Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  Chapter 29

  In which Bess is offered a choice that is no choice at all

  Voices echoed, distorted as if she were underwater, and she gasped for air and discovered she could breathe. An arm circled her shoulders, supporting her. “Drink this,” one of those echoing voices said, and someone pressed a cup to her lips. The liquid it contained was cool and tasted of blackberries, sweet and bitter at the same time. She swallowed gratefully, and the drink soothed her sore throat.

  But…why was her throat sore? It felt the way it did when she had a cold that made her snore, raspy and dry. She struggled to recall the last thing she had done. The ball, Mr. Pakenham’s assault, Speaking to Mr. Quinn, and—

  Everything returned in a rush. She had been kidnapped by that stranger, and taken to Mendoza, and…it had been an Extraordinary Shaper who put her to sleep. Mr. Quinn, she exclaimed, though as she did so she knew it was foolish, because he could not tell anyone he was in contact with her. But now he was the first one she thought to turn to. Mr. Quinn!

  There was no response. No, there was no connection, not even the blankness of Mr. Quinn deliberately shutting her out. There was simply nothing, as if she were not a Speaker at all. She called out to her reticulum, to Eleanora and Honoria and Maria and even, in desperation, to Catherine Tweedy, but found only emptiness.

  Bess wrenched away from the arm supporting her, and dizziness claimed her, as if the unseen person had spun her around in midair and then dropped her. When the dizziness passed, she found herself lying on a hard, pitted surface that smelled of mud and rainwater. She tried to push herself up and found her arms shook too hard to support her.

  “Do not try to rise,” a man said. His voice still sounded hollow, but she recognized it as Mendoza’s. “You will only hurt yourself.”

  Bess opened her mouth, but nothing emerged but a reedy whistle that hurt her throat. Everything around her was dark, not just the darkness of an unlit room, but the varying shades of black and grey that marked a moonlit night. She closed her eyes and assessed herself. She felt no pain anywhere but in her throat, not even a head-ache, but her arms and legs felt as weak as if she had run a dozen miles without stopping.

  She heard a raspy scratch, and light flared behind her. She turned to see Mendoza’s blurred face illuminated by a lantern he set on a table beside a door, and realized she had lost her spectacles. The rest of the room lay in shadow, but she felt it was not a large room, and from the sounds of insects and the brush of wind across her face, it was open to the outdoors.

  “What have you done to me?” she whispered, which was all the louder she could speak. “What do you want?”

  “What you have seen,” Mendoza replied. He crouched beside her and took her chin between his fingers, turning her head so the light struck her eyes fully. Bess wrenched away, prompting him to smile. “You are unique, Miss Hanley. And you will lead me to the Incas.”

  Bess realized her mouth had fallen open slightly and closed it. “The…Incas?”

  “Do not play the fool with me,” Mendoza said. “I know you were taken by the Incas and you have seen their city. You will lead me there. And then I will return you to your country. You see it is a benefit to us both.”

  “You are mistaken,” Bess said. “I know nothing of the Incas. I told you—”

  “Lies,” Mendoza said. “We searched up the coast in the direction you claimed to have come from. No village had seen a European woman in months, let alone an Englishwoman. You wore clothes of Inca make and jewelry of their design. You waste both our time in continuing to pretend you know nothing of them.”

  Bess glared at him, but her heart was in her throat. “Very well,” she said. “But it will do you no good. I do not know where the city is, and even if I did, I would not help you. Unless you wish to lie to me and say you do not intend to slaughter the Incas for their gold?”

  He smiled. “So you admit its existence to me?”

  Bess wished she could take back her rash words. “Everyone knows the rumors of Inca treasure,” she said. “Why else would you care about the Incas?”

  “Many reasons.” Mendoza stood and walked away, out of the lamp’s immediate circle of light. In shadow, he looked inhuman, a statue or a carved pillar rather than a man. “They kidnapped you, Miss Hanley. They would likely have killed you had you not escaped. You can have no warm feelings for them.”

