Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room) (14 page)

Then on to the Infante Electo, Second Heir to the Republic. Electo’s handshake was clammy, and even in the murky slithery light, his eyes had that empty look that comes from smoking too much hash. The Warlord is old, but he’s still handsome in an old lion sort of way. Electo didn’t look like a young lion; he looked like someone who wanted only a dark room and another reefer.

“Goddess save us from Electo,” Poppy muttered to me as we moved on. “If the Warlord’s hammer should ever fall to him, it will be the end of the Republic.”

And then we were at the Warlord, who didn’t wait for us to come abreast of him, but rather stumped forward to meet us, smiling broadly. He was resplendent in an acrid orange kilt and an eggshell blue frock coat that opened over a weskit embroidered with gold suns. A sharkskin cape hunched over his shoulders. His one shoe had a huge diamond-studded buckle on it and a bright red heel. His purple wig was what they call a hedgehog: short and spiky The entire outfit was a bit too colorful for my taste, but I’m sure Udo would have approved.

“Well, now, Colonel Fyrdraaca,” the Warlord said heartily “I’m right well glad to see you out and about. It has been too long.”

“Your Grace is kind,” said Poppy, making his fluttering, waving courtesy. “Please accept birthday greetings from the House of Fyrdraaca.”

“Like a fine wine, I age well, don’t you think?” The Warlord bellowed, and Poppy and I nodded our agreement. “How do you like our winter landscape? Axacaya thought it up. Bracing cold is so much more refreshing than heat. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, Your Grace,” Poppy said. “I have always preferred a
chilly
climate to a hot one.”

“I am glad to hear it, Rev,” the Warlord said approvingly, and I realized that their exchange had a double meaning. The Huitzil Empire is a desert land, hot and dry; Califa is usually cold and foggy. The Warlord was really asking if Poppy was loyal to Califa. Poppy had answered, of course, that he was. Now that I thought about it, I realized that the Birthday Ball’s wintery theme was probably a dig at the Birdies.

“And little Madama Fyrdraaca.” The Warlord advanced upon me, and while I tried to make the courtesy Owed to a Liege Lord, he swept me into a beery hug. “Do you prefer warm or cold?”

“Cold, of course, Your Grace,” I said, sharkskin scratching my nose. “Too much sun is bad for your skin.” For an old geezer with only one leg, the Warlord was awfully handsy; I squirmed but couldn’t seem to escape.

“She’s a chip off the ol’ block, Reverdy” The Warlord grinned, then released me so suddenly I almost fell. “You should be proud.”

As I staggered back to Poppy’s side, I saw he had casually rested his hand on his pistol. He was smiling. A tiny shiver flitted down my spine; I knew that smile from Drunken Poppy days, when it usually heralded no good. Obviously, the Warlord knew this smile, as well, and that’s why he had let me go.

“Your Grace is very kind,” Poppy said.

“Well, well, we are glad you have come, both of you, and hope that you enjoy the party,” the Warlord said, turning to the next person. We were dismissed.

The people in the receiving line are, of course, arranged in order of importance, and so with the Warlord, we should have been done. Poppy’s grip on my arm became crushing, and when I followed his glare I saw why.

There was one person still ahead: the Ambassador from the Huitzil Empire.

T
HE
B
IRDIES LEAVE US
mostly alone. The Peace Accord outlines how we must behave, and the Infanta Sylvanna, First Heir to the Republic and Lord Axacaya’s wife, lives in Ciudad Anahuatl, the capital of the Huitzil Empire, as a hostage to the Warlord’s good behavior. There’s no point in causing trouble; the Huitzils would crush us like bugs the minute we got uppity. Even though the Warlord is still nominally in charge, there’s no doubt that Califa is a client state.

The Ambassador from Anahuatl City is the one official Birdie in the Republic. He acts as a kind of duenna; he doesn’t interfere unless there’s a reason to, and of course Mamma makes sure that there is no reason. But he’s there, and watchful, just in case. Normally, the Ambassador stays on the Birdie hacienda across the Bay. I had never seen him in real life.

The Ambassador was resplendent in a feathered cape, which fell from his shoulders to trail on the floor like a peacock’s tail, wrapping his entire body in a sheath of glittering iridescence. Powerful Birdies always cover their faces from their inferiors, and so the Ambassador wore a jade mask carved to look like a stylized grimacing animal—a bear maybe, or perhaps a dog. The marble floor around him was dry and free of snow. But a shadow flitted behind him: the white shark, flicking back and forth slowly.

