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

  “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” Sieur Wraathmyr hollered from the path.

  Flynn left off sniffing at Hardhands’s bloody white feet and scrambled back up toward the trail.

  “I’m coming—” I hollered back. Then, to Hardhands, “Look, I appreciate what you did for me, I really do. But the last thing I need is a bloody corpse following me around.”

  The ghost was unimpressed. “Don’t try to teach me bitchy, Almost Daughter. I am the king of bitch. After your impetuous actions of last night, it is abundantly clear that you do need my help. Ah, the Fyrdraaca temper! Also, look, that scrying the other day”

  The horrible green eye in my mirror. I remembered with a shudder.

  “What about it? Did you find out who it was?”

  “No, I’m still working on it; my sources are rusty But look, someone’s looking for you, and it’s best they not find you. I’m not sure if it’s the magick they smell or the Haðraaða or both, being as they are somewhat linked together. You’d better cut with the magick. Swallow those Words down, no matter how they burn.”

  “I try,” I said. “I really do try, but sometimes they just pop out.”

  “Control yourself, my girl, or the Gramatica will control you. And that is a very, very bad thing. Understand?”

  “Are you sure you are all right?” Sieur Wraathmyr’s call interrupted the lecture, for which I was grateful. I didn’t need Hardhands to tell me what I needed to do.

  “You go—right now!” I hissed to the ghost, and climbed back up to where Sieur Wraathmyr, actually looking slightly anxious, was waiting with Flynn.

  “There’s a panther in the area,” he said. “We should stay together.”

  “A panther!” I reflexively looked up into the trees. “How can you tell?”

  “I can smell it, but the smell is not too strong. It is not close by. I will be on guard, and surely the dog will set up the alarm if he catches a whiff of cat.” The only smell Flynn ever set up an alarm for was the smell of frying bacon, but I didn’t embarrass Flynn by pointing that out.

  The track soon joined a wider road that followed the edge of a cliff; a long way below lay the foamy surge of the ocean. I thought we were out in the middle of nowhere, but the trail turned out to be as heavily trafficked as the Slot. We passed two farmers hauling hay, their burros almost invisible under their grassy loads. A small girl with a long stick herded a gaggle of geese, and then, not long after, two black-and-white collies herded a flock of sheep, no human beings in sight. Flynn ran forward to greet the dogs, the sheep scattering in fright. I whistled him back, and the collies regrouped their charges, ignoring Flynn completely, and continued on their way.

  I had to admit that Sieur Wraathmyr was a pleasant traveling companion. He kept up a steady pace and never once complained about getting too much sun like Udo would have. Two years ago Buck had taken Udo and me on a School of the Soldier encampment; Udo had spent the entire time worrying about bug bites and fretting because he couldn’t wash his hair. Sieur Wraathmyr was refreshingly free of such vanities.

  Once, we heard the jingle of tack and the sound of approaching horses, and before I could protest, Sieur Wraathmyr pulled us into the brush. Two riders, rough-looking and well armed, rode past our hiding spot, and I was glad for Sieur Wraathmyr’s caution. There’s no point in looking for trouble, said Nini Mo. It will find you eventually, anyway.

  Toward midafternoon the track turned inland, meandering through a twilit grove of cypress trees. We forded a rocky stream by balancing on a fallen log and then scrambled back up into the brilliant sunshine. We found ourselves traversing a grassy hillside, where small goats rushed toward us, bleating and pawing. As soon as they saw Flynn, they rushed away, and we continued on the track unmolested until we came to a long, low adobe building with a sign painted in bright red paint: THE SEQUOIA GOAT CHEESE COMPANY.

  A weather-beaten lady in an apron and high muck-splashed boots came out of the barn and sold us a pound of goat cheese, a quart of goat’s milk, a loaf of bread, and a basket of figs. I wanted to sit and eat, rest for a while. But Sieur Wraathmyr fussed over the delay Afraid he (and my map) would leave us behind, Flynn and I gobbled our lunch while the goat lady gave Sieur Wraathmyr directions to Cambria.

  “How long will it take to get there?” I asked when she was done.

  “A day, depending on how fast you can walk,” the lady answered.

  “Some of us do not walk fast,” Sieur Wraathmyr said pointedly.

  “Some of us have short legs,” I said. “Is there a place around here where we can hire some horses?”