  “You know nothing of what transpired between us,” Bess said, hoping this was true, because if it were not, that would mean Mendoza had captured Amaya. “Perhaps I went to them of my free will.”

  “I have the reports of the soldiers who brought you to the palace,” Mendoza said, tapping one long finger against his lips. “They say you were pursued by creatures not quite human that fled at the sound of musket fire. You were exhausted when you arrived, unable to support yourself—that also tells me you were running from something. What I do not understand is why you did not tell me the truth. Why are you loyal to the savages?”

  Bess stared up at him. “I owe you neither allegiance nor explanations,” she said. “Kindly return me to England now.” Clarissa, she Spoke, but again felt as if her Voice was simply cast into the void.

  “I, on the other hand,” Mendoza said, as if she had not said anything to him, “have a duty to España and to my king to root out these savages. You will return to England when that is done and not before.”

  Bess focused a blast of Speech on Mendoza, but succeeded only in sending a sharp spike of pain through her temples. Mendoza did not react at all. “You drugged me,” Bess said. “You suppressed my talent. My Voice is gone.”

  “I cannot have you Speaking to anyone who might take you from me,” Mendoza said. “It is not permanent.”

  “It will not happen a second time,” Bess exclaimed. “I will die before I accept food or drink from you again.”

  Mendoza shrugged. He crossed to the door and rapped on it sharply. Immediately it opened, and a man entered. He was taller than Mendoza and had thick, light brown hair. When he drew close enough, Bess recognized him as the man who had touched her and sent her unconscious. An Extraordinary Shaper. He knelt beside Bess and took her wrist. Before she could jerk away, a powerful lassitude swept over her, numbing her arms and shoulders and neck and making it impossible for her to move.

  The Shaper took her jaw in his hand and forced it open. Mendoza held a cup to her lips, and she smelled blackberries. “No,” she tried to say, but her jaw was as immobile as the rest of her. Cool liquid filled her mouth, and to her horror she felt herself swallow without consciously choosing to. Mendoza removed the cup, the Shaper released her wrist, and the lassitude disappeared. Bess collapsed to the floor, cracking one elbow hard against the pitted surface. She cried out in pain, and then she was weeping in earnest, terrified and angry and humiliated at the violation.

  “You see?” Mendoza said, as if she were not sobbing on the floor in front of him. “You will help me, and I think we will all be happier if you help voluntarily. I will leave you to consider.” He gestured at the Shaper, and both men left the room, taking the lantern with them.

  Bess cried a while longer until her throat ached again, then lay still on the floor, too weary and weak to sit up and explore her surroundings. She closed her eyes and let her other senses work for her: a brisk wind whistling across the unseen window opening, scented with salt and a faint hint of green growing things; the chirruping of night insects; an odd, low thumping sound, very far away or very quiet; the creak of floorboards as someone passed nearby. The last sound got Bess to her feet. Perhaps not everyone in this place, wherever or whatever it was, knew what Mendoza intended, and someone might be willing to help her.

  She staggered to the door by feel alone, grateful that her ankle gave her no more than a faint twinge, and ran her hands over it until she found a latch. The door was locked. She rattled the handle and thumped on the rough wood of the door, abrading her fist. “Help!” she shouted, or tried to—her throat was still sore enough
that she could not manage more than a loud whisper. “Help me!”

  The creaking grew louder. Someone pounded harshly on the door. “¡Cállate ahí!” a harsh male voice shouted, following that with a handful of words Bess did not know. She backed away from the door.

  She turned and felt her way to the window. The sill was on a level with her chin, and when she explored it, she discovered the window was too small to fit herself through. That was another plan eliminated. She strained to see the sky through the window, but it was just more shades of black. That meant…she knew that it was some six hours later in England than in Peru, and she had been captured shortly after midnight, London time, which meant…oh, if it was full dark here, she had been missing for several hours.

  What would Mama and Edmund think? She had been snatched from Lord Ormerod’s house as neatly as plucking a rose, with no one to see or hear her go. She dimly recalled Speaking Mr. Quinn’s name, but he would not be able to make anything of that. And as long as she could not Speak, as far as England was concerned, she had vanished from the world completely.

