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) (28 page)

We had stopped in a huge kitchen like none I had seen before. Everything about it was blinding white: the tile floor, the cabinets, the countertops. Rectangles of glowing light hovered high above us, casting a cold glow. I was reminded queasily of the destination of last year’s science field trip: the Califa City Morgue. Bilskinir’s kitchen smelled like charred meat instead of quicklime, but the overall effect was similar. Even the massive oven, a flat black rectangle set into one flat white wall, was horribly reminiscent of the morgue’s crematory oven.

A long white slab ran the length of the room. A bowl of masa sat on the slab. Blood streaked the slab’s surface, congealing in puddles around scattered pieces of hacked meat.

Big
pieces of hacked meat, raw and well-marbled.

Next to the hacked meat was a Flora-sized stockpot.

Five seconds before, I would have thought that I could not possibly be any more terrified. Now I was numb.

Dispose of her!
said Hardhands.

Paimon will eat you!
said Tiny Doom.

"Give me your socks,” Paimon ordered. I took them off, hopping on one foot and then the other, and then handed them to him. He held the soggy wool between two sharp fingernails and his tusks glinted with disapproval.

"Someone has not done a very good job mending your heels,” Paimon said. He hung the socks over the handle of the huge iron door of the oven, then pressed on a flat white wall tile. It swung open to reveal shelves. He took a mortar and pestle from a shelf and filled it full of spice, which he then proceeded to grind. The rich smell of cocoa and black pepper filled the air. Cocoa and black pepper—Birdie spices—used to make ceremonial tamales, with centers filled with meat.

Human meat.

“I tried to keep you out, madama,” Paimon said, as he ground away. “For your safety and for mine. But you would not heed my cautions. Just as before, you cause instability”

I protested, “But I didn’t mean to end up here. I mean, I did mean to end up in Bilskinir—but not in this time. Tiny Doom caught me in her Working.”

“How so?”

I took his interest as a good sign. Surely if he was going to make me into tamales, he’d hack me up and get on with it.

“Well, I was trying to get in through Bilskinir’s Back Door and—”

Before I could react, Paimon picked me up and sat me down on the white slab next to the bowls. Now I could see that one held tamale masa; in the other, corn husks soaked.

“Go on, madama. I am interested in your explanation.”

I stuttered, “Her Vortex—she—she opened a V-Vortex—it snagged me.”

“What was the purpose of this Vortex?”

“She was trying to scry the future in the Current.”

Paimon coiled one long blue mustachio around one long blue finger, tugging at the corkscrew so it bobbed like a spring. He said thoughtfully, “Well, that explains it somewhat.”

“Huh?”

“Tiny Doom was trying to scry the future in the Current, but in the Current already, as she didn’t know,
was
the future—you. So, the Current offered you up as the answer to her question, but she didn’t understand it. It is not enough to be told the future; you must know what it means. General Haðraaða has told Tiny Doom time and time again that she must not delve into the Current. But she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t understand the dangers; she is far too rash. She—”

I didn’t wait around to hear any more about Tiny Doom—whose nickname was suddenly a lot more clear to me. Taking advantage of Paimon’s distraction, I hurtled myself down and bolted. I skittered across the slippery tiles, expecting any second that needle-sharp claws would catch me and rend me to pieces. Which, of course, they did—the catching part, that is. Paimon swooped down and scooped me up. I twisted hard in his grasp, kicking him squarely where it should have counted, but that seemed to hurt my toes more than it hurt him. He did not relinquish me. My view was now restricted, but I thought I saw a pink plushy snout peering around the edge of the glistening white enamel table. Paimon swung me around and the view was gone.

“Please, don’t eat me, Paimon! If you just send me home, I promise I’ll never bother you again. Please, pretty please, wonderful Paimon!
Don’t eat me!”
I howled in a most unranger-like fashion.

“I am sorry, madama, but my instructions are clear, and I can not violate them. I am bound to follow my orders. There is naught that you or I can do but take this as cheerfully as possible.”

