Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  Though it was as blurry as everything else was to her eyes, she recognized this was the room she had seen in the woman’s Speech. Torches lit the walls, which were colorful smears, and gleamed off the large, flattened oblong object in the center of the room as if it were made of gold. To her astonishment, when Bess approached it, she discovered this was true—it was a man-sized tub of gold, filled with water that shimmered in the torchlight. Whether it was solid gold or simply plated, Bess had never seen so much gold in one place in her life. She stopped a foot from it, wondering what the women would do if she touched it. It looked warm and surprisingly compelling for an inorganic substance.

  The Speaker woman put a hand on Bess’s shoulder and turned her gently to face her. Her mouth was drawn up in a frown, her wrinkled forehead puckered in thought, and she looked at Bess as if she were an intractable puzzle. Bess caught the briefest glimpse of Speech, but could not interpret it—something to do with water?

  The woman surveyed Bess from head to toe. Then she plucked at Bess’s sleeve and collar, tugging gently as if trying to remove her gown. Bess figured it out just as one of the other women removed her over-robe with exaggeratedly slow motions. “This is a bath,” she exclaimed. Such an odd, homely thing to be made of such extraordinary material.

  Her sense of modesty and her disinclination to disrobe in front of strangers fought a brief battle with her yearning to be clean, and modesty lost. She turned and reached behind herself, tugging at the laces of her gown. In the past few months, she had had Mercy to help her dress, but she was accustomed to doing for herself in India, and the War Office provided its female officers with garb they could readily don and remove without assistance.

  The gawky woman picked hesitantly at the laces as Bess tried to remove them, gradually becoming more confident. Between the two of them, they extricated Bess from her ruined gown. Bess stripped off her convenables, the clever invention of a Frenchwoman who disliked being at the mercy of others to remove her stays, and dropped them on the floor atop her gown. The Speaker woman picked them up and felt along the light boning, her eyes wide and mystified. Well, it was unlikely they had seen corsetry of any kind before.

  Bess hesitated only a moment before removing her shift and standing before them naked. The women showed no sign that they were embarrassed by her nudity. The short one with rosy, round cheeks freed Bess’s hair from its braid, then offered Bess a hand to step into the golden tub. Bess carefully stepped over the high rim and discovered steps leading down until she stood waist-deep in the lukewarm water. The water made the cuts on her feet sting, a small pain that quickly subsided. At a gesture from the Speaker, she sank down onto a smooth, warm depression that felt as if it were contoured for a human posterior. It was so comfortable she almost cried.

  The rosy-cheeked woman knelt beside a brazier near the tub and, with a gesture, lit a fire at its base. A Scorcher, then. She lifted the bowl from atop the brazier and scooped water into it, then set it to boil. The other women began scrubbing Bess with long-handled brushes whose bristles were soft and flexible, almost too soft to provide a proper scrubbing. Bess, not seeing any way to communicate her desire to wash herself, let them do it and examined the golden tub. They could not possibly see her as a prisoner; no prisoner would be so honored; but that still did not answer the question of what they wanted with her. She wondered where the water went when the tub was drained. Possibly there was a channel leading to outside that she could not perceive.

  The rosy-cheeked woman put a handful of white flakes into the water in the bowl. “Saqta,” she said, enunciating clearly, when she saw Bess watching her. She stirred the water with a long-handled wooden spoon, and Bess saw something white puffing up from the mouth of the bowl.

  “What is that?” she asked, but the woman just shrugged. The Speaker laid aside her brush and gave Bess’s shoulder a gentle push downward. Bess interpreted this to mean she should submerge. Gratefully, she did so, and felt as if a decade’s worth of dirt and salt floated away from her scalp. When she emerged, water sluicing off her head, she saw the rosy-cheeked woman standing nearby with the bowl. The other two women took handfuls of something soft and slippery from it and rubbed them into her hair and scalp. The soap smelled fresh and a little sweet and the rubbing made her head tingle.