  Bess felt her way around the room, which, as she had guessed, was not large. The floor was wood, but not smooth or polished; it felt as if it had been sand-scoured, or possibly worm-eaten. When she had circled the room twice and felt satisfied there was nothing in it but the table, she sat against the wall beneath the window and tilted her head back as if that would magically restore her Voice.

  This was far, far worse than being lost in Peru among the Incas. She had been a Speaker since before she was thirteen and since that time had never been truly alone. Despair choked her, filled her heart with an ache too deep for tears. She began shaking and had to wrap her arms around herself to still the trembling. Once more she tried Speaking to her reticulum. The emptiness was enough to drive her mad.

  She let out a deep breath and opened her useless eyes. Enough dramatics. She was alone, she was a captive, yes, but that did not make her helpless, and she would find a way out of this. She toyed with the idea of pretending to cooperate so they would not force her to drink that concoction, and discarded it. That Shaper would know to the minute how long his potion would suppress her talent, and either he or Mendoza or both were no doubt cynical enough not to believe her if she claimed to have changed her mind. So she could not count on Speaking to save her.

  Let us take a different approach. Her absence would be noted as soon as Mama decided she wished to leave, and she generally stayed at Lady Ormerod’s no later than two o’clock in the morning. That meant Bess would be missing for no more than two hours before someone realized she was nowhere on the premises. At that point, they would search the neighborhood and enquire as to whether she had left with anyone else. That would mean another hour. That was when Mama would contact Charles, and possibly other Seers of her acquaintance, and set them to Dreaming Bess’s location.

  But that might not matter. Bess had been unconscious for perhaps six or seven hours, and it was unlikely she had been transported to more than one place after arriving in Mendoza’s Bounding chamber. This small, dark room, with no identifying features beyond the bland table, would be impossible for a Seer to locate within the world. Even an Extraordinary Seer, using one of Bess’s possessions to generate a Vision, would see nothing but blackness.

  That they could at least determine Bess was still alive was cold comfort. Mama would be in hysterics, possibly have taken to her bed, and poor Edmund… White-hot anger surged through Bess, and she welcomed the way it burned away her fear. She would escape, and if she could make Mendoza suffer when she did, all the better.

  The door opened. Bess shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted into the light. A figure, backlit into stark shadow, entered, followed by another. “You see there is no escape,” Mendoza said. “Come. Let us talk like reasonable people.”

  Bess got to her feet, grateful that the weakness had faded substantially and that she did not need Mendoza’s proffered hand. He smiled when she jerked away from him, bowed slightly, and indicated that she should follow the other person, who turned out to be the Extraordinary Shaper.

  Her cell was at the end of a long hallway lined with open doorways. Lanterns hung on the walls at intervals, dimly lighting the pale walls and the rough floorboards. A man in the blue and red uniform of the Spanish Army stood beside her door at attention, despite neither the Shaper nor Mendoza being in uniform as well. The Shaper walked with a confidence that reminded Bess of the jaguar warriors. She glanced through some of the doorways as they passed; all the rooms were dark, and the cloudy light from the lanterns was not enough to do more than push the darkness back a bit.

  A brighter light shone through an arched doorway at the end of the hall, but the Shaper proceeded up a narrow staircase to its right. The treads felt splintery and uneven, and Bess in her thin dancing slippers slowed her pace, feeling carefully for each step. There was no rail, and she trailed her fingers along the wall for a few moments before realizing how dirty and damp it was. The Shaper did not slow for her, but Mendoza, walking behind, said, “Do not hesitate, Miss Hanley, you cannot escape.”

  “I also cannot see,” Bess shot back, coming to a full stop. “You took my spectacles.”

  “Ah.” Mendoza reached past her with her spectacles in his hand. Bess snatched them and put them on. “It was for their protection while we moved you. You see I am not a monster.”

  Bess considered a dozen scathing responses and in the end said nothing. However satisfying it might be to insult this man, it might also mean her doom.

