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

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  I slid on my boots and put my greatcoat over my nightgown. As I went across the front hall, I heard the squeaky sounds of heavy footsteps coming up the steps and across the porch. Though the entry window, I caught a glimpse of dark red, but when I opened the door, the porch was empty A heavy smell of roses lingered in the air. The dæmon didn’t like the fresh air or the smell of roses, for the pounding in my skull began to ease.

  “You are up late,” Poppy said when I caught up with him in front of the Visiting Officers’ Quarters. “Or up early. Which is it?”

  “Both, I guess.” I fell into step with him. “At first I couldn’t sleep. I finally did, but then I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

  “Insomnia runs in the family. That’s why we are out here, too,” Poppy said as he lifted one side of his greatcoat, displaying Pow nestled in a sling underneath. “He woke up and wouldn’t stop crying, even after Buck fed him. I think he might be teething, poor soul. I’ve been walking up and down Officers’ Row for the last two hours. Every time I stop he starts up again. I am getting my exercise. Ah, well, I don’t sleep much myself anymore, so it’s all right.”

  I wondered guiltily if the wer-bear had anything to do with Pow’s crying. Surely he was too young to know the danger he had been in, wasn’t he? He probably just had a bad tummy from too much blueberry mush, that’s all.

  I changed the subject. “I thought you were across the Bay and couldn’t get back tonight.”

  “I was, and I thought so, too, but then I hitched a ride with a produce schooner, and so here I am. I picked up some really good tomatoes and a couple pounds of lettuce. I’ll make a nice salad for lunch.”

  Since Poppy had sobered up, he seemed almost ordinary. He’d been letting his hair grow, and now the ends brushed the tops of his shoulders, almost long enough for a queue. This was a great improvement over the razor-short cut he’d had before, which had made his head look skull-like; now his hair, a foxlike silvery red, softened his face. Now that he no longer traced the Alacrán scars on his cheeks with black paint, they were almost invisible. After Pow was born, he’d cut back on smoking and started eating more, so he no longer looked emaciated. People don’t cross to the other side of the street when they see him coming now. But he is still dangerous.

  “What were you doing in the East Bay?” I asked.

  “Meeting Idden,” Poppy said. “She says to tell you ave.”

  Sourness twanged inside me. My sister had always done exactly what she was supposed to—went to the Barracks, went into the Army, got mentioned in reports—until, out of nowhere, she deserted and joined Firemonkey and his crew of radical chaoists. Now she sneaks around painting slogans and trying to incite violence against the Birdies. This doesn’t accomplish much, but I guess it’s fun.

  “Is she coming back to the City?” A couple of weeks ago, Firemonkey had distributed a joke book in which the Birdie Ambassador was always the punch line. The police caught up with the printer, who, under questioning, admitted he knew where his clients lived (sloppy!), and Firemonkey and his crew, Idden included, had left the City one step ahead of the law.

  “No. They are still lying low. Anyway, never you mind about that. So tell me what’s going on at the office these days. Anything interesting?”

  “No.” I gave him a rundown on the latest in paperwork and meetings. Poppy had asked me to keep him apprised of everything that went on in Buck’s office, and so I do. But I don’t know what he does with any of the information I give him. As far as I can tell—nothing.

  When I was done reporting, he said, “Listen, have you seen any special couriers at HQ recently?”

  “No, why?”

  We reached the end of Officers’ Row and turned around, stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk to avoid being run over by the milk wagon. A small girl on a pony rode by, whizzing a newspaper over our heads. The darkness was beginning to fade, and so, too, the still of night, as the birds began to sing. Reveille was not far off.

  “I heard a rumor that an express agent was in town, and that he had a delivery for Buck.”

  “An express agent? You mean like an estafette?”

  “No, I mean a secret agent for the Pacifica Mail and Freight Company”

  “I didn’t know that the Pacifica Mail had secret agents. I thought they just delivered packages and stuff, mail and freight.”

  “Exactly, and some of the things they transport require absolute secrecy. Express agents are very reliable and very discreet, highly trained. Sneaky as fike, and expensive. But trustworthy and completely nonpartisan. They’ll deliver anything anywhere, for a price. Not many people know about them. They like to keep their services private.”

