Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “I’ll have the guys take a look at it,” said the man.

  “Hi,” said Liza, waving, but Nick had already turned the peregrine upward, flying toward the nesting box above them. She frowned.

  “Can I go up there?” asked Liza.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” said the man. “The lift’s back that way.”

  Liza rode the lift to the very top of Cliffside, nearly half a kilometre from the ground. Nick stood outside the building known as the nesting box, chatting with a group of equally wiry men, all jockeys. She waved, but he ignored her. Liza waved again, and the jockeys stopped talking. Nick walked over to her, his face hard.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I came to see if maybe you could give me a lesson. I want to learn how to fly,” said Liza.

  He chuckled. “No,” said Nick, walking away. Liza shuffled after him.

  “Hang on. I am your Queen and your employer. You are not in a position to say ‘no’ to me,” said Liza.

  “Oh, really, what position must I be in then? I can get down on one knee if you’d like, but the answer’s still no,” said Nick.

  “You know if your mother hadn’t begged me to save your life, you wouldn’t even be standing here to mock me,” said Liza. Nick spun around and grabbed her arms, whispering.

  “Hush. Do you want the other jockeys to think I’m soft? There will be none of that talk here,” said Nick, looking over his shoulders at the gossiping men he had just left. Liza lowered her tone.

  “I’m just saying you could show a bit of appreciation that you lived to fly another day, that’s all.”

  “Thank you. Are you happy now?” asked Nick. “Of course you aren’t; women are never satisfied. But the answer’s still no. Besides, aren’t you kind of fat for flying?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Liza. Nick shrugged.

  “Don’t get me wrong. You’re very attractive for a woman, but for a jockey, you have to be skin and bones. I don’t think all of this’ll work.” He waved his arms in front of her chest as though critiquing a painting. Liza’s cheeks burned.

  “Now you listen here. I am going to learn to fly this falcon come war or high wind, and I’ll be damned if I let a pretentious cad try to stop me,” called Liza. The other jockeys stared at her with big smiles and wide eyes. One laughed.

  “Whoooh! She’s about as fiery as her bird. I bet she’d be able to coax more speed out of La Cloche than you, though at the rate you’re flying her, it shouldn’t be too difficult,” said the jockey, slapping Nick’s shoulder. He tipped his hat on his way to the nesting box. “Buford Mumphry, Your Majesty. It’s an honour.”

  “Likewise,” said Liza.

  “Ha-ha. It’s a wonky coracoid,” called Nick. Liza crossed her arms.

  “Well? They don’t seem to have any concerns with me flying. Why must you?”

  “They weren’t asked to train you,” said Nick. “But you know what? Fine. If you can mount La Cloche, I’ll teach you to fly her.”

  Liza stared at him. “Serious?”

  “Yep, let’s get you suited up.” Nick led her through a long building filled with stalls full of straw and resting birds, stopping in front of a lost and found box in the corner. He picked through the items.

  “Right, here’s a vest and arm guards. Saddle, reins and hood I’ll give you just now. Weak arm goes up by the face. Strong arm holds the hood. You circle around the falc until you find a good enough opportunity to slip the hood over the beak. Once the hood’s on, you’ve got about ten seconds to slip the reins over the beak, throw the saddle over the back and mount. I’ll show you the first time; then you can try.”

  Nick unhooked the latch and snuck into La Cloche’s nest. The crimson falcon immediately jumped up and hissed, bobbing her head from side to side as she eyed him. He took a step forward and La Cloche lunged; Nick expertly slipped the hood over her beak to cover her eyes. La Cloche froze. He threaded the reins through the beak and threw the saddle on her back, clasping it around the belly as he jumped on. He released the hood and La Cloche shook her head, looking fiercely indignant. Nick slid off her back and unsnapped the saddle, releasing the reins as he slipped out the gate. He tossed the items to Liza.

  “Ready?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Arm up, hood, reins, saddle, mount.”

  “Right. What happens if I don’t manage in ten seconds?” asked Liza.

