by Tara Omar
R E B E L F I r E S
T a r a O m a r
Copyright © 2018 Tara Omar
All rights reserved
Book design by Michelle Kasper
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events,
locales or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9965650-3-5
for Michelle
Contents
p r o l o g u e
C h a p t e r 1
C h a p t e r 2
C h a p t e r 3
C h a p t e r 4
C h a p t e r 5
C h a p t e r 6
C h a p t e r 7
C h a p t e r 8
C h a p t e r 9
C h a p t e r 1 0
C h a p t e r 1 1
C h a p t e r 1 2
C h a p t e r 1 3
C h a p t e r 1 4
C h a p t e r 1 5
C h a p t e r 1 6
C h a p t e r 1 7
C h a p t e r 1 8
C h a p t e r 1 9
C h a p t e r 2 0
C h a p t e r 2 1
C h a p t e r 2 2
C h a p t e r 2 3
C h a p t e r 2 4
C h a p t e r 2 5
C h a p t e r 2 6
C h a p t e r 2 7
C h a p t e r 2 8
C h a p t e r 2 9
C h a p t e r 3 0
C h a p t e r 3 1
C h a p t e r 3 2
C h a p t e r 3 3
C h a p t e r 3 4
C h a p t e r 3 5
C h a p t e r 3 6
C h a p t e r 3 7
C h a p t e r 3 8
C h a p t e r 3 9
C h a p t e r 4 0
C h a p t e r 4 1
C h a p t e r 4 2
C h a p t e r 4 3
C h a p t e r 4 4
C h a p t e r 4 5
C h a p t e r 4 6
C h a p t e r 4 7
C h a p t e r 4 8
C h a p t e r 4 9
C h a p t e r 5 0
C h a p t e r 5 1
C h a p t e r 5 2
C h a p t e r 5 3
C h a p t e r 5 4
C h a p t e r 5 5
C h a p t e r 5 6
C h a p t e r 5 7
C h a p t e r 5 8
C h a p t e r 5 9
C h a p t e r 6 0
C h a p t e r 6 1
C h a p t e r 6 2
C h a p t e r 6 3
C h a p t e r 6 4
C h a p t e r 6 5
C h a p t e r 6 6
C h a p t e r 6 7
C h a p t e r 6 8
C h a p t e r 6 9
C h a p t e r 7 0
C h a p t e r 7 1
C h a p t e r 7 2
C h a p t e r 7 3
C h a p t e r 7 4
C h a p t e r 7 5
C h a p t e r 7 6
C h a p t e r 7 7
C h a p t e r 7 8
C h a p t e r 7 9
C h a p t e r 8 0
C h a p t e r 8 1
C h a p t e r 8 2
C h a p t e r 8 3
C h a p t e r 8 4
C h a p t e r 8 5
a c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s
P a r t 1
p r o l o g u e
“A man with skin like cracked leather crouched over an open flame with a rod of coloured glass in his hands. He turned the rod so the flame licked its middle, twisting and pulling the molten centre until it looked like a fine hair.
Using the flame again, he cracked the hair from the rod, and, with a pair of forceps, transferred it to a microscopic slot on a metal frame, completing the last, wispy thread of a glass feather. He stepped back and examined the work.
Before him stood a majestic, birdlike machine composed of thousands upon thousands of feathers made from these glass strands. The flameworker pulled a tiny lever hidden under a feather on the bird’s back, watching as the crystal plumage bristled and relaxed. The fiery irises contracted, and the eyes rolled with life.
He nodded brusquely, jotting notes on a card.
Thoroughbred Aerothian Peregrine
Crimson Hen from Rebel Fires (cock) and Winter Song (hen)
Name:
The leathery flameworker paused. He scribbled.
La Cloche.
C h a p t e r 1
Gabriel Silbi strolled through the back corridors of the Zodic Casino at the base of Mount Leah, looking calmer than he felt. A crowd of staff members readied to go on shift; they laughed and argued as they adjusted their uniforms, greeting him respectfully as he passed.
