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) (21 page)

My pulse fluttered so strongly in my throat that I could hardly swallow.

“You must be careful with him,” Lieutenant Samson was saying to me. I snapped to attention. “He’s been put under a geas not to speak Gramatica, so his magick is greatly muted, but he’s still dangerous.”

“I will attend.” I wondered who had put the geas on Boy Hansgen. A geas is a kind of magickal interdiction, superdangerous and very difficult. It can easily backfire on the adept, who then might find
herself
the one constrained, caught in a trap of her own making that she cannot escape. Who in the Army had such ability—and more importantly why was
that
adept allowed to freely practice?

“I am surprised the Warlord sent such a small detail, but I suppose it is not for me to question his orders,” Lieutenant Samson continued.

“No, it’s not,” I said sternly. “We are all the Warlord’s obedient servants.”

Hendricks held the lantern high, while Jam bent to fiddle with a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. A tug on the ring, and it pulled upward, levering a square of the floor open to display the dark mouth of an oubliette.

“Stand back,” Lieutenant Samson said. “Drop the rope, Private.”

Jam slacked the coil of rope and let it drop into the oubliette, and then leaned way in to shout, “Take the rope and I shall draw you aloft.”

After a second, a distant answer came, unintelligible. “He says he won’t,” said Jam.

Another unintelligible shout drifted upward.

“He says he’s fine where he is, the damp is extremely good for his complexion.”

Lieutenant Samson wrung his hands and looked flustered. “Oh dear. What shall I say?”

Hendricks offered, “Beg your pardon, sir, but tell him if he don’t take the rope and allow himself to be drawn upward, we shall fill the oubliette with water, and close the lid. How will drowning be for his complexion?”

Jam leaned back over and shouted down the gist of Hendrick’s suggestion, seasoning the recitation with some pretty spicy adverbs and adjectives, then relayed back to us. “He says that he wagers that he can hold his breath for a long time, and anyway, he’d rather be drowned than hung.”

This time Hendricks leaned in and did the shouting. “You aren’t to be hung yet, you fool—the Warlord wants to speak with you, and the execution has been suspended. Grab the rope and let us haul you upward!”

Pause, and another shout from below, and Hendricks said to Lieutenant Samson, “He wants a wash and a clean shirt, first, before he goes to the Warlord.”

“Tell him yes, anything, just let us pull him up,” Lieutenant Samson answered hurriedly. “The Warlord will be angry we’ve wasted his time.”

It took all four of us to haul the rope up; Boy Hansgen weighed a ton. It would have been easier with a winch, but I guess that is the thing about oubliettes—once you put someone in, you don’t normally aim to bring them up again. (Which made me wonder why they had stuck him down there to begin with—perhaps it was the most secure cell at the Battery?) We heaved and ho-ed, and the rope burned my hands even through my gloves, but finally, eventually, a dark shape emerged from the oubliette, dirty and damp.

T
HANK YOU, SIEURS
,” Boy Hansgen said, when he had achieved all the way out and stood up. He offered a sketchy courtesy—So Below Me I Hardly Bother—the manacles on his wrists and ankles clanking. “I hope that my poor starved weight didn’t prove too heavy.”

Boy Hansgen had a syrupy kind of voice, slightly accented, and musical. The lantern light was so dim that it was hard to make out many details; my overwhelming impression was of a white shirt and extreme grubbiness. And there was no way to get around his smell. The goddess Califa could probably nose him in heaven.

“I do hope you won’t be complaining to the Warlord about your rations,” Lieutenant Samson said plaintively from the position he had taken up behind Hendrick and her rifle. “You’ve had the same chow we’ve had.”

“Ayah so, but perhaps your supper room is drier and your chow less sog. Or perhaps you are just used to hideous Army cooking. I will have that clean shirt now, and the wash.” Boy Hansgen had the same easy tone of command in his voice as Mamma; even as a prisoner, he acted as though he expected to be obeyed.

“Do not try any tricky stuff.” Lieutenant Samson was still safely behind Hendricks. “We’ll be happy to shoot you and give the Warlord our regrets.”

“I care for nothing at the moment but clean,” Boy Hansgen said, “and wouldn’t dream of blowing my date with soap. Lead on, and I shall follow as gently as a hairless Huitzil lapdog.” He twisted the last words into a tone that suggested
he
was nothing of the kind, but the others were exactly that.