  “The falc will throw you from its back and peck the skin off your face,” said Nick. Liza stared at him.

  “I’m serious. Now go get ‘em, Chix,” said Nick, patting her back. “Arm up.”

  Liza slipped through the gate into La Cloche’s stall, holding her arm in front of her face as she inched toward the falcon. La Cloche stared at her with smug annoyance. Liza reached toward the bird’s beak, and La Cloche nipped her knuckles. She pushed it forward again and La Cloche nipped her hand near the wrist. Liza huffed as she tried to inch the hood near the bird.

  “How do I—ow. Can’t I wear gloves also?” asked Liza.

  “Nope, you’ll never be able to secure the reins if you wear gloves,” said Nick. The other jockeys lined the pen, hoisting themselves up onto the surrounding walls as they looked down at the timid Queen, who was pushing the hood near La Cloche’s beak with less and less fervour. La Cloche was losing her patience. She hissed and lunged at Liza, who narrowly jumped out of the way.

  “Keep at it. Arm up,” called Nick.

  “These are machines, aren’t they? Why do they have to be so mean?” asked Liza, ducking as La Cloche lunged for her head.

  “Aggressive birds fly faster and keep prying eyes away from their designs. Now quit complaining and focus on the bird.”

  “I swear, you’d think these are real,” she breathed. The bird lunged and locked its beak around Liza’s wrist. Liza screamed.

  “Push forward, not back,” shouted Nick. “Hurry before she breaks your wrist.”

  The jockey named Buford leaned toward him. “Nick, this is getting out of hand. Do you want to kill the Queen?”

  “Don’t think about it. Just do it,” called Nick to Liza, who was growing just as annoyed and frustrated as the bird. La Cloche lunged, and this time Liza lunged back.

  “Nick,” called Buford. “Nick!”

  But Liza was already up on La Cloche, shakily snapping the saddle into place. She pulled off the hood, and La Cloche looked around, irritated but properly reined, her left wing twitching. Nick smiled.

  “Good work, Chix. Now do that a hundred more times before Monday, and we’ll start training, provided you don’t break her back.”

  Liza’s smile dropped to concern as Nick turned to leave. “Wait, where are you going?” she asked.

  “To my owner’s nesting boxes,” said Nick.

  “But—”

  “What? You didn’t think I’d be satisfied just racing this junk, did you? I need to fly some serious falcons,” said Nick. “See you on Monday and don’t forget to bring your jockey’s license.”

  “License?” asked Liza.

  “No lie, no fly,” said Nick. “Ta.” He tipped his hat and left the nesting box, a mischievous grin lining his face as he rode down the lift.

  C h a p t e r 2 5

  Liza took a deep breath as she entered the Palace study, her face serious. Dominic and Gabe were engaged in intimate conversation near the desk; they stopped as she entered.

  “Liza, lovely to see you again today,” said Gabe. “How may we assist?”

  Saladin’s portrait beamed at her from the wall; Liza turned away from it as she spoke with as much authority as she could muster, “Dominic, I’m going to race La Cloche.”

  “That’s why you bought him, isn’t it?” asked Dominic.

  “No, I mean I am going race him. I need a jockey’s license.”

  Dominic stared
at her. “You?”

  “I’ve secured a trainer. We are to begin work on Monday provided I show a license.”

  “Who’s your trainer?” asked Dominic.

  “Nick Something. I don’t know his last name,” said Liza.

  “Isn’t one of Petra’s jocks named Nick?” asked Dominic.

  “I believe so, yes,” said Gabe.

  Dominic frowned. “Jakobson Racing doesn’t give up jocks easily. How in Aeroth did you manage that?”

  “If I may, jockeys undergo much physical strain, and most suffer serious injuries several times in their career,” said Gabe. “I’m worried that Liza—”

  “I am intelligent enough to know the risks, thank you,” snapped Liza.

  “I did not mean to offend. What if something happens to you?” asked Gabe.

