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) (22 page)

Jam prodded Boy Hansgen on, and, now smiling again, he went, stepping lightly.

“Hurry on, Ash,” Private Hendricks said over her shoulder. “The captains are about to get into a duello. Are you all right?”

“Ayah so.” In a haze, I followed Hendricks across the parade yard, this time barely feeling the cutting saltwater wind. As we approached the sally port, the sound of Udo, loud and indignant, pulled me out of my daze.

“...an absolute outrage. You can rest assured that the Warlord will be told in detail of this insult, and you can rest assured that the repercussions will be quite serious.”

“Here I am again, all clean and sweet,” Boy Hansgen said happily, “and ready to meet my ex-liege lord—well, now!”

My line of sight was blocked by Hendricks. I peered around her, and every atom of my body turned into freezing ice when I saw who Udo was hotly protesting to, his swagger stick poking ominously.

Lord Axacaya’s Quetzal guards.

O
NCE
I
DDEN HAD TRIED
to show me how Mamma killed that jaguar with a shovel, and in doing so, she punched me in the stomach. For a sickening second, I had wheezed and sucked, but my lungs would not inflate. That is exactly how I felt when I saw those Quetzals.

There were four of them, all unveiled, and their huge yellow eyes gleamed flat and iridescent in the flaring torchlight. Again I was struck by the awful combination of human and bird, the way the feathers shaded into skin. The unmistakable sharpness of those sword-edged beaks.

Udo and Captain Honeychurch had moved out to the sally port, and there we halted. Two Quetzals stood before the open gate, holding horses. Another stood with Udo and Captain Honeychurch, and it was with this one that Udo was arguing loudly. “My special order is signed by the Warlord and must be obeyed. I hope you remember, Captain Honeychurch, you owe no obedience to Lord Axacaya.”

Boy Hansgen said, his voice slightly quavering, “Now I know just how the snake felt when he saw those shadow wings circling above. Not eagles, but
buzzards.”

“We, all of us, are obedient servants to the Will of the Gracious Virreina, and Lord Axacaya is her dutiful son and his desires must be heard,” said the Quetzal standing by Udo and Captain Honeychurch. Its voice was oddly sweet, and it sounded almost bored. “And he desires this man.”

Cool, calm, and collected,
said Nini Mo.
Panic poisons; levelheaded lives. She who holds out, holds all.
My chest felt light and airy, like I was breathing fog. I took a deeper breath, and then another. We hadn’t lost yet.

“We are Califans first and foremost,” said Udo. “And this is Califa still—”

A Quetzal interrupted. “Captain Honeychurch, you cannot deny a request by Lord Axacaya.”

“Lord Axacaya has no jurisdiction here,” Udo said hotly. “This is a military installation and under military rule. The Warlord is Commander in Chief.” These last words were emphasized with sharp jabs of the swagger stick. I had a sudden vision of Udo torn into tiny shreds by those hooked beaks, but luckily for him, the Quetzal showed its respect for Udo’s opinion by completely ignoring him and turning its attention to the Skinner.

“You shall not question Lord Axacaya’s orders, Captain Honeychurch,” the Quetzal said softly. “We will take the prisoner with us, and Lord Axacaya shall be pleased.”

The other Quetzal had fixed its luminous gaze on Udo, and this gaze had apparently struck Udo dumb, for he did not now protest.

But Boy Hansgen did, a touch hysterically, “I beg you, Captain Honeychurch, as one soldier to another, do not send me to be torn apart by monsters. Let me hang, happy to die among my peers.”

“You are no peer of mine,” Captain Honeychurch said. “If it were up to me, I would have ordered you burned.” The Skinner looked extremely unhappy, for which I could not blame her—either decision could end her career. Give over to Udo and let Lord Axacaya think his orders had been ignored, or give over to Lord Axacaya and risk the Warlord’s wrath. Still, she was a Skinner and had taken the Warlord’s oath—surely she knew where her duty lay?

