Mamma continued, “He has had a very rough time.”
I didn’t say anything because the only thing I had to say was rather mean. We must be nice to Poppy because he spent three years as a prisoner of war. But other people have rough times and they suck it up and move on. Sergeant Carheña lost his leg at the Battle of Calo Res, and he gets along just fine. There’s a girl in my gymkhana class at Sanctuary whose little brother fell out of the back of an ice wagon and was crushed. She gets along just fine, too. Why does Poppy have to be special?
“Can I go upstairs now, Mamma? I have a lot of homework.”
“I wish you would sit with me for a few minutes, Flora. It’s been so long since we have been home together, and now I have to leave again. A messenger arrived from Moro; the Ambassador from Anahuatl City requires me to wait upon him, and I have to leave first thing in the morning. I’m sorry, darling.”
Leaving again? Was this a stroke of luck! Mamma out of the way, while Udo and I undertook our rescue plan. One worrisome detail easily taken care of.
“But I promise I will be back for your Catorcena. I promise. I’ll be back in plenty of time. I promise.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mamma,” I said. “Can I go? I need to get the kitchen clean before I go to bed.”
“Leave the kitchen—I’ll tell Aglis to send a squad over in the morning. And of course it matters. I promise I’ll be back in time.”
“It’s fine. Good night.” I turned around to go upstairs, and though Mamma called me back, I did not go. I didn’t actually care about my Catorcena or whether Mamma was there or not. All I cared about at this particular moment was saving Boy Hansgen. Even Valefor had taken backseat to that; he could wait a little longer. Boy Hansgen could not. Mamma’s departure made things much easier. Once Boy was safe, then I would restore Valefor, and if Mamma found out and didn’t like it, to the Abyss with her.
When I got out of the bathroom, Mamma was waiting by my door; she never gives up, which is what makes her the Rock of Califa, I suppose. Persistence may be good for a general, but it is not such a happy quality in a mother.
“What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter,’ Flora? I thought you were looking forward to your Catorcena.”
“I guess, Mamma.”
“You have done an excellent job on your room, darling. I don’t remember when I saw it this clean before, and the bathroom, too. I know you have a lot of responsibilities, and I am glad to see that you are, for the most part, handling them.”
“Thank you, Mamma.”
“I am sorry to have to leave again so soon, Flora, but I promise, before you go to the Barracks this summer, I shall take a nice long holiday and we shall do something fun, ayah?”
“Ayah, Mamma.”
“I have to leave early, darling, so I won’t wake you. Will you have cocoa with me before—”
A dog distantly barked, once, then twice, and then the entire herd erupted into a yodeling volley. There is only one reason the dogs howl this late at night.
Poppy.
Downstairs, glass crashed and the barking turned to howls. Mamma whipped around, then ran downstairs.
SEVENTEEN
Alone. Valefor. Next.
MAMMA LEFT AT oh-dark-thirty. She came into my room, but I pretended to be asleep and she didn’t wake me—only brushed the top of my head with a kiss and slid the bed-door closed again. As soon as she was gone, leaving a faint whiff of sandalwood behind, I booted the dogs out of bed and ran to the window.
The outriders were already assembled; two of them were heaving Mamma’s field desk into the back of a buckboard. Lieutenant Sabre stood by the back of the wagon, directing. The outriders finished levering up the field desk, then started on Mamma’s trunk.
Usually I am sad when Mamma leaves, but not today. Today I was fearsome glad, and a part of me grimly wished she’d never return. This is very mean, I know, but sometimes my heart feels very very mean. Small and mean. Mamma could leave when she wanted to, but I’m stuck.
A striker held Jimmy’s reins. The same wind snatching at the guidons was making Jimmy frisky, and he kept hopping a bit, so the striker had to also bounce, to keep him in place. The guidons dipped suddenly, and there was Mamma’s bright head. She said something to Lieutenant Sabre, then took over Jimmy’s reins, rubbing his nose soothingly. Mamma has a way with horses. No matter how wild they are, she can calm them.
I had not followed her all the way to the kitchen the night before. I had gone to the top of the stairs, and there I had stopped. Below, Poppy was shouting, the dogs were howling, and glass was smashing. Mamma’s calm voice cutting through the clamor like thread cuts cake. Poppy’s grating voice, rough with tears. “The Human Dress is forged Iron!"