  “How come you do?”

  “Because that’s how I got back to Califa after the war. Buck hired an express agent to bring me out of Birdieland. As I said, they deliver things that require discretion.”

  Well, now, this was interesting. I glanced up at Poppy’s face. It did not invite further inquiry He never talks about his time in the Birdie prison, when he was tortured and when Flora Primera, just a little kid, was taken from him, never to be seen again. For years, Poppy buried those memories in drink. Now he’s sober, but he still never talks about that time.

  The loss of Flora Primera remains our great family tragedy I never knew her, of course, and I have never heard Buck speak her name, but Idden has told me all about Flora’s glories. She was golden-haired and cute as a shiny diva. I might be named after her, Flora Segunda, but I am neither golden-haired nor cute. I know that when Buck and Poppy look at me, they see second best.

  Squeaks came from inside Poppy’s greatcoat. He jiggled up and down and the squeaks subsided. We reached the other end of Officers’ Row. A truck was parked by the Convalescent Home, and an orderly was loading bundles of laundry into its wagon bed. He paused to salute us. We saluted back, then turned around.

  So I said, “I haven’t seen any secret couriers. Or any couriers at all. Nothing out of the ordinary, or I would have told you.”

  “Hmmm,” Poppy said. “Any correspondence from Arivaipa?”

  Arivaipa is one of Califa’s territories. It’s a miserable desert, hotter than the dæmon Choronzon’s temper, full of wild tribes and outlaws. But it acts as a buffer between Califa and the Huitzil Empire, which is why, I guess, the Warlord went to the trouble of conquering it.

  I remembered the letter Buck had given me to file, the one she said had been mixed in with her mail. “There was a letter yesterday, from some fort in Arivaipa requesting an extra detail of soldiers to help deal with a chupacabra. Fort Sandy, I think it was.”

  “Good luck to them,” Poppy said. “Chupacabras are pretty nasty. I saw one once, when I was stationed at Fort Mohave. Even dead it was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, like a coyote crossed with a lamprey. Those teeth! It caught the son of our chief of scouts, sucked his flesh and bones right out of his skin, left him looking like an empty balloon—” He broke off his description and jiggled Pow. “Anyway, it was nasty”

  “Well, that’s all I’ve seen, other than monthly reports. If you told me what I was looking for, I’d probably be able to find it easier.”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Poppy said. “And even if I did, it’s better you didn’t. Maintain deniability.”

  “You can trust me, you know, Poppy.”

  “I know I can, Flora, but it’s for your own good. I hated when people used to tell me that, and here I am telling you. I’m sorry. You’ve been a real trooper, honey. I know it’s terribly hard to sit and stew like this, to feel powerless. But it won’t be forever, I promise you that.”

  “The Infanta will be here in just a few weeks. She’s been totally Birdie-ized. When she’s in charge, it will be too late. The Birdie grip will be too tight. That sounds like forever to me. And Buck isn’t doing anything,” I complained.

  “There’s nothing she can do, Flora.”

  “There is! The Army would follow her—” I kept my voice low, but he c
ut me off.

  “Shush!” Poppy said, looking about. “Don’t say such things, not where anyone can hear them, not even me. And anyway, it takes more than just that. Your mother is doing the best she can—”

  “She’s not—”

  “Shush!” he said again. “Ears. Walls.”

  “There are no walls here, Poppy,” I said. “And no place for anyone to loiter.”

  “You never can tell,” he said. “No more of that, Flora. Please trust me.” He was almost pleading, and guilt panged me again.

  “I’m sorry, Poppy”

  “It’s the hardest thing in the world to do, I think,” he said sadly.

  “What is?”

  “To wait. I’ve done a lot of hard things in my time, but waiting was the worst. It makes you feel powerless and hopeless. I waited once for two years, and those two years seemed like an eternity. I think a little part of me is waiting still. Will wait forever.”

  I knew he was referring to the two years he’d spent with the Birdies, not sure if they would kill him or release him. Guilt changed to shame. I might be waiting, but I was hardly powerless or hopeless. Nor was I waiting to see if I would live or die, wondering if I would ever see my family or my home again. What did I have to complain about?

