Rocco's Wings (25 page)

Across the courtyard again, they darted through the mist. They slipped inside.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Iggy. ‘I took the kaffy off because I was about to sneeze. I pulled it back again, but my head got into a snooze and I couldn’t think straight. Maybe I should have said.’

Working quickly, they refilled Iggy’s basket, tipping in some of their own mixture that included the dropsy.

‘Do you think it’s strong enough?’ asked Vesta.

‘It’s diluted for sure, but what else can we do?’ said Rocco.

Harpia’s palace

Half running, they passed once more by the small tables with dirty dishes. Every door on the first floor remained shut. At the end of the hall was a broad marble stairwell with a scrolling railing. They climbed the steps. Halfway up, an Air Marshal appeared at the top.

He looked at them like they were wolves. He lumbered down.

Rocco was first. His mind spirit was whirling. He’d tell him they were cleaning the palace. That was a good story. But what about their wings, full of mud? How would they explain that?

‘What’s all this?’ The Air Marshal nodded at the basket on his back. Next, his eyes moved to their dirt-covered feathers.

‘Laundry,’ said Rocco. It sounded lame. The vein in his neck started pumping again.

The Air Marshal leaned down to pull the lid of the basket open, or so Rocco thought. Instead, when the Air Marshal’s face came close, he seized Rocco’s arm.

‘You three are coming with–‘

The Air Marshal didn’t finish his sentence. He slumped down to the step. Vesta hovered above. She’d squirted the dust mixture into the Air Marshal’s face.

‘Again!’ cried Iggy.

Pouf. Pouf.

His arm now free, Rocco shoved hard. The Air Marshal fell sideways. His head fell crookedly; his legs splayed open.

‘He’s asleep.’

Rocco grabbed the Air Marshal under the arms. ‘Get his feet. We can’t leave him here.’

‘Leave him,’ said a voice from the top of the stairs.

Magma, dressed in red robes, was standing at the top. He was alone, not holding anything that looked like a weapon.

‘What do you want?’ It sounded hard, but Magma had run off on them.

‘I – want to help,’ said Magma. As he spoke he pushed the Air Marshal up against the wall. Running back up the stairs, he returned a moment later with a half full wine cup. Spilling the wine on the front of the Air Marshal’s jacket, he set the cup on its side by the Air Marshal’s foot.

‘There. Now, come.’

He was trying to make amends, but did that mean he was trustworthy?

Rocco followed Magma to the top. Magma walked farther down the hall. Where was he leading them? He disappeared into a small room with a chair and a table, a waiting room of some kind. When they were all inside, Magma closed the door.

Iggy hurled himself at Magma. ‘You’re okay! Magma! You’re okay! We were ever so worried.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…’ With his arms around Iggy, Magma began to weep. ‘You were right. I shouldn’t have left, but I was out of my mind with the pain in my head. I didn’t mean to leave you in a lurch. It was awful what I did. Can you ever forgive me?’

‘We forgive you, Magma,’ said Iggy.

Vesta stepped forward. ‘It’s okay, Magma,’ she said, giving him a solid hug. ‘You’re alive. We’re happy to see you.’

Magma leaving when he did, it had made the rest of the mission that much harder.

‘What about you, Rocco? Do you forgive me too?’

Magma looked smaller without his wings. He’d never fly again.

Rocco embraced Magma. ‘You’re alive. That’s a good thing.’

Vesta explained the plan.

Nodding, Magma said, ‘I’ll help, just tell me what to do.’ He opened the door to the inner room. Rows of beds, all with sleeping Air Marshals, lined the walls. While Magma kept watched, they went in and sprayed every one of them.

‘Harpia made all the Krakatoan Air Marshals sleep here. The Gabbro warriors are bedded down in the Air Marshals’ Roosting Hall,’ explained Magma on their way out.

Magma led them into other single rooms on the same floor. Twice Rocco heard Rummy jabbering away in the next room. Both times, he hurried over only to find Rummy and Iggy wrestling an Air Marshal, once on the floor and the second time on the bed.

Pouf. Pouf.
Rocco pumped the balloon. The Air Marshal didn’t know what hit him.

‘If you can’t control Rummy, leave her with Magma,’ said Rocco.

‘Okay!’

Soon the second floor was done, and Magma was leading them to Harpia’s quarters.