“Shush, my darling, my sweet boy. Shush.”
“The Human Form a Fiery Forge!’"
“No, my darling, here, give the knife to me...”
That’s when I ran back to my bedroom. I had slammed the door, crawled into my cold bed, and lay in bitter darkness the rest of the night, thinking bitter thoughts.
Now Mamma mounted, and Jimmy twirled a bit while she settled in the saddle, after rapping him on the withers with her crop. The last trunk was strapped down, and Lieutenant Sabre, who had been overseeing the stowing, mounted. Here was revealed Lieutenant Sabre’s one military flaw: He had a terrible seat. His stirrups were way too high and his knees stuck out like wings.
The guidons went first, and then the buckboard. Mamma fell in next, then Lieutenant Sabre, and the entourage jogged down the drive. Because Crackpot’s main gate is too heavy to be opened without Val’s effort, the drive now cuts away and veers to the back of the House, toward the freight entrance. At the split, Mamma paused and looked back. I ducked behind the curtain, although I know she was too far to see me. I couldn’t see her face, just the bobbing feathers on her tricorn hat. For a few seconds, she looked at the House, and then she turned and rode away.
I went back to my warm bed, and there found Valefor, usurping my place and seeming pleased with himself. He looked not quite the worst I had seen him, but not the best, either. Somewhere in between, faintly sparkling but faded to lavender.
“How happy that Buck should have to leave again, and now here is our chance. I can still feel that Sigil rumbling around inside me. I know this time we shall find it, I know we shall, Flora Segunda—let’s start.”
“I can’t, Valefor.” I found my wrapper and put it on, then looked for my slippers. Now that I was up, I might as well stay up. Udo and I had agreed that we would be cutting school today; his plan was to leave Case Tigger as usual, walk the kiddies to school, and then hit the horsecar. I had plenty of time to take a long hot bath before he came, if I went now. We had a long day before us, and it would be nice to be clean for it. Plus, I was too hungry to sleep. I needed a big breakfast and then to start preparing.
Valefor said, “Why not? We are burning daylight, and Buck is gone. When will she be back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “Just in time for my Catorcena the next day.”
“That should be plenty of time to—”
“No, Valefor,” I said, then told him about Boy Hansgen. When I was done, Valefor’s brow was furrowed in a pout deep enough to plant potatoes in.
“But what about me, Flora Segunda? Have you forgotten poor Valefor?” The tears were welling. Val was a regular fountain; it was a talent that I should cultivate. Crying on cue should surely be a handy ranger skill.
“No, I haven’t, but we have to rescue Boy Hansgen first. He’s on a deadline, and you are not, Valefor. He’s going to be executed at midnight tonight, so we can’t lollygag.”
“But you care more about a stupid pirate than your own family?” Valefor sobbed.
“No, I don’t. Don’t be silly. But I have to prioritize—”
“Your own family!”
“Valefor, look at it this way. Boy Hansgen is a ranger. I know he’ll be able to help us open the tea caddy. And he’s an adept, too. He wil
l know exactly how to restore you.” I was making this up as I went along, but as I did, I realized that it actually made pretty good sense. If anyone would know how to open a seal lock without the seal, surely it was Boy Hansgen.
Val’s sobbing turned into hiccups. “I might remember him, actually. Boy Hansgen, you said?”
“Ayah.”
“Was he in a band? I think they played for Buck’s twenty-first birthday—I do remember: The Infernal Engines of Desire, that was their name. It was a fancy dress party—come as your fear. I made the most wonderful cake in the shape of Horrors to Come and Delights to Pass, and real chocolate spouted—”
I cut him off. “So, see, Valefor, it’s all part of the plan.”
“Well, it could work,” he said thoughtfully. “But you haven’t forgotten about me, Flora? You will not forget. You promised you wouldn’t.”
I said soothingly, “I will not; I promise. But I can only do so much. Val, Poppy trashed the kitchen last night.”
“I know. I heard him. Even in the Bibliotheca, I heard him. Oh, the noise. Well, I’ll soon put a stop to that—it’s first on my list.”
