I have reached Lima, she told her friend, and do not know what to do next.
She felt the quivering of an open connection, though Clarissa did not Speak. Finally, the response came: I beg your pardon, I am rather preoccupied, but I will set about finding a Bounder to bring you home. The connection vanished.
Bess rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Its moldings had been gilded once, but were patchy and peeling now. A fly buzzed dully against the window, which let in only indirect light as the room faced eastward. Bess was grateful for the comforting dimness. The minutes stretched on, and Clarissa did not respond. Irritated, Bess closed her eyes and felt her aching, tormented muscles relax.
Miss Hanley. I apologize for my neglect. I hope your last communication was not an urgent one.
She suppressed an angry retort. She had been running for her life these past seven days; he made it sound as if she had merely intended to comment on the weather. But there was no sense clinging to resentment. No, Mr. Quinn, it was not.
I fear I was not in a position to Speak with you, though I assure you I would much have preferred your conversation to that of the people I was entertaining.
That made Bess feel better. I have reached Lima and am waiting for word on what I am to do next.
Then you are safe. His relief felt like a cool stream washing over her. I am glad to hear it. I have been afraid for you ever since you left the Inca city. Did the jaguar warriors never find you, then?
They did. We escaped only barely. Bess remembered the warrior who fallen at her feet and been killed by Amaya. Her heart beat faster with mingled terror and revulsion. To prevent her emotions touching her Voice, she said, But I choose not to dwell on that. I am safe, and soon I will be home.
How safe? Where are you?
I am in the viceroy’s palace. They have been most kind. I intend to sleep now.
But should you not discover a way home first?
Miss Emrey is occupied, and it may be some time before the War Office can address my situation. I am exhausted and my feet hurt.
Of course. Rest well, and remember—if there is anything you need from me, you have only to ask.
Bess smiled. Thank you. You have been my support these past weeks. I believe I have had my fill of adventures.
When Mr. Quinn had gone, she stretched, reveling in the feel of her muscles moving smoothly, and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. Soon enough, the War Office would find transport for her, and then…home was so close she could almost smell the roses, though they were not blooming in mid-February.
Between one thought and the next, she drifted off to sleep. She dreamed of the halls under the mountain, of black stone spangled with gold that turned into rooms full of golden objects she was forced to sort and enumerate for the War Office. It was a dull and tedious dream, and when she finally woke it was to a sense that she had failed at something, though she had no idea what.
The room was dark, which meant Bess had missed her usual conversation with Rose. It was far too late now to address her, as she would be socially engaged at this hour. She was grateful Rose had not woken her; despite her dream, she felt well-rested. How pleasant to sleep in a real bed again!
Only the barest light came through the window. Bess crossed to it and saw a blotch of light that might be a lantern hanging in midair some distance away, lighting one corner of the plaza and the great grey stone structure that stood next to the viceroy’s palace. She had no idea what purpose it served or why it was built of more permanent materials than the palace. Perhaps she could find out in the morning. If it took Clarissa many hours to locate a Bounder who knew a Bounding signature in Lima, there might be time to explore the plaza. Though without Amaya to Shape her eyes, it would be an unsatisfactory exploration.
Bess’s stomach chose that moment to rumble. She had not realized how hungry she was, though of course she had not eaten more than a handful of nuts that day. Surely someone in the palace would give her food, even if they were unlikely to let her sit at the table looking like a campesina, whatever that was. She made her careful way across the room and turned the door handle.
The door was locked.
Chapter 19
In which a new villain makes an appearance
Confused, Bess worked the handle again. There was no mistake; someone had locked the door. She felt around the lock plate. Suppose the key had been turned in error? But no, there was no key on this side, and the room was too dim, when she bent to look more closely, to see if it had been left in the lock on the other side of the door.
Her temples tingled, and Clarissa Spoke, Bess, I apologize for the delay. You are safe in Lima?