“Colonel Fyrdraaca,” the Ambassador said. Behind the eyeholes of his jade mask was the vague suggestion of blue. “We have not met in many years.”

“I would we did not meet now,” Poppy said. He didn’t make any courtesy, just glared.

“You appear much more well than our last visit, Colonel. I am glad of that.” The Ambassador’s voice was sibilant, like a snake’s hiss. The Birdie language is naturally full of whispering sounds, and his accent echoed that. The overwhelming smell of lilies drifted from him, but underneath that eye-watering perfume was something else: the nose-wrinkling smell of decaying flesh.

“My accommodations now are more healthful.” Poppy’s grip was so hard that I had to clench my teeth to keep from squeaking in pain.

“I am sorry you did not care for our hospitality,” the Ambassador said. “Perhaps some day you will allow us to host you again and see if we cannot do better the second time.”

The hand the Ambassador held out to me was wrinkly and slack, skin spotted with black patches, nails discolored and yellow. Poppy was holding my right hand, and I was glad that he did not let go so I did not have to accept the handshake. Instead, I dipped my knees in the courtesy Respect Offered to a Foreign Dignitary.

I looked directly at the Ambassador, and the jade mask seemed to shimmer as though it were made of cloth instead of rock. Then the mask disappeared completely. His face gleamed wetly, bare white sinews and bare red muscles. His eyes floated like marbles in fleshless sockets, and his teeth grinned like yellow tombstones in his lipless mouth.

A Flayed Priest! They sacrifice their skin to the Hummingbird god, and then rely on magick to keep their flesh moist and living. My tum flipped and flopped; this was worse than Axacaya’s eagle-headed guards, the Quetzals. They were monstrous, but at least they were not disgusting.

Next to me, Poppy still quivered. He and the Ambassador stared at each other. Any minute Poppy was going to explode and attack the Ambassador and end up in gaol, and what was Mamma going to say?
Bullies,
said Nini Mo,
want to make you cry. Laugh instead, and ruin their day.

“I hope Your Grace is enjoying the weather,” I said quickly. “The cool weather is so good for the
skin.”
My head felt almost light with fear, but my mouth seemed to be operating on its own and, for once, had something clever to say.

The Ambassador stared at me. The flicker was gone; now I saw only mask. His expression did not change, but Poppy’s grip slackened a bit. I wanted to hold my own against that marble-eyed glare, but I could not. Feeling my face flush, I looked away.

The Ambassador said to Poppy, “Your daughter is quite the wit. What was her name? I misremember.” I suspected he did not misremember at all. “Flora, isn’t it? But then, wasn’t the other one Flora, too? How clever of you, Reverdy. If at first you don’t succeed—try again.”

“Fyrdraacas never ever give up. Never ever,” I said, horrified to hear the sound of my own voice.

The Ambassador looked down at me; the eyeholes of his mask were dark and shadowy. This time I refused to look away, and I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. The bare bloodshot orbs stared at me. How could he sleep at night, never able to close his eyes, for the lack of eyelids? Perhaps he did not sleep, ever. I imagined him staring into the Abyss with those naked eyes and could barely keep from shivering.

“Not wit, but insolence,” the Ambassador said. “We know how to deal with insolent women in Anahuatl City, don’t we, Reverdy?” I guessed he was referring to the Butcher Brakespeare’s execution.

Two red spots burned through Poppy’s white-face pancake and his eyes had gone a tornado black. He tried to drop my hand, but fearful of what he would do once his gun hand was free, I refused to let go, squeezing my grip with all my strength. The Ambassador’s jade lips grinned at us.

The Warlord’s totem saved us from what would surely have made the front page of all the news rags. The glass behind the Ambassador thudded, and we all jumped. The shark hammered its nose against the barrier again, jagged teeth snapping. The Ambassador jerked away, and then, before the shark could hit the wall again, the Warlord himself pushed his way through the pile behind us and dropped an enormous arm over Poppy’s shoulders.

“Stop that hammering!” the Warlord ordered the shark. “You’ll have your dinner soon enough.” The shark flicked its tail and withdrew into the darkness.

“Well, well.” The Warlord leaned so that Poppy almost buckled under his weight but was effectively now under his control. “I am well done with Receiving and need to wet the old whistle. Come now, Rev, let’s see if we can scare up a dram or two. You will excuse us, Sieur Xholto, eh?”

“Of course,” the Ambassador said. He bowed his head, his topknot (a wig of someone else’s hair) bobbing. “I look to see you again, Colonel Fyrdraaca.”