  “I’m proud of you, you know,” Poppy said. “You are being a real trooper. Waiting without a complaint. No whining.”

  The shame grew. If only Poppy knew how much of a whiner I was inside. I changed the subject before I started bawling.

  “Poppy, have you ever met a skinwalker?”

  “Back in the day, ayah, but recently, of course not. No skinwalker would dare show his face anywhere the Birdies might see him. They do not look kindly on those who usurp their gods’ powers. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just reading a Nini Mo beedle and I wondered.”

  Again we reached the end of Officers’ Row. Now there were signs of life on the parade ground. At the northern end, a troop was forming up, horses jostling into ranks while a mounted sergeant rode along the line, shouting. Some captain trying to get extra practice in before the Grand Review. The sky was mostly light now, with just the western horizon still dark and star-studded. Soon the honor guard would march out to raise the colors; the post bugler would sound Reveille and another day would begin.

  Another day, and my goal was clear. I had to find that wer-bear and get my map back.

  FIVE

  On Duty. Sylphs. A Lucky Encounter.

  I HATE ACCOMPANYING Buck to official functions. You stand around for hours, feet throbbing, while Buck hobnobs with bigwigs and notables who don’t pay the slightest bit of attention to you because you are just some lowly aide. Delicious food is served, but you don’t get any. Ice-cold drinks are quaffed, while you perish with thirst. By the end of the evening, you are bored, hungry, thirsty, and your feet hurt.

  But there is one thing worse than accompanying Buck to official functions: going alone.

  Then you are the one on display, representing your country and your Army, trying to be witty and polite and well-mannered. Trying not to spill wine on your gloves, whack someone with your saber scabbard, or knock your wig crooked. If you do any of these things as an aide, no one notices. If you are the official representative, they notice. Oh, do they notice.

  In my mind, the Zu-Zu’s birthday party hardly qualified as an official function. Who cares if she’s the Warlord’s granddaughter, the Warlord’s only granddaughter? She’s a skinny stuck-up arrogant stick. If left to my own desires, I wouldn’t have gone to her birthday party if she had begged me on her knees to attend. Not that that would ever happen, since she likes me even less than I like her.

  But I didn’t have any choice. The invitation had been official, addressed to me as an officer in the Army of Califa, not as a private citizen, and so it wasn’t so much an invitation as an order. You are going, Buck told me. Answer yes politely and enthusiastically, and be there bell-sharp, and do your commanding officer — me!—proud.

  So that’s how, three days after Pirates’ Parade, I found myself emerging from Buck’s carriage in front of Saeta House, ready to do my commanding officer proud. I was bell-sharp, but I was not enthusiastic. In fact, I was in a pretty foul mood. I had made no inroads into finding Sieur Wer-bear. Not because I hadn’t tried. Oh, I had tried every avenue I could think of.

  I had checked the Officer of the Day register to see if anyone had reported any sightings of a particularly large hairy animal, i.e., a bear, but no one had. I had asked Private Hargrave if he’d heard of any recent bear sightings; he is an incurable gossip and knows everything that happens on the post. He hadn’t heard a thing.

  I’d sent fake official-sounding inquiries regarding wild animal sightings in the City to both the Califa Police Department and the Califa Game Warden. They had reports of skunks, possums, coyotes, a great white shark, an eight-point buck, and an alligator, but no bears. I checked all the newspapers, even the Warlord’s Wear Daily and A Child’s Own Newsie. Nothing.

  Sieur Wer-bear was remarkably—and annoyingly—discreet.

  I’d even returned to the Grotto during a lunch break to see if the wer-bear had left any clues behind. I found more offerings to Azota, but nothing at all to indicate the recent presence of a bear. The water had receded from the glade, leaving a churn of mud, but no obvious bear tracks.

  Maybe he was already gone from the City, taking my map with him.

  That was too depressing to contemplate. He was in the City and I would find him. Flynn’s not much of a tracker, but maybe I could borrow Sergeant Carheña’s beagle, take her back to the Grotto, and see what she could sniff out. She’s won Best Scent Hound in Califa three years in a row. It was worth a try.

