Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo (24 page)

“Why do they call her Cutaway?”

“Because she cuts away bits of people who cross her.”

“She looks like a banker.”

“She is a banker. And a businesswoman. An extremely ruthless banker and businesswoman. I heard that the Warlord once had a twenty million gambling debt to her.”

“Twenty million divas?” I said, aghast. “How do you lose twenty million divas gambling?”

“By being a very poor euchre player. The Warlord’s partner, a man named Merrick, refused to pay”

“The Warlord had a bodyguard named Merrick. He only had one hand—oh.” I looked back at Cutaway Hargity. She had finished her grapefruit and was slathering her toast with butter.

Sieur Wraathmyr continued, “Remember that extra tribute tax a couple of years back, the one that was supposed to go to the Birdies? That’s how the Warlord raised the money to cancel his debt. After Merrick, he was very motivated to honor his obligation.”

I remembered that tax. It had prompted quite a few angry editorials in the papers—most of them aimed at the Birdies, not at the Warlord, who was seen as an innocent victim of their greed. Pretty clever, paying off your gambling bills by raising a tax that you can blame on your overlords, thus making them even more unpopular while you look like a martyr.

A yelp punctuated the hush of the room. We turned and saw two men scuffling at the buffet line. One appeared to be rubbing bacon in the face of the other. Judging from the screams, the bacon was very hot. Out of nowhere, two girls flanked the fighters. Suddenly the bacon-rubber was on the ground, moaning, as his victim screamed, “My face! My face!”

The bacon-rubber started to sit up and Bouncer One kicked him neatly in the head with a pink-toed boot. There was a sickening thud, and the bacon-rubber’s head jerked back and he flopped over, suddenly very quiet. Bouncer Two grabbed the screaming man, threw a towel over his head, and steered him toward the kitchen. Bouncer One hoisted the bacon-rubber over her shoulder and hauled him away.

The whole incident had taken seconds.

“I beg your pardon, gentle guests.” Cutaway stood beside her table. “It is very silly to fight over the last piece of bacon. There is always more bacon. I am sorry that your breakfast was disturbed. Champagne is on the house.”

This announcement brought a smattering of applause and a shout of, “I’ll take vino over bacon anytime!” Cutaway turned a quiet look in the shouter’s direction and the applause abruptly stopped. Waiters began to distribute champagne glasses. Cutaway sat down and Sieur Wraathmyr continued, as though he’d never paused. “Over there, by the pillar, that man in the green and yellow ditto suit is the head of the Waco Slave Syndicate. And over there is the Bouncing Boy Terror himself, Springheel Jack—”

I turned my head so quickly that my neck cracked. Springheel Jack? Springheel Jack was dead, and his boots in the possession of ... Oh, fike. That wasn’t Springheel Jack at all.

It was Udo.

Wearing Springheel Jack’s boots.

N
OT COPIES OF
Springheel Jack’s boots this time. But the Jack Boots themselves, in all their glittery, snaky glory.

Udo, that fiking idiotic fool! Hadn’t he learned his lesson? The last time he’d put those boots on, they’d ensorcelled him. Springheel Jack’s boots aren’t just a fashion accessory; they
are
Springheel Jack. It’s the Jack Boots that make the outlaw, not the other way around. They take over whatever poor snapperhead wears them, turning him into Springheel Jack.

And once they have their victim in their grip, they do not let go. Last time I’d only managed to get them to release Udo by promising that if they let him go, I’d find them another and much better snapperhead to ensorcel. I had broken my promise (is a promise to a pair of homicidal magickal boots really a promise?) and given the boots back to Udo because he had sworn he would turn them in to the police and collect the bounty on Springheel Jack. Apparently I was not the only oath breaker around.

Speaking of which, I glanced around the room but saw neither the Dainty Pirate nor the Zu-Zu. Udo sashayed toward a table like he was Choronzon, Lord of All Creation. He was dressed head-to-toe in white—sumptuous, not funereal. Puffy white sack hose, white velvet doublet with white silk puffs on the enormous sleeves, frothy white lace at his cuffs and neck. He looked subdued but elegant. Of course, white was the perfect foil for the red sparkly boots with the snappy snake heads on the toes. They stood out like blood on snow.

“I heard that Springheel Jack had been killed in a shootout in the City a year or so ago,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “I guess that rumor was wrong.”

“No, it wasn’t wrong,” I answered. Udo sat down at his table. We were not the only ones looking in his direction. In fact, Cutaway Hargity was now gazing with sparklingeyed interest at him.