“But does not mercy have a human face?” Boy Hansgen cried. “And look at them—there is no humanity there—no mercy. Please, Captain Honeychurch, can you not—”

“Captain Honeychurch, you have already ceded custody of this prisoner to me and, therefore, have not the power to grant Lord Axacaya’s request.” Udo had recovered, and his argument was actually a good one, though based somewhat on a technicality. “I am now in charge of this prisoner, and I say, you can go hang!”

“The Warlord owes obedience to the Virreina’s representative,” said the Quetzal.

“Ha! Lord Axacaya is hardly the Virreina’s representative in Califa! What then is the Huitzil Ambassador?” Udo said doggedly. “And where’s the order written? You cannot expect us to heed a verbal order—”

“I do not need a written order from Lord Axacaya,” Captain Honeychurch said. “His servants are enough.” We were going to lose, I could smell it. Captain Honeychurch was going to give Boy Hansgen to the Quetzals, and part of me could not blame her. Which was worse, Quetzals now or the Warlord later? It’s always best to procrastinate trouble.

If we were to come out triumphant, Something Had to be Done.

Who was going to Do It?

I looked toward Boy Hansgen, hoping he was poised to do something incredibly clever and flashy, to extract us all from the situation, but he did nothing. Standing between the terrified-looking Hendricks and Jam, he looked terrified, too. Maybe that was a ruse to throw us all off, so that any minute he could burst into some hideously clever escape attempt?

Any minute? Like right now?
Now?

Boy Hansgen did not look like Someone Poised to Act. He looked like Someone Poised to Hyperventilate, or maybe Scream. His knees were practically knocking together, and only the firm grips of the guards kept him upright. He sure didn’t have the nerve that the Coyote Queen had—I guess that is why he was just the sidekick.

Forget Boy Hansgen. What would Nini Mo do?

She would look for a Way Out. So, I looked.

The other two Quetzals—Minions, I suppose—stood before the gates, partially blocking that exit. Behind us, the sally port opened to the wide space of the parade yard, surrounded on all sides by three tiers of casemates, each alcove containing an extremely large gun whose barrel stuck out of an extremely small embrasure window. No exit there. If we somehow made it to the top of the parapet, there was nowhere to go but over the side, straight down into the pulverizing ocean surf. No exit there.

But Bonzo and Mouse had been brought up and now stood waiting behind me, a single groom at their reins. If we had a distraction and got by those Quetzals, perhaps we could just grab Boy Hansgen, leap onto the horses, and run?

The Quetzals’ horses were Anahuatl Chargers, beautiful in a parade, useless in a fight, as nervous as chickens. Lord Axacaya sent Mamma an Anahuatl Charger one year for her birthday; I suppose he meant it as an honor, for they are very expensive. That horse was gorgeous, with a high narrow chest and the most beautiful bay color. But he was so high-strung that he jumped at the slightest whisper. He kicked at his stall so much that he blew out a tendon and had to be shot. Mamma had never even ridden him.

Bonzo and Mouse, on the other hand, are Bulrush Shermans, a breed known for being solid and unflappable. Mamma rode Bonzo in the War, and she used to joke that Bonzo should be the one called the Rock of Califa, because it was she who always held firm when Mamma herself wanted to scarper. I’d wager my life that those Anahuatl Chargers would curvet and stampede at the slightest upset, but that Bonzo and Mouse would remain steady, no matter what.

I’d wager not just my life, but Udo’s and Boy Hansgen’s, as well.

Sometimes being of no account is useful. The officers and the Quetzals were still arguing, and the enlisteds were terrified, so no one paid me the slightest bit of attention as I inched my way toward the gates. I pretended, just in case anyone did look, that I was scratching my forehead, and in doing so, managed to unhook my hat brass. The insignia is held onto the hat with pointy brass prongs; there’s a stupid Army tradition that when you take the Warlord’s oath and are given your insignia, you are repaid by having your hat brass driven into your chest by your comrades’ congratulatory punches. Idden reported to me that being brass-blooded, as they call it,
hurts.
I’d wager those fancy horses would think so, too.

The Quetzal minions holding the reins were paying my sidling no attention, their gazes fixed on the argument. The groom holding Bonzo and Mouse was also staring agape at Udo, who was
still
in full-flood dudgeon. Captain Honeychurch was looking a wee bit more persuaded, but I wasn’t going to risk it.