  Once more, a hand pushed down on her shoulder, and she ducked her head and felt the hands massage away the slippery soap. This time, when she came up for air, they poured cool, clean water over her to rinse the last of the dirt and soap away. Bess stood, not wanting to sit in dirty water, and the gawky woman helped her climb out and then rubbed her all over with a soft cloth. The Speaker squeezed water out of Bess’s long hair, then swiftly braided it in a single plait to hang down her back.

  The rosy-cheeked woman appeared in front of Bess, holding a pile of cloth. She first handed Bess a white, shapeless gown like the ones they wore. It was really a rectangle of soft cotton, Bess discovered, folded in half and stitched up the long sides, leaving holes for the arms and a cutout hole for the head. It felt like wearing a large, unfitted nightdress, but the room was warm enough to make it quite comfortable. Then they handed her a colorfully woven shorter robe, this one of patterned wool, and helped her pull it over her head and settle her braid atop it. The wool smelled of the same soap they had used on her hair and, while still slightly scratchy, was softer than any wool Bess had felt before.

  “Thank you,” Bess said. She bowed, mimicking the gesture they had made earlier, though not as deeply. This set them to twittering again like so many excitable robins—though Bess did not know if there were robins in South America. The Speaker shook her head and grasped Bess’s hands, separating them. Then she made a different bow, both hands spread to either side of her body as she bent at the waist. Bess mimicked her.

  The Speaker looked horribly conflicted for a moment, and Bess caught a flash of Speech, the image of a golden throne and a man sitting upon it. It came and went too quickly for Bess to make more of it than that. Then the Speaker sighed, and for the first time she smiled. She took hold of Bess’s chin gently and turned her face one way and then the other, peering up at her with very dark eyes that were nearly black. She said something and pointed toward the doorway.

  “Where are we going now?” Bess asked.

  She did not expect them to understand, but perhaps the question was obvious. The Speaker took Bess’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Sapa Inca,” she said.

  Chapter 8

  In which Bess meets an emperor

  The women led Bess swiftly through a series of passages, almost too swiftly for Bess to keep up. The passages were once more dimly lit by narrow window slits, and the speed at which the women walked made them appear to flash, light-dark-light, as if the walls were blinking at her. Her feet ached again, as if their soaking had only highlighted their soreness, and she found herself gasping for breath, but the women’s urgency had infected Bess, making her eager to reach their destination. She did not know what Sapa Inca meant, but she knew the natives the Spanish had conquered were called Incas. Bess had thought the Spanish had not left any of that race alive. Or had they only destroyed their rulers, and the common people remained? So many questions, and she had no way of asking any of them.

  They came up one final ramp, Bess’s calves burning with exertion, into a low-ceilinged room large enough that she could not see its farther wall. Wide windows let in the diffuse, cloudy light, brightening the dark stone. Wind whistled through the openings, bringing with it the smell of something fresh and green. Men in colorful robes that moved as the breeze caught them stood at intervals between the windows, holding long staffs at attention. They did not move when Bess and the women entered, and if the nearest had not shifted minutely from one foot to the other, she might have imagined them statues.

  Something gleamed gold at the opposite end of the room. Bess took a step toward it, but stopped when the women did not follow. She turned to look at them and saw they had prostrated themselves on the fl
oor, bowing in the direction of the golden thing.

  At that moment, someone attempted to Speak to her. Impatiently, Bess blocked the connection, something she rarely did because it was rude, but she had no attention for conversing with her reticulum now.

  “What am I to do?” she asked in a low voice. She did not like the idea of making herself vulnerable in such a position, and her ignorance of her captors’ customs frustrated her.

  The Speaker woman said something indistinct, and Bess caught a Spoken glimpse of herself in her new clothing, standing before a golden throne. Bess glanced over her shoulder. The distant golden thing could certainly be a throne, but bowing before an empty throne… Confused, she made her way toward whatever it was, hoping matters would become clear.

