by Tara Omar
“Hear, hear,” grumbled the Theodite judge.
The rest of the people nodded in agreement and began packing up their files. Petra Jakobson, who was also present as the owner of a major fashion house, dug in her handbag.
“While we’re assembled, would any of you gentleman be interested in a friendly game of blackjack at the Zodic this evening? The first round is on me,” said Petra. “Gabe?”
“No, thank you, my dear, though I appreciate the invitation,” said Gabe.
“I’ll come,” said the Theodite judge.
“As will I,” said another.
“Your Majesty?”
“No, thank you,” said Dominic.
“Aw, I know how fond His Majesty is of the game,” said Petra. “Is His Majesty sure he won’t join us?”
“That was another life,” said Dominic, looking through a stack of papers. The tired men bowed one by one to the King and filed from the room. Soon only Gabe and Petra, who was still digging in her sizable crocodile handbag, remained. Dominic glanced up from his reading.
“My apologies, Your Majesty, I’ll just be a minute. If you don’t mind, one of my falcons is doing trials at Cliffside tonight, but he seemed a bit stiff in the nesting boxes when I saw him this morning. I’d like to check on him.”
“Not at all,” said Dominic.
Petra pulled from her purse a small, gold orb with puzzle-like rings and placed it on the table. She turned several of the rings and immediately it cracked open and an image floated above it, which looked like a blurry fence. It was the rail at the side of Cliffside.
“Unfortunately, the signal isn’t very good. I just have to adjust to—oh,” said Petra, pausing as she turned the orb. The image shifted to two figures, a man lying on the ground with a woman leaning over him. She frowned. “Is that—”
As Dominic looked up, the image burned into his mind as though he had been staring at it for hours; he knew exactly who it was. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as thoughts raced through his mind.
Liza and Nick…they’re kissing. They’re…
Petra snapped the orb shut. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to… I mean it’s so embarrassing…” said Petra. “I’d better get to my blackjack game. Good night.”
“Wait,” called Dominic.
Petra paused, wincing as though she was about to be hit.
“I’m coming with you,” said Dominic.
Petra smiled sympathetically. “Very well, Your Majesty. We’d be honoured to have you.” She followed the King out the door and smiled toward Gabe, who stared ahead with a blank, unfeeling gaze.
C h a p t e r 4 0
Liza sat at the breakfast table on the terrace, overlooking the City. She appeared as agitated as a fish caught on a line; she tapped her fingers on the table impatiently, while La Cloche gnawed on a branch behind her. Dominic staggered to the opposite seat.
“Where have you been?” asked Liza.
He glared at her.
“I waited for you last evening, but you didn’t come to your room.”
“What, and you’re saying you missed me?” laughed Dominic.
Liza looked confused. “I have something urgent I must discuss—”
“Take this away. I want eggs benedict today,” said Dominic, handing his plate to a servant, “and bring me some tomato juice and headache tablets…strong ones.”
Liza frowned. “Dominic, have you been drinking?” she asked.
“Actually, bring me some waffles, as well. Waffles sound good.”
“Dominic,” said Liza.
“Oh, yes, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Dominic, taking a glass of tomato juice from a servant.
“Dominic!”
“Whatever you have to discuss, we shall do so after I finish my breakfast.”
“But—”
“If you want me to hear you at all, you’ll heed what I said,” he growled.
Liza quieted and looked to her plate. Madame Soiree clicked her way across the terrace, a leather file in hand. Several men followed behind her; they were carrying a saddle and reins. Madame offered a dramatic bow in Dominic’s direction.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. Having a pleasant morning, I trust?”
“I’ve been better, Soiree,” said Dominic.
Madame glared at Liza. “I’m here to collect La Cloche for the Grand. The falcon needs to be taken to Cliffside to prepare for the King’s Cup.”
“But La Cloche isn’t racing,” said Liza.
“Yes, she is,” said Madame.
“No, she’s not. I’m her owner, and I did not enter her in the race. She’s staying right here,” said Liza.
“All falcons associated with the Palace technically belong to His Majesty the King, and His Majesty has chosen to enter the peregrine in question in the King’s Cup,” said Madame Soiree.
“And any mechanic will tell you she is not fit to race,” said Liza. “Withdraw her.”
“Very well, then, I shall have her transferred to the Jakobson’s stables instead,” said Madame.
“What?” asked Liza.
Madame Soiree huffed. “His Majesty the King recently wagered La Cloche. Failure to win in the King’s Cup will result in a transfer of ownership to Jakobson Racing, as per the contract duly signed by the involved parties and two witnesses.” She pulled a form from the file and handed it to the Queen, while the men struggled to restrain La Cloche.
Liza spun around. “You bet my falcon?”
“Oh, it looks like I did,” said Dominic, glancing at the file in Madame’s hand. “Oops.”
“How could you?” she gasped.
“Why are you worried? I’m sure your boyfriend can win it back for you.” Dominic chuckled, his face full of disgust. He pointed. “Look at you standing here all pretty and innocent with your sweet face and your righteous look. Am I supposed to buy this act? Personally, I don’t think you’re worth the money.”