  “I do not ride,” Sieur Wraathmyr interjected. “Is there any other way? A shortcut, perhaps?” He really was in a hurry to get rid of me. Well, the feeling was mutual.

  The goat lady said, “There is. It’s more a track, not a real road. But on foot, you should be fine. Here, I shall tell you the way.” We listened carefully and when she had finished with the directions, she added, “Even that way, though, you shall not make Cambria tonight. But you may spend the night at the Valdosta Lodge. It was built as a hunting lodge for the Valdosta family, when they held all this as a land grant. Now the grant is split, and the only Valdosta left is Cecily, who runs the lodge as a hostel. It is plush.”

  “I could use some plush,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “I’m too old to sleep rough; my bones ache.”

  “Too old!” the goat lady scoffed. “And you less than twenty, I’ll wager. Wait, kiddo, until you are my age and then you’ll know what aching is!”

  I glanced at Sieur Wraathmyr, surprised. His attitude had been so aloof and his face so scowly that he had seemed to me middle-aged. Thirty, at least, maybe more. Now; with a smile still hovering around the edges of those glinty gray eyes, I saw that he was probably not much older than me. Well, so what? That didn’t make him any less of a disagreeable snapperhead.

  We thanked the goat lady for her directions and set off The walk was no longer pleasant. The track was steep and slippery with rocks. The air grew chill and the sunlight vanished, hidden behind the tangle of branches. The brush was thick with spider webs and probably crawling with ticks. My feet were beginning to burn and my back ached. Sieur Wraathmyr, if he was tired, didn’t show it. I guess bears have a lot of stamina, even when they are part human. Well, if he could keep pace, so could I. I marched on.

  In the late afternoon, we came down into a valley where the air was so thick with moisture, it felt like walking through soup. The trees here were so tall that their tops were hidden in the mist high above; their trunks were enormous, some as wide around as a small house. Redwoods, the tallest trees in Califa, maybe the world.

  The redwood grove was majestic, awe-inspiring, and ... wet. Drops drummed on my hat brim, and the path beneath our feet squelched. My clothes felt clammy; my waterproof boots didn’t stop the chill. The trees blocked out most of the sky, but I could tell that somewhere high above was twilight. The path was vanishing into the murk. I was about ready to give out, and Flynn already had. He flopped onto the mud and lay there, wagging his tail apologetically.

  Sieur Wraathmyr bent down and scooped him up, slinging him over his shoulder like a side of beef. “Shall I carry you, too?”

  “I can manage,” I said. “But thanks for hauling Flynn.”

  “He doesn’t weigh much. I can carry you, too. It is no trouble.” In the gloom, with his hair wild from the wetness, his face in shadow, Sieur Wraathmyr seemed even more bearlike. I had no doubt he could carry me. And eat me, if it came to that. No one would ever know. A thrill of fear ran through me, along with a line from an old nursery rhyme: It isn’t very good in the dark, dark wood...

  “I’m fine, really” I hastily stepped back.

  He frowned, then shrugged and went on. I trudged behind him through the wet dusk, wishing for hot coffee, wishing for dry socks, wishing for a very long nap. Once, I stumbled on a root, twisting my ankle and almost falling headfirst into the creek. Sieur Wraathmyr didn’t look back. The murk faded
into the gloom, and the gloom was rapidly becoming night when up ahead I saw the twinkle of yellow lights. We crossed a narrow wooden bridge over a stream and came to a little yellow house with three pointy gables and a second-floor balcony over the front door. The lights in its windows were cheerful and warm.

  We had arrived at the Valdosta Lodge.

  FOURTEEN

  Plush Lodgings. Rain. Confessions.

  AT THE FRONT DOOR of the lodge, a small, round, cheerful old lady introduced herself as Cecily Valdosta, cooed over our bedraggled condition, and divested us of our soggy outerwear and boots. While we registered—I gave my name as Nyana Romney, just in case Buck was already looking for me—she poured us hot ginger toddies and rubbed Flynn dry with a towel. Then we followed her down a narrow low-ceilinged hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs. As we went, Madama Valdosta kept up a welcoming patter, but I was too tired to focus on her words.

