Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “You were rather harsh on Dominic, Catherine,” said Liza, taking an apple.

  “Yes, well he’s been rather harsh on us, wouldn’t you say? Imprisonment, forced marriage, general lewdness in apparel choice,” said Catherine, in between gulps of eggs.

  “It is unwise to bite the hand that feeds you,” said Liza.

  Catherine looked up from her eggs. “Don’t do that, Lady; don’t fall into that trap. Lady Imaan taught you better.”

  “What trap?”

  “Feeling like you could get all lovey-dovey with Dominic. That’s just plain wrong.”

  “He is my husband, isn’t he? Besides, he doesn’t seem so bad…now.”

  “Lady, Dominic hated—perhaps even killed—our mentor, nearly destroyed all you hold dear, imprisoned us and coerced you into a loveless marriage, which you already aspire to paint as a fairy-tale. It’s not right.”

  “Well, he is being nice at least,” mumbled Liza.

  “He used to woo women for a living,” said Catherine, waving a piece of toast. “And he could still be at it, you know, the immoral brute. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the spawn of the snake, with those looks and charm and evil ways.”

  “Catherine.”

  “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Liza, “and you shouldn’t speculate.”

  “Still, I wonder what really made him change. Do you think he’s still working? As a man, I mean? Maybe all this clothing is some frightful overcompensation for a lack of strength between the legs. He could be worn out by now, with all his fancying, but I guess only you will know the answer to that.”

  Liza closed her eyes. “Catherine, if you make one more frightful comment, I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Yes, Lady. Don’t worry yourself. Eat some breakfast, and I’ll see if I can’t find you something decent to wear for the auction that won’t make Lady Imaan turn in her grave.”

  Liza looked at the apple in her hands, thoughtful.

  “Catherine, what do you think about the charges against the Lady?”

  “All nonsense, obviously.”

  “You don’t think she had anything to do with the poisoned dagger?” asked Liza. Catherine shrugged.

  “If she did, she probably arranged it to protect Saladin. She was quite certain the mers would attack again and catch us unaware. Saladin was killed in a really unusual place. Maybe he went there to collect the dagger, and the guy who had it killed him.”

  Liza nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Wait, you don’t believe the Lady actually intended to kill Saladin, do you?” asked Catherine, reading her eyes.

  “No, of course not,” said Liza. “Still, it is unusual that she didn’t consult the judges about the dagger, if she wanted it for the King’s protection.”

  “The less people know about something like that, the better. She also probably didn’t want to argue with a group of grumpy, old men about it.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Liza. A memory crept into her mind as she stared at the apple, one she had been trying to avoid since it occurred on the day of Saladin’s death. It was something Lady Imaan had said that didn’t add up. She wondered.

  What if…

  Liza shook her head. “Not worth thinking about,” she said. She smiled and helped herself to breakfast.

  C h a p t e r 2 1

  The annual eyas sale was held inside a large, white tent, which this year had been decorated with chandeliers and lined with neatly-pruned, green plants. Crowds of potential buyers chatted in between a maze of round tables outfitted with silver plates and linen serviettes folded into the shape of birds. Servers in stiff bowties weaved through the crowd, serving cocktails and canapés. There was a ring at the far end of the tent and a high table behind it, where an auctioneer already sat with a gavel in his hand. Liza frowned.

  “Is this an auction or a social event?” she asked.

  “Both,” said Dominic. “These tables are for the top racing teams. We bid from one of the private boxes along the side, so our royal status doesn’t influence the bidding. Though speaking of dinner parties…”

  A stuffy old couple approached them, bowing stiffly. “Your Majesty, we just wanted to congratulate you on your recent marriage,” said the old man, an air of self-importance hovering about his waistline. “I had my doubts when the judges agreed to your appointment, but choosing such a well-trained, conservative wife shows much for your sense. I believe the country is in good hands.”

  “Thank you,” said Dominic. The couple turned their noses up and continued on their way, just as a scruffy, but well-dressed, young man sauntered up to them.