“Could you fix the kitchen? And make me some coffee? Please. I’ll give you more Anima.”
So we bent our heads together, and this time I noticed that I could actually see my Anima. It was wispy and thin, a washed crimson that was almost pink, but I could see it. Again came the delicious feeling of sparkly well-being, and again I felt a whole lot better about the world—as though I had drunk two entire pots of coffee.
Valefor himself looked better than he ever had before; his form looked more solid and muscular, and his eyes were like chips of amethyst. For the first time, I noticed a family resemblance: Mamma’s wide-set eyes and Idden’s rounded chin. Poppy’s bladed cheekbones and the Fyrdraaca nose, sharp as a tack. He really was quite good-looking in a matinee idol sort of way.
“You know, Flora Segunda,” Val said, considering, “I think that perhaps I should make sure you don’t forget me—and so I think that Valefor shall turn off the tap until you make good on your oath.”
“‘Turn off the tap’? What does that mean?”
“I mean, no more Valefor fixing everything nice and tidy. I mean, you are on your own until you come through, Flora.”
“But you said you’d clean up the kitchen if I gave you more Anima!” I said indignantly.
“Well, now you know how it feels to be promised something and to receive it not. Turnabout is fair play.”
“Valefor, I said I would do it, but all in good time.”
“Flora's good time, and what time will that be? Well, Madama Fyrdraaca, you do as you please, and when you are ready, I shall be ready, too.”
“I can clean the kitchen myself, Valefor,” I said warningly. “I don’t need you.”
He was unperturbed. “Perhaps, but I think you’ve lost the taste for cleaning. And I think perhaps that you do need me. I am secure in myself. Say hello to Boy Hansgen for me.”
He wiggled a little wave in my direction and dissolved into a froth of purple. Well, he could pout all he wanted; my plan did not hinge on him, anyway, though I had hoped to get him to help Udo and me with our disguises, and maybe whip us up a nice snack before we went to tackle the Warlord.
When it came down to it, I’d warrant he needed me more than I needed him. Although, he certainly was right that I had now completely lost my taste for chores.
EIGHTEEN
Sewers. Clowns. Cheery Cherry Slurps. Sad Songs.
TRICKERY AND DISGUISE are the ranger’s favorite tools. Easier to make a clean getaway if your target doesn’t even realize it’s been rooked. Easier to be given freely than to take by force. And the trick to getting what you want, Nini Mo said, is to make sure you phrase your request correctly.
The Warlord’s favorite bar is a joint called Pete’s Clown Diner, which is located in the most ruinous part of the City: South of the Slot. South of the Slot is famous for its hard-cases and blind tigers (or, to quote the Califa Police Gazette, “undistinguished personages and establishments of questionable clientele”), and not an area to be caught in at night unless you are suicidal or well-armed. Happy for Udo and me, who are neither, the Warlord’s devotion to Pete’s knows no schedule, and he’s as likely to be found there at one in the afternoon as at one in the morning.
Early afternoon South of the Slot isn’t pretty, but isn’t life-threatening, either, as most of the dollies, mashers, twirlers, saltmen, and other lowlifes are still passed out in their beds or on the sidewalks. Or, rather, in the gutter, as South of the Slot has only a scattering of plank sidewalks.
We took the N horsecar, which traverses along the Slot that gives South of the Slot its name (there’s a North of the Slot, too, but it’s all banks—thieves of a more respectable kind, says the CPG) and got off at Placer Street. Pete’s Clown Diner is two blocks down, at Placer and Hazel, and within half a block, both Udo and I were wishing that we had worn shorter kilts and higher boots. Or better yet, ridden.
“Don’t the garbage men come down here?” Udo asked. On the sidewalk the trash was ankle-deep; we would have walked in the street but that was knee-deep in mud, a rather unsavory looking mud that reminded me, both in looks and smell, of something I did not want to be reminded of.
“I guess not. Perhaps they are afraid to.” I veered around the half-eaten chicken that lay forlorn on the sidewalk.
“Cowards. This is a disgrace.” Udo hid his nose behind a white lace hankie. Since he was dressed as a drover, in leather pantaloons and overkilt and an orange-and-blue-plaid smock, it made him look rather conspicuously suspicious.
