Shaman (47 page)

“The Fiche,” I say and approach that Relic with reverence, genuflecting before her. “Fiche,” I say, “maps and aerials. North of the Slot.”

“Specify,” Fiche responds in her tinny voice, “Define ‘slot.'”

I forget sometimes how literal The Fiche is. “Embarcadero. North of the Bayshore. Include the Richmond, north of the Farm.”

“Specify ‘farm.'”

Fiche, being an antiquity, tends to think like one except where the Knowledge Maintenance Team has changed her programming. She uses the pre-Getting Out names for just about everything. A good merlin has to be steeped in local history.

“Golden Gate Park,” I say.

Fiche's flat faceplate displays a map. On it, I locate the Regency Palace, the Summer Palace and the Grace. Firescape stands at my shoulder though Fiche's screen is broad and could be seen from further back. I take this as a sign that my love incantations are working.

“Outline these locations,” I say, trying not to tremble. I poke my finger at the screen, touching the two palaces and the
dios
house. After a moment of thought, I add the Virgin, another huge place of worship buried in the Richmond, and the Tin Hau, a
dios
house behind the Gee Gah. The spots are circled in five bright colors.

I study the avenues of access, feeling Firescape's breath soft on my cheek. This makes it hard to concentrate, but I see what I need to see. I clear my throat.

“It seems to me that the Regency Palace is already the safest place for Hermajesty. I see no reason to move her.”

“But it's so close to the Border.”

“And the Border is fortified and guarded.”

Firescape is unsure. “The Tin Hau would be hardest to get to. No wilds, no down-looks, no tunnels... But, the Virgin is built like a keep. I vote for the Virgin.”

I glance at her, chill. “May I remind you that it was a Potrero knightie in Virgin's clothing that the Tree revealed to me this morning?”

She is abashed and I feel guilty for pulling rank.

“Summer Palace, then," she suggests.

I look at the whole picture again. Part of me wants to agree with Firescape. Forge a bond. Be on the same uplink. But deep down in my soul I feel it is wrong to move Hermajesty at all, though I'm not sure why.

“I must cast the runes,” I say and back we go to the Palace, pausing just outside the doors of the Wiz to genuflect.

It isn't far from the Wiz to the Palace — a bunch of blocks on Columbus is all. We are back again in notime to find the Majesties waiting for us.

Scrawl waits too, Face-O-Doom. I wonder if the Wiz has a spell to get rid of Scrawl. Then I pinch myself for this unworthy thought.

“Well, merlin,” says Hismajesty, “where do we relocate?”

“I must cast the runes,” I say.

Scrawl snorts.

“You must cast the runes,” repeats Squire. “You always gotta do something. You consult the Wiz, you gotta to cast the runes; you cast the runes, you gotta talk to the Tree.”

His M is nodding in agreement. “This is my queen's fate we're chewin' on, merlin. Don't you have any revelations?”

“I do,” I say, wondering what they are. I realize something new has happened. Something that's got Scrawl all smug and Squire and Hismajesty all twigged.

“Tell me,” His M demands. “Tell me your revelations.”

“It is revealed to me by the Wiz that the Regency Palace is the most defensible place for Hermajesty to be kept. I feel it would be unwise to relocate.”

Hermajesty, juggling her youngest princess on her knee, is pleased. “Good. I don't wanna move. I like it here. The beds are soft.”

Firescape gives me a strange glance, then steps forward. “Majesty, I must disagree with the noble merlin. I believe we should move the Royal Family to the Summer Palace.”

Hermajesty's face screws up prettily. “But it's
not
summer! There's fog every morning and the Summer Palace is so friggin'
cold
. And the beds are hard and the rooms are too big and echoey.”

I forget sometimes that for all Ampam has been Hermajesty for three years (with a prince and two princesses to show for it), she is no more than a child, herself — even at sixteen. This outburst reminds me. I think of her in the hands of the Alcaldé of Potrero-Taraval — a man with a bad rep when it comes to his ladies' lifespans — and my hot Hispanic blood runs deepfreeze. She'd be joining his other lordettes singing with the Ohlone
dolores
in no appreciable time.

My face must show fear, for Scrawl looks smugger'n ever.

“So,” she says, cackle-voiced. “So, you think this is a safe place for Her M, huh? Let me show you the runes
I
been reading, Taco Face.”

She and Squire take me and Firescape out of the Palace and along the pavement to its southeast flank, where there is a shaded overhang. There, she strikes a grand pose — wrath of God stuff, like a beard-free Moses. I expect lightning to drip from her finger.

There's no lightning, but might as well be. Our knightie night visitors have left a message beneath the overhang on the haunch of our Majesties' home. It is a semi-cubist mural showing, in vivid detail, what Lord E Lordy plans for our queen. Up to and including a one way trip into China Basin if she doesn't plop forth an heir. The artist has a bold sense of color and a flair for the dramatic.

I can almost hear Firescape's hair standing up on her head. “Has Hermajesty seen this?”

“Are you kidding?” snorts Squire. “We'd have to peel her off the sidewalk. His M wanted you to see it before we paint it out. Thought it might help to clarify the situation.”

