Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “And Liza?”

  “She was arrested on charges of possession of contraband.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not sure if she was set up, or if it was an unfortunate accident, but she was caught with two kilograms of quartz sand outside the Temple. By the time I got there, she was already gone. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that I would see the day the Leviathan rises,” said Imaan. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. Tristan shook with anger.

  “No, Lady, that day is not today. We will fight this. People aren’t happy with Dominic’s upheaval and the Fraternity is already organising. Ibex has also doubled its search for the murderer. If Michelson is caught, it will make it easier to get you… Lady, are you listening?”

  “Hmm?” asked Imaan, as she rubbed the gravel under her feet. “Yes, you’ve done admirably. Thank you.”

  “Don’t lose hope, Lady,” said Tristan. “The Fraternity will follow you to the end. We swore we would. Saladin swore it with us.”

  Imaan nodded.

  “And the…” Tristan paused.

  “We found a bag on Saladin’s body showing the exchange was made, but inside it was just an old piece of shark leather,” said Imaan.

  “So no shield was found?” asked Tristan.

  Imaan shook her head.

  “And the merman?”

  “Hush, Michelson’s identity as a merman must not be compromised,” said Imaan, leaning toward the bars. “Only select fraternity members knew of the plan to retrieve the shield; the least we can salvage from the botched attempt is the normalcy that existed before Michelson betrayed us. We are not in a position to add more confusion among the people.”

  Tristan frowned. “Lady, if I may, this merman murdered King Saladin, which if known to the people would be considered an act of war. If you are the ruling High Priest, surely the mers couldn’t massacre us again, if we are prepared?”

  “After the recent events, I will only have the influence to secure another partnership between the Temple and State again, not sole rule. Stupid as he is, I fear Dominic is here to stay. There will be a king in Aeroth—one that even a merish child could kill, I’m afraid. The whole plan has gone gravely wrong.”

  “Lady, you mustn’t give up so easily. You did not murder Saladin, and you have proven yourself a far more worthy ruler than that promiscuous fool of a boy. The Temple has the right to rule.”

  Imaan smiled.

  “I have to go now, but I’ve managed to secure a small reprieve from your conditions. You are allowed one effect from home. Shall I bring the Sacred Memories?” asked Tristan.

  The tired priest stared past the rusting bars.

  “No,” said Lady Imaan, “bring my hookah pipe.”

  C h a p t e r 5

  “David Michelson stumbled forward with the possessed energy of a wounded animal being hunted, pushed past every physical limit but compelled to move on. For countless days, the scorching heat of the Marah Desert had beat down on him. The rations of water and food given to him by Norbert had run out long before; he kept his satchel only for the memories of Natalie it held—memories that with each passing minute looked more and more like a mirage.

  He clung to the last threads of life as he trudged through the sandy sea. The merish markings on his arms burned like a branding iron and his hidden gills cut into his throat like hot knives, begging for the water in which they belonged. His lips were cracked and swollen, and the silken flares of skin beneath his knees that normally turned to fins in water were dry and papery.

  David was a merman—a mer and a man, hated by both races for his connection to the other. David was the only one of his kind, and he belonged nowhere, forced into the Marah to hunt for a shield he had held only days before, given away to humans who then framed him for murder.

  He squinted and staggered, his head swimming with heat as the desert began to speak.

  You know you could’ve just stayed. If you had put on the shield yourself, they probably would have made you king.

  “I’m no king. I don’t have the heart for it,” said David. The desert taunted him.

  You’re right. For the whole of your time here, you’ve been a pawn in another’s game. You can’t make such a big leap overnight. You do not know how to move the pieces in your game. You were bred for the purpose of servitude. A slave. An ape.

  “Is this how you see me, as an animal? …as in ‘not like you’?” whimpered David.

  You are an animal, an insolent animal. No matter how you act or what you do, the mers will hunt you like an animal.

  “Because you set me up,” choked David.