“What are you—”
“I saw you, Liza,” shouted Dominic. “I saw you and your lover boy kissing at Cliffside.”
Liza trembled, her eyes like fiery daggers aimed at the King. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could not find any words. Dominic shook his head.
“And you’re not even denying it.”
“He was dying!” blurted Liza.
“What?”
“Check the morgue if you don’t believe me,” said Liza, “and you, get your hands off my bird.” She grabbed the reins from the man and jumped on the back of the falcon. “La Cloche will race,” said Liza. “I shall take her to Cliffside myself.”
The crimson falcon flapped its wings and rose into the air, its glass feathers glittering as it reflected the morning sun. Liza flew La Cloche to the nesting boxes of Cliffside, where Buford was sitting on a stool, oiling his saddle. He waved to her.
“Your Majesty, I didn’t expect to see you today. How are you faring?”
“I’ve been better,” said Liza, tucking La Cloche into the empty stall. The falcon bobbed her head and screeched, greeting the navy peregrine in the stall next to her. Buford shook his head.
“Such a shame about Nick. He was a good jockey, a good man also.”
“Yes, he was,” said Liza, “but that’s not why I’m here. The King has entered La Cloche in the King’s Cup. She’s going to need a jockey. Will you ride her?”
“Oh, um, thank you for thinking of me, but I already have a mount for the King’s Cup,” said Buford, looking away. “I mean, I wouldn’t reject such a generous offer, Your Majesty; it’s just the owner was counting on me and, well…”
“I understand. La Cloche is beautiful, but I know she doesn’t have a chance,” said Liza. “I can’t ask you to sacrifice your career just to satisfy my emotional attachment.”
“Well, someti
mes the apprentice jockeys can be really surprising. I’ll see if I can find you a good one.”
“Thank you, Buford. Let’s hope,” said Liza, wiping her eyes.
Buford handed her a handkerchief. “Aw, don’t be so despondent, Your Majesty. It’s not good for the bird. No matter what the odds, the falcons can always surprise you. That’s the magic of racing.”
“Thank you, Buford. I shall see you soon,” said Liza.
The jockey tipped his hat. “Majesty.”
Back at the Palace, Catherine leaned over a barbell, adding another disk to each side. She paused, writing the next size in her training journal.
“It’s going to take the strength of Avi to lift this one,” grumbled Catherine. Liza walked in, biting her lip as her eyes swelled with tears.
“What’s wrong, Lady?” asked Catherine.
“Dominic wagered La Cloche in the King’s Cup,” said Liza. “If she loses—and she most likely will—she will go to Jakobson Racing.”
“What? That’s horrible,” said Catherine.
Liza sighed. “I know.”
“Well, maybe it’s for the best. This racing’s been nothing but trouble,” grumbled Catherine. Liza gaped at her.
“How dare you! How can you even say that?”
“I know you’re attached to the bird, but you do have more important things to worry about,” said Catherine. “Sometimes we all need a bit of tough love.”
Liza pointed to the door. “Get out! Get out, and take your judgmental nonsense with you.”
Catherine sat next to the Queen and gave her a hug, leaning her head on Liza’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, that was very harsh of me. I’m just struggling to understand why this racing is so important to you.”
“Because I’m just like them,” snapped Liza, pulling away. “I’m owned. I always have been.”
“That’s not true, Lady.”
“I gave Imaan half of my life, Catherine. I answered her every beck and call, and what did she prepare me for? Manipulation…a lifetime of being manipulated by people stronger and smarter than myself.”
“But you are Queen of Aeroth,” said Catherine.
“I am a consort to the King,” said Liza. “Before that, I was a parrot to a priestess, and you know what’s the worst part? I’ve been following people for so long, I don’t know if Imaan loved me at all, or if I’ve been mourning a monster. Or if Saladin…”
Her lip trembled. Catherine patted her hand sympathetically.
“You know, some people—perhaps Lady Imaan also—some people can love those within their circles with their whole hearts, while having no feeling at all for the rest,” said Catherine.
“Do you think I was in her circle?” asked Liza. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. It’s still wrong.”
“Well, she was human,” said Catherine.
“Yeah,” scoffed Liza, “she was only human.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Liza sighed. “I don’t know.”
Catherine stared at the Queen, thoughtful. She gave her a hard smack across the face.
“Ow!” said Liza, grabbing her cheek. “Why did you do that? You know I can have you arrested for that.”
“Because you’re being childish, and I’m tired of your stories,” said Catherine. “Now hold out your hands.”
Liza cringed.
“Just do it,” ordered Catherine.
Liza did as she was told and held out her hands, palms facing up. Catherine put her own hands under the Queen’s.
“Are these hands functional?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Liza.
“Is anyone tying them down?” asked Catherine.
Liza sighed. “No.”
“So, why don’t you stop waiting for someone to save you, and start using them yourself,” said Catherine.
Liza smiled. “You’re very wise for your age, Catherine.”
“Yeah, well, I had good teachers,” mumbled Catherine.
“You’re right,” said Liza, standing up. “I have to do it. I’m going to do it myself.”