  “Hey, Dom, we haven’t seen much of you lately. Is the new wife to blame?” he asked, looking Liza up and down. “Mhm. Me and the other lounge lizards booked a room at the Zodic this evening; we’re planning a few rounds of blackjack and some other special things as well, if you know what I mean. Do you want to come?”

  “No, thank you,” said Dominic, avoiding his eyes.

  “Aw, come on, you know you want to. You don’t just change overnight. You still want it. I know you do.”

  “No,” said Dominic. The man stared at him.

  “I’ll be damned. You think you’re too good for us now, don’t you? Do you really think you’ve changed, now that you have your uncle’s wife and his throne? He acts as if it belongs to him, the cheek,” he said, turning around. An Ibex guard standing near Dominic pushed the man back so there was more distance between them. The man waved his arms.

  “Okay, Okay, I get the message. But you don’t fool me, Dominic. You’re still the same sorry ass, just like the rest of us. Don’t kid yourself.”

  And with that, he wandered off, making conversation with a group of men nearby. The guard called to a few other members of Ibex and pointed. “Arrest that man for misconduct.”

  Dominic waved his arm. “Leave him. It’s fine.”

  “Your Majesty, he was disrespecting the Crown.”

  “I’ll allow it, this time,” said Dominic. He turned to Liza and kissed her cheek. “You finish this without me. I have other matters to which I need to attend.”

  Liza stared at him. “Dominic,” she called.

  But he was already making his way through the crowd, flanked by Ibex guards, and he did not look back. A familiar voice sent a shiver down her spine. She jumped.

  “Liza? What a lovely surprise. I didn’t know you liked the races,” said Gabe.

  “Yes, well there are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” said Liza, rubbing her arms.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright. Where is your husband?” asked Gabe.

  “He had to leave suddenly; he’s asked me to bid in his place.”

  “Your Majesty?” asked a short, thin man. Liza turned.

  “Pierre Montagne, Ma’am, the royal jockey. I’ve been asked to see if you’d like to see the nesting box before we start.”

  Gabe smiled. “Well, I shan’t keep you. Enjoy the sale.” He tipped his hat and headed toward his box. The jockey asked again.

  “Would you like to see, Ma’am?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Liza. “Lead the way, Pierre.”

  The jockey led her to an enclosure behind the tent, where more than a hundred falcons paced in their makeshift stalls. Potential buyers walked up and down with teams of mechanics and other experts, prodding the glass birds with instruments, while the falcons snapped at them. Liza fanned through the buyers’ catalogue.

  “How do you even begin to know which one to choose?” asked Liza.

  “Oh, it’s quite simple, Ma’am, once you know what to look for,” said Pierre.

  “And what is that?”

  “Oh, lots of things. Good pedigree, good mechanics, good personality. You have to find the
right combination.”

  “Are you saying a machine can have a pedigree?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Making peregrines works similarly to breeding animals. Each falcon can have up to 80 per cent copied design, with forty from each ‘parent,’ so to speak. It must also have at least 20 per cent new modifications to be considered for racing. The catalogue shows the pedigree.”

  Liza watched as a falcon made of green and blue glass ruffled its feathers and stuck its beak into them, as if preening. It eyed her suspiciously.

  “I can’t believe how lifelike they act. I would almost swear they’re alive.”

  “That’s how they’re made, Ma’am.”

  A nearby mechanic threw a flaming pine cone at a particularly feisty falcon. It chewed up the seeds inside and, with a puff of smoke, spit out the opened cone. Liza looked confused.

  “Is that one feeding the machine?” she asked.

  “To each its own, Ma’am. Some say it helps before the sale.”

  “Which one is your favourite, Pierre?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ma’am. Whichever one pleases the King is good enough for me.”

  “You must have a favourite.”

  “There will be no favourites to mention,” said Madame Soiree, taking the catalogue from Liza as she came up behind them. “The King has already intimated to me how the buying shall be accomplished. You are to bid according to the instructions written in this copy of the catalogue. Come along. The sale is about to start.”