  She walked slowly, feeling her way with her bruised feet and wishing she could use the wall for balance. The golden blur grew as she approached it, and she realized someone sat upon it. Her anxiety grew. If this was someone of importance, and she in her ignorance did something to insult him, what might these people do to her? She could only pray that they were understanding, and that their treatment of her to date indicated that they were likely to be generous with her mistakes.

  When she was close enough to tell that the figure was male, and the man’s features were only a little blurry, two of the robed men with staffs—no, spears—came forward and blocked her way, crossing the hafts of the spears before her. Bess stopped, and the men stepped back. The throne, she observed, was actually a litter with a bright canopy, and men she assumed were its bearers stood at its four corners. So the throne could not possibly be solid gold. More men stood nearby, dressed in robes woven in strange, indistinct patterns not at all like the warriors’ robes. It was all so overwhelming Bess felt she could not have spoken even if they could understand her.

  Another person, or perhaps the same one, Spoke to her: Bess, Honoria said. Bess ended that connection as ruthlessly as the first. She would explain her abruptness later.

  The man on the throne regarded her, his face expressionless. His clothing was far more colorful than anyone else’s, and gold gleamed at his neck, his arms, and his ears. He wore what appeared to be a colored hat slung low over his forehead, though Bess was not close enough to make out the details. Bess curtseyed low, as if she were meeting the king. It was perhaps not strictly appropriate, as this was not someone to whom she owed allegiance, but she felt more comfortable not bowing when she had no idea what kind of bow these people would consider respectful.

  The man said nothing, just continued to stare at Bess until she felt thoroughly uncomfortable. She folded her hands together in front of her to still their trembling and returned his gaze. After what felt like an hour, one of the men standing nearby stepped forward. Unlike the others, he was bare-chested and wore only a short loincloth from which Bess quickly looked away. His only other attire was a gold pendant hanging to the middle of his chest. He said something that included the words “Sapa Inca.” Then, to her astonishment, he said something else—in Spanish.

  Bess gasped. “You speak Spanish,” she said. “Do you speak English as well? Inglés?”

  The man shook his head and repeated himself, very slowly. Bess had learned some Spanish before being transferred to India, and her knowledge of that language after nearly four years was almost nonexistent. But she understood enough to know that the man had asked her name.

  “Yo soy Elizabeth Hanley,” she said, pointing to herself and speaking as slowly and clearly as he had.

  “Sapa Inca,” the man said, gesturing at the man on the throne. “Emperador.”

  She could guess at the meaning of that. “Emperor,” she said. How was that possible? Even she knew there was nothing left of the Inca Empire. She curtseyed again, more deeply.

  The man said something in his own language, then spoke a sentence in Spanish of which Bess understood nothing but the words Orador, “Speaker,” and viajero, “traveler.” Bess racked her memory for words she never believed she would need. “Yo soy…Orador raro,” she said, “and…vengo de Inglaterra.” Explaining the circumstances that had brought her to Peru was beyond her limited grasp of Spanish.

  “Orador raro,” the man said, nodding and running the words together to sound like Oradoraro. He spoke again in his own language, and this time the men around him, the ones dressed in the peculiar robes, nodded as well. Sapa Inca still said nothing. His unwavering regard made Bess nervous.

  An older man spoke, his voice strong and ringing out through the chamber. His hair was lighter than the other men’s, almost grey, and his words were curt, sharp-edged as if he were spitting them out. Whatever he said made the other men shift uncomfortably, and all of them held themselves tensely, like animals poised to spring on their prey. He reminded Bess of one of the East India Company’s generals, a man capable of holding forth on any topic in a way that made others wish he had not spoken. The old man’s oration went on for some time, accompanied by broad gestures and, occasionally, a wave of the hand toward Bess. She disliked being part of his speech, however indirectly, but could do nothing except wait him out.

  Eventually, the old man wound down, and the man who spoke Spanish said to Bess, “Él es un Profeta, y él te ha visto en visión.”

  Profeta. Seer. A Seer had Seen her? An Incan Seer? Bess said, “¿Por qué?” “Why” was probably the wrong question, but it was the only word that came to mind.

