On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (21 page)

Mira’s expression grew colder, but she did not reply. She turned and walked off into the trees determinedly. Ferran didn’t bother to call out to her.
She
’
ll be back.
He frowned and retrieved the leg she had dropped.

“Your understanding and patience are most gratifying,” announced the metal man in the trunk. The round, coppery-colored head shifted again. “My name is Gonzo, how may I assist you?”

Ferran looked down and smiled. The sound of Gonzo’s voice filled him with a strange mix of relief and new pain. His eyes burned. “Gonzo, it’s me,” he said gently.

The mech looked up slowly, as though his neck was stiff from traveling so uncomfortably. “Prince Ferran! What . . . I beg your pardon, my lord. What happened? Are we home?”

“No, Gonzo . . . the ship went down,” Ferran answered quietly. He tried not to choke on his words. “We washed up here.”

“No!” exclaimed the mech in his tinny voice. He paused, and Ferran could hear the gears clicking and turning even though Gonzo’s expression did not change. “Where are the others?”

“I can’t find any of them. It was only by a miracle I survived, and we found you by accident.”

“Your Highness, you say there are no other survivors and yet you also use the plural ‘we.’ Who else is with us now?” Gonzo was keen for answers. He was always quick with observations.

“My savior,” said Ferran with a sigh, sitting down. It was strange to have to explain all of this to Gonzo. “A girl. She pulled me from the sea, and you, too.”

Gonzo made a quiet noise of contemplation that was halfway between a hum and the ding of a bell. Then, “Prince Ferran, why are you holding my legs?”

Ferran set them down carefully on the ground. “They were detached in transit, I believe. It’s how I found you. I’m sorry, Gonzo, I don’t know how to reattach them, or even if they’d work after I did.”

Gonzo made the thoughtful noise again. Then he tried to sit up, awkwardly grasping the sides of the trunk with his brass-articulated fingers. Ferran helped him until he found a balancing point, and tried to keep a calm expression as Gonzo looked down at his legless pelvis, his green eyes glowing dimmer for a moment, then back to their normal contrast.

“I am sorry, Prince Ferran. Are you quite sure—the king . . . ?”

Ferran shook his head. “You know him, Gonzo.” His voice shook a little. “He’s been so frail. So tired. And he was never a swimmer. Something went wrong with the lifepods on the ship. I don’t think anyone made it.” He felt a dampness on his cheek as Gonzo stared at him.

“So, the old king put me in this trunk to keep me safe,” announced Gonzo softly, “and the new king delivers me from it once more. Long live the king.”

“No,” Ferran blurted, “no, I’m not the king. He—he put you in the trunk?” He frowned.

“Yes, when the lifepods failed.” Gonzo looked out to sea for a moment, then turned back to Ferran. “You are the king of Italya now.”

Ferran sat back a little, the words filling him with cold dread. “No, no. I’m not. My uncle would be, before me. But I guess he’s gone, too. Gonzo, there’s no way off the island. We’re alone, and we can’t go home. I’m not the king if we can’t go home.”

Gonzo tilted his head a little. “No, my prince. You are the king now. And you must go home. Somehow, we must find a way for you to return.”

Ferran floundered a little at the idea of going home now, with nothing, and telling his mother and the court that the king—that his father—was dead. It seemed impossible and terrifying.
I feel like such a coward, surviving when the others did not
.

“But Mother is still the queen,” he protested.

“Your mother may not be queen for long if she does not have a reason to keep fighting.” Gonzo sounded serious. “She is tired, Prince Ferran, and she loves you very much. What do you think will happen if she receives word that the ship was destroyed and all souls lost? What do you think will happen to her, or to the nation?” He shook his head by slowly rotating it back and forth. “We must get you home, Prince Ferran.”

“But your legs,” said Ferran weakly. He was losing the argument. He realized then he would rather stay on the island than go back and be king. He could live simply, the way Mira did, even if she was currently cross with him. “How are we going to attach your legs?”