  “Here you are, my dear Nyana,” Madama Valdosta said, opening a door. “I hope you will be nice and cozy. Don’t hesitate to give me a ring if you should want anything. It is my pleasure to serve. Sieur Wraathmyr, you’ll be right down the hallway Come, dear, come.” Sieur Wraathmyr gave me a quick look that I couldn’t quite interpret and followed Madama Valdosta.

  The cozy room was dominated by a giant bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, with bedposts of rough-hewn tree trunks. Low lights threw friendly shadows on the paneled walls and the carpet was lush beneath my feet. A leather sofa—already claimed by Flynn—stood before the fireplace; a small door next to it led to an immaculate bathroom.

  I dumped my wet clothes on the floor by the bed. The ceramic stove in the corner of the bathroom gave off a gentle heat, and the water, when it gushed into the tub, was boiling hot. Lavender bath salts and two kinds of toothpaste (one mint, one apple) were arrayed by the sink. The tub was positioned so you could lie in the bath and stare out the window at the white mist drifting through the redwoods. I had a nice long soak, and when I finally, reluctantly, climbed out of the tub and enveloped myself in a fluffy robe, I felt wrinkled and relaxed and clean. Furiously hungry, too.

  “At least the water is hot,” a voice said.

  I turned back from the sink, toothbrush in hand. The ghost of Hardhands had usurped the tub, and now leaned over the edge, staring at me. He was a lot cleaner than the last time I had seen him, but the dirt, at least, had covered up the worst of the wounds. Now the trauma of death was all too obvious. His bare arms were covered in long red welts and scratches, and slick white tendons showed through the arrow gash in his neck. “But the rest of this place is quite the dump, eh? Still, beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

  “Did I tell you to go home?” I snapped.

  “You did. But I did not.” The ghost leaned back in the tub. He elevated one long leg and began to scrub. I averted my eyes. I had seen all that I cared to see. “Listen, your friend, the Varanger, he says he’s a Varanger, anyway, though he’s covered with Kulani tattoos—”

  “Kulani?” I said sharply. “He’s a Varangian.”

  “Oh, so he says. He’s from the Kulani Islands, I’ll bet my hat on it.”

  The Kulani Islands lie far to the west of Califa, out in the Pacifica Ocean. No one knows much about them, as they don’t allow outsiders to set foot on the islands, and the only islanders that ever sail beyond the chain of islands are raiders.

  Hardhands continued, “It’s true that Wraathmyr is no Kulani name—they love their vowels, you know—but he’s covered with Kulani markings. If he ain’t a Kulani, and a high-ranking one, too, I’ll eat your dog. There’s something shifty about him—”

  “He’s a wer-bear. That’s what’s shifty about him.”

  “No, of course I know that. Something else. He’s hiding something.”

  “I don’t care a bit about him, so why would it matter to me?”

  “You say this heatedly enough that I know that cannot be true.”

  I hastily changed the subject. “Did you find out anything about whoever is scrying me?”

  “I’m still working on it.” Hardhands soaped another bloody calf.

  “Well, go work on it,” I said. “And leave me be.”

  “So you can work on Wraathmyr? He is rather dark and brooding, and I know the young ladies like that.”

  “Shut up!” I said hotly.

  “A murderous romantic—you have your mamma’s taste! She always did like them with blood on their hands, like your dear papa—”

  I screeched. Oh fike, not again. The Command hit Hardhands in his bruised chest. His mouth opened in surprise and he began to quiver and shake. With a ripping sound, like cardboard shredding, he vanished and there was a large splash. I peered into the tub. A red shape the size of a housecat was eddying in the water, eight tentacles undulating. It shot from one end of the tub to the other, and then attached itself to the side and began to climb.

  Oh fike. I had turned Hardhands into an octopus. And I had shown myself on the Current again. Control the Gramatica, Hardhands had said, or it will control you.

  I took a deep breath. Next time, I would bite my own tongue off before I let a Gramatica Word pass my lips. The octopus reached the edge of the tub and waved its tentacles at me, pulsing a deep angry sangyn.

  “I told you to keep it shut,” I said. I went back to the bedroom and found the chamber pot under the bed. In the bathroom, I filled the pot with water, dropped my wet towel over Hardhands—Octohands now, really—and gingerly gathered up the bulging, wiggly towel. When I shook it out over the pot, Octohands fell out in a snarl of tentacles. Before he could escape, I slammed the lid on the pot and draped the towel over it. I had no idea how to reverse my Gramatica Command, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have dared do it now. It wouldn’t hurt Hardhands to spend some time as a cephalopod. Better that than a bossy stenchy corpse. At least he couldn’t talk now.