“I gotta get out of here,” I said. “Before he sees me.”

“You know Springheel Jack?” Sieur Wraathmyr asked, surprised.

“That’s not Springheel Jack. It’s Udo Landaðon.”

Or was it? From this distance, I couldn’t read Udo’s face well enough to tell if he was himself or if he had been subsumed into Jackness again. The outfit, though, screamed Jack; the Jack Boots had much better taste than Udo himself did.

“He was at the Zu-Zu’s party, don’t you remember?” I said.

“Udo? You mean the idiotic courtier that dumped you? What is he doing in Springheel Jack’s boots?”

“It’s a long story, but I really don’t want him to see me.” Yet, if he looked toward our table, he’d see me for sure. Sieur Wraathmyr gestured, and we quickly changed seats. Now his bulk blocked me from Udo’s view. But if Udo couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him, either. I could, however, see Cutaway Hargity’s table.

“Cutaway Hargity has just sent her card over to Udo,” I said.

“Cutaway likes bright-eyed boys. Well, good luck to him. But let’s get rid of him for the moment, shall we?”

Sieur Wraathmyr summoned a waiter, slipped him some money, and whispered something in his ear. The waiter nodded and went over to Udo’s table. Suddenly Udo was leaving the room in a big hurry.

“What did you tell the waiter to say to him?”

“That he had an urgent package pickup at the Pacifica Mail office. That should keep him busy for a while. Ah, here we go.”

Our chow arrived. Right behind the waiter with the food was another waiter with a card on a silver salver. The flood had begun.

It took us forever to eat breakfast; we were constantly interrupted by a stream of people. Sieur Wraathmyr produced a small notebook from one of his pockets and began to set up appointment times—he was going to have a busy afternoon. Apparently, so was I, for he introduced me as Vice President in Charge of Furbelows and Fripperies (what the fike is a furbelow?), and people seemed just as eager to see me.

Alas, I was not so eager to see them, for as each card arrived, Sieur Wraathmyr would, in a low voice, describe its owner.

“...made a fortune in selling body parts...”

“...sells elementals that she invokes and traps...”

“...robbed sixteen different mule trains...”

But none of these rotters was the Kulani Envoy. Maybe she’d given up on Buck’s response and returned to the islands, empty-handed. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she hadn’t heard that Sieur Wraathmyr was in town. It seemed like everyone on Barbacoa had requested an appointment but her. Finally, when my bacon was gone, I was on my fifth cup of coffee, and my anxiety had built up to where I thought I might start screaming, another waiter appeared with yet another card.

Sieur Wraathmyr glanced at it and grinned widely “At last. The Kulani Envoy begs us to wait upon her at her home, so that she might browse my sample case. This afternoon at one.”

“Finally,” I said with relief.

“Ayah so, finally” A heavy hand dropped on my shoulder and a familiar voice, dripping with nastiness, said, “Ave, Flora.”

“Ave,” I said warily, shrugging off his heavy hand. Was I addressing Udo or Springheel Jack? The glare, the hand on the hilt of his saber—very Jackish. But when he spoke again, the querulous accusatory tone was all Udo.

“We searched the
Pato
for you and never found you. We thought you’d perhaps fallen overboard, maybe drowned. I was pretty upset.”

“Turnabout is fair play. Now you know how I felt,” I answered.

“It’s not a joking matter!”

“I’m not joking. Leave me alone, Udo.”

“What are you doing here?” Udo demanded.

“She said to leave her alone,” Sieur Wraathmyr said.

Udo sneered. “Who are you?”

“T. N. Wraathmyr, at your service, sieur.” Sieur Wraathmyr waved his hand in a somewhat careless Courtesy. He didn’t stand up.

“What does the T. N. stand for?” Udo demanded.

“T for Trouble and N for None of Your Business,” Sieur Wraathmyr answered. He had picked his fork up and now spun it around his fingers as he stared flat-eyed at Udo.

Udo countered with, “T for Thief and N for Nobody is more like it. I remember you now. The salesman, at the Zu’s party. ”

“What do you want, Udo?” I said hurriedly. Sieur Wraathmyr shifted his grasp on the fork; now he held it like a dagger. Udo curled his lips dismissively and turned back to me. “What are you doing?”

“Eating breakfast, Udo, or at least I was before you interrupted me.”

“I mean, what are you doing on Barbacoa?”

“It’s a free port, Udo. Anyone can be here.”

“You’d better come with me, Flora.”

“I don’t think so, Udo. I’m busy”

“Not so busy, by the look of it. Your plate is empty. Come on, Flora.”