  The Shaper had paused half a dozen steps up and waited for Bess to resume her climb before continuing. They climbed until Bess, counting silently, felt they must have gone at least three stories. Again Bess wished for Amaya’s alterations to her body; she felt tired and out of breath when they came out of the stairwell onto a kind of flat patio that extended out of Bess’s range of vision in all directions. It was lit at its far corners by flickering lanterns large enough to be spherical to Bess’s vision. In another moment, Bess realized they were on the roof of whatever building this was.

  “Please have a seat,” Mendoza said, gesturing toward a table and chairs a few feet away. Bess looked around, fearing a trap, but saw nothing but rooftop and, beyond that, the lights of Lima. She let him pull out a chair for her with his Moving talent, hating even that small acquiescence to her captivity, and sat. The table and chairs looked as if they had come from a dining room somewhere. Had they, too, come up the narrow stairwell, or had a Mover lifted them to the roof? She ran her hands over the smoothly polished top of the table and found a small crack, a flaw in the finish. She picked at it with her fingernail, telling herself it was defiance. Yes, and as pointless as anything else you might do, she thought.

  Mendoza took a seat opposite her near the head of the table. “It is a beautiful night,” he said, gesturing at the city. “The ocean is beautiful by day, but by night…I love the lights of my city. So vibrant. Such a reminder of what we have achieved.”

  Bess said nothing. It seemed Mendoza was the sort of man who liked to make speeches. Very well. Let him speak, and Bess would ferret out his weaknesses from it.

  “I should introduce my friend Joaquin,” Mendoza said. “Joaquin de Orellana y Machado, Extraordinary Shaper—as you have no doubt realized.”

  Bess glanced at Orellana, who stood at the far end of the table and appeared to pay no attention to them. “I could hardly have missed it.”

  “You are angry. That is natural. And unfortunate.” Mendoza leaned forward, drawing Bess’s attention away from Orellana. “I apologize for the necessity of bringing you here by force, but you are the key to saving thousands of lives, and what is one small life to that?”

  Bess strained to pick up his stray thoughts, but that part of her talent was as suppressed as the rest of it. “You are being dramatic in the hope that I will ask you to elaborate,” she said. “You are a liar and a kidnapper and as such I have no interest in anything you have to say.”


  Mendoza pursed his lips, which were thin and pale, almost invisible. “Ten days ago,” he said, “a village east of here, well into the mountains, was razed to the ground. Men, women, children, all slaughtered. By European weapons.”

  Bess drew in an incautious breath. Mendoza’s thin lips twisted in what might have been a cynical smile. “No one holds military weaponry in the colonies but the Army,” he said. “Or so we thought. It appears we have an enemy, one that hides in the shadows and strikes without mercy. I do not suppose you are willing to tell me who that enemy is?”

  Bess’s chest hurt from the breath she was holding. She let it out slowly. “It does not matter,” Mendoza went on. “We have our own sources. We know it was natives who attacked that village. But not men acting alone, or at random. This was planned. By the remnants of the lost Inca Empire.” He did smile then, a wry expression that made Bess shiver. “Not so lost, after all.”

  Mendoza shifted his position and rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “So. Let me tell you what else I know. You, Miss Hanley, were the…guest of the Incas for several days, in or near one of their cities. You escaped that city and fled to Lima. That is quite a lot, do you agree? And yet I am certain you know more.”

  “And you want me to tell you.” Bess clasped her hands in her lap so tightly they ached.

  “You are very clever. Yes. I want to stop the Incas from destroying any more villages. You will lead my forces to their city and you will tell me of their defenses. We will, of course, spare the women and children—you see we are superior to those savages.”

  “No—”

  “Miss Hanley,” Mendoza said, leaning forward and speaking in a low, harsh voice, “if you refuse to help, you are a traitor to your race and complicit in I do not know how many deaths. You owe the Incas nothing. Speak, and you will be returned to your people. Refuse, and we shall see how creative an Extraordinary Shaper can be in inducing you to change your mind.”