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) (11 page)

“Is it this?” Udo asked, seizing a stuffed monkey that sat in the rocker by the fireplace.

“No!”

“This?”

Valefor said indignantly, “No! Not a blackjack, Udo, don’t be a snapperhead!”

“Maybe, Val, if you quit throwing things around and stood very quietly for a minute and focused, you’d be able to sense it better?” I suggested.

Valefor stopped his whirling and stood stock-still, clasping his hands under his chin as though he were praying, and closed his eyes. The Sigil burned inside him like a little sun, steady and bright, and its glow made his skin seem shimmery, like mother-of-pearl.

“Do you feel it?” Udo asked.

“Shut up, Udo—let me concentrate!” With his eyes still closed, Valefor extended one long arm in a point and began to spin. Once, twice, three times he twirled, his gown swirling around his legs and feet like water, his hair spinning out in a halo of purple. Then he stopped suddenly, his long finger pointing directly at the large trunk sitting in the fireplace alcove.

“There!”

“That dirty old trunk?” Udo said.

Valefor snorted. “No, my fetish is not the trunk, it’s
inside
the trunk. Open it, Flora, open it!”

We dragged the trunk, which weighed enough to have a body in it, out of the alcove and toward the daylight spilling in through the windows. Its flat top was covered in about two inches of dust, but when I wiped the dirt away with the bedsheet Udo handed me, purple paint was revealed. Spidery silver letters spelled out
Reverdy Anacreon Fyrdraaca ov Fyrdraaca.

“It’s Poppy’s Catorcena chest,” I said. It’s the custom that on your Catorcena, your family gives you a special chest with your name on it. You store your Catorcena clothing in it, and later, your heirlooms, the things that are important to you and that you wish to keep always.

“It’s pretty beat-up,” Udo said, and so it was, the paint rubbed off in places, and the wood rough and split. It looked like maybe Poppy had actually used the trunk as luggage. Valefor was already unlatching the clasps on either side of the open lock-face.

“Hold on, Valefor,” I said, grabbing at his arm. I could tell he was just going to start flinging. “It’s Poppy’s important stuff, and we need to be careful.”

“I’m surprised at your sudden interest about any of Hotspur’s stuff, Flora Segunda,” Valefor said. “But ayah so—we shall be very careful.”

Ayah so. The minute the lid was up, Valefor elbowed me out of the way and started tossing. My protests ignored, all I could do was try to catch what he threw before it got messed up or broken: a tiny pink baby dress and two little knitted booties, a leather tobacco pouch full of coins, a green velvet smoking cap, a leather-bound book, a hairy piece of leather—ugh, a scalp—this I also threw, rubbing my hands on my kilt to take away the yuck.

“Come on, Valefor,” Udo said impatiently. He caught the cadet jacket Valefor lobbed, and then the forage cap that followed.

Valefor’s response was muffled. He was leaning so far into the trunk that he was in danger of falling in completely I grabbed the back of his gown and pulled him out, and he came, sputtering ecstatically: “I have it! I have it!”

“A shoe box?” Udo said.

“Not a shoe box—a tea caddy?” I said, disappointed. Somehow it had seemed to me that Valefor’s fetish should be more exciting than a tea caddy. Or if a tea caddy, at least engraved silver or solid gold, but this one was only plain wood.

“This isn’t my fetish! My fetish is inside,” Valefor cried. “I know, I know, I am sure—can’t you feel it? Open it! Let’s open it!”

We pried the caddy out of Valefor’s grip to examine it more closely, but it appeared to be nothing other than an ordinary tea chest, slightly battered, made of dark red wood. It was locked. I shook it gently and it rattled slightly—whispering, like sand shifting.

“Smash it open,” suggested Udo.

“You can’t do that,” Valefor said, aghast. “You might break me, inside—”

“Can we pick the lock? Isn’t there a chapter in
The Eschata
about lock-picking?” Udo said. “Gesilher has a set of lock-picking tools he sent away for, from an advertisement in the back of the
CPG.
I could go home and steal them from him.”

There is an entire section in
The Eschata
about lock-picking, but the problem, as I pointed out, was there was no lock to pick. Or, rather, there was a lock, but it had no keyhole into which tools could be inserted. Instead, the lock plate was just flat and round.

“How do you unlock it if there’s no keyhole?” Udo asked.