  It’s not like Aeroth would have welcomed you with open arms… To the humans, a mer and a murderer are one in the same. You’re a murderer.

  “No. I won’t be your puppet on a string.”

  Too late, Child. You gave them a match. Now they will burn you out until there’s nothing left but a hollow feeling of despondency and regret.

  “Damn it, this heat. Make it stop,” cried David. “Can’t anyone make it stop?”

  You will die in the desert. The gullible idiot, wanted nowhere, belonging nowhere.

  David spotted a glimmer in the distance. “Is that a lake?” he asked.

  Natalie almost killed you in a lake, said the desert.

  “No, that bloody mer in the forest almost killed me,” corrected David. The desert growled.

  It was a simple task. No one asked you to play detective or Adam Incarnate.

  “Kiwi. Where’s Kiwi?” asked David, looking around. “Kiwi!”

  But the faithful parakeet whom he had saved not long ago had also gone, flown away during one of his bouts of delirium. As David scanned the horizon, he saw a shadow move in the distance. He hurried in its direction but tripped and could not get up. The shadow moved nearer, a hooded man with a sword outstretched. He held it to David’s neck.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t good fortune to have stumbled upon King Saladin’s murderer,” said the man, his sword across David’s neck. “I’d know your face anywhere.”

  He dragged his sword across David’s merish markings and smiled. “Ooh, you’re even juicier than I expected. You’re coming with me.”

  C h a p t e r 6

  “Norbert stood in the middle of his surf shack on King’s Beach, sweaty and serious. He was plunging a large jar of cucumbers and brine with a toilet plunger; and with each thrust, droplets of the salty liquid sprayed across his shack, his goggles, and into the face of a rather disgusted Gill who had just opened the door.

  “Ew, Norbert! Do I even want to know—”

  “What’s the difference between eggplants and aubergines?” finished Norbert.

  Gill stared at him from the doorway. “What?”

  “Are you wondering what’s the difference between eggplants and aubergines?” asked Norbert.

  “No,” said Gill.

  “Well, do you know what’s the difference between eggplants and aubergines?” asked Norbert.

  Gill sighed. He knew challenging his eccentric neighbour was already a battle lost. “No,” answered Gill. “I do not.”

  “I could tell you what’s the difference between eggplants and aubergines.”

  “Fine, what’s the difference?” asked Gill.

  “What’s the difference what?” asked Norbert.

  Gill huffed. “What’s the difference between eggplants and aubergines?”

  “The difference between eggplants and aubergines,” said Norbert, pausing for effect, “is diction.” He went back to plunging. Gill groaned.

  “Norbert, what are you doing?”

  “With my eggplants?”

  “No, with your plunger.”

  “Oh. Why I’m making pickles, I am. With enough suction, the brine is pulled up through the cucurbit cells, making an i
nstant gherkin without the werkin.’ Would you like one?” asked Norbert. He stopped plunging and pulled a cucumber from the jar, picking off a piece of what looked like soggy toilet paper before biting it in half.

  “Extra flavour,” he said.

  Gill grimaced. “No, thank you, though now that we are on the subject of neighbourly sharing—”

  “Here’s a tough one. Do you know the difference between aubergines and melongenes?” asked Norbert. Gill looked to the ceiling and grumbled.

  “Is it diction?”

  “No,” said Norbert.

  “What then?” asked Gill.

  “Translation,” said Norbert, taking another pickle. “And do you know—”

  “Actually Norbert, for as enlightening as is this lesson in vegetable grammar, I do have a more pressing concern in regard to onions…”

  Norbert gasped and ran to his window box.

  “What’s the matter? Are they looking fluish again? I was worried the worms wouldn’t be enough to pull them right, I was,” said Norbert, inspecting the drooping stalks. “Especially this small one on the left; she’s been very wheezy.”

  Gill shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “No, Norbert. Your onions look the picture of health.”