  While I had been in the bathroom, Madama Valdosta had replaced my wet clothes with dry ones. The chemise was made of white lawn, the stockings had no holes in them, and the stays were embroidered with small pink flowers. The kilt was a bit longer than I was used to, but the dark blue knitted jersey was as soft as a cloud. I stuffed my feet back into the warm slippers and went to find Sieur Wraathmyr.

  His room was next to mine; the door was ajar. I peered around the door jamb. Sieur Wraathmyr was lying fully dressed on the bed, on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, arms folded around himself, his hands balled up into fists. He was fast asleep. A weird sharp pain cut through me. Sleeping, he didn’t look arrogant or aloof. He looked tired and very young.

  I stepped back into the darkness of the hallway, my heart racing, my breath shallow. He was just sleeping. So what? He was an arrogant, stuck-up snapperhead, and he could sleep until the Abyss froze over, for all I cared. I was going down to dinner.

  Hardhands was wrong, I thought, as I went downstairs. My type is not dark and brooding. Nor do I care for romantics with blood on their hands. If I had a type—which I don’t—it would be sunny and amusing and sure of himself. Someone who knew what to do and did it without dithering. Udo was sunny and amusing, all right, and sure of himself, but in a bad way: so sure he was right when he was not. He was also vain and silly If I was looking for someone—which I’m not, of course; I haven’t got time for spoony stuff—I would look for someone who was honorable and loyal and who would take me seriously. I certainly wouldn’t go gaga over a stuck-up arrogant wer-bear. As far as I was concerned, Sieur Wraathmyr could stuff it.

  In the dining room, dim underwater mirrors reflected the candlelight, playing off the silver plates and cups lining the china-hutch shelves. The long, polished wood table was set with gold-rimmed dishes and covered with bowls and platters of delicious-smelling food. I sat down in a heavily carved wooden chair, and Madama Valdosta introduced me to the other guests seated at the table: a writer on retreat and a couple on their honeymoon.

  During dinner, the writer didn’t say much—being sunk, I guess, into creative
thought—and the couple was too spoony to care about anyone else. I was too tired for conversation and happy to concentrate on the chow. Every dish that came my way was yummy even the braised cauliflower, and normally I hate cauliflower.

  Midway through the soup course, Sieur Wraathmyr, still dressed in his damp clothes but looking a whole lot cleaner, appeared and gave his apologies for his late arrival. After dinner, Madama Valdosta tried to tempt us into joining a game of poker in the parlor, but Sieur Wraathmyr and I declined. We wanted to make an early start in the morning. Madama Valdosta gave us each a hot brick to warm our sheets and a basket of ginger drops, just in case we got hungry in the middle of the night.

  In my room Flynn waited impatiently by the door, his supper untouched. At my urging, he raced down the stairs and outside into the rain, but then he wouldn’t come back inside. I had to drag him in and upstairs by the collar. Snapperdog!

  My bed had been turned down and the lamps extinguished, so the room was lit only by the glow of the fire. A flannel nightgown hung nearby on a warming rack. The towel over Octohands’s chamber pot was undisturbed; I’d figure out what to do about him later. Right now I just wanted to sleep. Ignoring Flynn’s whining, I heaved myself into the comforter, sinking into feathery wonderfulness. I was asleep in seconds.

  The next morning, I woke to the gentle patter of rain on the roof. When I peered out the window, I saw that the trees were hidden behind a drifting fog and the rain was coming down quite heavily Not a very good day to travel. A few more minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt, surely? I closed my eyes again, just for a moment.

  When I opened them again, it was much later and the delicious smell of pancakes hovered on the air. My clean, dry clothes hung on the rack by the fire. I got dressed and went to find breakfast, anxious Flynn trailing behind me. Sieur Wraathmyr already sat at the dining room table, devouring pancakes as though he were in a contest. Or a prison. There was no sign of the other guests.

  “It’s a pity you must travel in such miserable weather,” Madama Valdosta said. “Perhaps you should stay another day.” She refilled my coffee cup. Under the table, Flynn was draped over my feet.