“In court—” Poppy began, but the Warlord interrupted. “Come, come. We are holding up the line, and my thirst don’t quench itself, you know. By your leave, Your Holiness.” The Warlord hauled us away; for an old one-legged geezer his grip was pretty strong.

“Pigface on a Pogostick, Reverdy. Why the hell did you come?” the Warlord said, as soon as we were away.

“He wasn’t on the list,” Poppy protested. “I didn’t know he’d be here.”

“Ayah so, he decided to come at the last minute,” the Warlord said dolefully. “I think we’re going to have a chat later about that blasted riot. I wish Buck hadn’t left. He gives me the creepies.”

“He doesn’t frighten me.”

“You are the only man in Califa not afraid of him, then. Come on, let’s get you a drink. I’m parched myself; you’ve no idea what thirsty work it is, being nice to people you’d rather pop. There’s a poker game setting up; you’ve always been a real razor with the cards, come on and play...”

The Warlord steered Poppy onward. I followed, forgotten, through a long passageway painted with scenes of the Warlord’s escape from the Virreina of Huitzil’s slave pens, into the Rotunda.

The last time I had been in Saeta House’s Rotunda was a year ago, when I had accompanied Mamma to the swearing-in ceremony of Benica Barracks’s graduating class of officers. Then, the Rotunda had been all marble and gilt, bathed in sunlight streaming from the oculus set high in the lofty dome. The marble stairs leading to the upper balcony had been covered with plush red carpet. The cadets stood in orderly rows upon the red swirled marble floor as they had waited to climb those stairs, kneel at the Warlord’s feet, and swear him loyalty, before receiving their insignia and commissions from Mamma.

Now the Rotunda had been transformed into a wintry glade. Trees sprang from the Rotunda floor, their boughs heavy with snow, and every surface was rounded in blanketing whiteness. Luminescent icicles dangled from the dome, casting a pearly blue glow over the assembled throng. White flakes drifted down, glistening and glittering in the dim light. Directly under the now icy oculus, the marble had frozen over to form a skating pond, and upon this glossy surface, people twirled and glided, some more skillfully than others. Was this winter scene real or an illusion? I could not tell, but either way it was a testament to Lord Axacaya’s power. I was impressed.

I craned my neck, trying to spot Lord Axacaya in the crowd, but I did not see him. As soon as I could decently duck away from the Warlord and Poppy, I would go in search. In the meantime, I followed them through the crowd, which fell back to let them pass, murmuring birthday greetings to the Warlord, who acknowledged each compliment with a wave.

At the edge of the icy pond, the Warlord halted. “Now, Hotspur, you and I shall go and play poker, and Madama Flora here—Hi, hi, my darling!” In response to his waves, a figure twirled away from the other skaters, coming to an ice-crunching stop at the edge of the pond.

The last person in Califa that I wanted to see: the Zu-Zu. She gave me a slightly sour look and then turned a brilliant sugar-sweet smile upon the Warlord.

“Ave, Papi!”

“Here, now, my darling Odelie shall take charge of young Flora here. They shall have more fun together than hanging with the oldsters, don’t you think, Hotspur? Odelie, I present to you Flora Fyrdraaca. Flora, my granddaughter, Odelie Abenfarax ov Kanaketa. She’s been away at school, my darling, and just now come home. I hope you shall make her welcome, Flora.”

The Warlord’s granddaughter! I had read in the society column of the
Califa Police Gazette
that Odelie Abenfarax had recently returned from school in Anahuatl City but I hadn’t connected the Zu-Zu with that girl. That explained her stuck-up attitude and the reverence everyone showed her. The Warlord’s granddaughter, indeed.

“We’ve met, Papi,” said the Zu-Zu, now turning that poison-sugar smile upon me. “Good evening, Flora.”

“Good evening, Your Grace,” I answered back, equally as poison sweet. “It is delightful to see you again.”

The Warlord looked pleased. “Well, then, you are friends already Come, Reverdy I’m dying for that drink.”

Poppy looked anguished at the thought of leaving me, but the Warlord ignored the look and, with one last wave, marched him off. That left me standing there with the Zu-Zu, wishing I was at the bottom of the Bay of Califa. Actually—wishing
she
was at the bottom of the Bay of Califa.

“Where’s darling Udo?” the Zu-Zu asked. She was still dressed completely in black; her coat was of black astrakhan, and a black fur puffball perched upon her black lacquered head. In deference, I suppose, to the festive occasion, her lip rouge was red, not black, but that was the only touch of color. She looked elegant and adult, and extremely superior—the skant.