‘Wait here.’ A moment later Magma returned with a skeleton key and three finely crafted swords. His hands were shaking as he passed them over.

‘She’s in a foul mood. Be careful.’ He nodded at a set of doors across the open atrium.

‘This is it,’ said Rocco when they reached the door. ‘There’s three of us. We can do this.’

Vesta and Iggy nodded.

They peered in through the keyhole. The room was dark. Vesta unlocked the door. The room was large with an extremely high ceiling. A table took up much of the room. Rocco had seen it before, but only from outside, on the balcony. Surmounted over the table, the crested eagles hung, their talons as long as the claws of a bear.

Rocco’s heels hit the top of the table. He’d forgotten about the chandelier. Harpia – if indeed it was Harpia – was sitting, hunched over at the far end.

Her head flipped up. She hadn’t heard them come in. She was drunk. At least she was clutching a cup.

Rocco strode toward her. Harpia’s eyes became dark. She reached up to steady her crown. She was sitting in the same seat she had occupied on the night of the dinner party.

‘How dare you –’ she hissed. Still seated, she pushed away the bones, feathers and dishes that were piled around the tabletop. ‘You’ve come back, stinking thieves!’

With another long stride, Rocco brought his sword up so that it was level with Harpia’s face. Why wasn’t she getting up? Did she think they weren’t capable of capturing her?

‘You’re not the rightful queen of Krakatoan,’ said Rocco. ‘Belarica is queen. She’s kind and good, and you are not. In the name of Belarica, we’re here to apprehend you.’

Harpia threw her head back. She began to laugh.
‘You?
A mudrock from the plains, and your two half-fledged accomplices? You’ve come here to put on a show, like a trio of peacocks?’ She waved a hand at Vesta and Iggy who were standing behind Rocco on the tabletop.

Harpia was mocking them.

Rocco ran the last few strides. As he neared the end of the table, Harpia rose up. Robe and sleeves billowing, she flew to the wall behind her. Yanking a sword off a decorative shield on the wall, she whirled around, teeth flashing and eyes all liquid again.

‘Stinking mudrock! You dare to come in here and treat me like a common criminal. I will have your head, personally on the end of this sword!’

The vitriol in her voice was like a cold hard hand seizing his spine. No, he wasn’t paralyzed, he was moving forward. He struck at Harpia.

‘Is that your best strike.’ With a laugh, Harpia fell back.

Clang. Clang.
He lunged again. She was faster than she’d been a moment ago. They rose to the top of the ceiling. He was forcing her into battle whether she liked it or not.

As they passed the balcony doors, Harpia turned her head and shrieked. Surely it was too far for the Gabbroans to hear? They were sleeping way on the other side of the city.

‘It’s them, the Air Marshals from the wall,’ Vesta shouted.

‘Get them,’ yelled Rocco.

Vesta had opened the doors. She and Iggy were hiding on either side of the frame, swords drawn.

‘Thief! Dirty mudrock! Stinking vile!’ Harpia twirled, hitting the wall and flipping. For a moment it looked as if her neck might snap.

‘You stole Cristobalite’s wings!’ Rocco shouted. ‘You stole Magma’s wings! You robbed them of their dignity, of their right to fly! You’re the thief!’

The Air Marshals flew in. Vesta and Iggy struck the first blow. One of the Air Marshals hit the floor, already dead. Vesta and Iggy circled around the second.

Magma was holding Rummy’s hand down on the floor. ‘What should I do?’ he hollered up.

‘Filth! Dirt! Dung of the Plains!’ Harpia’s voice was shrill.

He’d been trying to at least mark her arm, but she was fast, sneaky in the way she moved. She was at least as good as Vesta.

‘I saw you!’ Rocco continued, timing his words to the strikes of his sword. ‘You convicted Cristobalite by day, and ate his wings at night. You’re supposed to look after your citizens, not make them suffer! You’re not fit to be queen!’

Harpia’s face contorted. Was she going to start talking gibberish?

‘Magma! Open the basket, and pump! You saw how we did it. Cover your face first.’ In his bird eye vision Rocco saw Vesta and Iggy pull their kaffies over their noses.

‘You’re a speck, a drop of spittle. You hold no rank. Not even a citizen.’ Harpia’s face was dark with fury.