“Good afternoon, Mr Silbi. Beautiful day, today, isn’t it?”
“Good day, Mr Silbi. Nice to see you today, Sir.”
Gabe smiled at each of them as he continued down the corridor. A man joined him as he walked.
“Do we have any news?” asked Gabe.
“He is at Galleywags,” said the man. A janitor stopped mopping the floor and waved.
“G’day Mr Silbi. Careful where you walk, Sir. The floor’s still wet.”
“Thank you,” said Gabe with a smile. He waved to the janitor as he headed toward the lobby. The angry sounds of a woman protestor could be heard shouting from outside.
“You’re all going to die! If you come to the casino, you are going to die in fire and brimstone!” she shouted.
Gabe paused.
“I’ll take care of it, Sir,” said the man. He hurried ahead, grabbing two guards from the security line to carry the woman away.
“There will be fire and brimstone!” she shouted.
Gabe nodded to the incoming guests. “Apologies for the disturbance,” smiled Gabe. “Please, enjoy your stay.”
He crossed to the Galleywags Bar and Grill in between the tropical foliage next to his casino, his eyes widening in the dim light. A giant, black flag with a mechanical skull and crossbones was singing from behind the drinks counter; it was programmed to adjust its manners according to patron’s neckwear. The skull rambled on.
Ohhh…
Splinter me timbers and twiddle your thumbs,
You’ll all be dead when the next storm comes.
“And what does this wasted landlubber… Oh, a very good day to you, Sir,” said the skull, seeing Gabe’s cravat. “How may I be of service?”
“Where is he?” asked Gabe.
“Starboard quarter, Sir, and may I perhaps offer you a treacle rum as a welcome drink?”
Gabe hurried to the back of the bar, while the skull called after him.
“Very good, Sir…and ye be warned, two sheets to the wind, if leeward on, go overboard. No hopes for landlubbers swell.”
In the back-corner booth Prince Dominic slouched over a half-empty glass of ale with a girl on either side of him, his slurred voice swaying like a rolling sea.
“GABRIEL! I was just toasting my beloved uncle. Won’t you join me for another drink?”
“Some other time. It’s best we leave now,” said Gabe, his face stern. The girls took the hint and slipped out from under Dominic’s arms, moving to another table. Dominic frowned.
“Aw, don’t be sour; have a drink with me. My uncle deserves a drink in his honour after getting a knife in his chest. A knife of all things, who would’ve thought?” said Dominic. He
broke into loud, howling sobs.
“Oh, oh. Come Dom, not here. It’s time we go,” said Gabe, helping the inebriated prince to his feet. “Can you walk?”
“Walk? Of course I can. Wa-oh nope,” said Dominic, slumping downward. “No, don’t think I can.”
Gabe slid Dominic’s arm over his shoulder and heaved him upward, carrying most of the young man’s weight on his shoulder. A blinding light flashed as the two staggered out—the bulb of a photographer’s camera. It shocked Dominic like a live wire.
“YOU!” shouted Dominic.
Before Gabe could react, Dominic threw himself at the photographer, knocking him to the ground as he delivered a hard punch to the photographer’s face. The photographer retaliated with a left jab and the two rolled on the floor, caught in a brawl of clashing fists and choking holds. The skull and crossbones cheered.
“Whoooooh. Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Gabe spun around.
“Fi—shall call an ambulance, Sir,” said the skull, “straight away.”
Gabe pried the Prince’s hands from around the photographer’s neck and threw him back, grabbing Dominic by the abdomen as the drunken prince lunged for more.
“You were supposed to call a doctor,” shouted Dominic, struggling against Gabe’s restraining arm. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL A DOCTOR! And now he’s dead.”
“All right, that’s enough,” said Gabe. “Let’s go.” He pushed Dominic into a waiting pteroduck that had been parked near the door and jumped into the pilot’s seat, releasing a lever as the aircraft beat its colourful, bat-like wings and took to the sky. Dominic held a handkerchief to his bloodied nose and slumped in his seat.
