The Stealie Girl demanded, “Gimme your purses.”
“I’m not giving you a thin—”
I cut Udo off. “I have five divas; you can have that.”
“Slowly,” she ordered.
I reached slowly into my purse and removed the last of my savings. The girl took the bills, her pistol unwavering. Well, she could have our money; cash was the absolute least of my worries. We had to get home and shift into the next part of the plan; already the sun was slanting low in the sky, signaling the end of afternoon, and I wanted to be on the Sandy Road to Zoo Battery before dark.
Also, I had just discovered that having a pistol pointed directly at you is very nerve-wracking. The mouth of the barrel seemed at least six feet wide, and at any minute it could spit a big huge nasty death right at me. My muscles were already clenching involuntarily, anticipating the pain.
I said, trying to sound soothing, “You can put the gun away, madama. We shall not argue with you.”
“So you won’t. Come on, Sieur Lug, give me your purse.”
“I haven’t got a purse,” Udo said, which was true enough; he is so stingy that he keeps his money (when he’s got it) tucked into one of his stockings. This makes it difficult for him to retrieve it, which makes it easier to get other people to pay.
“Well, then, I saw you all with the Warlord and I heard your drivel; it was sharp, to play on him that way, and I saw him give you that paper,” the girl said. “Now you can give it to me.”
“It’s not worth a thing,” I said, trying to keep the soothing smooth in my voice. “It’s just a piece of paper. Here, you can have my veil. And Udo will give you his hat. They are worth something to a jobber. More than five divas, and more than a piece of paper.”
“The Abyss I will,” Udo retorted. “Listen, squirt, I’m one second away from blasting you. So turn around, march on, and leave us be. You got all our money, and that’s all you need get.”
“I want that paper,” the girl said, stubbornly, “I saw the Warlord sign it, and his signature is worth a lot. I can get a fair amount for that. You can keep your ugly hat, but I want that paper.”
“And I want a buffalo coat and a blue-tipped pointer—you’ve gotten all you are getting.” Udo turned away and the Stealie Girl cocked the pistol. The sound of the hammer snapping into place was awfully loud.
She said, “I will shoot you, and take the paper myself.”
Udo froze, and then slowly reached inside his smock and pulled out the pardon. The Stealie Girl snatched the paper out of his grasp with one grubby hand.
My chest had gone tight with panic, but I tried to swallow the feeling away. Be thoughtful, be quick, and overall be reasonable, said Nini Mo. The Stealie Girl might have the gun, but I had my wits and could still be persuasive.
“Listen, madama,” I said. “The paper is nothing; my friend here has ninety-three divas in cash at home. If you will accompany us there, it shall be—”
“You think me a ring-tailed baby, just been dipped in milk? I don’t think so. What need do I have of ninety-three divas when I got this?”
Something elbowed me, almost pushing me off the sidewalk and into the Abyss of Trash that was the street: a masher on his way into the Azure Lagoon, the bar we were halted before.
“Heya, Ringie,” the man said as he went inside.
“Heya, Cake,” the Stealie Girl answered, and in her momentary distraction, Udo decided to act. He leaped. The Stealie Girl was small but she was sharp, and Udo was hampered by the tightness of his smock. They struggled, and the Stealie Girl dropped her pistol, which I managed to kick into the street.
Now all those people who had ignored us being jacked were interested in watching us fight, and a crowd quickly gathered, urging our melee on. Udo was shouting, and it looked like the Stealie Girl was biting. I tried to grab one of them, either of them, but only got an elbow in the chest for my troubles. All was confusion, with Udo and the Stealie Girl kicking and slapping at each other, screaming nasty, nasty things; the crowd hooting and hollering; and the paper—who had the paper? Where was the paper?
There—something white fluttered toward the ground. The Stealie Girl had dropped it. I grabbed and almost got kicked in the face; the Stealie Girl reached for it and was pushed aside by Udo. The paper flittered on the air and I lunged again, just as Udo did, our heads knocking together in a bright splurch of pain. Dizzily, I stretched and almost had it, but then a gust of wind snatched it out of my hand; the paper whizzed upward, and a man in a blue-and-green ditto suit made his own grab but missed.