I am. Can you find a Bounder to take me home?
Not at this hour. Where are you?
The viceroy’s palace. They have locked the door, which is puzzling, but I am not alarmed.
Clarissa’s relief sent a tremor through the connection. It must be for your protection. Tomorrow I will attempt to locate an English Bounding company that knows signatures in Lima, and then I will direct them to meet you at the palace. It is only a matter of time now.
Bess let out a deep breath. Thank you, Clarissa.
I am not certain I deserve thanks, having so often abandoned you in favor of War Office matters.
How goes the war, then?
Clarissa chuckled. Wellesley’s forces continue to push forward into France. Their progress is slow, but steady, which is more heartening than a few dramatic victories followed by a rout. It is only a matter of months, now, if things continue as they have.
That is excellent news. I long for this war to be over. Bess walked away from the door and looked out the window at the corner of the plaza. Please tell me when you find someone so I will know to expect him or her.
I will, Bess. Sleep well.
Bess curled her fingers around the windowsill and let out another deep breath. Just one more night—though she could not imagine sleeping again, not with the rest she had had and the mystery of the locked door.
She returned to the door and rattled the handle, in case it had miraculously become unlocked. Then she rested her forehead against the warm wood and tried to make sense of her situation. She was a stranger and a foreigner, not someone entitled to the protection of their laws—at least, that was one way to look at it—but they had treated her with respect regardless. So why lock her up now? She could think of only two reasons: first, that they were concerned for her safety and intended to prevent anyone accosting her in her sleep, as Clarissa had suggested; and second, that they believed her to be a threat somehow and had locked her in to protect themselves. The latter seemed implausible, the former was frightening. She needed to learn the truth.
Her stomach rumbled. Surely they were not so afraid, either of or for her, that they would not feed her? Her options were limited enough that saying she had no choice was not unreasonable. Señor Mendoza, she Spoke to the man, I apologize for the intrusion, but I appear to be inadvertently locked into my room. Would you send someone to assist me?
She retreated to the bed and sat on its edge. After a moment’s thought, she stood and tidied the counterpane, then sat again. Time passed, and no one came. Bess’s initial trepidation gave way to irritation and then anger. How dare they treat her this way? She was a citizen of an allied nation, a woman in distress, and they thought locking her in her room an appropriate response to her arrival?
She returned to the door and rattled the handle furiously. “Let me out!” she shouted. “I demand you release me! Libéra me ahora!”
Nothing happened. She let out an angry shriek and turned her attention to the room’s furnishings. She could break the window and see if she could catch someone’s notice that way—but if she was in danger, it might be the wrong sort of notice.
The scratch of the lock opening made her turn, startled. The door swung open. “Miss Hanley, my apologies,” Mendoza said. “No one expected you to wake so soon.”
Bess took se
veral angry steps toward him. “Why did you lock me in?”
“To guard your rest, naturally,” Mendoza said. “I thought you would prefer to know no one could disturb you. Unfortunately, it did not occur to me until after you had fallen asleep, or I would have given you the key and allowed you to lock the door yourself.”
It sounded plausible enough, but Bess caught a mental glimpse of the key sliding into Mendoza’s pocket and had a feeling he was lying to her. There was nothing she could do about that; she would be gone in a day, and it would not matter what Mendoza had intended. “I see,” she said. “Thank you for your consideration.”
“It is nothing,” Mendoza said. “I will send to you a maid with clothing, and a tray. Supper is over and I imagine you are not interested in socializing after your ordeal.” He looked her over again, and this time Bess caught a glimpse of herself, virtually unclothed in her tattered under-robe, and wished she could cover herself with her hands without looking like a fool. She had forgotten, in her anger, how she was clothed. But Mendoza’s examination of her, as she perceived it from his thoughts, was not one of a man who finds a woman attractive; it did not linger on her form at all. She wished he were close enough for her to read his expression, to determine what it was he wanted from her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I am most grateful. The War Office will send someone for me in the morning.”
