Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo (16 page)

“Here you are, my dear Nyana,” Madama Valdosta said, opening a door. “I hope you will be nice and cozy. Don’t hesitate to give me a ring if you should want anything. It is my pleasure to serve. Sieur Wraathmyr, you’ll be right down the hallway Come, dear, come.” Sieur Wraathmyr gave me a quick look that I couldn’t quite interpret and followed Madama Valdosta.

The cozy room was dominated by a giant bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, with bedposts of rough-hewn tree trunks. Low lights threw friendly shadows on the paneled walls and the carpet was lush beneath my feet. A leather sofa—already claimed by Flynn—stood before the fireplace; a small door next to it led to an immaculate bathroom.

I dumped my wet clothes on the floor by the bed. The ceramic stove in the corner of the bathroom gave off a gentle heat, and the water, when it gushed into the tub, was boiling hot. Lavender bath salts and two kinds of toothpaste (one mint, one apple) were arrayed by the sink. The tub was positioned so you could lie in the bath and stare out the window at the white mist drifting through the redwoods. I had a nice long soak, and when I finally, reluctantly, climbed out of the tub and enveloped myself in a fluffy robe, I felt wrinkled and relaxed and clean. Furiously hungry, too.

“At least the water is hot,” a voice said.

I turned back from the sink, toothbrush in hand. The ghost of Hardhands had usurped the tub, and now leaned over the edge, staring at me. He was a lot cleaner than the last time I had seen him, but the dirt, at least, had covered up the worst of the wounds. Now the trauma of death was all too obvious. His bare arms were covered in long red welts and scratches, and slick white tendons showed through the arrow gash in his neck. “But the rest of this place is quite the dump, eh? Still, beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

“Did I tell you to go home?” I snapped.

“You did. But I did not.” The ghost leaned back in the tub. He elevated one long leg and began to scrub. I averted my eyes. I had seen all that I cared to see. “Listen, your friend, the Varanger, he says he’s a Varanger, anyway, though he’s covered with Kulani tattoos—”

“Kulani?” I said sharply. “He’s a Varangian.”

“Oh, so he says. He’s from the Kulani Islands, I’ll bet my hat on it.”

The Kulani Islands lie far to the west of Califa, out in the Pacifica Ocean. No one knows much about them, as they don’t allow outsiders to set foot on the islands, and the only islanders that ever sail beyond the chain of islands are raiders.

Hardhands continued, “It’s true that Wraathmyr is no Kulani name—they love their vowels, you know—but he’s covered with Kulani markings. If he ain’t a Kulani, and a high-ranking one, too, I’ll eat your dog. There’s something shifty about him—”

“He’s a wer-bear. That’s what’s shifty about him.”

“No, of course I know that. Something else. He’s hiding something.”

“I don’t care a bit about him, so why would it matter to me?”

“You say this heatedly enough that I know that cannot be true.”

I hastily changed the subject. “Did you find out anything about whoever is scrying me?”

“I’m still working on it.” Hardhands soaped another bloody calf.

“Well, go work on it,” I said. “And leave me be.”

“So you can work on Wraathmyr? He is rather dark and brooding, and I know the young ladies like that.”

“Shut up!” I said hotly.

“A murderous romantic—you have your mamma’s taste! She always did like them with blood on their hands, like your dear papa—”

I screeched. Oh fike, not again. The Command hit Hardhands in his bruised chest. His mouth opened in surprise and he began to quiver and shake. With a ripping sound, like cardboard shredding, he vanished and there was a large splash. I peered into the tub. A red shape the size of a housecat was eddying in the water, eight tentacles undulating. It shot from one end of the tub to the other, and then attached itself to the side and began to climb.

Oh fike. I had turned Hardhands into an octopus. And I had shown myself on the Current again. Control the Gramatica, Hardhands had said, or it will control you.

I took a deep breath. Next time, I would bite my own tongue off before I let a Gramatica Word pass my lips. The octopus reached the edge of the tub and waved its tentacles at me, pulsing a deep angry sangyn.