  “Well, it’s not like my opinion will be missed around here, is it?” asked Liza.

  “Don’t be dramatic,” said Dominic.

  “Don’t be condescending,” said Liza. “Mr Silbi wisely suggested I get involved in a charity, and as he has just implied, the jockeys can use my help.”

  “Do they want your help?” asked Dominic.

  “Can I not even take advice how I choose now?” asked Liza. “What do you want from me?”

  “I’m telling you, taking one of Petra’s jockeys is not a good idea. You don’t want to mess with that woman,” said Dominic.

  Liza glared at him. “I didn’t come here to ask your permission, I merely came to announce my intention.”

  “I am not going to stop you,” said Dominic.

  “You’re not?” asked Liza.

  “No, but you will be a novice riding a top peregrine,” said Dominic. “I suggest you stick to the loosening workouts and leave the racing to the professionals until you’re good.”

  “That’s fair,” said Liza.

  “A jockey for a queen… even I couldn’t have imagined it,” said Dominic with a smirk. “Your license will be ready for Monday. I appreciate you keeping me informed.”

  Liza paused. She leaned near him and gave him a slight kiss on the cheek. Dominic stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “What was that for?”

  “For supporting me,” said Liza. “Thank you.” She turned to leave.

  “Dom, are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Gabe. “Dominic?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you listening?” asked Gabe.

  “Oh, let her have her fun. If I cage her in too much, she’ll never stay loyal.”

  “That’s wise.”

  “You sound surprised,” said Dominic.

  Gabe chuckled and then paused, thoughtful. “Do you like her?”

  “What? Nah. I’m just…I mean, she is my wife, isn’t she?”

  Gabe frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Dominic.

  “Nothing. I just find it curious as to why she’d choose that particular trainer. He’s not even a top jockey yet. There are many others with far more experience.”

  “I doubt anyone with more experience would give her the time,” said Dominic.

  “I don’t know. Getting into the Queen’s confidence might be desirable to some, wouldn’t you think?”

  Dominic paused. “Are you implying Liza would be unfaithful?”

  “No, I would never say such a thing,” said Gabe. “Still, she was forced into this union, and she does have a bit of a rebellious spirit about her.”

  “Do you really think she would risk her high moral standing on a jockey? That’s a bit far,” said Dominic.

  “I’m just saying I wouldn’t underestimate her,” said Gabe. “She was trained by the Lady, who we already know wasn’t as moral as she seemed.”

  But Dominic shook his head, smiling to himself. “Liza, Liza, a jockey for a queen—who would’ve thought?”

  Liza arrived at Cliffside in the early hours of a Monday morning when the air was still crisp and biting. She rubbed her arms and hurried inside the nesting box where it was much warmer; a sweet smell of oil and half-chewed fruit hung in the air. Nick was curled up in front of La Cloche’s stall, sweaty and pale. He was clutching his stomach.

  “What are you doing here?” growled Nick. “Go home.”

  “Why do you look so sick?” asked Liza. She picked up a bottle from the floor and read the label.

  Doctor P’s All Natural and Wholly Legal Diet Capsules

  Near Immediate Results.

  Side effects may include dizziness, convulsions, coma, indigestion, shrivelled tongue, death and flatulence. Use at your own risk.

  “Nick, how could you take such a thing? This is really dangerous,” said Liza. “We must get you to a—”

  “Fricking falcs. I don’t have to listen to this. Stop talking,” groaned Nick. “I think I might be on the verge of convulsions.”

  “Really, you must see a doctor,” said Liza.

  He paused. “Oop, no, just flatulence,” said Nick, sighing. “All better now. Morning, Pierre.”

  “Hmph,” grumbled Pierre, his nose high in the air as he passed.

  Nick smiled. “Pleasant fellow, isn’t he? Ever since he started riding for the King, the ass thinks he’s better than the rest of us. I let it slide because he’s won the King’s Cup, but if you try anything like that around here, I’ll sock you right in your—”

  “Watch it, Nick. That’s the Queen you’re talking to,” said Buford. He waved to both of them as he entered the nesting box next to La Cloche, with a hood, saddle and reins in hand. Nick stared at her.