Magma stood looking at the baskets at the foot of the table.

‘Open them!’ Rocco shouted again.

Magma lifted the lid of a basket. Extracting a balloon, he gave it a tentative squeeze. He quickly pulled his tunic over his nose.

A puff of dust flared out.

Rocco’s feet hit the wall. He arched his back, flipping over. Down on the table he stomped. In a single fluid move, he sprang, squarely striking Harpia on the arm.

She flinched.

Now he had her attention.

He ran at the wall. Harpia was doing the same on the other side. They flipped together, crossing swords over the table.

Clang. Clang.

Magma was pumping but he was so far away, the dust wasn’t lifting.

‘Get up on the table, Magma. Pump in the air!’

Rocco twirled, once, twice, thrice. On the backhand he struck Harpia. A cut, a bit of blood on her neck.

Vesta and Iggy had driven the Air Marshal toward Magma’s cloud of dust.

‘Ughh –’

He sneezed, reeled away and slammed into the side of the table.

Harpia saw him fall. Rocco hurled himself forward. Harpia whirled away, but Rocco’s blade caught her long billowy skirt. The fabric ripped. He stuck the blade in further, and it caught the thicker underskirt.

Her eyes were vicious.

‘Let me go.’

‘No.’

‘You’ll regret it. You’re a white robe. You don’t have the mental aptitude to rise above your station.’

Rocco flew around Harpia, wrapping her up in her own voluminous dress. In the last turn, he drove her down, staking her dress to the top of the table. She thrashed, gazing up at him ferociously.

‘Got the tethers?’ asked Rocco.

Vesta laid them in his hand. While he bound Harpia’s feet, Iggy drove his sword through Harpia’s sleeve, nailing her more securely to the table. Vesta did the same on the other side, and laid her boot on Harpia’s neck.

‘We could kill you, you know.’

‘Get off me, you – you twit!’

Rocco flew up and ripped one of the long drapes from the glass doors. On his way back, he picked up a basket of dust.

‘Here, we’ll make it easy for you.’

Harpia’s eyes were never larger than when he compressed the pump. The lids closed.

They wrapped Harpia in the drape. Underneath the voluminous fabric of her gown, she was small with narrow, birdlike bones.

‘I’ll find a pole.’ Vesta disappeared into the hall. She returned with a javelin. ‘Here, this should do.’ She passed it up to Rocco, and he shoved it through the knot he had tied in the drape.

‘Ready?’ He lifted one end of the pole.

‘Yes.’ Vesta lifted the other end.

They lifted off.

‘What about Magma?’ Iggy and Rummy had come out to the balcony with Magma.

‘We’ll be back,’ called Vesta.

Iggy hugged Magma. ‘I’m sorry you can’t come with us. But we’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’

With their captive dangling below them, they crossed the darkened city. Everyone slept, inside Krakatoan, as well as Belarica’s forces on the mountainside.

Return to Krakatoan, the eagle

Rocco and Vesta laid their bundle on one of the logs by the cook’s fire.

‘What’s that?’ asked the cook, looking up from the vat he was stirring.

‘Harpia.’

The cook’s eyebrows pulled together sceptically. He burst out laughing.

‘So you got her, eh? Hooked her on the end of a big old fishing line? Bet she’ll fry up nicely.’

‘Come and see,’ said Iggy.

The cook walked over. He was about to open the drape, but a group of warriors walked by.

‘Come look at the fish the white robes caught!’ The cook hailed them over.

Harpia’s face was already visible through the fabric, but perhaps the cook hadn’t noticed in his haste to open the knot. His mouth fell open. His face turned red. The warriors gaped at Harpia, then at Rocco, Vesta and Iggy sitting together on an adjacent log.

‘We caught her this morning. Last night really,’ said Iggy.

The cook picked up his pots and pans. He banged them together, shouting at the same time. ‘Come see! Come see!’

Warriors came out of their tents. Belarica and the Air Commodore strode over to the fire, their faces full of puzzlement. No one uttered a word as Rocco and Vesta explained everything that had happened since they’d left camp at exactly that hour the day before.

Harpia’s head jerked up and fell back again. Her eyes were closed.

‘It’s the fresh air. She’s waking,’ said Iggy, getting up from his seat and staring into Harpia’s face.