An Anahuatl horse flank was within poking distance. I was poised to punch, as soon as I was sure I would not be espied.

Then I heard: “Take him. And I bid Lord Axacaya joy with him.”

Udo protested: “I will tell the Warlord!”

“You can tell the Warlord that I had to bow to the authority of our overlords,” Captain Honeychurch said in a hard voice. “And if Califa is a client state and no longer has any Will of her own, it is no fault of mine, nor my regiment. You can tell the Warlord that!”

“I beg of you, Captain Honeychurch!” Boy Hansgen said desperately, but she turned away.

The guards shoved Boy Hansgen toward the Quetzals. He stumbled and almost fell, but they swooped in and grabbed him. They slung him over the back of one of those silly horses, and then they all rode away.

W
HO THE HELL ARE YOU?
” a voice whispered in my ear. I gurgled and wiggled, but someone was lying on top of me, squashing my kicks and muffling my squawks. My face was pushed hard against oily scratchy cloth that smelled of sour milk and grease.

My brain felt mushy, confused. Where was I? What had happened? Udo—Boy Hansgen—in a sudden rush, the confusion cleared and I remembered.

Udo and I had been riding hell for leather, trying to catch up with the Quetzals. Our plan? We no longer had a plan, just the intention that maybe we could ambush the Quetzals and steal Boy Hansgen back. In military strategy, they call any maneuver with not much chance of success a Forlorn Hope, and that about summed it up. But after we had beat a hasty retreat from Zoo Battery, we had put our heads together and agreed that as Forlorn as the Hope might be, we still had to try.

So we’d put the spurs to the horses and set off in chase. The Quetzals were in a hurry, and those Anahuatl Chargers can really run. Already they had disappeared. But Bulrush Shermans can run, too, and steadily. I was sure we could catch up. Then, suddenly, dark shadows had sprung up on the road, shouting and flapping. In Bonzo’s sudden curvet, I had lost my seat—flown upward. Then—whompf—darkness.

Now someone was pressing his arm against my face and hissing threats in my ear. Pain splotched my wrist, and I could barely breathe: My squasher weighed as much as a horse. Horse! Bonzo ... Mouse...
Udo
—where were they? Were they all right?

The Squasher whispered in my ear, his breath meaty and warm, “I am dying to spit me some blackcoats, filthy bugger, but first I think we should have some fun. I need a set of ears to round out my collection.” The cold edge of a knife wandered up the curve of my chin, and tweaked under my right ear, budding a spark of pain. My insides turned into slushy ice.

Then, thankfully, another voice hissed, “No ears—not yet.”

“Aw, come on now, I been good,” The Squasher whined. His weight eased up, and the arm across my face shifted, and I was able to turn my head slightly, uncovering my mouth.

I whispered.

The Word exploded like a cork from a bottle, and for a second I thought I might explode, too. My brain went dark and tight, straining at my skull. My head throbbed, and I was engulfed in nothingness. Then my ears popped and I was myself again. The weight was gone.

I rolled over, forcing my stiff muscles to sit me up. My mouth tasted of iron sludge, and when I coughed, a giant wad of something nasty came up and out. A thin red glow suffused the air, and by this glow I could see the lee of a sand dune and trampled grass. Something lay upon the sand, moaning like a foghorn. A dark figure crouched over it, murmuring. There was no sign of Udo or the horses.

I started to crawl away, the sand cold against my hands. The dark figure looked up. In the thin red light, he was a blotch blacker than the night itself, which, now that the moon had risen and illuminated the fog silverly, wasn’t so dark anymore.

“Where did you learn that word, little blackcoat?” the Dark Man hissed.

I had no idea. The Word had appeared in my mind like it had dropped there from the sky, and once it was there, it had to get out somehow or my head would have imploded.

The Dark Man continued, accusingly, “You turned Hubert’s blood into oatmeal.”

“He shouldn’t have tried to cut my ear off,” I croaked. “Lucky for Hubert that I was here and able to turn his oatmeal back to blood. Else he would now be dead. It’s strange to find a blackcoat with such a strong vocabulary. Who are you?”