“I suppose we could examine the detachments more closely,” Gonzo answered. “And if your friend was clever enough to save us both from the depths of the ocean, perhaps she has some insight into how we can survive this together.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ferran sighed, exasperated. “She’s stubborn, and she’s lived here almost her whole life. She doesn’t remember a time before the island.”

“A native?”

“No, she was born somewhere else. But she lives here with her father—sort of. She said he’s kind of dangerous, not to be trusted. She said he can’t know I’m here.”

“That’s peculiar, indeed.” Gonzo shifted his weight, tipping his head quizzically.

“She’s the most peculiar girl I’ve ever met,” Ferran confessed. “I don’t understand her, sometimes. She’s still and quiet and focused like an animal. She sees through everything. She’s incredibly strong, too. Stronger than me. But there’s something about her father that scares her, I think, or makes her angry. She looks upset every time he’s mentioned.”

“How unfortunate,” said Gonzo. “Where did she go off to?”

“Mira went off that way,” Ferran gestured vaguely. “I bet she’ll be back.”

Gonzo stopped turning about in the trunk like a child in a bath basin and looked at him slowly. “Mira?”

“Yes. Her name is Mira.”

Gonzo made an unusual clicking noise, and Ferran saw the green eye-lights flicker. “What is the name of her father?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Ferran, feeling suddenly uneasy. “Why? What is it?”

“My prince,” began the mech, but stopped before he could complete the thought. Mira came stalking out of the woods, carved spear in hand, looking somewhat calmer. She stared at Gonzo as she approached, her gait seemingly careless and confident.

“It works all right?” she asked, sounding a little impressed as she came to a stop near them.

“His mental functions seem to be operational,” Ferran nodded. “His speech, too. The only thing is his legs, we were just discussing—”

“Miracolo!” Gonzo sounded almost awed.

Ferran and Mira both looked at him in surprise. “What?” said Ferran, confused.

Mira fixed her eyes on the mech. “What did you say?”

“Miracolo,” repeated Gonzo, quietly. “Miracolo Vittoria Sophia Fiorente. You have your mother’s nose and chin, but your father’s cheekbones.”

Ferran’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he exclaimed again.

“How . . . do you know that?” asked Mira levelly, and though her expression fought to remain still, she looked deeply unsettled. Ferran watched her squeeze the decorated spear tighter.

“You poor child,” Gonzo said. “Of course you would not remember. Has your father never told you where you came from?”

“Gonzo, speak plainly. What is the meaning of all this?” Ferran demanded.

“My prince, this is Miracolo Vittoria Sophia Fiorente, daughter of Sophia Volans and the former Duke of Neapolis, the exiled traitor, Dante Fiorente.”

Ferran felt his jaw slacken entirely and he looked at Mira, who stood motionless, her expression stunned. “Is this true?” he demanded.

Mira stared at the metal man, then looked at Ferran helplessly. “I don’t know,” she confessed in a small voice. “My father has never spoken to me about it. I don’t know where we lived before the island, I was too young.”

“How old are you, child?” asked Gonzo gently.

Mira shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you know when your birthday is?” Ferran marveled. She shook her head at him again.

“The former duke’s daughter was born approximately eighteen years ago, and the former duke himself was banished approximately twelve years ago.” Gonzo turned his head from side to side slowly. “It was a complete scandal.”

“Scandal? Why?” Ferran asked. “What happened? I’ve never heard a word about this from anyone. Not my father, not Uncle Bas, not even Duke Torsione, and he’s the current Duke of Neapolis.”

“Your Highness, Duke Torsione is the younger brother of former duke Dante. That would make him your uncle,” Gonzo added, looking from Ferran to Mira again.

“But this is outrageous!” Ferran couldn’t process the idea. “Why on earth would my father banish a duke and a young child to a barren island in the middle of nowhere? What could he have possibly done that would warrant that?”

Mira looked at him almost apologetically, then, as though she had a feeling what might be coming. Gonzo tipped his round head to the side.

“Black magic, my prince,” said the mech. “And ambition.”

