Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo (38 page)

Espejo was not a Flayed Priest.

But maybe he knew their mysteries.

My coffee cup was empty. Oset was still hacking at her meat. I said, “Bea, I know I still owe you that money from the poker game. As soon as I get back to the City I’ll send you a check.”

“Oh, it’s no worry.” Oset shoved more meat into her mouth. “I know you are good for it.”

“Thanks.” I put the coffee cup down and folded my hands in my lap to hide their shaking. We had never played poker and I did not owe her any money. Another rumble of thunder rolled over us, louder this time. The storm was growing closer. Oset looked up from her plate, staring behind me, toward the mountains, and for a tiny second, her muddy brown eyes flashed jade green.

And I knew.

I knew.

I
SAT LIKE A STONE
and watched Espejo tear at his meat. What kind of meat was it? Alas, I knew exactly what kind of meat Espejo ate. Burning acid began to fill my mouth, and I said thickly, “Excuse me—”

I grabbed the shotgun as I ran. I made it out of the circle of firelight before I puked, and puked, and puked, until my stomach muscles ached and my mouth felt scalded. I leaned against a boulder, the shotgun tucked into my shoulder, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, then stuffed my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming.

Oset. Poor Oset. I should have told her—should have warned her—should never have left her in the dark, a sitting duck to Espejo. But it had never occurred to me that
she
was in danger. Espejo must have grabbed her back at the post, grabbed her and then—I felt sick. Her death was my fault. That was a cold, horrible realization, followed by another one: Here I was, out in the desert, with Espejo, at his mercy. All my brave thoughts about taking him down had died in the face of reality. Who had I been fooling? I was no match for him. He was a born killer and I was just some stupid snapperhead. I was only still alive because he hadn’t yet decided to kill me.

It was taking all my nerve not to scarper into the night. But I could hear murmuring coming from the troopers’ camp. If I ran, I’d leave them to Espejo, and he might just kill them all. Also, with Oset dead, the command had devolved to me. The troopers were now my responsibility I couldn’t abandon them.

I’d loaded the shotgun back at Sandy during mount-up. Now, seeking reassurance that I was still in the game, I broke it open and saw with soul-sucking horror that the barrels were empty The gun was unloaded. I slapped my pockets for the extra shells and found they were gone as well. How the fike had Espejo managed that? As far as I recalled, the shotgun had never been out of my sight, had been tucked into the holster on Evil Murdoch’s saddle since we’d left. Then I remembered the potty break at Hooker’s farm. I’d left the shotgun in the holster while I visited the privy. The other shells must have fallen out while I was squatting.

Oh, pigface, mother of creation. I was dead, dead, dead. Tiny Doom was dead; this was it. We were done,
punto final,
over, finished, capped—

Calm down. Calm down. Panicking won’t solve a thing.
Buck had once beaten a jaguar to death with a shovel. I had absolutely no faith in my ability to do the same with the now-useless gun. I bit down on my fist until I tasted blood, and then thought calmly,
I have what Nini Mo said is the greatest strategic advantage of all: the element of surprise.
I knew who he was, but he didn’t know I knew.

I also had one giant Gramatica Curse up my sleeve, the Gramatica Curse to end all Gramatica Curses: the Oatmeal Word. That’s not its real name, of course. It’s actually the Adverbial form of the Gramatica Word
Convulse.
I call it the Oatmeal Word because the convulsions that it causes turn its target’s internal organs into sludge—oatmeal-like sludge. I’ve spoken it twice: on one of Firemonkey’s men when he interfered with my rescue of the Dainty Pirate, and on Lord Axacaya. Its effect on poor Herbert was catastrophic. Lord Axacaya managed to withstand it, but barely.

But Espejo was more powerful than Axacaya. At least now, in the night, he was. If I tried the Word and it didn’t affect him, I would tip my hand. My advantage would be lost. He’d squash me like a bug. But it had to be getting close to dawn. Soon he would have to go to ground to escape the sun. He would not be able to call upon his god’s power. If I could hold him off until then ... but how?

“Are you all right?” Espejo called.

“I’m fine,” I called back. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the bottle of Tum-O. A nip would settle my belly and my nerves. As I lifted the bottle to my mouth, I remembered Clara’s warning.
Don’t drink it all, or it will kill you.
The bottle was three quarters full.
Always go with the sure thing
Nini Mo said. Espejo might withstand a Gramatica Word, but poison?