  “Oh, well then, why did you—

  “I was just wondering if I could borrow one!” blurted Gill. “It’s too late to go to the shop now.”

  But Norbert ignored him. He was crouched over the window box with his face pressed between the stalks, talking to a cockroach in the dirt.

  “Where did you get this?” asked Norbert, licking his finger. “This is big news, this is.”

  “Norbert?” asked Gill.

  “Sorry Gillweed, I’ve no time for your troubles now. I have urgent business to which I must attend.”

  “But the onion—”

  Norbert pushed past him, hanging his goggles off Gill’s ear as he hurried into the night.

  C h a p t e r 7

  “On the outskirts of the Marah, just beyond the walls of the City, the hooded man knocked on the door to the High Priest Lady Imaan’s adobe shelter. His name was Drew, and despite having walked most of the day in the searing desert heat, he looked the picture of handsomeness. A very haggard-looking David stood next to him, guzzling water from Drew’s leather canteen, which he held between his bound hands. Drew readied to knock again but paused, eyeing David up and down.

  “Stand here,” he said, moving David by the shoulders, “and if we can hold off with the drinking until after the entrance.”

  David stared at him.

  “Come on, it will just be a moment,” said Drew, lowering David’s hands with the canteen. Drew angled himself into the most-flattering position against the twilight, pointing his chiselled nose upward as he called out in a deep, dramatic voice.

  “Lady Imaan? I have traversed far and wide, and after facing many a dangerous beast, I have found Saladin’s murderer and have brought him to you. I am here to collect my reward.”

  Drew had the tendency to draw out his vowels with a rising, dramatic effect when he spoke. David shook his head and snuck another gulp of water as Drew knocked on the door.

  “Lady, I have found you the felon who murdered our beloved King. Open up.”

  But no one answered. Drew knocked faster.

  “Open up, Lady! You must give me my reward, or I shall not let you have him.”

  “I don’t think she’s here,” said David.

  “Yeah, and how would you know?” he snapped.

  David pointed to the pile of newspapers buried in the sand. Drew fidgeted.

  “Sit down,” he shouted.

  David stared at him.

  “I said sit,” shouted Drew, drawing his sword.

  “Okay, sitting, sitting,” said David. He moved to the ground.

  “We’ll simply have to wait for her to come back; that’s all,” said Drew. “You cannot hide forever, Woman. I will have what’s owed to me.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure she’s coming back,” said David. “Look.” He pushed the newspaper with his foot toward Drew. A photo of Lady Imaan being led away in handcuffs covered most of the page.

  “It says Imaan will likely be sentenced to life imprisonment, possibly even death,” said David.

  “Well, that’s very not fortuitous,” grumbled Drew. He closed his eyes and turned his palms toward the sky. David watched as Drew took a deep, moaning breath and opened his eyes.

  “Okay, after deep consideration, I think I have two options,” said Drew. “I can either sit here until she comes back, or I can avenge the King’s death and murder you. Do you think she’ll take long?”

  “For life imprisonment? No, not at all,” said David. “Shall we wait inside?”

  “Sure, except I don’t have the key,” said Drew.

  “I’m pretty sure after such a grand and important find as Saladin’s murderer, the Lady won’t mind if you let yourself in,” said David.

  “Isn’t that breaking and entering?” asked Drew.

  “Oh no,” David assured him. “I would consider it more like…pre-emptive visiting.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Drew.

  “Of course,” said David. “Most definitely.”

  Drew stroked his chin. “I mean the mer that murdered Saladin is the find of the millennium.”

  “The find of the millennium,” repeated David. “Imaan will be so grateful; she’ll probably even make you tea.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, let me see what I can do,” said Drew, pushing on the door handle. It swung open.

  “See, she even left it unlocked for you,” said David.

  “I am the sort of person you leave your doors open for, if you know what I mean,” said Drew with a grin. “Let’s get inside.”