I hackle. Squire is a spiky so-and-so at the best of times. Now, he's just plain offensive.

“The situation is clear, thank you. But I feel moving the Royal Family is...well, not a good move,” I finish, lame. “I am the King's merlin, after all. Gut calls are what I do. They're the tools of my trade.”

Scrawl snorts again and pokes a crooky thumb at the mural. “When those damn smeagols got the time to paint a whole friggin' peep show on the backside of Hismajesty's roost, your gut calls ain't worth squiddle. Firescape's got the idea. Move the royal family to the Presidio. And quick, before our artists strike again. Maybe paint a love note on Her M's door while they's dragging her to doom city.”

Squire is nodding and Firescape is looking at me, sad-eyes. I'm going to lose this one. Firescape's mind is made up and His M listens to Firescape more than just about anybody.

oOo

That night I cast the runes in my workshop. I've just emptied the can when Firescape shows up at my door. For once, the Magic Weapon is nowhere in sight.

She doesn't say anything, at first, just looks at me, and I get nervous.

“I'm casting runes,” I say, as if that isn't clear as bluesky, and when she hesitates, I crook my finger at her.

She comes in, and my merlin robe is suddenly too warm. I strip down to my shirt and jeans and feel no cooler. I clear my throat.

“I'm sorry, Del,” she says, before I can say something dumb and nervous.

I'm surprised. “For what?”

“For siding with Scrawl and Squire.”

“You didn't side with them. It was your idea to move Her M. They sided with you.”

My intention is to make her feel better. I have the opposite effect; her pretty mouth droops further at its perfect corners.

“I'm very sorry, Del. I...I really thought it was a better place...tactically, I mean. It's a ways from the Border....” Her voice gives up.

“I was just tagging a hunch,” I say. “I got nothing to back it up, really.”

She glances over my shoulder. “What do the runes say?”

“Not a whole lot....” I begin, looking at them — buttons and bottle caps and chips of glass. There's even a sea shell or two and a seagull beak. Looks like a little orange pincers. The peach pit is back again. And now there are some little tacks or nails in there too.

This makes me a little testy — I would surely like to know who keeps tossing trash into my rune can. A merlin's rune can is sacred — no place to be depositing junk. I pick out the tacks, chuck the pit, and give my full attention to the runes.

My eyes go suddenly wonky.

Pincers
.
What the hell does that mean?

They're clamped around a splinter of driftwood. The Whisperers are screaming at me to
get it
. I shake my head. I
don't
get it. Some merlin I am.

“I gotta talk to the Tree,” I say, and start to turn, but Firescape's hand is on my arm — on my bare arm — and lava is bubbling somewhere down below. I can feel it.

“Do you really think it's not good to move Her M? You feel that, deep?” Her eyes are like chocolates sprinkled with gold dust.

I feel
something
deep. I nod.

“Then I'll back you with Hismajesty. We can defend the Regency... I trust you,” she adds.

“How old are you, Firescape?” I ask.

She frowns. “Old enough,” she says, and pulls herself up as tall as she can and gives me this LOOK. "I'm sixteen — according to Wiz time.”

Sixteen. Sixteen and not married and no children. A career woman.

“So,” I say, “you figure to quit the Service someday and settle down to have Flannigans?”

Her tilted eyes slip sidewise to the windows and she toes the carpet and shrugs. “Why settle down? Sure, I'd have to take leave while I was...you know.” She puts her hands out around an invisible belly. “But I could do both...with the right dude...” She shrugs again and her eyes slide back over and kind of bump into mine.

I have no idea, at this point, what my face is doing, so I compose my features and nod sagely.

“Don't you think?” she adds.

“Sounds good to me,” I improvise. “I'd want you to be careful, though. If it was me. If the
dude
was me, I mean.”

Lame, Taco. Really lame.

She takes a step closer, the frown coming back. I can smell her shampoo — jasmine.

“Yeah? How careful?”

I lick my lips, which are suddenly
muy
dry. “Well, no hazardous duty. You gotta think of all the little Flannigans, right?”

She's right in my face now — her head tilted back so her chin almost meets mine. The frown sort of melts, but she looks sort of...puzzled. “All the little Flannigans,” she repeats, and I think those are the sexiest words I've ever heard in my life.

Our lips are nearly touching and I'm counting Flannigans when someone pounds on the door. We part company. Someone turns out to be Cinderblock, looking for her General, Firescape's magic AK in hand. Duty calls, and all I end up with is a sad chocolate-gold glance as Firescape slips out of my room.

I return to the runes. Bird beaks and driftwood. What the hell does that mean?

I talk to the Tree. I try being all formal, at first, but soon, Doug gets to me, and I'm caressing his boughs and pouring out my feelings for Firescape.

Doug understands. He gives me the idea that I need to make a love potion for Firescape. Like most of my ideas, this one comes to me in his perfume. By morning, with his blessing, I have made an attar of fir for Firescape, which I hope will do more than just smell good on her.

Copyright © 2010 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

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