“How fortunate that you can communicate with anyone you wish,” Mendoza said. “I have often wondered what that would be like. I am a Mover of more than average capability, but Movers are as common as houseflies in España.”
“I apologize for intruding on you with my Speech.”
Mendoza waved a hand. “It is nothing. We are happy to assist the members of the English War Office.”
Bess chose not to correct his misapprehension. “Thank you,” she said again.
Mendoza nodded and left the room. Bess listened carefully for the sound of the key turning in the lock—a key, she realized, he had forgotten to give her—but heard nothing but his retreating footsteps. She quickly looked out the door and saw only Mendoza’s retreating form. No guard. She might flee—but not wearing only this thin, tattered undergarment. Sighing, she returned to the bed to sit. Only one more day, and she would be home.
A few minutes later, a timid knock sounded at the door, which opened before Bess could reach it. A short, slim woman stood there, her arms full of far more clothing than Bess could use. “¿Traje ropa, señorita?” she said in a quiet voice. She entered the room, followed by another woman bearing a covered tray from which came the most delicious smells. Bess inhaled and felt like bursting into tears: roast beef and fish and some kind of green vegetable, all of it so very European it was like she had already come home.
“Please, set—aquí,” she said, gesturing to the woman with the clothing to set her burden on the foot of the bed. The second woman, as short as the first but plumper, put her tray on a narrow console table near the window, where it barely fit. Bess dragged the chair she had thought to break the window with around to sit at the table. “Gracias, yo…como ahora.”
She had intended for the women to leave rather than stand around watching her devour her food, but the two stood like statues near the door. How to politely say, “leave now”? “Gracias,” she said again, “ustedes no tienen…no esperar en yo.”
The women glanced at each other, smiling slightly. Well, Bess already knew her Spanish was ungrammatical.
The slim woman gave a small curtsey and replied to Bess at length, not meeting her eyes. Bess understood the words ayudarle and vestirse. So they were here to serve her and help her dress.
Bess eyed the pile of clothing. It was unlikely any of it was made to the War Office’s specifications for its female officers, for ease of donning and removing without assistance. Probably they had never even heard of convenables. Her stomach growled again, and she decided not to fight them. Food was more important.
She ate until her stomach was pleasantly full, wiped her hands on her under-robe—it was already ruined enough that some grease would not make a difference—and stood to give the plump woman access to remove the tray. When she was gone, Bess said to the first woman, “What is your name? ¿Nombre?”
“Julieta, señorita.” She bobbed another curtsey.
“Yo soy Bess. ¿No habla inglés?”
The woman shook her head. “Lo siento, señorita.”
“That is all right. Ah…¿Esta ropa es por me?”
Julieta took a gown from the pile and held it out for Bess’s examination. Bess held it against herself; too short. If all the Spanish women were as short as Julieta and the other woman, Bess might have trouble finding clothing that fit.
But Julieta proved an able assistant, once she got over her initial shyness at helping the English señorita who was also an Orador raro. Bess wondered where all the clothing had come from. None of it was particularly expensive, but it was all well-made and surprisingly fashionable. Perhaps some of the viceroy’s staff were married, in which case Bess owed those unknown women a debt.
Finally, Bess was furnished with a gown in a subdued shade of green that was the perfect weight for a Peruvian summer and a nightdress as soft as her Incan robe. Julieta caught sight of that item of clothing while Bess was folding away the gown for later and picked it up, exclaiming over the wool. “It is very soft, muy suave,” Bess said. She smoothed the skirt of her nightdress and felt a little more of her exhausted tension fade away.
Julieta cast Bess a sharp glance. “Esto es tejido nativo,” she said.
Bess did not know what tejido meant, but nativo was all too clear. “Sí, yo soy…protegido por nativos en mi camino.” An uncomfortable feeling arose in her chest. Julieta did not look like someone who believed Bess’s story about being sheltered by native villages on her journey south.
