Liberating Fight
Book Five of The Extraordinaries
Melissa McShane
Copyright © 2021 by Melissa McShane
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Night Harbor Publishing
www.nightharborpublishing.com
Cover by Amalia Chitulescu
For Jacob,
whose insights into romance bring depth to everything I write
Contents
Author’s Note: Inca Measurements
1. In which polite society encounters Amaya, and Amaya strikes back
2. In which Amaya receives a startling revelation
3. In which Amaya is bribed, threatened, and ultimately cajoled into service with the War Office
4. In which Amaya meets the most dangerous woman in England
5. In which the diplomatic party arrives in Madrid
6. In which Amaya meets a king, and is unimpressed
7. In which Amaya’s relatives are not what she expected
8. In which someone again tries to command Amaya’s loyalty
9. In which a legend comes to call
10. In which Amaya receives an unexpected proposal
11. In which a conversation ends rather dramatically
12. In which Edmund and Amaya experience a change of heart
13. In which Amaya uses her warrior’s skills
14. In which battle is joined
15. In which Amaya and Edmund learn more of the glorious cause
16. In which Amaya’s dance of death ends in an unexpected confrontation
17. In which Amaya learns a terrible truth
18. In which negotiations commence, and the power of a Coercer is discussed
19. In which different modes of travel bring them closer to their goal
20. In which Amaya does things not practiced among the Incas
21. In which an audience with the king does not go as expected
22. In which a more sinister revelation threatens to spark international panic
23. In which important information is ignored by those in power
24. In which retreat is discussed, and the nature of sanctuary explored
25. In which the power and limits of Extraordinary Scorchers are revealed
26. In which there is fire and blood
27. In which a new threat arises
28. In which cultures and customs are compared, and an agreement reached
29. In which Amaya is once more threatened, with predictable results
30. In which there is one final revelation
31. In which Amaya’s happy ending is what she makes of it
The Talents
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Melissa McShane
Author’s Note: Inca Measurements
The Incas used well-defined units of measurement in their buildings, and Amaya still thinks in Incan terms. For readers who wish to compare, a rikra is equivalent to 1.62 meters, and a thousand rikras are slightly less than one mile.
(My thanks to Douglas McElwain for his informative article on Incan metronomy, found at http://www.electrummagazine.com/2015/03/inca-metronomy-an-intersection-of-cultural-elements/)
Chapter 1
In which polite society encounters Amaya, and Amaya strikes back
It was the smells Amaya found hardest to endure. The English had so many strange customs, so many rules about how one should dress and how one should eat, where one must sit at their absurdly high tables, who should receive a bow and who merely a nod, that she was overwhelmed in any social gathering, not just this evening’s affair at Mrs. Eleanora Gates’ home. So many people, few of them known to her. Amaya tried to conceal her discomfort so as not to offend her hostess, but she felt alien in this setting. The sounds of conversations in a language she still understood imperfectly battered at her; her hands in their uncomfortable gloves would have sweated had she not Shaped her body to suppress that physical reaction.
But the smells…oh, how the sweetness of fruit or flower mingled with the sharp bite of alcohol to hang cloyingly in the air, imperfectly covering the honest smell of warm bodies. The smells made her long for fresh, crisp mountain air, something she was unlikely to have ever again.
She might have deadened her olfactory senses, numbed her nose, but as sick as the stench of civilization made her, she was reluctant to give up any advantage against her enemies. Her dear friend Bess had assured her she was in no danger here in England, but Bess was, despite her experiences amongst the people of Tawantinsuyu, hopelessly optimistic. Amaya knew that the most dangerous opponent was the one you did not see. And no warrior deserving of self-respect ever let down her guard.
“You must like that painting, to spend so much time admiring it,” someone said from close beside her. Amaya let out a hiss of surprise and drew back her fist for a blow before realizing who had addressed her and lowering her hand.
Bess’s brother, Edmund Hanley, regarded her with an amused expression. Though he was dressed as formally as every other man present, his relaxed, careless pose gave him an air of perfect confidence that comforted her, as if she need not face her enemies alone.
“It has been most of five minutes,” he continued, this time in Spanish, “and I consider that long enough that you should direct your attention elsewhere. Unless I am mistaken, and you genuinely are interested as opposed to wishing to deflect the attention of admirers.”
Amaya smiled ruefully. “It is easier than conversation,” she said in the same language, “particularly with those who speak only English. Trying to understand their words makes me cross. And now you will say I should practice anyway, and endure my trials.”
Edmund smiled more broadly. “You know me better than that. This evening is supposed to be enjoyable, and it can hardly be that if you are groping for words the whole time. I will simply have to amuse us both.” He scanned the room, his eyes narrowed. “There, see Mrs. Broome? The lady in the unfortunate chartreuse gown? She is here alone because Mr. Broome has once more abandoned her company for the gaming houses. I would feel compassion for her were she not one of the most sharp-tongued women I have ever met.”
Amaya covered her mouth to conceal a laugh. “You are terrible.”
“Am I? I am simply being honest.”
“Being honest does not have to mean being cruel, Edmund.”
Edmund shrugged. “I agree, and to prove it, I will tell you of Mr. Dench, who recently made a large anonymous donation to the orphans’ home. He is the man in the puce waistcoat. He looks like a miser, does he not, with his pinched face and straggling hair? And yet he is one of the most generous men in London.”
Amaya regarded Mr. Dench, who did not look generous. “If it was anonymous, how do you know?”