  “Ah, she won’t do anything to me, will you Chix? She’s too soft. Though that does bring up another question: why are you here?” he asked.

  “I have my license,” said Liza.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said Nick, sitting up.

  “Endorsed by the King himself,” said Liza. She handed him the card. Nick growled.

  “That bastard. I should’ve known the rakehell would do something stupid like this.”

  “Watch your language,” said Liza.

  “Bah,” said Nick, grimacing.

  Buford emerged on top of a beautiful navy and gold peregrine, which gave Nick a fierce, condescending look from behind the reins. Buford grinned at him.

  “You’re not going soft, are you?” asked Buford. “Going back on your promise?”

  “Course not!” coughed Nick. “I said I’ll train her; I’ll train her, but we are going to do this my way.”

  Buford smiled at Liza as he led his falcon outside. Nick stumbled around the nesting box collecting saddles, hoods and other equipment. He waved a whip in his hand.

  “Up here, you’re in my world under my tutelage, and therefore, you follow my rules,” said Nick, picking up a saddle. “And the rules are as follows: Rule Number One: No majestic language. Formality counts for less than a shredded snake skin up here, so don’t expect any pleasantries from me.”

  Liza nodded as Nick continued.

  “Rule Number Two: No special treatment. You pull your weight like any other jock.

  Rule Number Three: No personal questions.

  Rule Number Four: No opinions.”

  “What?” asked Liza.

  “You are not allowed to comment, critique, judge, reprimand or otherwise make any peep about me, my actions or methods, or of racing culture in general.”

  Liza sighed. “Fine.” Nick smiled.

  “Rule Number Five: No requests or dissension of any kind. If I tell you to hop on one foot for the next hour holding a saddle, you do it, understood?”

  “You can’t be serious?” asked Liza.

  “Those are the terms,” said Nick. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Deal,” huffed Liza.

  “You will also hitherto refer to me as ‘my wise and glorious master�
� from here on out.”

  Liza shook her head. “Now that’s where I draw the—”

  “Cool it, Chixy. I just wanted to see how far I could push you,” laughed Nick. “Go get La Cloche.” He aimed the whip at her butt, but Liza caught the end in her hand. She glared at him.

  “You try that again, and I will have you hanged,” said Liza. She pulled the whip from his grasp and headed into La Cloche’s stall.

  Nick stared after her, a mischievous grin lining his face. “Okay then, let the training begin.”

  Over the coming weeks, Nick taught Liza everything he knew about racing. Liza learned the proper way to lay across the falcon to increase its aerodynamic properties, how to coax more speed from La Cloche by tapping a whip above the tailfeathers and when to pull up early if the wing twitched too much or there was a threat of mechanical failure. Liza paid close attention to every lesson, practicing her flying with Nick during the day and pouring over books full of racing tactics by night. As the days went by, Liza and La Cloche slowly shaved seconds from their racing times and improved their form, gradually gaining acceptance with the other jockeys that bordered on respect. They stood against the rail as she flew La Cloche in a timed trial over one hundred metres.

  “Tuck in the wings!” shouted Nick.

  Liza raced past them.

  “She’s getting good,” said Buford, watching as Liza soared past the finish line. “It won’t be long before she’s ready for racing.”

  “She’ll never get there, though,” said Nick, his face hard. “This is all a dream for her. One day she’s going to wake up and realise this was all a bunch of nonsense, and she’s going to leave and never come back.”

  “I don’t think Liza would do that,” said Buford.

  “Oh, she will,” said Nick, nodding with more emotion than he wanted to show. “She doesn’t belong here. She’s going to leave.”

  He turned away from the rail and repeated it to himself as though it were a reprimand.

  She’s the Queen. She is going to leave.

  “How was that?” asked Liza as she landed La Cloche next to the jockeys. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a fairly good run.”