“Put the hankie away,” I ordered.
“But the smell—”
“We are supposed to be in disguise. How many drovers do you think use white lace hankies?”
“Ones that don’t like the smell—ayah, Flora, you win, as always.” Udo replaced the hankie with a stogie; the look was more in keeping with his disguise, but the smell was only marginally better. Smoking is a horrible habit.
South of the Slot really was a disgrace; I agreed with Udo there. Farther down the street, a dead mule lay on its side, as green as a grape and so gassy that I’m surprised the corpse didn’t float off into the sky. The sidewalk planking soon disappeared completely, and then the trash turned out to be a good thing because the only way to get through the mud without losing your boots was to hop from broken barrel to discarded box to abandoned fruit crate. When a wagon went by, its driver cursing a blue streak and snapping a whip over the struggling team, its wheels tossed up rotting garbage and sludge.
The buildings that lined the street were little more than shacks, hovels in near danger of collapsing. Ratfaced children peered through broken doors and empty windows, and occasionally a rat itself scampered by. Sometimes followed by a cat. Mostly not. Grubby men lurked in doorways, staring at us as we walked by, but no one stopped us. Perhaps Udo’s smock had blinded them.
Pete’s Clown Diner was made obvious by the clown dangling over its front door and the coach parked in front, with the Warlord’s crest displayed in gold on its side. The dangly clown was, I realized thankfully, not a real clown, but just a dummy dressed so, and strung up. Still, it looked awfully lifelike hanging there, and the painted red smile looked more like a grimace. Garish red light flickered through the grimy window.
“Oh, Goddess bless us for what we do,” Udo mumbled beside me.
“Remember the plan?” I whispered, fiddling with my veil. It was hard to see through, making everything dark and blurry and slightly spotted, but it was necessary for my mournful disguise. What grief-stricken sister, about to lose her favorite brother to cruel fate, would show her face in public?
“I remember,” Udo said.
We clicked closed fists. “Ready.”
Palm to palm. “Steady.”
Knuckles to knuckles. “Go.”
In Nini Mo’s yellowbacks, the doors to a saloon always swing, but Pete’s had no doors, jus
t a row of beads that clicked as we pushed through them. In the yellowbacks, saloons are always loud and smoky, full of gallant gamblers and luscious bar-girls with hearts of gold. Pete’s was dark, the air stale with smoke, and dim. No cow-band warbled on the stage, so the room was quiet, and I didn’t see any gallant gamblers or luscious bar-girls, only a waitress with a face as seamed as an old shoe. Men and women sat at scattered tables, their heads drooping into their glasses.
To one side of the room stood a bar, slick and long. Behind the bar, a giant mirror tilted, reflecting the half' empty room, and the drover and the mourning woman standing in the doorway.
“My skin...” Udo groaned, coughing. I shushed him. Now was hardly the time to worry about his complexion. “Confidence is as confidence does,” said Nini Mo, so I sailed forward to the bar and leaned on it, very cool-like.
The barkeep looked over his glasses at me. “What’ll it be, madama?”
For a second my mind was completely blank. What do you order at a bar? A drink. What kind of drink? I couldn’t think of any kind of drink, and then—
Udo said, “Beer.”
The barkeep rolled backward and clutched at his chest as though Udo had punched him. “Beer? Beer? Young man, you insult me. Beer! This ain’t no broom closet, no blind tiger, no gin joint. Pete’s Clown Diner is a class establishment, with classy patrons, with classy palates. We make our own ice cream and our own whip. Not to mention toffee syrup. And me, Thomas Yin Terry, known throughout Califa as a mixologist extraordinary, who can make any confection you can dream of, and yet you ask for beer ? I am shamed.” He bent his head down, and a tiny silver tear dribbled down his cheek.
As he spoke, I read the menu written on the mirror behind him, and that’s when I realized that Pete’s was an ice-cream joint. The silver urn standing behind the bar, studded with levers, dispensed soda water, not beer. I was relieved that I was not going to have to choke down beer and pretend that I liked it. Ice cream is much better, and besides, I was hungry.
Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog (Magic Carpet Books) Page 12