“It’s a seal lock.” I’d never seen one before; they are old and quite rare, but a strongbox with a seal lock was described in
Nini Mo vs. the Kickapoo Dollymop,
so that’s how I knew about them. “The lock is keyed to a seal. To open it, you press the seal against the lock plate, and that turns the lock open.”

“What seal?” Udo asked. “The Fyrdraaca seal?” He and Valefor were leaning over my shoulder, breathing heavily and tickling my concentration.

I tried to squint the seal pattern into focus; the pattern incised on the lock plate was very thin, almost invisible.

“It’s not the Fyrdraaca seal. I can barely see it, but it’s not anything I recognize. I think it might be a bear holding a staff. Here, you look.”

Udo pronounced the seal to be a bear holding a parrot, but Valefor, after getting so close to the lock that his eyes crossed, pronounced it a falcon in flight. I looked at it again, and this time it seemed to me that maybe it was a hand holding a short whip with a tendrilly lash.

Distantly, a clock tolled, and its chime brought both me and Udo out of our inspection.

“Pigface! I gotta go,” Udo said. “We’ll have to finish this another time. I’m gonna get popped for sure, but it was worth it. Good job, Flora!”

“I was the one who found my fetish,” Valefor protested.

“Ayah, but Flora was the one who did the Sigil that helped you do it.”

“I have to go, too, Valefor, but we’ll figure out what to do next later.” I wasn’t going to have time to change if I wanted to make the horsecar, and Mamma was probably going to be annoyed I was late, but in my warm glow of success, I didn’t care. My Sigil had worked, and we had found the fetish. We would find the seal, too, and Valefor would be restored!

W
HEN
F
LYNN AND
I got off the horsecar in front of the Officers’ Club, scores of canvas-clad privates were industriously polishing cannons, cutting grass, and bagging eucalyptus leaves. Maybe there was an inspection coming up, or maybe they were just trying to stay one step ahead of Mamma. All I can say is that I am grateful that she saves the white-glove treatment for work. Without Valefor, Crackpot would never pass her official muster.

Normally I am happy when Mamma comes home; it means that things will be as back to normal as they can ever be, and that while my chores don’t lessen any, at least Poppy is no longer my problem. She’d been in Angeles for two weeks, a long trip even for her. But this time part of me wished that she had not come back for a few more days, just enough time to deal with Valefor. Now that we had the fetish, all we needed was a way to get into the tea caddy. If we couldn’t find the actual seal, there had to be another way to open the lock.
If you can’t go in by the door,
says Nini Mo,
go in by the window.
The restoration was as good as done.

The Presidio is a pretty place, scattered with white buildings dappled by shade trees, surrounded to the south and east by sandy hills dusted with sea grass, and edged at the north and west by the glittering blue waters of the Bay of Califa. Despite being a place completely concerned with war, it always seems very peaceful.

Building Fifty-six, the headquarters of the Army of Califa, stands at the head of the parade ground, looking down its long slope toward the Bay. The parade ground is bigly huge, large enough to march ten regiments in unison, although the most I’ve ever seen is six, at the Fortieth Anniversary of the Warlord’s Conquest, three years ago. In the middle of the parade ground four cannons guard the flagpole where the colors of Califa and the Warlord flap and snap in the perennial whippy wind.

Troops of soldiers were starting to assemble in front of the Adjutant General’s office, preparing for the final afternoon Gun and Retreat. I hurried by, dragging the lollygagging Flynn behind me. If you are stuck outside within eyeshot of the Colors when Retreat starts, you have to stand at attention for the duration of the Color Guard marching out, saluting the Colors, lowering them, folding them, securing them, and removing them, while the Army band plays “Califa Forever” and the cannons sound the end of day. I’ve seen Retreat a hundred times, and I didn’t need to see it again.

Guards always stand in front of Building Fifty-six, but they never stop me. They never salute me, either, but that I can live with. If something is brewing, or a bigwig is on the post making trouble of some kind, then the front porch is crammed with aides, guards, and strikers, and there will be a knot of horses out front, nipping at each other and kicking along the tie-up rail. Today the porch was empty, and so, too, was the waiting room, except for Lieutenant Botherton, who was standing behind the front desk, sorting mail.

He said, sharply, “Don’t let that door bang—Oh, ave, Madama Fyrdraaca Segunda.”

It was too late not to let the door bang, so I smiled sweetly and said, “Ave, Lieutenant Botherton.”