Udo pushed me aside, frantically grabbing, and he almost had it. But then the Stealie Girl rose out of nowhere and pushed him hard. He overbalanced and fell over me—the paper fluttered beyond our grasp, off the boardwalk, and out to the messy, mucky ick of the street, where it was promptly run over by a buckboard full of cabbages.
TWENTY-ONE
Recriminations. Regrouping. Hot Knives. Poppy.
ALL THE WAY HOME on the horsecar, I blamed Udo and Udo blamed me, and no amount of blame changed the situation or made us feel any better, but it didn’t make us feel any worse, either. To be so close, and yet to have defeat snatched from the jaws of victory was bitter, bitter indeed.
As soon as the buckboard had rumbled on its way, Udo and I had rushed out into the mucky street. All our frantic mucky excavations turned up were muddy scraps, and then we were almost run over by an ice wagon and had to confess defeat. The Stealie Girl had not waited around to see the result of our search, but had legged it immediately, with my five divas, of course, and Udo’s hat, which had come off in the melee.
Though I don’t normally believe in whacking people, I felt like making an exception for Udo and beating him with a stick. If only he hadn’t bucked—I was sure that I could have talked our way out of the situation. Or let the girl have the paper and then jacked her back a few minutes later. Or something. But no, Udo had to jump in and act like an ass, and now we were completely and utterly screwed.
Udo said self-righteously, “I told you—if you hadn’t given her that money, she wouldn’t have thought we were easy marks.”
“She thought we were easy marks, Udo, because we were easy marks. And you didn’t have to be so fresh to her.”
“She was just a kid—”
“Shush,” I hissed. An old grammy was sitting directly in front of us, and there was an alert aura to her bonnet (garishly ornamented with a large orange velvet spider) that made me sure she was listening to every word.
“If you hadn’t knocked into my arm, I could have grabbed it,” Udo hissed back. “I had to do something—she was going to get away and you didn’t seem poised to do any great deed.”
This was so absurd that it wasn’t even worth replying to, so I clamped my lips together, hard enough to hurt, and stared out the window. I was so angry, anyway, that if I spoke another word, that word would have burned my friendship with Udo to a crisp.
Not that I, for the moment, cared.
Rangers do not always meet with success, but they don’t let failure stymie them. They regroup. Of course, rangers didn’t let themselves be jacked like stupid idiotic greenhorns. Don’t dwell, said Nini Mo.
A ranger always thinks again and regroups.
I thought and thought, but my thinking was not regrouping. My thinking was running around and around the idea that Nini Mo would have done some extremely clever daring deed and saved the day. Turned the Stealie Girl into a pretzel, or kicked her in the nose. Bedazzled her with another paper or charmed her with flattery. It’s only after it’s all over that you start thinking of all the clever ranger things you could have done. Only when it’s too blasted late.
“I say that you yield to my plan now,” Udo said. The grammy had gotten off at Tradis Street, and we were alone in the back of the horsecar. “We just saw how effective a demand backed by iron can be. Let us learn by that.”
“Yield to your plan, Udo?” I said incredulously. “You must be mad! After what just
happened, I wouldn’t yield to your plan if it were the only plan left in the entire history of plans. In fact, I am thinking that maybe I should cut you loose completely. You are a liability.”
“What were you going to do?” Udo protested. “You were standing there like a slug waiting to be salted. I didn’t see you—”
“Shut up,” I said savagely. “Shut up.”
Udo retreated into wounded silence and stared out his own window. Well, let him sulk. I would think of something. I had to think of something. The horsecar trundled by Saeta House, and by the Arrow Clock tower, and I saw that it was almost three. What were we going to do?
“What about Valefor? Can he cough up a forgery?” Udo asked, without removing his stare from the window.
“I don’t think so. His talents lie in housework and whining, and anyway, he’s on strike because I put him on the back burner while we took care of you-know-who,” I answered, without removing my stare from my own window.
