Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo (3 page)

“Pigface, I hope this is good news. I deserve some,” Buck said, putting down her cup. The pigeon extended one dainty pink foot and she unclipped the message cylinder from it, withdrawing the tiny message roll. I hoped for good news, too, but all the news I would consider good (that Lord Axacaya was dead, that the Birdies were withdrawing from Califa, that Udo had broken up with the Zu-Zu) was pretty unlikely.

“Pigface!” Buck said. “Hotspur’s stuck across the Bay He won’t make it back until tomorrow morning. And I have to go to the Pirates’ Parade party at Saeta House. You’ll have to sit with Pow tonight.”

“But I have plans, remember?” I said desperately. It had to be tonight.

“I’m sorry, Flora, but I can’t take Pow with me. You’ll have to watch him. I’ll try not to be too late.”

“I haven’t had a full night off in weeks. Lieutenant Sabre authorized my leave and you endorsed his authorization.”

“I’m sorry, Flora. Someone has to watch the Tiny Man.”

Buck has lots of nicknames for Pow: Powser, Powie, Chubblet, and Scratchy, but Tiny Man is her favorite. Buck has nicknames for Poppy and my sister Idden both (Glorious Boy and Pudgie). She even has even a nickname for Lieutenant Sabre. But she never calls me anything but Flora.

“Can’t Lieutenant Sabre do it? I’ve been looking forward to the show forever,” I pleaded. “It’s Udo’s big debut.”

“Lieutenant Sabre has gone on sick leave. He’s got the ague, so I sent him home. Besides, I thought you and Udo were no longer friends.”

“We made up,” I lied hastily. “Can’t you take Pow with you? He went with you to lunch with the Mayor of Millos last week.”

Buck switched from mother to commanding general. “I don’t understand why you are arguing with me, Lieutenant. Shall I make it an order?”

I could play this game, too. “The Articles of War, section twelve, paragraph fifty-two, forbid any superior officer from asking a subordinate to do personal work.”

“Why don’t you prefer charges against me, then,
Lieutenant
?” Buck said. At her tone, Pow burst into a frightened howl. Sighing heavily Buck scooped him up and over her shoulder, where he began to gum her shoulder board. “Can’t you just help me out, Flora? Please?”

A nasty Gramatica Word was making my blood tingle, my head pound. “I don’t see how I have a choice.”

Buck bounced Pow and kissed his head, making hushy noises. “You don’t. But you could be gracious about it. I count on you, Flora. You are the only person I can rely on. You are all I’ve got. Also, can you file this letter before you leave? It got mixed up in my mail this morning.”

My jaw clenched tight enough to bite silver, I took the letter from her. If I was all that Buck had, she was in sorry shape indeed.

And now, so was I.

I
WALKED BACK
to my quarters, depressed and furious. I had to do the Working tonight, when the Current was at full flood and I could hide amid all the other magickal noise. It would be a full year before the Current was this high again. I couldn’t wait that long.

Where there's a Will
, Nini Mo said,
there's a way
. I had the Will, and while I was changing out of my dress uniform into my civvies, I thought of a way.

When I got to the Commanding Officer’s Quarters, Buck was waiting impatiently, a soggy Pow wailing in his pen. She kissed him, saluted me, and disappeared into her carriage in a flurry of black skirts and flapping wig. As soon as the carriage was gone, I changed Pow’s diaper, bundled him into his sleepy-suit, and stuffed him into his cradleboard. Five minutes after that, we were on our way to the stables.

Buck had ordered me to watch Pow, but she hadn’t said a thing about where that watching should take place.

The night was clear and chill, and despite the hour, there was a lot of activity on the post. The barracks buildings on the north side of the parade ground blazed with light; in addition to the party at the Social Club, each of the regiments was hosting its own Pirates’ Parade party The sidewalks were thick with soldiers, making their way from one punch bowl to the next. The guardhouse was going to be very full in the morning.

At the stables, a private sat in the tack room, reading the
CPG
and splashing tobacco juice haphazardly into a grain bucket. Sieur Caballo leaned over his stall door and huffed reproachfully After the rousted private saddled Sieur Caballo, I strapped the cradleboard securely to the saddle and we set off. At the Lobos Gate, the guards waved jauntily and bent down to fawn over Flynn, but they didn’t ask where I was going or if I had a pass or remind me to be back before curfew. Oh, the privileges of rank.