Lieutenant Botherton gave Flynnie the evil eye. Dogs aren’t allowed in official buildings, but I was willing to bet that the lieutenant was not going to point that out. Rank, or at least reflected rank, does have its perks.

“Has Mamma arrived yet?”

“The General’s ferry docked safely earlier this afternoon, but the General has not returned from paying her compliments to the Warlord at Saeta House.” Lieutenant Botherton swished his skirts away from Flynnie’s friendly nose and sliced open another envelope. Yaller dogs, as everyone calls staff officers behind their backs, are notoriously stuck up. Their kilts are longer and their noses higher than anyone else’s in the Army.

Daggit. Even after Valefor’s tea, I was starving. And here I had rushed frantically, not bothering to change, sure I was late-late, and now no Mamma, no chow, zip.
Hurry up and wait,
says Mamma,
that’s the way of the Army.
I think it’s just plain rude.

“I’ll be in her office, then.” I scooted before he could say otherwise, dragging Flynnie away from the spittoon he was nosing. Building Fifty-six has been Army headquarters forever, so it’s stuffed with all sorts of martial mementos and portraits of old soldiers. The hallways are lined with cases full of conquest booty and the walls hung with faded battle flags, and thankfully it is someone else’s job to do the dusting.

Mamma’s office is large and has enormous windows that overlook the parade ground. There’s her desk, a few chairs, a stiff horsehair settee, and walls and walls of file shelves containing walls and walls of files.
An army may fight on its feet,
Mamma says,
but it marches on paper,
and here were the pages to prove it.

To solace myself for having to wait, I sat down behind Mamma’s desk and began rifling. Two sealed redboxes sat on the blotter, waiting for Mamma’s attention, but I didn’t bother with them. Redboxes are usually full of the most boring papers imaginable: requests for mule shoes, counts of blankets, reports on irascible horses and uppity sergeants, all endorsed, in triplicate, and tri-folded. They are not worth the hot knife it takes to slide their seals off. The red tape dispenser was full, so I cut a few yards off and tucked it away in my pocket. Red tape makes particularly good bootlaces.

The left bottom drawer of Mamma’s desk is always locked, but that’s nothing to me—a little pin and a little pop and Mamma’s secret stash is revealed: a solid block of black chocolate. I made myself a little choco sandwie and tossed a biscuit Flynnie’s gaping way. The first sandwie was so yummy that a second naturally followed, after which I put the much smaller block back and returned the locks to right.

Outside, the evening gun boomed dully, drowning out the echo of the retreat bugle. The clock in the hallway chimed seven, and my tummy, despite the two choco sandwies, rumbled loudly. Where was Mamma? I peered out the window. The Retreat Guard had marched off and a detail was slowly making its way down the sidewalk, lighting the lamps. The Bay had faded to a dark blue velvet and more lights were pricking the windows of the offices, just as the stars were beginning to prick the sky above.

The choco left my mouth dark and sticky, and Mamma’s sideboard held only faceted bottles of bugjuice, which burns rather than washes. Mamma doesn’t drink, but I suppose that hospitality requires her to have libations available for those who do.

A long narrow hallway runs the length of Building Fifty-six, with a floor like polished silk. It’s perfect for sliding down if you sit on a file folder, but if someone opens a door while you are flying, it’s off to the Post Hospital and ten stitches in your grape. Believe me, I know whereof I speak.

The watercooler stands at the end of the hallway, next to the back door, which was open, in direct defiance of Mamma, who really hates drafts. Two figures sat on the back steps, haloed in cigarillo smoke, also in direct defiance of Mamma, who had made everyone else stop smoking when she did. I crept silently down the hallway, muting my footsteps by leaving my boots just inside her office. Stealth is made perfect only by practice, and besides, little ears can learn all sorts of interesting things when they maintain a low profile.

“...I read in the
Califa Police Gazette
...” That was Crackers. He’s chief clerk to the Chargé d’Affaires and can forge the signature of every officer over the grade of major. A very useful talent if it doesn’t get you shot, and one which I had been cultivating myself, in my spare time.

“That rag! The
CPG
hasn’t printed the truth in a hundred years.” That was Sergeant Seth. She’s a copyist, which has got to be the most boring job ever created by anyone anywhere. All documents that Mamma creates must go out in triplicate, and a copy has to be made and filed in the Commanding General’s archives. That’s what Seth does, sits at her desk and copies stuff all day long. I’d rather be eaten by bears.