“I told you to keep it shut,” I said. I went back to the bedroom and found the chamber pot under the bed. In the bathroom, I filled the pot with water, dropped my wet towel over Hardhands—Octohands now, really—and gingerly gathered up the bulging, wiggly towel. When I shook it out over the pot, Octohands fell out in a snarl of tentacles. Before he could escape, I slammed the lid on the pot and draped the towel over it. I had no idea how to reverse my Gramatica Command, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have dared do it now. It wouldn’t hurt Hardhands to spend some time as a cephalopod. Better that than a bossy stenchy corpse. At least he couldn’t talk now.

While I had been in the bathroom, Madama Valdosta had replaced my wet clothes with dry ones. The chemise was made of white lawn, the stockings had no holes in them, and the stays were embroidered with small pink flowers. The kilt was a bit longer than I was used to, but the dark blue knitted jersey was as soft as a cloud. I stuffed my feet back into the warm slippers and went to find Sieur Wraathmyr.

His room was next to mine; the door was ajar. I peered around the door jamb. Sieur Wraathmyr was lying fully dressed on the bed, on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, arms folded around himself, his hands balled up into fists. He was fast asleep. A weird sharp pain cut through me. Sleeping, he didn’t look arrogant or aloof. He looked tired and very young.

I stepped back into the darkness of the hallway, my heart racing, my breath shallow. He was just sleeping. So what? He was an arrogant, stuck-up snapperhead, and he could sleep until the Abyss froze over, for all I cared. I was going down to dinner.

Hardhands was wrong, I thought, as I went downstairs. My type is not dark and brooding. Nor do I care for romantics with blood on their hands. If I had a type—which I don’t—it would be sunny and amusing and sure of himself. Someone who knew what to do and did it without dithering. Udo was sunny and amusing, all right, and sure of himself, but in a bad way: so sure he was right when he was not. He was also vain and silly If I was looking for someone—which I’m not, of course; I haven’t got time for spoony stuff—I would look for someone who was honorable and loyal and who would take me seriously. I certainly wouldn’t go gaga over a stuck-up arrogant wer-bear. As far as I was concerned, Sieur Wraathmyr could stuff it.

In the dining room, dim underwater mirrors reflected the candlelight, playing off the silver plates and cups lining the china-hutch shelves. The long, polished wood table was set with gold-rimmed dishes and covered with bowls and platters of delicious-smelling food. I sat down in a heavily carved wooden chair, and Madama Valdosta introduced me to the other guests seated at the table: a writer on retreat and a couple on their honeymoon.

During dinner, the writer didn’t say much—being sunk, I guess, into creative thought—and the couple was too spoony to care about anyone else. I was too tired for conversation and happy to concentrate on the chow. Every dish that came my way was yummy even the braised cauliflower, and normally I hate cauliflower.

Midway through the soup course, Sieur Wraathmyr, still dressed in his damp clothes but looking a whole lot cleaner, appeared and gave his apologies for his late arrival. After dinner, Madama Valdosta tried to tempt us into joining a game of poker in the parlor, but Sieur Wraathmyr and I declined. We wanted to make an early start in the morning. Madama Valdosta gave us each a hot brick to warm our sheets and a basket of ginger drops, just in case we got hungry in the middle of the night.

In my room Flynn waited impatiently by the door, his supper untouched. At my urging, he raced down the stairs and outside into the rain, but then he wouldn’t come back inside. I had to drag him in and upstairs by the collar. Snapperdog!

My bed had been turned down and the lamps extinguished, so the room was lit only by the glow of the fire. A flannel nightgown hung nearby on a warming rack. The towel over Octohands’s chamber pot was undisturbed; I’d figure out what to do about him later. Right now I just wanted to sleep. Ignoring Flynn’s whining, I heaved myself into the comforter, sinking into feathery wonderfulness. I was asleep in seconds.

The next morning, I woke to the gentle patter of rain on the roof. When I peered out the window, I saw that the trees were hidden behind a drifting fog and the rain was coming down quite heavily Not a very good day to travel. A few more minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt, surely? I closed my eyes again, just for a moment.