Belarica surveyed Rocco, Vesta and Iggy. The light in her eyes was like the dawn, blue rising over the water. ‘Lock her up. See that she’s unharmed. We’re not barbarians. Harpia must stand trial. Every citizen must bear witness.’

Warriors crowded around Harpia, shooting glances of bafflement, surprise and awe at Rocco, Vesta and Iggy.

Belarica turned to them.

‘I have underestimated your bravery and ingenuity. You, the smallest, have proven to be warriors of the greatest rank. Rocco, Vesta, Iggy. You have honour. You bring pride to a nation. Your father would be proud, Rocco.’

Rocco felt his face grow warm.

‘And Vesta. You are fierce and gifted with the sword. Iggy, you are steadfast and full of compassion. These are all great qualities. Now come. You shall sleep in my tent. It is fitting.’

Inside, Belarica’s tent was as fine as any palace room. A fire burned in the middle and a ribbon of smoke floated up to a hole in the peak. A large day bed, outfitted with silk, stood in an alcove.

‘Maybe we’re not related, Iggy,’ said Rocco as he fell into the musk-smelling softness.

Iggy’s eyes were heavy.

Rocco continued. ‘But we’ll always be attached, by this, by what happened today.’

Rummy was curled up beside Iggy. Iggy’s eyes closed. ‘I love you too, Rocco,’ he murmured.

‘We are roost-mates, after all,’ said Vesta as she tucked a pillow into the crook of her neck. ‘Rocco, I will always know your voice and shape, even in the darkest wood. You too, Iggy.’

The tears were hot on Rocco’s face. He hadn’t dissolved into a puddle of nothingness. They had advanced together, from one awful event to the next. They had struggled, and today they had conquered Harpia.

* * *

It was evening, and the cook was in his usual spot, stirring the vat over the fire. Warriors were seated on the logs.

‘The war is over,’ a warrior announced as Rocco walked over and sat down. Someone handed him a bowl of goulash.

‘Gabbro withdrew as soon as they found out that Harpia was captured. Krakatoan surrendered. There’re hundreds of white flags in the trees of Wildergarten. You should see.’ The Air Commodore was looking at him, nodding with approval.

So many warriors were talking at once. They were smiling. Their faces, dirty and haggard, were full of joy. Vesta and Iggy came out and sat down beside Rocco. They ate. Afterward the three flew to Wildergarten. The rain had stopped, but the air was grey. Just as the Air Commodore had said, white scraps of cloth filled the trees.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Vesta. ‘Like thousands of brooding birds.’

* * *

The next few weeks passed swiftly. Harpia was tried and convicted under the treaty that bound all urvogel societies together. A trio of judges arrived from the Inter-Colonial Council of Regents.

Harpia was brought into the Courthouse with her wings hobbled. A bar pulled them together tautly behind her. A chain ran from the bar to shackles on her feet. She was made to sit in the defendant’s chair, the same seat occupied by Pyroxene, Cristobalite and all the other urvogels who had lost their wings.

‘You are charged with crimes against urvogels, Section five-zero-one, of the
Inter-Colonial Urvogel Treaty.
How do you plead?’

Harpia refused to answer. She sat like a tree stump, staring blindly ahead. Eventually Air Marshals carried her off to begin serving three hundred and twenty-six life sentences, one life sentence for each urvogel who had lost his or her wings.

That night a celebration took place. Harpia’s wing dust was burned in a bonfire behind Singhurvogel Hall. A gold robe laid a copy of
Harpia’s Law
on the fire. ‘Should we get the rest?’ someone asked.

Belarica shook her head. ‘We are not afraid of a book.
Harpia’s Law
does not contain an animated demon.’ Smiling slightly, she signalled to an Air Marshal. ‘Tomorrow, find the original copy of
Harpia’s Law
and install it under glass on the first floor of the palace. See that copies are placed in the Book Treasury. We must all know what treachery has passed. We must drag it out into the light of day and stare at it until we know its shape and understand at last that fear is not the path to greatness as a nation.’

All of Krakatoan attended the palace for Belarica’s coronation. She’d already been crowned once, but after so many years in exile, it seemed prudent to repeat the ceremony.

The royal throne had been brought outside for the event. Raised on a dais, it stood between the massive columns. Rocco, Vesta and Iggy had been given places of honour on Belarica’s right. Two Representatives from the Inter-Colonial Council of Regents were seated on her left.