The horsecar was now passing the Califa Lyceum, and I noticed that the marquee was advertising Relais Evengardia (he who Idden once adored) in He Should Have Stopped While He Was Ahead, his latest play. A line had formed in front of the box office. Relais Evengardia is the most popular actor in all of Califa, renowned for his portrayal of General Hardhands—
And then—huzza! Oh cleverness! Oh blissful day! A fully fledged idea leaped into my head, as though it had always been there and was just waiting for me to pay attention to it.
I turned back to Udo, who was still sulkily fixed on his window. “Hey! Remember when you competed in the Warlord’s Annual Histrionic Extravaganza—”
Udo abandoned his sulk. “Ayah! I won Best Actor for my portrayal of General Hardhands in A Cold Day in the Abyss. I was really good; sometimes I think I should go on the stage instead of to sea.”
“Remember, you got that citation from the Warlord? Signed and sealed?”
“Ayah, so what?”
“Forgery is so what. Listen.” I dropped my voice to a whisper, and Udo bent in closely. “I can copy the Warlord’s signature, I’m sure. Particularly if I have a guide to go by. But it’s the seal that’s a problem—we can’t forge that.”
“Ayah so?” Udo whispered back.
“Remember how in Nini Mo vs. the Mechanical Monkeys, she forged the pass that got her into the Iron Mine of Arivaipa?”
“You know I don’t read that trash, Flora.”
“Ha! No trashier than The Dainty Pirate Ahoy!, I reckon, and a lot more useful right now, Udo. Look, she lifted the seal off the letter of invitation that Njal Sholto had sent to entrap her, and then put it on the forgery. It worked like a charm.”
“Can you lift the seal off my citation?” Udo asked excitedly.
“I’ll wager I can. Look, you go home and get the citation and meet me back at Crackpot. Go in the window, or something. Don’t get caught, ayah so? And hurry about it. I think maybe we can salvage this yet.”
Udo nodded vigorously. “I knew we’d think of something, Flora.”
As far as I could tell, I had done all the thinking; no we involved at all. But now was not the time to get Udo’s dudgeon back up again, not with the afternoon running out and night fast approaching.
“Here’s your stop—go—” I yanked on the bell, and the horsecar jangled to a stop, and Udo jumped off.
Two hours later, after a brief stop for a snack (I was lightheadedly starving), I was at my desk, the citation before me, heating the knife Udo had just finished sharpening. The art to lifting a seal lies in the heat of the knife and the patience of the forger. You have to get the seal warm enough to slide off the paper, but not so warm it melts away completely. Sealing wax is more pliable and elastic than candle wax, of course, and has a higher melting point, but you can go too far. I’ve practiced enough (Forgery 101) that if there is one thing I can do flawlessly, it’s lift a seal.
But copying the Warlord’s signature proved much less sweetie-pie. His letters are both quavery and legible, and these two qualities are very difficult to combine. All my efforts resulted in twiddles and squiggles, but nothing that would pass muster even in the dark. Udo tried, too, but he had no luck, either, no surprise.
“Let me have it back, and I’ll try again,” I demanded.
“I’ve almost got it, Flora. Quit leaning on me.”
“We are running out of time—”
“That’s because you are ragging on me,” Udo said.
“Don’t be a git—”
“What are you doing?” said someone else.
We lurched guiltily. There in the doorway stood Poppy. He wore a tattered dressing gown, and the short spikes of his hair poked every which way. The mourning band painted across his eyes was blurred, as though he’d been rubbing at it. He had a terrific black bruise on his right temple, as dark as a thundercloud.
“Do you need something, Poppy?” I asked.
He came into the room and sat down on the settee to waste our valuable time. “Only my life. But I don’t think I left that here. What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I mean, just working on a paper,” I said. “Homework, you know. Are you hungry, Poppy? There’s soup. I can make you soup.”
“Soup makes my teeth hurt, Flora. Anyway, I eat the air.” He sat there, as comfortable as bedtime, and he didn’t look like he was going to move anytime soon. Blast it! We didn’t have time to waste dealing with Poppy, and he’s so deceptive. He looked fine, albeit rumpled, but that didn’t signify. Any moment he could break out in all sorts of horrificness; maybe last night was just a lead-up. The fireplace poker was out of reach. What would I do if he exploded?