  Liza looked through Madame’s catalogue as she followed her to their box near the ring. She was to bid late on an unnamed, violet hen being sold under the first lot, starting her bid after ninety thousand but offering no more than one-forty.

  The auctioneer behind the high table at the end of the tent turned on his microphone and a hush came over the crowd. The first falcon was led into the ring, escorted by a groom who carried its reins. Liza watched as he circled it around; a three-dimensional image appeared just beyond her plate in the box, mimicking the falcon in the ring. The violet hen bobbed its head and flared its feathers, huffing and hissing as the auctioneer with the gavel began the sale.

  “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the annual eyas sale. We open the bidding for lot number one, a beauty of a violet hen from Noisy Neighbour and King’s Cup winner Thorny Rose, starting at a steal of twenty thousand… twenty thousand… twenty thousand… thirty. Thirty thousand… thirty thousand… do I hear fifty?”

  The stuffy old man that had greeted Dominic nodded to a man in a bowtie, who shouted and raised his hand.

  “Hey-oh!”

  “Fifty to the gentleman in the back,” said the auctioneer. “Do I hear sixty?”

  “Hey-oh!” shouted another man.

  “Seventy?”

  “Hey-oh!”

  “Eighty, eighty, bid’s at seventy, but I’ll take eighty. Come on, for a fine hen like this. She’s worth at least a hundred. Look at the pedigree, folks,” said the auctioneer. He shouted. “Eighty! And a ninety from the box, do I hear a hundred? You’re being outbid, Sir, with your eighty thousand. Do you want this hen to slip through your grasp? A fine hen, half-sister of Juniper, the winner of the hundred metres in last year’s Grand, daughter of King’s Cup winner Thorny Rose, going at the steal of a price for ninety thousand? Do we hear a hundred? Come on; you are here to bid, folks. Do I hear a hundred?”

  Liza nodded, and the gentleman called in the bid. In another minute the gavel came down, and the announcer called, “Sold for a hundred thousand to His Majesty, the King.”

  A quiet knock sounded on the door to the box. It was a leathery-looking flameworker.

  “Thank you for purchasing her, Your Majesty,” said the flameworker. “You’ve bought yourself a fine hen. She will win you many races; we have no doubt.”

  “Yes, yes. You are most welcome,” said Madame Soiree with a wave of her hand. “Their Majesties thank you for your work and look forward to racing her.” Madame shut the door and mumbled. “Never. That hen was bought as a training partner for serious racers. I’m afraid the old man’s craftsmanship just isn’t good enough.”

  Liza gaped at her.

  “Don’t look at me; follow the book,” snapped Madame. “You have another round of bidding coming up.”

  Liza bid on more falcons according to instructions, winning some and losing others, until she had one bid remaining, marked the Queen’s Choice. It was to be Lot 104, a white cock with platinum detail.

  “What’s this one?” asked Liza to Madame.

  “The falcon chosen to be your pick for the races, of course,” said Madame Soiree. Liza fanned the catalogue, coming upon a glossy photo of a familiar falcon. She read the entry.

  Lot 86: Thoroughbred Aerothian Peregrine

  Crimson Hen from Rebel Fires (sire) and Winter Song (dam)

  Name: La Cloche.

  Liza fluttered with excitement. “What about this one for the Queen’s Choice?” asked Liza, pointing to the photo.

  “No,” said Madame Soiree, “the royal mechanics have made a thorough examination of all the peregrines and have found the one advised to be the best choice for Her Majesty. Lot 104 has an excellent pedigree.”

  “But it says here that La Cloche was sired by Rebel Fires. Isn’t that one of the most famous falcons to have ever raced?”

  “Yes, but Rebel Fires is still racing, and he’s never let one of his children beat him,” said Madame.

  “Well, maybe there will be a first,” said Liza.

  “There are other factors to consider also, which have already been examined in greatest detail by the royal mechanics,” said Madame.