When I opened them again, it was much later and the delicious smell of pancakes hovered on the air. My clean, dry clothes hung on the rack by the fire. I got dressed and went to find breakfast, anxious Flynn trailing behind me. Sieur Wraathmyr already sat at the dining room table, devouring pancakes as though he were in a contest. Or a prison. There was no sign of the other guests.

“It’s a pity you must travel in such miserable weather,” Madama Valdosta said. “Perhaps you should stay another day.” She refilled my coffee cup. Under the table, Flynn was draped over my feet.

Sieur Wraathmyr answered, “I wish we could, madama. Your hospitality has been very gracious. But we must go on.”

“Such a pity”

I agreed with her. The thought of leaving the snug little lodge and trudging through the cold wetness was not a happy one. My umbrella and my gum boots were still onboard the
Pato
, and so was Flynn’s raincoat. He was liable to catch a chill, which would not be helpful at all. There’s nothing more pathetic than a dog with a cold.

By the time we were done eating, the shimmery rain had turned into a fearsome drubbing, and the stream, barely visible through the silvery sheeting, was already over its banks. Sieur Wraathmyr went to investigate. When he returned a few minutes later, wet despite the umbrella Madama Valdosta had given him, he reported that the footbridge was already submerged. Until the rain stopped and the water went down, we were staying at the Valdosta Lodge.

I returned to my deliciously soft comfy bed and had another long lie-down, and after that, another wonderful soak. Then it was time for lunch: hot beef sandwies with cheese sauce, hashed herbed potatoes, and cherry trifle. Afterward, Madama Valdosta showed me to the library which was wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, with books. There I found the entire run of Red-top Rev, Vigilante Prince, the beedle dime novel series based loosely (very loosely) on Poppy I settled blissfully into a vast leather armchair, a stack of yellowbacks at one hand and a pot of tea at the other.

After weeks of late nights, paperwork, and orders, and before that, months of marching, drilling, studying, and crappy food, just lying around was blissful. No one harassed me about missing mail or ordered me to change a nasty diaper or wondered why I hadn’t finished my copying yet. I could do what I liked when I liked it, and if that meant eating only donuts for breakfast or spending three hours soaking in the tub, well, so what?

Sieur Wraathmyr, however, could not relax. He kept going to the window and looking outside, and once, he suggested we leave anyway, giving me a very scornful look when I told him I wasn’t interested in getting drenched.

But slowly the charm of the Valdosta Lodge worked its magick on Sieur Wraathmyr and he began to unwind. He took long naps. He combed his hair. He ate Madama Valdosta’s delicious chow with gusto. And once, when I asked him to pass the salt, he did so with a smile. That smile cracked his arrogance and made him seem almost handsome. Maybe I had been wrong about him. Maybe he’d just been tired and stressed and needed a break, too. The next time he smiled at me, I smiled back.

Only Flynn was unhappy; homesick, I guessed. He scratched on the door of whatever room we were in, but kept refusing to go out. He’d just stand in the doorway, looking anxious. He poked at me over and over with his shiv nose until I petted him, but as soon as I stopped, he’d start shiving again. He wouldn’t go out into the rain to do his business unless I went with him, and then he’d run into the bushes and hide and I would have to drag him inside again. He skulked under my feet, tangling me up, and after I almost broke my neck, I left him in my bathroom, where he howled for a good hour before shutting up.

A
FTER DINNER ON
the third or fourth day—I’d lost track—Sieur Wraathmyr fired up his delicious-smelling pipe and asked me if I wanted to play backgammon. As we played, he became downright chatty Eventually we abandoned the game and just talked, mostly about his travels. As a salesman for Madama Twanky’s, Sieur Wraathmyr had been almost everywhere.

He told me about Bexar, where the men wear high-heeled boots, love their horses as their children, and will not walk even five feet if they can ride. He told me about Varanger, where in the winter the sun never rises, and in the summer, never sets, where the forests stretch for miles, full of moose, wolves, elk—and bears. There are no cities in Varanger; the people live in longhouses scattered among the forest, each house self-sustaining.