  The man shook his head and said something too complex for Bess to understand. Then he said, slowly, “Usted está un Orador.” You are a Speaker.

  As if her being a Speaker were important, given that they had Speakers of their own. Bess groped for more words, but was interrupted by the four men at the corners of the litter lifting it in response to no signal Bess could see. She backed away as quickly as she dared, feeling grateful that the loose cotton shift was too short for her to trip over. The litter and its throne and occupant moved forward aggressively, suggesting that they would have run her over had she stayed where she was. Still Sapa Inca said nothing. If he was a Speaker, that might explain why it mattered to him if she was as well.

  I wish you would send me home, she dared Speak in his direction, attempting to make a connection rather than Speaking to his mind as she would a non-Speaker. Sapa Inca did not so much as turn his head, and Bess felt the blankness that was a nonexistent connection. She watched as the litter left the room and disappeared down the ramp.

  Honoria, she Spoke, I beg your pardon, but I was occupied.

  There is nothing to apologize for. I merely wished to inquire as to whether you would like me to pass on your news to anyone. I imagine it might ease your burden, not having to address several people simultaneously or to repeat your story to a dozen friends.

  That is kind of you. Please tell Eleanora, and Mrs. Grantham…Mrs. Kearsley is not in your reticulum, yes? And Rose Fanshawe.

  Not Catherine Tweedy? Honoria sounded amused.

  Bess shuddered. She would tell the world, and I do not wish my business aired in public. Only think what low-minded people would make of my predicament!

  Someone touched her arm, startling a gasp out of her. It was the old man. He peered at her face as if he were as nearsighted as she was. His hair was, in fact, grey-streaked, and wrinkles lined his forehead and the corners of his eyes and dragged down the sides of his mouth. He said something that was not as curt-sounding as his earlier speech.

  Excuse me again, Honoria, Bess said, and focused on the elderly man, though she could not understand him.

  The man who spoke Spanish said something in his own language in response to the old man and took a few steps to stand directly in front of him, putting himself in range of Bess’s vision. She looked at him more closely. He was not quite as dark as those around him, with a prominent jaw, and his head was shaved, unlike the other men who wore their hair long and gathered back at the nape of the neck. The pendant around his neck was trapezoidal in shape and stippled with hammer marks that made it catch the light oddly.
He was sleekly muscled, his arms and legs smoothly defined in a way that suggested “Shaper” to Bess, though the male Shapers she was familiar with, whether in India or England, were much taller and more heavily built. Making assumptions about these people was likely a mistake. He caught her watching and stared back. His dark brown eyes seemed to see past her skin into her heart and find her wanting.

  The old man spoke to Bess and gestured. Once more Bess caught a glimpse of Speech, an image of a room filled with pottery and a pallet on the floor. Why these people could not Speak with her properly was a mystery, given that language was not a barrier to Speech. Granted, being able to communicate did not permit one the understanding of another language, but that was no reason one could not pass images to someone else.

  The old man walked a few steps away, turned, and gestured again. This time, Bess realized he wanted her to follow him. With some trepidation, she turned and walked with him, back down the ramp and through the corridors.

  She tried Speaking with him, but made no contact. How odd. She had never had any difficulty Speaking to those whose language she did not understand, such as the Hindoos in India. And there was no reason to believe the Incas’ talent was different from the Europeans in any respect. The work of the Greek natural philosophers who studied talent suggested it was impossible: one either had talent or one did not, and while some talents, such as Moving, existed in varying degrees of strength, Speaking was not one of them. She ought at least be able—

  Bess stopped, struck by realization. The old man was not a Speaker; he was a Seer. Of course she could not Speak with him. But she had definitely received a communication from him.

  The old man had stopped a few paces from Bess. He said something that sounded impatient. Bess nodded and hurried to catch up to him, her mind still focused on her puzzle. A communication from someone who was no Speaker—from two people, if her assumption about the Speaker woman was wrong. If they were incapable of Speech, where had the images come from? Only one idea came to Bess. She had done the impossible.