  But first I had to give the Zu-Zu honor that she didn’t deserve. As I stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the palace’s portico, trying to gather the enthusiasm to trudge upward, a gaggle of green-faced ghouls wafted by me, followed by the Man in Pink Bloomers arm-in-arm with a person in a furry cat suit crusted with fake blood. The Zu-Zu’s birthday party was a fancy-dress affair, with guests requested (ordered) to come as someone or something dead. (The Zu-Zu is very into doom and gloom.) My carriage had already rumbled away, and another vehicle now took its place: a huge black coach with the arms of the Huitzil Empire on its side, drawn by four heavy black horses and escorted by two more.

  As the coach’s outriders dismounted, I stepped back into the shadow of one of the shark statues that framed the base of the steps. The outriders wore Birdie Army uniforms: dark green kilts and capes made of blue and gold feathers, gleaming iridescently in the torch light, their faces covered with leather masks. Another figure was climbing down from the guard’s seat on the back of the coach: a Quetzal, half eagle, half human, all horrible creepiness. I shrank back further. Last year I’d accidentally killed a Quetzal; I didn’t know if the others would hold a grudge against me, and I didn’t really didn’t want to find out.

  While one officer held the horses, the other flipped down the coach’s steps and opened the door. Out stepped the Birdie Ambassador. The torch light flickering off the smoothness of his mask made the jade features seem briefly animated: lips curling, eyes blinking.

  The Birdie Ambassador is a Flayed Priest; having long ago given up his own skin to his Hummingbird god, he now wears the skins of the poor snapperheads he forces to make the same sacrifice. Unlike the Ambassador, these poor people don’t survive their stripping. Tonight, no sign of a borrowed skin was visible; he was swathed cap-á pied in a cloak made of black feathers, the cape furled so tightly around his body that he looked cocooned.

  The Ambassador went up the stairs with small delicate steps, the Quetzal following close behind. Even after the Ambassador disappeared through the portico, I stayed in the shadows and contemplated scarpering. Surely the Zu-Zu wouldn’t care if I showed or not. But if someone else noticed I was missing and that got back to Buck, I’d really be in deep. A demerit, maybe even charges. Best go, make an appea
rance, be tiny and insignificant and then leave. No one said I had to stay long, just that I had to show up.

  At the top of the stairs, the portico was draped with funeral wreaths, white lilies woven with black ribbands. A smoldering burner of funeral incense sent up clouds of stenchy smoke. I followed a line of red luminaries away from Saeta House’s main entrance and down a narrow covered walkway. I seemed to be the last to arrive; there was no one behind me. The walkway wandered through a garden filled with skeletal trees and dead rosebushes. Cackling shadows wheeled overhead, blotting out the cloudy sky The air smelled like overblown roses and rotting meat. Ahead, a small marble building gleamed in the moonlight. The heavy iron door to the crypt was ajar.

  Sighing heavily, I squeezed inside and found myself in a dark, narrow room lined with shelves full of marble jars: not a crypt, a columbarium. At the far end, light flickered. Sighing even more heavily, I followed the light down a flight of worn stone stairs, terminating at a small dock jutting over a rushing stream. Furfur, Saeta House’s denizen, stood morosely on the dock, holding up an ignis light. A small boat was tied to the dock, bobbing in the swift black water.

  “Do you wish to pay homage to enter the realm of the dead?” he shouted over the roar of the water.

  Not really, I thought, but I answered, “I do, sieur.” I flung my hell-diva at him. He caught the coin and said dolefully, “Then embark.”

  I looked at that tiny boat floating on water as slick and black as oil and suddenly wished I had scarpered. If Furfur hadn’t been watching, I might have turned and gone back—but that would be silly After kakodæmons, ghouls, and all the other horrible things that had tried to kill or eat me before, what the fike was a little boat ride?

  There’s no way out but through, Nini Mo said. Resigned to the fact that I was going to get wet, I took Furfur’s damp hand and stepped down into the boat.

  “Where will it take me?” I asked. The boat jumped and jiggled, and I sat down quickly before I fell into the drink.