As a ranger should, I intended to make a good death when it came my turn, but as far as I was concerned, tonight was not a good time to die. I writhed and kicked, bit and scratched, but my struggles had no effect upon Paimon at all. He tucked me under one arm, and suddenly I found myself as limp as a noodle, unable to move. But at least I was not immediately going to the butcher’s block. Instead, he carried me to the far end of the kitchen and opened a large metal door. Frigid air gusted out.

The room was small, round, and lined with hooks, from which drooped a whole lot of dead birds, glassyeyed, feathers limp. Pigeons, pheasants, turkeys. A huge animal hung from a meat hook in the center of the room; skinned, headless, limbs removed. Its tendons glistened whitely, the muscles sickly red, and a slick of blood pooled on the floor underneath it. In my terror, it looked vaguely human. An empty meat hook dangled next to it. Tiny Doom’s coat was no protection against the cold; already my teeth were chattering.

Out of the tamale, onto the meat hook.

“Paimon,” I moaned.

“I’m sorry madama.” But instead of reaching for the meat hook, Paimon bent down and yanked on a large iron ring set into the floor. The ring pulled up a piece of the floor to reveal a dark, round hole: an oubliette.

Well, it was better than the meat hook, that was for sure.

“Down you go, Flora,” Paimon said.

“Paimon, haven’t we been friends, and—”

He looked at me sorrowfully. “Madama, this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Somehow I doubted
that.
“If you will just let me go, then I promise to be good and I’ll never bug you again, and no harm will be done—Hardhands will never know. Please, darling Paimon?”

“I cannot. Not now. But later I shall return for you.”

“How much later?” I asked hopefully thinking I could probably manage an hour or two before I froze to death. I could wait a couple of hours; didn’t I have thirty-eight years before I had to be back?

“When there is a new Head of the House.”

“When will that be?”

“Twenty-three years.”

I
SAT WOEFULLY
in the darkness for a long time. Once again all my plans had gone awry. I had failed in my mission. My lies had been useless. I’d been caught. All this made me feel very bad, but worst of all: I felt totally crushed by Tiny Doom’s betrayal. She’d seemed so cool and tough, and then she’d folded at the first sign of pressure. No wonder Hardhands had been able to keep her locked up—she might talk big, but
she’d
never be a ranger.

Rangers stick.

Rangers also don’t sit around woefully when they are caught. Did Nini Mo sit around sulking when she was captured by the Arivaipas, who planned to roast her like a pumpkin? No, she did not. The first duty of a ranger who is caught is to escape. Sulking would not help me achieve this goal. So, I swallowed my sulky crushed feelings and cupped my hands in front of me (or the best approximation of in front of me, for it was awfully dark).

A little blue lick of light glimmered in my palms and sputtered out; my Will was weak with fear. Well, I
wasn’t
going to spend twenty-three years in this hole, so I needed to get over that fear, and quick. I thought about all the stuff I had to do—figure out how to get home, and then save the City. Lord Axacaya was waiting for me. The coldfire flame flickered a bit, and then died again.

Nini Mo! I’d escape and find her. She’d know how to get me home, and she’d make Hardhands give me the
Diario
and we’d all be saved. This time the flame lasted a few seconds, but then it, too, faded.

Udo. I had to get out of this stupid hole to save Udo. He might have left me in the lurch, but I was not going to return the favor. Rangers stick. I thought about
that
again, and the flicker flared into a little blue ball of Ignis Light. When I took my hands away, it bobbed gently in front of me, shedding a happy little cerulean glow. I was glad enough to see it; already the heavy black weight of the surrounding darkness had begun to weigh heavily upon me.

Now the oubliette’s well-like wall was visible, at least thirty feet high and slick as marble. No handholds there. The floor was made of the same flat white tiles as the kitchen—so, no digging—and was ice-cold on my bare feet. Paimon had drawn the rope and basket up after me, of course, so no hope there. But the light also revealed a wonderfully familiar object: my dispatch case, which I had lost in the Vortex. Where Paimon had found it, or why he had left it for me, I couldn’t guess, but I was grateful he had. All my supplies were still inside: my extra bars of chocolate, two boxes of triggers wrapped in oil cloth, an extra pair of socks, my cutlery kit, my collapsible lantern, my pen case, my penknife, my flask, and, most important:
The Eschata.
I lit the lantern, ate a bar of chocolate, put on the dry socks, and felt much better.
You’d be amazed,
said Nini Mo,
how much dry socks matter.