Flynn darting ahead like a furry hummingbird, I rode down the Battery Road, the soggy corduroy drumming beneath Sieur Caballo’s feet. Above, the stars were washed out by a brilliant full moon. As we crested Bannock Hill, I could see, to the east, the lights of Lone Pine Hospital. To the south, a bright blue star burned high above the dark swell of the Pacifica Ocean: Bilskinir House, seat of the Haðraaða family, my true home. Of the six great houses in the City, Bilskinir is the greatest. Its Butler, Paimon, is the most powerful denizen in Califa. As the last living Haðraaða, I’m the Head of the House and Paimon is
my
Butler, subject to
my
Will. Yet I dared not go near it or him. If the Birdies saw me there and guessed why ... The thought made my blood curdle.

I turned Sieur Caballo onto Bannock Ridge Road, and we rode past the post cemetery. Though we were now outside the Presidio wall, we were still technically within the military reservation; the cemetery had been located well away from the main post for health reasons. In the bright moonlight, the small white headstones glowed like a long line of regimented ghosts. How nice it would be to someday lie among the peaceful dead, quiet and still. Forlorn hope. When I died, I would lie in the Antechamber of Eternity at Bilskinir House with the other chatty Haðraaða dead, my Anima added to the engine that keeps Paimon going. I’d be as much a slave in death as I was in life.
That day, that sorrow
, said Nini Mo. I didn’t aim to die for a long, long time.

As we passed the cemetery gates, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye; when I turned to look back, the cemetery was full of ghost lights. The Current was rising and the line between the Waking World and Elsewhere was blurring. I put a heel to Sieur Caballo’s side and hurried him up. Not all ghosts are harmless.

At the Califa’s Grotto trailhead, I drew Sieur Caballo to a halt. The path to the Grotto goes through a tangle of live oaks too thick to take a horse through, so I dismounted. Lulled by Sieur Caballo’s gentle amble, Pow had fallen asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I unhitched the cradleboard from the saddle and slung it over my shoulders, then shoved my dispatch case under my arm. I left Sieur Caballo ripping at some bushes and headed down the trail. Thanks to the recent rains, the mulchy path was wet and sucking, clogged with debris, broken sticks, and wet clumps of leaves. I had to go slowly, each slip sparking a sick fear of falling and dumping Pow into the mud. Flynn had already disappeared into the darkness ahead of me, even though I kept whistling for him to wait up. Coyotes lived in these woods, and while Flynnie was probably a bit scrawny for their taste, why chance it?

The trees closed in overhead and blotted out the moonlight. Ankle deep in mud, I stopped, took a deep breath to quell my jittery tum, and conjured up an ignis light. The pink glow was dim, but it was enough to show me where to put my feet. I was glad I had remembered to put the hood on the cradleboard and had swaddled Pow up extra tight. He should be nice and dry. Now he wiggled a bit and squeaked once, but when I jiggled back and forth, he quieted.

Ahead, Snapperdog stood in a suck of mud. He waited, bogged down, tail wagging anxiously, until I reached him and wrenched him free, and then carried him in front of me until we were out of the worst of it. Once, the combined weight of Pow and Flynn would have seemed pretty heavy, but after six months of marching around with a forty-pound pack, the load seemed like nothing. A forty-pound pack doesn’t lick your ear, though, or give out occasional sleepy snorts.

After what seemed like a very long slog, I saw flickering lights ahead. Fike! I had hoped that the wet, combined with the festivities elsewhere, would ensure I had the shrine to myself. My Working required privacy. I extinguished my ignis light, but when I reached the edge of the glade, I saw that it was empty and completely underwater. The spring had overflowed its catch basin and turned the clearing into a small lake, a round stillness pinpricked with stars like eggshell candle boats. The smell of apple tobacco and rose incense mingled with the odor of wet mud and moldering leaves.

This serene image was ruined when Flynn flung himself forward with a splash. The water wasn’t deep, so, thanking the Goddess that my boots were waterproofed, I followed him. Long ago, this spring had been the City’s water source—and its source of Current. Back then, the City had a Governor, a praterhuman guardian, somewhat like a denizen only much more powerful, and the spring was the locus of the Governor’s power. No one has seen the Governor in a long time, and she is forgotten in all but name—Califa, of course—but the spring and the Current remain.