“That photographer was there, snapping photos while my uncle bled to death. He should’ve called a doctor. He should’ve…”
Dominic nodded off as Gabe steered the pteroduck west. After a time, the lines of bustling boats and pteroducks around the docks near Galliwags faded to white sands and palm trees. Soon the pterodactyl-like aircraft somersaulted, transforming into a metal duck as it glided to a stop on the water just before the beach. They had landed near a sleepy row of surf shacks along King’s Beach. A man with spiky, white hair was already running to meet them. It was Gill Ullrich, a Renaultan veteran and one of Dominic’s closest friends. Lazy waves licked the side of the pteroduck as Gabe opened the hatch. A bruised Dominic tumbled out, still swaying and covered in crusting blood.
“Biy’avi,” said Gill.
“Can he stay here awhile?” asked Gabe. “I don’t want people to see him like this.”
“What happened?” asked Gill.
Gabe rolled his eyes.
“Not to worry, I’ll look after him,” said Gill. Moai, a short, wooden creature with an oversized wedge nose grunted in disapproval. He was a tikihune and head servant in Gill’s house, and he did not approve of nonsense.
Gabe returned to the pilot’s seat; the pteroduck’s engine hummed as he readied to take off.
“Thanks, Gill,” said Gabe. “Send him back when he’s come through.” He closed the hatch and the pteroduck sped through the water, somersaulting and changing back to its previous form as it climbed toward the clouds.
“You have to pull yourself together, Dom,” said Gill, as he helped him toward the house. “This is no way for a king to act.”
“King?” snorted Dominic. “The King is dead. Dead, dead, dead.”
“And you are next to rule.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be—to be—excuse me a minute.” He staggered to the bathroom, where the sound of retching and heaving shortly followed.
Gill looked toward his wooden servant, who was already shaking his head. “Eh-eh. No mahn. Moai don’t clean slosh juice.”
The tikihune touched his stubby hand to a glass tile on the wall of Gill’s bachelor pad, disappearing into a cosy, miniature living room hidden behind the wall. Gill sighed and walked toward the bathroom where Dominic had already passed out beside the sink. He shook his head and dragged him out.
The following morning, Dominic awoke to the icy sting of a tub full of frigid water being dumped on his body. He was lying naked on the dewy grass in Gill’s backyard; a wooden tikihune wearing a rain hat was scrubbing his buttocks raw with the stiff bristles of a shower brush. The tikihune leaned his giant wedge-shaped nose nearer to Dominic’s skin and sniffed, frowning as he signalled another dump of chilly water from the tikihune with the barrel above him. Dominic cursed.
“Enough. Enough with the damned water. Do you want me to freeze to death?” he asked.
A stern-looking tikihune pushed a coconut sweet into his mouth.
“Hush, mahn. Tikihune must clean the demons off Dumb-Dumb so Dumb-Dumb can rule,” said Moai, “though only the Great Fish Tongue know why.”
“Don’t be cluck-cluck, Moai. Everyone makes mistake sometime, even Moai,” said a lady tikihune as she joined them. She had a hibiscus flower behind her ear and was carrying a folded towel and robe on top of her square head. She set them down and held out a tray of sweets. “Here, Honey, take another sweet. Dumb-Dumb has a rough time since his Uncle Saladin die. Hongi know.”
“Thanks,” said Dominic.
“Hmph,” said Moai. “Dumb-Dumb get dressed now. The Gill-Mahn is waiting.”
Dominic entered Gill’s house through the tikihune’s short door, which though the proper size for the feisty, wooden figures, required him to bow as he entered. Gill was sitting on a straw mat in the centre of his bachelor pad, bathed in the warm sunlight of the early morning. All the furniture that would have normally surrounded him had been removed, leaving the room empty of all décor save three tikihune, two of which held a banner of a rising sun, and the last held a drooping rose—the setting for a tea ceremony. In front of Gill flickered a small charcoal fire; he placed a dark ceramic kettle above it as Dominic took a seat on the floor next to him.