Julieta ran her fingers over the fabric once more, biting her lower lip and refusing to meet Bess’s eyes. “Usted encontra a los Incas,” she whispered.
“I—no entiendo,” Bess said, desperately searching for a plausible lie. Though, if Julieta knew Bess had been with the Incas, there was no point in denying it.
“Mi madre no es española. Ella es peruana,” Julieta said.
“Your mother is a native?” Bess asked.
Julieta nodded. She stepped closer to Bess, within inches of her face, and began speaking rapidly in a low voice. Bess struggled to keep up, grateful for the flashes of thought she perceived to bolster her inadequate Spanish.
“The Peruvian natives…tell stories of the Incas,” she said, more to help her comprehension than because she believed Julieta would understand her. “The last Inca emperor was executed, but his…legacy? lives on…they wait in the mountains for their day to expel the Spanish from the land. Julieta, is that what the people want? ¿Los nativos quieren que los españoles destruir?”
Julieta shrugged and again spoke at length. “Your father is Spanish, and you have Spanish friends,” Bess translated, “but the Spanish do not always treat the natives with respect. You…usted espera que los Incas sobrevivir. You hope the Incas survive.”
“Sí,” Julieta said. “¿Los viste?”
Involuntarily, Bess glanced at the window as if someone might be lurking there. “Sí. I saw them.” Possibly she should not admit having been with the Incas to Julieta, but Julieta was sympathetic toward the Incas, and was unlikely to reveal Bess’s secret.
Julieta laid a hand on Bess’s wrist. “No le digas al señor Mendoza. Él es peligroso.”
The confirmation that Mendoza should not be trusted sent a chill through Bess. “Sí.”
Nodding, Julieta gripped Bess’s wrist again, then gasped and brought Bess’s left hand close to her face. She touched the serpent ring with her other hand and babbled something Bess was completely incapable of comprehending. “No entiendo,” she said, “please, slow down.”
Julieta released Bess and shook her head in a gesture that suggested she wished to avert danger
. “Esconderlo,” she said in a low voice.
“Escon—you mean, hide it,” Bess said, shaking her head. “It is too late. Señor Mendoza has already seen it. Señor Mendoza lo vas.”
Julieta bit her lower lip again in thought. “Entonces—vete pronto,” she said. She gathered up the pile of unwanted clothing and backed out of the room, her dark eyes fixed on Bess in an expression of combined fear and pity.
Bess immediately followed her, heedless of again being informally clothed. She opened the door, and her heart gave a hard thump when she nearly walked into a soldier in blue and red. He looked at her without speaking, his eyes hard and cold. Bess retreated and shut the door.
She stared at the door for several minutes after Julieta had gone. So her secret was not so easy to hide as she had believed, and Mendoza was dangerous. Dangerous in what way, she did not know. She considered contacting Clarissa again, realized it was too late in Lisbon for Clarissa to be awake, and decided against it. There was nothing she could do but wait for morning.
She turned the serpent ring around on her thumb. Where there was one treasure, there might be many. It was possible Mendoza believed she knew the location of the lost Inca city, and therefore its lost treasures. Bess knew little of Peruvian history, just that the Spanish had conquered the Incas after demanding huge quantities of tribute, but she had also heard that the Spanish did not believe the Incas had given them all the gold in their possession. Well, Bess knew first hand that this was true, but it was her understanding that to everyone else, the legends of lost Inca gold were no more than that: legend bolstered by natural human greed.
This brought her back to her first question: what could Mendoza do to induce her to tell him where the treasure was? Bess flung herself backward onto the bed and laughed. She could not tell him what she had no knowledge of. She had been Bounded to the Inca city, and on her escape had seen so little of her surroundings she knew only that the city was east of Lima, somewhere in the mountains. Mendoza would be sorely disappointed if he had hung his hopes on her.
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