Back we went across the sally port, Boy Hansgen stepping jauntily, as though he were on his way to a lovely dinner rather than a supposed interview with the Warlord, and then his death. He must really like to be clean; I do, too, so there we had something in common.

In the warm guardroom, Udo and the Skinner stood at Lieutenant Samson’s desk, Udo signing papers and saying: “...recommend you to the Warlord for your assistance, Captain Honeychurch—”

“Here I be, the man of the hour, the boy of your dreams!” Boy Hansgen said, and clanked his manacles together again so they rattled loudly. Now, in better light, he was shorter than I expected, and older, too. But of course that followed—he’d been Nini Mo’s sidekick, after all, and she’d been dead for over twenty-five years, so he would have to be pretty old. In the Nini Mo yellowbacks, he’s always illustrated as a young man, with short spiky hair and a bass guitar tossed over his back. No bass now, and the blond hair was matted, silver under the dirt, but he still looked pretty pugnacious and tough.

He continued, “Captain Honeychurch, dear brave Captain Honeychurch, my heart is pattering with pain to have to leave your tender care so soon.”

Captain Honeychurch glared and said, “Would that my care had been as tender as you deserved.”

“You is kind to me,” Boy Hansgen said snarkily, and the Skinner gave him a look that seemed to say,
You aren’t even worth the effort of my knife.

Udo finished signing and threw the pen down. He gave the Dainty Pirate an arrogant once-over and said, “So this is the pirate who has caused the City so much ruin.”

“I am that boy, and more besides. And perhaps just getting started!”

“I think you’ve come to the end, not the beginning.”

“Hope springs, and who knows—maybe I will, too!”

Udo said, “The best you can hope for is a broken neck to save you the struggle of strangling.”

Cut it with the snappy small talk, Udo,
I thought, trying to telegraph that thought to him.
Let’s get out of here.
But Udo was engrossed with his repartee and didn’t glance in my direction.

Boy said, “You make such a dismal thought sound so cheerful, Captain What’s Your Face. We have not been introduced.”

“Captain Seneca Gaisford, JAG Office.” As sign of his contempt, Udo made no courtesy bow at all.

“I am your obedient servant, Captain Gaisford.” Boy Hansgen grinned and saluted with a closed fist to the chest. “But then, you knew that already. Lieutenant Samson here has promised me a cleanup before we go.”

“I have no time for such things,” Udo said. “We must leave at once. The Warlord is waiting.”

“There’s always time for soap. You don’t want me to go stinky to the Warlord, do you?” Boy Hansgen smiled winningly at Udo. His teeth twinkled like ice cubes through the grime on his face. “We all know how delicate Florian is.”

“Captain Gaisford,” I said urgently, “we are late already.”
Let us get going before we push our luck so hard that it breaks, Udo.

“You do not need to remind me, Corporal,” Udo told me. “I know my own schedule.” He turned to the prisoner. “We have no time. I will see that you are given facilities when we reach Saeta. You have my word on it.”

“At least let me piss. I promise I shall be quick. I’ll be happy to do so in the fire if that’s all the time—”

Captain Honeychurch ignored Udo’s further protests and ordered us to take Boy Hansgen to the jakes. So Hendricks led him out, with Jam and me bringing up the rear, Jam’s rifle at the ready. We crossed the cold, windy parade yard and into the shelter of a casemate. At the door of the jakes, Boy went on, but the guards halted.

“You go,” Hendricks ordered Jam. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Not me,” protested Jam. “Not me alone. We should all go.”

Hendricks shook her head. “We’ll guard the door. If he overpowers you, at least we’ll still be standing firm outside.”

“I don’t want to be overpowered,” Jam said obstinately. “Let him overpower
you.
What if he changes me into a polecat?”

“He can’t change anyone into anything, Jam. He’s under a geas—he’s powerless.”

“Then, why don’t you want to go—”

“I’ll go,” I said, both to move things along and because it was a chance to tell Boy we were here to rescue him. I didn’t really care to share Boy’s potty experience, but I could close my eyes, or stare at my boots, or something.

Hendricks said, “All right, then, Ash. Better unholster, and keep your gun on him. If he does get you, holler, and we’ll make sure to bar the door so he can’t get through us.”

Which wouldn’t help me any,
I thought,
trapped inside,
but I wasn’t really worried about Boy getting me—not once he heard what I had to say. Still, I drew my pistol and cocked it. “If he pulls anything funny, I’ll shoot him.” Hendricks nodded approvingly. “That’ll save the Warlord the price of rope. Go on, then.”