Back at the fire, Oset had finished eating and was picking at her teeth with a knife.

No, not Oset. The illusion was so perfect that, for a moment, I wavered. Maybe I was wrong. Paranoid. Before I did anything rash, I had to be sure.

“Are you well?” Oset/Espejo asked, looking concerned.

“I’m fine, really. Look, when I get back to the City, Bea, do you want me to look up your sister? I can take letters to her.”

“That would be good. I thank you.”

“Remind me again where she lives. It was Laurel Street, right?”

“That is right. Laurel Street. You are very kind.”

Oset didn’t have a sister, only a brother, and he lived in Pudding Pie, Califa. I had heard all about him on the ride from the stage stop to Sandy. Thanks to Oset’s chattiness, I probably knew as much about her family as she did herself. Had known herself.
Oh, Oset.

I said, “We’re out of coffee. I’m going to see if the troopers have more.”

The troopers fell silent as I approached their fire. They were eating salt pork and beans; no fresh meat for them. La Bruja had vanished. Wandered off to drink herself silly, I guessed.

“At ease,” I said quickly. “Is there any coffee left?”

A private jumped to her feet and offered me their coffeepot. “We have a can of milk, too, Captain.”

Her fellows gave her dirty looks, which were transferred to me when I accepted the can. Never take rations from a trooper, Poppy had told me, but I needed the milk to cut the taste of the medicine. I promised myself that I would buy them an entire case of canned milk when we got back to the post, but for now I had to endure the glares. I’m sure the troopers thought I was nothing but a troublesome shave tail, and they were right.

Back at the fire, Espejo was now picking at his fingernails with his knife. He leaned against Oset’s saddle, oh-so-comfy his blouse and weskit—Oset’s blouse and weskit—unbuttoned. He looked more than a little smug. Clearly, he thought he had me. Fike him.

“More coffee?” I asked, refilling his tin cup. “I got a can of milk to fix it up just as you like it, Bea.”

“Thank you,” Espejo said. Oset drank her coffee black. He dug her cigarillo case out of her saddlebag and lit up, the fiking bastard.

I forced my face into a smile and handed him the cup. I raised my own cup and said, “To the Warlord, long may he reign. And to the Goddess Califa, who gives us life.”

“Ayah, so,” he said faintly, then gulped his coffee. I pretended to sip at mine. I refilled his cup; he gulped that down and started in on a bag of jerky, chewing loudly. Fike; the Tum-O didn’t seem to be working. I urged another cupful on him and he took it, but after one sip, he yawned so widely that I was surprised the stolen skin on his face didn’t tear. Thank the Goddess it didn’t; that would have been hideous.

“You look tired, Bea,” I said. “You should get some shuteye.”

“I am ... tired.” He slurred this. His chin was sinking down and his eyes were growing slitty.

“Then, lie down. I’ll keep watch. Oh, you can be sure I’ll keep watch. If I see any jaguars, I’ll let you know. But somehow I don’t think I’ll be seeing any.”

He forced his head up. “What do you mean?”

“You know fiking well what I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” he said thickly.

“Turnabout is fair play, Espejo. You got me first last time, but it’s my turn to get you.”

He was trying to stand up, but his knees were weak. The cup fell from his hand and rolled to the edge of the fire. He scrabbled at his revolver, but was too befuddled to grasp it.

“It’s over, Espejo. I know you killed Captain Oset and took her skin—”

“You ... are ... crazy ... Captain!” Thankfully, the wind was too high and his shout too weak; there was no way the corporal could have heard him. I stood over him, pulling the revolver from his holster, in case he summoned up the will to scream, and hissed, “You shouldn’t have fiked with the Haðraaðas!”

Espejo’s eyes rolled back in his head and he flopped forward like a busted doll, dangerously close to the fire. I didn’t much care if he burned, but a charred corpse didn’t fit my plan, so I suppressed my revulsion and gripped his shoulders to pull him away from the fire, then shoved him onto the bedroll. I knelt, puffing—he was heavy—and picked up his arm. His flesh was chill; his pulse was weak, but it was there. Fike. How long would it take this stuff to kill him?

The eastern horizon was hidden by the rise of boulders that surrounded the camp, but it seemed when I looked up that the dark wasn’t quite as dark, the stars not as bright. Morning was not far off. But something else was not far off, either; distant thunder sounded, and a sudden gust of wind almost blew my hat off.