“How are you feeling, Dom?” asked Gill.
“I’ve definitely been better,” said Dominic.
Gill pulled a linen serviette from his waist and began wiping the thin, wooden spoon and lopsided ceramic bowl in front of him. His movements were slow, deliberate, methodical. Dominic felt a quiet peace creep through him as he watched, as though Gill was smoothing the chaotic wrinkles inside him with his movements. Dominic sighed.
“Gabe must’ve been pretty angry with me yesterday,” said Dominic.
“I don’t think Gabe gets angry,” said Gill, cleaning a wooden whisk with water spooned from the kettle, “though I do think he was disappointed. It wasn’t behaviour suited to a king.”
“I’m no king,” said Dominic. “I was never meant to be king.”
“Are you content with letting Lady Imaan rule then?” asked Gill.
“No, that’s the last thing I want,” said Dominic. “She’ll turn the whole of Aeroth upside down with her crazy, religious antics.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Gill.
“I don’t know.”
Gill scooped a spoonful of green powder into the bowl and added hot water. He whisked it into a smooth paste and added more water to the bowl until it resembled green tea. He handed the bowl to Dominic.
“Well, it’s not like I have a reputation as a ruler to go on,” said Dominic, taking the tea. “Even if I somehow get my act together, I doubt the people will ever respect me after the mess I’ve made of my reputation. Prince Dominic—Aeroth’s wildest playboy turned ruler of the humans—that’s going to go over really well, I’m sure.”
Dominic went to set the bowl down but Gill stopped him, cupping Dominic’s hands with his.
“Look at the bowl,” said Gill.
“It’s, uh, very nice,” said Dominic.
“No, look closely.”
Dominic stared at the bowl, confused. It was a basic brown, ceramic bowl with a cracked glaze and an uneven rim. H
e looked at Gill and shrugged.
“This bowl is the most valuable piece of pottery in my possession, worth almost as much as this house. The bowl was subjected to immense stress during its making, causing spontaneous imperfections, which are highly prized. Removed from the context of the tea ceremony and a discerning audience, however, most would not recognise it from a practice piece thrown by a potter’s apprentice,” said Gill, “yet, it is very valuable.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dominic.
“You see, Dominic, greatness is not often derived from the object itself, but from the systems and conditions that surround it,” said Gill, pausing. “You need a system.”
The door to the bachelor pad flung open.
“Gill! I’m here for my victuals I…oh,” said a scrawny man with a scraggly goatee. It was Norbert, Gill’s neighbour from next door.
“Biya, Norbert, will you ever learn to knock?” asked Gill. “You know Dominic, I’m sure.”
“Hi,” mumbled Norbert, staring at his sunflower flip-flops. Gill stood up and pressed a button under a hidden panel. A fridge, oven and counter emerged from the opposite wall. Norbert marched to the fridge, shouting at Gill in a loud whisper.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had company? You know I don’t like visitors.”
“Need I remind you, this is my house, not yours,” said Gill, “and had you knocked I could have warned you.”
“You could’ve told Henry,” said Norbert, turning around.
Gill groaned, “I am not going to talk to that disgusting—”
“Cockroach,” said Norbert. “And my beautiful bug is not disgusting; this behaviour is disgusting. Actually, it’s downright repulsive, it is, this not warning me. Neighbour-traitor.”
Gill frowned. “Aren’t you going to get your—”
“Worms, yes,” said Norbert, snapping straighter as he waltzed to the fridge. “My onions are looking a bit fluish, they are. I want to nip it in the bud before it gets serious.”
“Your onions have the flu?” asked Dominic.
“My onions are a private matter, they are,” snapped Norbert. “Everyone knows that.”
“Excuses, Gill-Mahn? Hongi doesn’t mean to interrupt the spirit tea but an urgent message is coming now. Should probably answer now-now,” said the little tikihune. She held a chrome pen that was vibrating and pulsing red, warning that an urgent aquamail was waiting at the taps.