Then I tried to make myself comfortable on the cold floor and reread the chapter in
The Eschata
entitled “Escape.” Surely the answer to my exit must be there. Indeed,
The Eschata
offered many escape techniques. If I had some grape yeast and flour, I could make a smoke bomb to create a diversion—but I had neither grape yeast nor flour, and no need for a diversion. If I had six feet of hemp rope and a heavy weight, I could have perhaps swung the rope up, caught it above, and climbed out of the oubliette. But I had neither rope nor weight, neither, for that matter, did I have room to swing.

No prison can hold me,
said Nini Mo. There had to be a way If I couldn’t get out via ordinary measures, perhaps something extraordinary would do the trick. I flipped beyond the practical escape methods to the impractical—the purely magickal. But here, too, I was hampered by lack of ingredients. I had thought my ranger kit was pretty well kitted out, but now I saw I was woefully undersupplied. I lacked various wacky ingredients: a hand of glory powdered centipede gall, a fuzzy lemon pop-stick. That eliminated the Pogo Sigil (jumping), the Diaphanous Sigil (floating), and the Gummy Sigil (sticking). With a tin can, a string, and an Amplification Sigil, I could create a telegraph and wire Nini Mo for help. I had string, but no tin can.

Left then were sigils that required no special ingredients, other than the magician’s Will and Gramatica Vocabulary that I did not have: a Transubstantiation Sigil (turn myself into a bird and fly out), a Vapid Sigil (turn myself into a fog and waft out), a Trans location Sigil (jump from one point to another). Once again I cursed my lack of Gramatica skills. If I were fluent—or even knew enough just to get by—well, all this would be easy.

A bubble of panic popped up my throat, and I tried to swallow it back down. I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the oubliette, but the distant thudding that had started up not long ago was surely the sound of a bass guitar. The Tygers of Wrath must have begun their set. Paimon’s attention would be fully engaged there, so the time for me to act was now.

Rangers don’t waste time wishing for what they don’t have; they use what they’ve got. What did I have? I had a satchel full of useless stuff—I had nothing. Fear bubbled again, almost choking me. Fear—I had plenty of fear, enough fear to swamp the Dainty Pirate’s ship, enough fear to turn me into a gibbering mindless fool.

Enough fear to amplify a Gramatica Word?

A good magician can take a small Gramatica Word and amplify its meaning by applying a Catalyst to it. There are two kinds of Catalysts—Inhibitory Catalysts and Excitory Catalysts.

An Inhibitory Catalyst is any method that involves the negative of something, like burying yourself alive, or withholding food, or poking yourself with a needle. Pain and deprivation are the footholds of an Inhibitory Catalyst—anything that leads to Not Enough. Not enough food, not enough air, not enough light.

An Excitory Catalyst is any method that involves the positive of something—dancing frantically, falling in love, eating lots of chocolate. Happiness and joy are the handmaids of an Excitory Catalyst—anything that leads to Too Much. Too much love, too much food, too much light.

These Catalysts can be used to amplify a sigil, make it bigger, better, stronger. Or it can stretch the meaning of a Gramatica Word, make it last longer, go further.

In
Nini Mo vs. the Xocholatte Rustlers,
Nini Mo used an Excitory Catalyst (too much chocolate) to amplify the Gramatica Words
jump
and
space
to create a Translocation Sigil that catapulted her from the vat of boiling chocolate she had been plunged into, at the Rustlers’ secret chocolate factory, to the local sheriff’s office. After organizing a posse, she returned to the factory and arrested all the rustlers, who were later hung. (They take chocolate rustling seriously in Arivaipa Territory, as well they should.)