Rocco scanned the crowd that had gathered on the terraces beneath the palace platform. The Krakatoans no longer had white wings; they were now as multi-coloured as the Shalites’.

Many of the Krakatoans were also wearing blue feathers, some in their hair, others on chains around their necks, or fastened to jewels and clipped to the shoulders of their wings.

‘Rocco, Vesta and Iggy, come forward.’

A Representative from the ICCR fastened medals on each of them. They were then handed decorative belts with ceremonial daggers.

‘You are now master-warriors!’ the Representative announced. ‘All of Krakatoan loves you!’

Rocco seized Vesta’s and Iggy’s hands. He raised them up. His chest swelled. His heart had never felt so full.

The urvogels knew his name. They really saw him, greeted him in the streets of Krakatoan. He wasn’t just a story, a bit of gossip to be laughed over. He was flesh and blood, no longer just blue wing, but Rocco, son of Kyanite and Anah. Friend of Jafari, Basalt, Vesta and Iggy. Magma too.

The urvogels staring up, their eyes were clear. Harpia’s bond had been severed.

Rocco, Vesta and Iggy returned to their chairs. Minionatros began to fill the platform. When all three hundred and twenty-six were assembled, the Representatives fastened a gold medallion on each shoulder.

‘For you, the Queen Belarica Medal of Honour. You are hereby given the option of immediate retirement, or of continuing in service with greatly enhanced benefits.’

‘Yay! Hooray!’ Everyone cheered.

Finally the Representative said, ‘Belarica, come forward.’

Belarica knelt on a stool. The Representative placed a small red crown with slender, reed-like spindles on her head.

‘Queen! Queen! Queen!’ chanted the throng.

Queen Belarica rose. The air vibrated with whistles, clapping and shouts of joy. She had the bearing of a queen: her back was erect, her gaze unwavering. She was kind. Queen Belarica’s crown glittered in the light of the setting sun.

‘Thank you, citizens of Krakatoan. I am returned to you. I am your protector and your Queen. From this day forth there shall be no more wing-cutting.’

Iggy reached over and nudged Rocco’s leg. ‘Are we done yet?’

Queen Belarica’s voice carried on.

Rocco, Vesta and Iggy slipped quietly off the side of the platform. Every urvogel they passed bowed, nodded, or acknowledged them in some way. That was the best part, thought Rocco: to be seen. Not just a part of him – his blue wings – but his whole entire face.

When they came to the edge of the crowd, they lifted off. They flew across the city to the southeast corner tower.

Magma, proudly wearing his new medal, was waiting for them. ‘Whose turn is it?’ he asked.

‘I think it’s mine,’ said Vesta.

They began doing fly-jumps off the wall, keeping their wings furled to make it fair. Feldspar arrived with her troupe. Everyone’s wings were starting to glow in the gathering twilight.

Run-run-run, jump, step-step and flip.

Run-run-run, jump, step-step and flip.

Rocco got in line behind Vesta. The queue moved ahead.

It was autumn in Upper Terrakesh. The leaves were turning colour. A draught crept up Rocco’s back. It might have been the wind. It wasn’t Death. As he’d become stronger, Death had become weak. All he had to do was utter his father’s name,
Kyanite
, and Death shrank back into the shadows.

Maybe he was getting over his grief.

A pair of eyes, he could feel them, pierced into his back. He turned.

A hundred or so metres away a woman was squatting on top of the wall. She was wearing a striped grey dress, tattered, with a white bib on her chest.

The woman blinked, though her eyes remained oddly open. He couldn’t see very well through the fading light.

Everyone’s feet shuffled. The line was moving again. Glancing back, the creature was getting ready to fly off. A pair of wings, which he hadn’t noticed before, flopped into view.

She was looking at him; her eyes were sharply focused as she gazed out over her wing, now brought forward to partially cover her face.

‘What is it?’ asked Vesta.

‘I don’t know –’

The creature lifted off.

‘It looks like a harpy eagle.’ Vesta’s voice trailed off for a moment. ‘They’re from the south. They never fly up here.’

The bird circled, still seeming to watch them. Finally it turned west, toward the mountain. Past the trees, and into the dark, the grey bird flew on.