  “But I want La Cloche,” said Liza.

  “And you will bid according to what has been chosen for you,” scowled Madame.

  Lot 86 came up for bid, and La Cloche trotted into the ring, an air of self-importance about her. Liza felt a tingle in her chest as the falcon turned toward the boxes. It bobbed its head and clicked its tongue, staring right at her as if asking to be taken home. Liza nodded to the gentleman, who called in her bid of twenty thousand.

  Madame shrieked in protest. “What are you doing? You are not supposed to bid on this bird,” scolded Madame Soiree. “Stop this foolishness immediately.”

  But Liza nodded again. Someone had bid against her for thirty thousand. Liza called in forty, and Madame Soiree nearly jumped off her seat.

  “I command you to stop,” snapped Madame. “You are going against the wishes of the King.”

  Liza ignored her, absorbed in the bidding, which was now up to sixty. She was going to get La Cloche.

  “Well, seeing how I am of no use here,” huffed Madame. She stormed out of the box. Liza barely noticed; she had just bid for eighty thousand. At 210 000 the gavel finally came down, with the crowd chattering in amazement that an otherwise nondescript hen had gone for so much to Her Majesty. Liza danced to the door to greet the mechanics. Instead, she found the scowling face of Madame Soiree, puffed with the added backing of a message from a higher authority. She spoke.

  “The King wishes to see you.”

  It was already dark as they exited the sale. Liza followed Madame as she hurried through the Palace corridors with the urgency of a tattling child. They arrived at the King’s office nearly out of breath. Dominic barely looked up from his papers.

  “Thank you, Madame. That will be all for now,” said Dominic. Madame Soiree curtsied, casting Liza a triumphant, deathly glance as she left. Dominic continued writing.

  “Be with you in a minute, Liza,” he said. She stared out the window behind him. “About the falcon—”

  “I’ve already heard all about it,” said Dominic. “Seems you really know how to get Madame’s panties all twisted.”

  She stared at him.

  “Actually, I find it all splendid really,” said Dominic with a grin.


  “You didn’t call me over the falcons?” asked Liza.

  Dominic laughed. “Of course not. Why would it matter to me what bird you bought? I mean it was even called the Queen’s Choice, for frick’s sake. You can choose whatever one you damned well please. An unusual choice gives me a better chance of beating you in the races anyway.”

  “La Cloche might surprise you,” said Liza.

  “Well, that argument is for another time,” said Dominic with a mischievous grin. “I actually called you because I have yet to give you your wedding present, and for that, you’ll have to come with me.”

  Dominic led her up a spiral staircase to a glass-encased balcony on the highest turret, nestled against the edge of the sky. From there she could see the whole of the City, its bright lights sparkling like a blanket of stars from the Palace to the sea.

  Next to the window a sofa had been set with a low table in front of it. On the table was a tray of plump, chocolate truffles and ripe strawberries. Alongside it sat a velvet box with a gold bow. Liza looked dazed. She hadn’t expected this.

  “Don’t just stand there like a virgin; open the box,” said Dominic as he poured some champagne. Liza took a seat and tugged at the gold bow, finding inside a silver bracelet with a charm of a torch entwined with a rose.

  “I thought you can add a charm for each memory we make together,” said Dominic, sitting beside her. “See, I already got you started. This is for our wedding day. It will remind you of the day you saved the Temple, which is also the day you saved me.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Then we’ll just have to add a peregrine when your falcon wins the King’s Cup,” said Dominic. She leaned against his chest and stared out at the lighted City. Dominic slid his arm around her and kissed her neck. Liza tensed and pulled away.

  “Too soon?” asked Dominic.

  “Yeah,” said Liza.

  He nodded. “Saladin’s gone, Liza, and he’s not coming back. You deserve to be happy,” said Dominic.

  “I have to go now… to the Temple,” said Liza, looking away. She could feel her chest tightening.

  Dominic’s shoulders sunk. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”