I called for Corporal Tzinga and he came at a run, cramming his hat on his head, rifle slung over his shoulder, two sleepy privates at his heels.

“Captain Oset is hurt,” I said, standing up. “She went to piss and when she came back, said she had fallen, hit her head. She seemed all right at first—there wasn’t any blood or even a bruise—but just a while ago she began to complain she was dizzy, and then she fainted.”

“Did you try smelling salts? I have some—”

“She is out cold. The bang on her head must have been harder than she thought, and caused her some injury. We need to get her back to the post as quickly as possible.”

“There’s a storm coming, Captain. I don’t think we can make it back before it hits.” A roll of thunder punctuated Corporal Tzinga’s words. The wind was growing stronger. “There are some caves further up the canyon, sir; we could shelter there. It don’t take much water out here to flood the washes. We are best to be high and dry above them.”

Pink lightning spiked the dark sky Unhappy braying mixed with alarmed shouts came from the trooper’s camp. The next clap of thunder shook the ground.

I said, “Let’s move.”

While the camps were struck and the gear hastily packed, I showed two privates how to make a sling out of a shelter, for Espejo. I would have left him behind to the storm, but that would be hard to explain to the troopers, who still thought he was Oset. The mules were kicking up a fuss. Every time the lightning flashed, they brayed and pranced, yanking at their pickets and bumping into each other, which would set off a chain reaction of biting and more braying. The troopers had a hard time getting them saddled; one private got kicked in the knee and collapsed, moaning.

“Are the caves big enough for the mules?” I asked Tzinga. Rain spattered my face, pattered on my hat.

“No, sir. Your pardon, sir, but if we let the mules loose, they’ll take care of themselves. I never saw a drowned mule yet.”

Before I left for the Barracks, Poppy had told me that the secret to being a good officer was knowing when to listen to your noncoms. I ordered Tzinga to let loose the mules, and to leave the saddles and tack. With Oset dead, I was personally responsible for the patrol’s equipage, but fike it. I wasn’t going to risk the troopers for a bunch of equipment. As the last mule was untied, a massive bolt of lightning split the sky For a moment, the world was twodimensional: stark black and white. The thunderclap that followed was almost deafening.

“Go!” I shouted, and we went, Corporal Tzinga leading the way and me at the rear. We scrambled through the narrow passageways between the boulders. The high rock walls offered some shelter from the wind, but they would be channels for the rain when it came, and anything caught in them would be in big trouble. Overhead, the sky had become a boiling black maelstrom. I hollered doubletime, and the patrol broke into a shuffling run.

The cave, when we reached it, wasn’t very deep, but it was on high ground. We squeezed in. Just in time, too, for the rain began to plummet down.

“Is that everyone?” I shouted to Corporal Tzinga.

He peered out into the dimness. “I think so—”

“Munds!” a trooper shouted in my ear. “He fell behind!”

“That damn Munds!” Corporal Tzinga said. “He never keeps up! I’ll go back and get him.”

“No, you keep the troopers together.” I dashed into the deluge. The rain felt like hammer blows, almost knocking me to the ground. I staggered and managed to keep my footing as rocks and mud shifted beneath my feet. I found Munds lying on his face, a few yards down the trail, arms over his head. At first I thought he was dead, but when I bent over him and grabbed his shoulder, he quivered.

“Get up!” I shouted. He didn’t, and so I gave him a good boot in the ribs—against regulations, but it got results, for he started and looked up at me through a mask of mud.

“That fiking mule broke my knee!”

“Get up!”

“Let me be! I don’t care! I hate it here! I don’t care!”

“Fike you, you’ll care!” I shouted. “Get the fike up!” I grabbed at his sodden blouse and tugged; he struggled to his feet, and when I pulled him along with me, he came reluctantly, but he came.

The ground was slick, running with foamy water; somehow, we made it back up the slope. Lightning cracked above us. I jerked at Munds and pulled him sideways, scrabbling to find cover. Water foamed up around our knees; a tree branch whacked me in the shin and then was whisked away. Ahead, a dark shape loomed: I dragged Munds toward it, hoping it was the big cave. It wasn’t, but it was shelter: a rocky overhang. When I pushed Munds underneath, he collapsed.