“She is not a dog to come when you call her,” Sieur Wraathmyr said, giving Udo a stone-cold look that would have rocked me back on my heels but that Udo received with a very Jackish sneer.

“I don’t recall addressing you at all, sieur,” he answered. “This is none of your business.”

I protested, “Udo, stop it! You are being rude.”

“I’ll be even ruder if I have to be, to get you to come with me. Quit playing games, Flora.”

Sieur Wraathmyr said softly “You will excuse us, sieur, but we have appointments. If you wish to speak to Madama Romney perhaps you should make an appointment as well.”

Udo hissed, “I’ll make an appointment to see you in the Abyss.”

“Would you?” Sieur Wraathmyr said. He stood up. “I’ll send you there myself!”

“Name your place and your time.”

“Stop it, you two!” I said as Udo and Sieur Wraathmyr glared at each other. Neither one looked at me. In the cheap romance novels, the heroine is always thrilled when her rivals fight. In real life, it was just horribly embarrassing. I was not the last piece of bacon.

Though we had kept our voices low, the furious tones had carried, and now everyone in the room was staring at us. Udo and Sieur Wraathmyr locked eyes, neither willing to give ground, and when I whacked them each on the arm, they didn’t pay attention. The snake heads on the toes of the Jack Boots hissed and snapped, and Sieur Wraathmyr growled in response.

“Little boys,” a new voice said. Cutaway Hargity was not much taller than me, but somehow she made the men look very small. “If you will fight, then go outside. We’ve had enough caterwauling for one day Break apart or I shall cut you apart.”

Like Udo, Cutaway wore a scabbard at her hip. His was empty. Hers held a very long pair of scissors. Now she rested her hand on their handle.

Udo and Sieur Wraathmyr broke away from their stare-down.

“I cry your pardon, madama,” Sieur Wraathmyr said, sweeping into a bow.

Not to be outdone, Udo took off his hat and bowed so low that the fringe on his cravat almost touched the floor. “I beg your pardon, madama, for causing a disruption.”

Cutaway answered, “How can I not grant you pardon, when you ask so prettily? But remember what I said earlier. There is no need to fight. There is always more.” The sharp black eyes turned on me, appraised me, and found me obviously unappealing. “You are Tharyn’s new associate?”

“Ayah, madama.” I made my own Courtesy: Honored and Grateful for the Hospitality.

Cutaway’s hair was silvery gray but her face was curiously unlined, almost masklike. When she spoke, her eyebrows did not move. “Interesting. Madama
Romney,
yes?”

“Ayah.” I did not like the way she was looking at me, like she saw the Gramatica inside of me. Her hand still rested on her scissors.

“Very
interesting. I will look forward to speaking with you later. I have need of new furbelows, and hope that you will be able to instruct me on the latest fashion in Ticonderoga.” She turned back to Sieur Wraathmyr. “Tharyn, you may come to my office sharply at five, with your catalogs and pattern book in hand.”

“I will be honored, madama.”

Now Cutaway narrowed in on Udo. “And you, dear boy, may escort me back to my office and tell me the news on the high seas as we go.”

Udo had no choice but to take Cutaway’s arm and escort her away. Which he did, although not without one last sneer at Sieur Wraathmyr and me.

“Pigface, he’s in for it now,” Sieur Wraathmyr remarked, watching them walk away.

“What do you mean?” I could hear Udo telling Cutaway that he loved her taste in shoes. I couldn’t help but think that Sieur Wraathmyr might be sullen sometimes, but he’d never stoop to such lap-doggery

“Once Cutaway has ’em, they are done. Come on, we are going to be late for our appointment.”

“Done? What does that mean?” I asked, following him from the dining room.

“Oh, I don’t know exactly,” Sieur Wraathmyr said vaguely “But I’ve heard rumors that she keeps souvenirs.”

T
HE
K
ULANI
E
NVOY LIVED
in a small house perched high above the town on a steep cliff face. From the street, the house was almost invisible behind brilliant purple bougainvillea, flowers so bright they hurt my eyes. The day had turned warm and the sky was sullen with clouds, the air heavy and wet. It looked like a storm.

Sieur Wraathmyr’s words about the fate of Cutaway’s conquests had rolled around in my head as we rode up the hill. Now, as we exited the donkey cab, I forced those uneasy thoughts into a dark corner of my mind and slammed the door on them. Udo’s charms had saved his skin before, so surely they’d save it now, and, anyway, he had the Jack Boots to help him if there was trouble—and, anyway, what the fike did I care?