The spring has been channeled into a fountain; in the center of the catch basin, a marble statue of Califa stands on a plinth. The statue shows the Goddess as a hunter, a sturdy woman dressed in buckskin with a rifle slung over her shoulder, a powder horn clipped to her belt, and a limp marble fox dangling from her outstretched hand. A hound dog crouches at her feet, looking up at her with a panting grin. Of all the shrines to the Goddess, this one has long been the most neglected, due to its remoteness to the City.

But in the last few months, Califa’s Grotto had become less obscure. The statue had been altered with paint and ribbands, the white marble hair stained red, the blank marble eyes colored deep blue, scars painted on the white marble cheeks. A shocking pink ribband fluttered from the end of the white marble rifle, and the limp fox hanging in her grip was splattered with black and gold spots, jaguarlike, adorned with gold and jade-green ribbands: Birdie colors. The dog had been painted the same red hue as the statue’s hair. On the bottom of the plinth, someone had splashed white paint over the inscription
CALIFA
and written in red
AZOTA
.

The statue had become a shrine to my dear supposedly dead mamma, now called by her admirers Azota the Whip. The candles that flickered in the darkness were offerings to her, and so were the garlands of flowers hanging from the bushes surrounding the Grotto. I had never seen anyone else at the Grotto, but clearly the statue got many visitors, bearing with them many gifts, for the plinth was covered with things: a box of candies, a bottle of gin, a small silver ukulele, a clay statue of a rabbit, several gilt bells, one silver engraved spur, and tiny redheaded clothespin dolls.

I waded over to a low-hanging branch and hung up Pow’s cradleboard, then checked to make sure he was dry and sleeping—yes to both. After unpacking the equipment I needed for the Working, I hung my dispatch case next to him. A small picnic table stood, islandlike, beside the catch basin. It, too, was covered with offerings: a halfeaten chicken (now, that’s a cheap offering!), more pillar candles, a furry coat, and a pair of black boots. I pushed this stuff aside to make room for my Working and lay the equipment out.

The water in the catch basin felt warm and oily My finger, as it curved across the surface, left behind a faint pink trace: the Current. The pinkness swirled in the darkness but did not dissolve. The Current wouldn’t crest for another twenty minutes or so. Pow was still sleeping peacefully, so I clambered up onto the rim of the catch basin, grabbing at one of the stone dog’s legs and pulling myself up. I hung there for a moment, balancing on my tum, and then I pushed my feet against the side of the plinth and hauled myself up the last little way.

The plinth was narrow, but carefully I managed to inch myself into a standing position, keeping a firm grip on the statue until I was standing face-to-face with her. The marble was chilly and slightly damp. But when I closed my eyes, I could pretend for a second or two that the figure I clung to was warm, was real.

I tried to conjure up some memory of Tiny Doom. Once, I’d met her in Bilskinir’s past; then she’d been young, like me, and sour, but also fearless and loyal. But that wasn’t what I wanted to remember. Once, I had been a baby and she had held me, rocked me, and kissed me. Surely, deep in the recesses of my mind, I must remember that. But no matter how hard I tried, I did not.

And no matter how hard I tried to pretend the cold marble was warm flesh, it remained icy beneath my cheek.

Still, I clung to the statue, waiting for the Current to crest, and then, despite myself, I found my mind drifting away from the Working and toward the last person in the world I wanted to waste a thought on: Udo Landaðon, my former best friend. On the other side of the City, he was gallivanting across a stage, being adored by his fans—and by the Zu-Zu, the Warlord’s horrific granddaughter. Well, fike him. He’d made the wrong choice and someday he would realize it. Let him play at his fun, play at being a singer, play at being a courtier. I had work to do.

Below me, thick curls of coldfire fog were beginning to wisp up from the surface of the pool. Time to focus.

I swung down from the statue, filled my silver collapsible cup with icy-cold Current, and waded over to the picnic table. Pow made a hiccupy snore but stayed asleep. Spreading the map out on the table, I anchored the corners with four of the offering candles. I had stolen the map from the CGO; it was the largest map of the world I could find. On top of the map, I lay the Statement of Intent that outlined my goals for the Working. Then I took a deep, calming breath, to quell the nervous flutter in my stomach. I closed my eyes and lifted the silver cup of spring water, which glowed an unearthly pink. The cup was as cold as ice, and when I placed the rim against my lips, the metal stuck to my skin, burning.