But he didn’t look as though he would explode. He scratched his chin, and said, “Forgery, eh? Didn’t they used to boil people in oil for that once?”
“It’s not forgery,” Udo said. “It’s an art project. I mean, it’s a paper on—”
Poppy yawned and took a silver case out of his dressing-gown pocket. “I am no shavetail, Udo. I know forgery when I see it. What are you making? Letter of recommendation? Fixing a bobtail? Commandeering a battery? Trumping a jump?”
A bobtail is when the bottom of a soldier’s release paper is clipped, removing the section where the recommendation should go. I didn’t know what trumping a jump is, and right now I didn’t care, either.
“A release, Hotspur, that’s all; just a release,” Udo said. “Here, let me light that.”
Ignoring my dirty look, Udo lit a trigger from the fire and held the flame to Poppy’s cigarillo. Udo is too casual around Poppy; having been spared the worst of Poppy’s scenes and having normal parents of his own, Udo doesn’t understand how bad Poppy can be.
“Someone in the calaboose?” Poppy asked.
I glared at Udo, trying to impart this glare with all the vigor of Do not tell him a single more thing at all, shut up that I could, but I could tell by the curve of his smile that he was not listening.
“Ayah so. Poor bugger,” Udo said.
“He has my sympathy. Life is a prison if you cannot leave it as you like. It don’t look like you are having much success. You got a mess of papers there.”
“Well, it takes practice,” Udo admitted.
The smoke wreathed Poppy’s head like fog, and through it I could see only the thin line of his lips. “I used to be a dab hand. A handy talent for an ADC to have, you know, forgery. Sign the papers yourself and save your boss the trouble. And if you’re skint, you can pay your bar tab off with your fakery. Here, let me see if I still got the knack.”
An idea was forming in my mind that perhaps, for the first time ever, it might pay off to have a mad, irresponsible father. If Poppy were as good at forgery as he said, then one of our problems was solved, and if he mentioned it to Mamma later, well, who ever believes anything Poppy says?
Udo moved from the desk and gave Poppy fresh paper and a pen. He examined the pen, announced the nib had lost its sharpness, and demanded another. He sat straight as a ramrod and squinted down at the
empty sheet of whiteness. He dipped his pen and drew a thin line on his forearm to test the flow, and thus I realized that he was left-handed, just like me. Mamma and Idden are right-handed both, and now I saw where I had gotten the trait.
Poppy dipped the pen again, and then sloped it across the paper, smooth and even.
“‘Juliet Buchanan Fyrdraaca ov Fyrdraaca.’” Udo read. “That’s pretty good, Hotspur. It looks exactly right.”
“Oh, Buck is easy Now here’s a huckleberry. Watch this.”
Poppy wiped the pen off on his sleeve and dipped again. This time his pen skittered and hopped, swirled and twirled, slithered and jumped, and finally skittered into a long black slide. The result was elaborate and complex, twisty letters that arched up and plunged down, entwining each other like snakes. Even though I couldn’t read the name, I could tell that whoever belonged to this signature was as big as boots, and firm in his or her authority.
“I wasn’t sure I still had that one in me,” Poppy said proudly He blotted, then blew gently. “It’s worth your life.” Udo said, “I can’t even read it.”
“‘Banastre Micajah Haðraaða ov Brakespeare,’” Poppy said. “Old Hardhands himself. Ah, he’d have eaten my liver if he’d known I could copy him.”
“Wow. What a signature.” Udo was impressed, clearly thinking he needed to start working on a better signature of his own.
“He was a proper bastard, old Hardhands, but his warrant had class.”
Now that Poppy’s skill was established, there was only one signature I wanted, and I could wait no longer to get it. We had to be on the road within an hour if we wanted to make our interception.
“Can you do the Warlord?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I have seen it.”
I pushed Udo’s citation to Poppy, and he held it up, examining it carefully. “He has the handwriting of a five-year-old, our Warlord. It shall be easy as pie. Here, let me show you a trick.”
He spun the citation around until it was upside-down. “It’s easier to copy if you don’t let the word get in the way. Think of it like a pattern you are drawing, like when your hair colors the sea.”
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 14