The jakes was the kind that has five holes in a row, with nothing to screen them, and across, a row of stone trough sinks. The Army is
not
a good place for the potty shy. A small stove smoked in a corner, but it did little to melt the chilly rime off the stone walls. Boy Hansgen was already leaning over one of the troughs, scrubbing soap into his face.

“Um, excuse me,” I said. What would Nini Mo say? Something exciting and dramatic, like
If you want to live come with me
or
Let us fly and be free.
But I felt silly just thinking those things. “Um—sieur.”

The running water was loud, but I didn’t want to run the risk of the guards outside hearing me, so I reholstered and stood by until he was done. Boy Hansgen scrubbed and scrubbed, and then straightened up, holding out his manacled hands. I gave him one of the ragged towels hanging over the troughs, and he dried his face, revealing a fantastically purple shiner around one blue eye.

He regarded me as he wiped his hands, and said, “You are in bad shape, girlie. You won’t be able to hide it much longer—and if they catch you, they’ll hang you, too.”

I stared at him blankly.

“Do you have a cigarillo? I am dying for a smoke. You don’t have to be coy with me. I don’t care what boo-spooky stuff you are up to, but your superior officers will take a dimmer view of your traffic in the Current. You should have stayed out—”

“I’m not in the Army,” I said. “I’m here to rescue you—”

Before I realized he had even moved, Boy Hansgen was looming, pushing me against the wall, which was cold against my back.

“Who sent you?” His breath stank, and his grip on my collar was choking. Before, he had been so humorous that he had seemed harmless, his reputation perhaps overblown. But now, the jovialness had dropped from his countenance and pure steel had taken its place. Suddenly, I was afraid.

“No one,” I gurgled.

“No one?”

“I came myself, on my own, with my friend, Udo.”

“The one calling himself Seneca Gaisford? The one Glamourized?”

“Ayah.”

He eased his grip, incredulously. “Just the two of you? To pull my feet from the fire, just the two of you, and both of you kids?”

There was a hammering at the door, and Hendricks’s voice: “Hurry up in there! You’ve had time for twenty pisses!”

“My bladder is full!” Boy Hansgen yelled back.

“Ash? Did he get you?”

Boy relaxed his grip so I could holler, slightly hoarsely “I am fine—we’ll be out in a minute.”

“Hurry! That Captain Gaisford is crapping bricks over your delay.”

“We come!” I shouted.

Boy Hansgen was still regarding me with a hard blue gaze that seemed to bore right into my brain. “Just the two of you, and no one else?”

It was impossible to lie to that look. “Ayah—we have an order from the Warlord for you to be released to our custody.”

“Where’d you get the order?”

“We forged it.”

He laughed and released me completely. “Well, budding rangers! Nini could have done no better. What is your name, girlie?”

I loosened my collar and rubbed my neck. “Flora Nemain Fyrdraaca ov Fyrdraaca.” His praise had kindled a happy little glow in me that made the burn on my neck feel like nothing.
Nini Mo could have done no better!

“Fyrdraaca?”
Now he really did laugh, low in his throat. “Now, this is precious—one Fyrdraaca sends me to the gallows and another Fyrdraaca cuts the rope! But listen to me, girlie—you’ve got one of the worst cases of Anima Enervation I’ve ever seen.”

“Anima what?”

“Have you been trafficking with a galvanic egregore—you know, a praterhuman entity, which gains its strength from human Will?”

A cold stream washed over me. I whispered, “Our denizen—Valefor—he’s been banished and I was trying to help him.”

“Banished? You mean abrogated? You’ve been letting an abrogated denizen siphon Will off you?” This time Boy’s laugh was not amused. “Girlie, you are lucky I can see you at all—your denizen is sucking you of
all
your Will. Soon enough you’ll be too far gone—”

The door thumped again, and then popped open. Hendricks, her rifle pointed, said suspiciously, “That is long enough. Come on.”

That cold stream had become a flood that was threatening to wash away the last bits of my composure. I gaped at Boy Hansgen, who gave me a steady look that seemed to say,
Don't panic,
before obeying Hendricks’s command. But he was too late; I was already panicking. His awful assertion had driven everything but panic right out of my mind. What had Valefor done? What did Boy mean that I would soon be
“too far gone"?