“Do what?” asked Catherine.
“I’m going to fly La Cloche in the King’s Cup,” said Liza.
Catherine frowned. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“But at the moment, it is what needs to be done,” said Liza. “Please bring my books and racing files. I have a lot to figure out before Saturday.”
“Yes, Lady,” said Catherine, singing to herself as she left.
“I’ll be damned if I let that Petra woman take my falcon without a fight,” said Liza. “La Cloche is going to soar.”
C h a p t e r 4 1
David sat in the damp, rusting cell on Kakapo Wreck, surrounded by tiny cranes and flowers made from newspaper cuttings. The time left in the darkness had given rise to a sort of routine; a gooey porridge was brought to him on a scrap of newspaper every morning, which he ate far too quickly. He would then spend the next few hours attempting to read the stories on the oily paper, and after all possible reads and word games were exhausted, the scraps were turned into an array of tiny paper sculptures. He talked to himself as he folded. His mind repeated the same, haunting questions.
“Bring the bottom sides of the square to the centre fold.”
I wonder what they’re going to do with me.
“Crease and unfold.”
Who has the shield?
“Fold the top corner of the square forward and back to form a diamond shape.”
Could I have done something differently?
“Bring the bottom corner upward to form a kite shape.”
I wonder what they’re going to—
David crumpled the paper and let out a loud, frustrated scream. As he howled, another voice joined him, drowning out his scream with a perfectly-sung, operatic high C. David paused as a soft-spoken man called to him.
“You have a very lovely vocal range,” said the man. “Do you sing?”
“No,” said David. He leaned his ear toward the flap in the door that the guards used to push his porridge through. The man called again.
“Do you study music then?” he asked.
“I’m an art and music teacher and a cellist,” said David.
“Really?” asked the guy, his voice piqued with interest. “How in the world does a lover of the arts end up in here?”
“Long story,” sighed David. “Are you also in solitary?”
“Yes, and I’ve been going completely mad. It’s a wonder that stupid guard forgot to lock the food flap. If I couldn’t hear any outside conversation for another day, I don’t know what I’d do. Have you eaten?”
“The porridge? Yes,” said David. “Still hungry though.”
“You can have mine,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”
David heard a gentle scraping, like a plate being pushed along the crumbling concrete. He reached his hand out of the tiny opening at the base of the door as far as he could manage and dragged in a silver plate; on top of it sat a thick, gourmet burger and a mound of potato wedges. David looked at the plate like it was his first love. He tore at the burger like a ravenous predator would tear at its kill, swallowing potato wedges in between.
“Is it nice?” asked the man.
“Yeah,” mumbled David, his mouth full.
“Mummy was at least good in that,” grumbled the man. “There’s apple juice also.”
David stuck his hand out the door and grabbed the mug of juice. “Your mother?” he asked.
“Yeah, she’s the one who got me arrested. She doesn’t approve of my ‘lifestyle,’” he scoffed. “She thinks locking me up here will somehow change me.”
David paused. “Wait, you mean you’ve been thrown into solitary confinement in Aeroth’s most notorious prison because your moth
er doesn’t approve of your lifestyle.”
“Yes, pretty much so,” he said. “I don’t know why she doesn’t just disown me and leave it at that if I’m such an embarrassment. It’s not like she’s my birth mother.”
“She’s not your birth mother?” asked David through mouthfuls of food.
“No, she adopted my brother and me when she married our father,” said the man. “Anyway, I wouldn’t even have been in this mess if I had avoided the theatre, but oh, how the performance was worth it! The lights…the music…the sets… the opening night of Desert Wind was exquisite—probably the best I’ve seen at the Zodic in a long time. To think Mummy had me arrested on such a beautiful evening… I swear that woman has no soul. Probably wouldn’t even have known to look there if my Uncle Sash wasn’t such a softie.”
“Sash?” asked David.
“He’s a fool if he thinks I’m going to give him cheats for the M-R-6 after this. I mean, really.” The man quieted. Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel outside their cells, followed by the clang of the metal door opening. The guard spoke to him.
“Alan Jakobson? All charges against you have been dropped. You are free to go,” said the guard.
“It’s about time,” he grumbled.
The guard unlocked the barred gate and loosened the prisoner’s shackles, helping him to his feet. Alan followed the guard toward the exit, tapping David’s cell door as he left.
“Best wishes, humble cellist. I hope to see you around,” he whispered.
David sat on the other side of the cell, his mind racing to connect the new information he had just heard.
Alan Jakobson…Uncle Sash…
He thought back to the conversation he had heard from the vent above Petra’s office, when her son had complained of a missing brother…
If Alan is Ephraim’s brother, he thought and if they have an uncle named Sash…David gasped. The Y.J. on Yasmin’s jar… Could Yasmin’s maiden name be Jakobson? That would make her Yusuf Jakobson’s sister.
David could see all the pieces coming together in his mind like a metal puzzle being pulled together by magnets… Yasmin’s brother and Sasha’s best friend, the one who died during the M-R-6 was Yusuf Jakobson, Petra’s husband.