  Drew and David stepped over the piles of books and clothes mounded near the door. Every last jar, box and trunk in the shelter had been opened and emptied, its contents thrown haphazardly across the room. The cabinets had been pulled from the wall and cleared, their doors hanging open like victims’ arms raised in a heist.

  “Looks like she left in haste,” said Drew.

  “Or someone’s been here,” said David as he looked around. Whoever had searched Imaan’s house had been thorough. David stared at the open window, his chest surging with panic.

  Had they found it? he wondered. Had they found the shield? Was it safe?

  “Take a seat,” said Drew, making himself comfortable on Imaan’s mattress. David thought fast.

  “I’m still thirsty,” he said, eyeing a cold teapot in the corner.

  “Fine, get yourself more water then,” said Drew. David moved so his back hid the teapot. Instead of tipping it into the canteen, he tipped it slightly toward him, letting a tiny bit of tea run over his wrists. He could feel the merish markings on his forearms come alive in the dampness. It gave his whole body a peaceful, wholesome feeling, a glimmer of how he had felt with Natalie. David tensed his palms, and a dry, frail strand of filament emerged from the marking on his wrist; it pushed against the leather handcuffs and crumbled. He trickled a bit more. David felt the filament building in strength as it pressed against the cuff. He thought.

  “This is a magnificent bag,” said Drew, picking up David’s dusty satchel. “I know mers are supposed to be known for their craftsmanship, but this…this is remarkable. Look at the stitching on it.”

  “It was made by a mantis shrimp,” said David.

  “Serious?” asked Drew.

  David dumped the whole pot of tea on his hands and screamed.

  “Ahhh! Ah! Ah! Damn it, you’ve got to help me. You’ve got to loosen these cuffs. Please, it’s cutting off my circulation. Please, I can’t stand it.”

  “Why—”

  But David screamed. Drew hurried
over and bent over him, reaching for the buckle. He paused. “Wait, you’re just trying to get me to loosen them so you can break free, aren’t you?”

  “No, the water made my merish wrists swell; the pain is killing me. Please man, I’m begging you,” cried David.

  Drew’s eyes narrowed.

  “I swear it. Please, just loosen these cuffs before I lose my hands.”

  David didn’t hesitate. As soon as Drew had loosened the cuff a fraction of a millimetre, thick strands of blue filament burst from David’s wrists, shredding the cuffs. They hit Drew square on the chest and circled around him, binding his arms tight against his body as they hardened into wire. It was a perfect lasso.

  “What the—what was that?” asked Drew.

  “Filament.”

  “The stuff you guys spin from your wrists?” asked Drew. “Wow.”

  His eyes widened. “Hey, you promised!” shouted Drew, but before he could say another word, a strand of filament flung from David’s wrist and wrapped itself around Drew’s mouth, changing into a thick, cotton-like strip. David searched the house while Drew moaned through the gag.

  Where is it? Where could it be? he thought. David could sense the stress mounting as he searched around the empty cupboards. He turned to a stack of papers. David froze. On top lay a hastily-scribbled note.

  It is with the widow

  David looked at the paper. Directly beneath it lay an advertisement.

  Jakobson Limited, Makers of Designer Menswear

  Golden Crescent

  Sheba 7785

  “Petra,” he whispered. David felt a heavy lump gather in his stomach. Of all the people in Aeroth…

  If anyone was cunning enough to keep the shield safe from unwanted hands, it was likely Petra Jakobson, one of the most powerful women in Aeroth. Petra was also one of the few women with enough influence to have been accepted into the Fraternity, a secret group of dedicated men sworn to protect the Lady and destroy the Leviathan. Ms Jakobson, however, did everything on her own terms, and this time the Lady would not be there to correct any mischief. He rummaged through the scattered books, looking for an atlas or map that would take him to the Sheba district. A floorboard beneath Imaan’s copy of the Sacred Memories creaked as he leaned on it. He nudged it loose.