Karaburan crouched at the foot of a tree, three dead fish at his feet. He had eaten the bird on the beach this morning, much to Truffo’s insult, along with a few fish, but he was hungry again. It was the usual way of his day-to-day activities. He picked each one apart slowly, the eyes and fins first, then the flesh, then the bones and other crunchy bits for last. From time to time, he looked up at Stephen and Truffo, sitting across the little clearing from him.

They stared at him, eating their own food much less vigorously than he ate his, as though distracted by his display of savoring the meal. Both Stephen and Truffo bore expressions of pale disgust, eyes round and glazed, mouths slightly agape as he slurped and gulped his food down. He sucked one of the fish’s eyeballs out of its skull carefully, and saw both men blanch at the sight of it.
These strange, soft men do not like it simply because it is not flame-burned. It is a foolish thing to be choosy about, when building a fire is work and there is enough food to be had without a fire.

“Are the berries to your liking, my lords?” asked Karaburan in as sweet a voice as he could muster. “Or can I offer you some of my meal as well?”

Truffo made a terrified guttural sound, his hand halfway to his open mouth with another round yellow fruit.

“No, no, monster.” Stephen shook his head. He had taken to calling Karaburan ‘monster’ as his inebriation grew stronger. “That is not necessary. We are quite content.”

“It does not do for kings—no, gods! It does not do for gods to go without meat.” Karaburan said a little mischievously. He had seen Dante prepare meals over an open fire, and had seen evidence on scorched bits of earth and ashen pits that Mira, in her ranging about the isle, had done the same. Karaburan was not sure why he didn’t mind the raw fish, but it was amusing to him. “Please, my lords.” He held out two of the half-torn fish carcasses. “Let your servant feed you!”

Truffo gagged audibly. Stephen stood upright too quickly and staggered back into another tree trunk, catching his balance there and shutting his eyes firmly, as though dizzy.

“No, truly, that’s enough of that, monster, we want none of it!” Stephen cried, holding his hand over his eyes. “Indeed, please finish your meal quickly. Tasty though it may be, the sight of it is most insulting to our senses.” Truffo groaned in agreement and put his face into his arms, as though he might be sick.

“I would not wish to offend your lordships,” Karaburan laughed, and eagerly tore into the remaining fish. Truffo rolled over and began crawling hurriedly away into the bushes, possibly to escape the sight of raw fish being pulled apart, but Stephen remained stalwart, gazing in horrified amazement as Karaburan ravaged his food.

When the last bones crunched between Karaburan’s teeth, he spotted Truffo peeping out from between some broad ferns, looking somewhat relieved, but still wary.

“Are you still hungry, my lords?” asked Karaburan, crouching. “I can go and fish for you! Perhaps a bird or two?”

“Not necessary,” Stephen managed to say, closing his eyes for a moment. “We are quite without hunger, now.”

“What, then, would please you most, my lord?”

“More wine,” said Stephen, his expression darkening as he crossed the little clearing to the crate they had dragged up from the beach. Karaburan lumbered closer to watch as Stephen stumbled toward the crate, then caught his balance again and reached for a bottle.

“More wine, and then to our purpose?” Karaburan tried not to sound too eager. He liked the taste of the wine well enough now that they had drunk so much of it, but it did not affect him the same strange way it seemed to affect Stephen and Truffo. It had fascinated him at first, the way their words slurred, their eyes clouded over, and their ability to stand, sit, and move normally became more and more difficult.

But as the afternoon wore on, Karaburan felt increasingly anxious that their window of opportunity to kill the tyrant slipped away. If they could surprise him sooner rather than later, they might stand a better chance. If they waited, Karaburan feared that something would change, that Dante might sense their ill intentions and punish him for even thinking about rebellion.

“Purpose is relative,” grunted Stephen gruffly as he wrestled the bottle open with a pop. His cheeks were red and his eyes were distinctly shiny. He moved past Karaburan, toward Truffo, who had just come crawling back out of the underbrush to sit with his back against the trunk of a tree. “Thirsty, lad?”