the slightest bit concerned by our situation. Probably two greenhorns getting jacked was a common sight South of the Slot.