“I have my sources,” Edmund said. “And now that I have dispelled the look of gloom from your face, will you walk with me? You know there are many who wish to make your acquaintance. Ah, there is that scowl again.”
“I dislike being on display, as if I am a captive jaguar rather than a woman.” Amaya turned her attention back to the painting. She had, as Edmund had guessed, not seen it, had merely been staring in its direction. Now she realized it was a landscape of English trees and grasses and a slender river, a
nd the sight made her unexpectedly homesick, not for England, but for Peru.
“I will not force you,” Edmund said, suddenly serious. “But you must know how concerned your friends are for your happiness. You cannot be satisfied to lock yourself away from everyone, moping after what you cannot have.”
Amaya glared at him. “You choose to lecture me?”
Edmund held up his hands in self-defense. “Merely expressing an opinion. Bess is concerned for you. She told me, before she left on her wedding trip to Italy, that she feared you felt lost here in England, unable to return home and unwilling to settle here. You know if you wish, we will return you to Peru.”
His concerned expression dispelled her irritation. Edmund made a good show of being frivolous and light-hearted, but beneath his demeanor was a kind heart and a good mind. “I cannot return to the Incas,” she said, using the European name for her people. “They are well hidden within the mountains, and even if I were able to find them, they believe me dead, and another is Uturunku in my place. I would have to kill that person to regain my position, and I am reluctant to do that.”
“You might make a place for yourself among the Spanish.”
“That part of my life is in the past. My people were killed, and I know no family to return to. And it is not as if I have any more place amongst them than I do here, a jaguar warrior in civilized society.” Amaya shook her head slowly. “You are correct. If this is now my home, I should make an effort to find a place for myself within it.”
Edmund sighed dramatically. “How glad I am you came to that decision, because I had no more arguments on my behalf. You know I am averse to telling people their business.”
“I know you are not fond of being told your business by others,” Amaya said with a smile, “and no doubt that influences your own actions.”
“I believe in not doing unto others what you hope they will not do to you, and that is the closest I will ever come to being guided by scripture.” Edmund extended his arm to her. “Come. Let me introduce some of these people to you. You may find their conversation interesting, after all.”
Amaya accepted his arm without hesitation. It was one of the English customs she found most disconcerting, this hindering of a person’s movement, and it was also the one that most surely drove home the point that this was not a warrior’s society. But Edmund was a friend, and no danger to her, and he had also learned to take her left arm so her right would be free. Perhaps she could learn to fit in here, after all.
She spoke pleasantly, if stiltedly, to the men and women Edmund introduced to her. They, of course, knew who she was: Amaya who had been Imelda Salazar, formerly of the Incas, rescuer of an English Extraordinary Speaker, heiress to a fortune. That last was supposed to be a secret, but secrets, Amaya was learning, were impossible for the English to keep. She did not know who had revealed the existence of the Inca gold hoard England had retrieved thanks to her and Bess, but it was now common knowledge, though common knowledge had inflated the value of the hoard substantially.
Another quality of the English was a general reluctance to speak of certain matters directly, specifically money. No one ever asked her directly how much her share of the treasure was, nor what that meant in English pounds, but she knew from Edmund that speculation ran high. So the men and women she spoke with that night never mentioned it to her face, even as her enhanced hearing revealed those same men and women discussing the subject privately. It amused Amaya rather than irritating her. English manners aside, human beings were all equally preoccupied with questions of wealth. Though the Incas would never have dreamed of being allowed a share of the Sapa Inca’s gold.
She permitted Edmund to lead her around the room, never stopping to converse with anyone for very long. Despite her discomfort, she had to admit it was a lovely room, if over-warm, with many paintings like the one she had stared at hanging on the walls and an empty fireplace surmounted by a creamy stone mantel. English art was so different. The Incas did not paint images of their surroundings as the English did—though the English did not sculpt images into everyday objects as the Incas did, something else Amaya missed.
“Miss Salazar, good evening,” said a man who had been introduced to Amaya two nights ago and whose name she had forgotten. “I am pleased to see you again. How comes your reading?”
She remembered now that she had told him she was learning to read English, but this did not bring his name to mind. “It is well,” she said. “Slow, but well.”
“I of course have ulterior motives in asking, since I hope you will one day read my book,” the man said with an arch smile. “Hanley, you agree with me, yes?”
“I am no reader, and I hesitate to make recommendations,” Edmund said. “I am certain Miss Salazar can decide for herself someday.”
Even Amaya’s limited grasp of English caught Edmund’s excessive formality of speech that suggested he disliked the man. “It is too soon,” she agreed. “I regret.”
“Not at all,” the man said. He sounded disappointed, which annoyed Amaya—how dare he behave as if she were under some obligation to him? Then she felt ashamed for having such a cruel thought of someone she barely knew. She nodded and smiled and let Edmund draw her away again.
“Bess says his books are terrible,” Edmund told her in Spanish once they were safely away. “He remains blissfully unaware of this.”
“I feel pity for him, then.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy. He has no conversation that is not related to his writing, and is sometimes a dreadful bore.” Edmund’s head turned, and he released her. “That is Spofford—I should speak with him. Will you be all right if I leave you?”
“I am not made of glass, Edmund,” Amaya said, half amused, half annoyed again. “And you are correct that I should make friends. I will be perfectly well.”
“Very well.” Edmund touched his forehead as if in salute, which amused Amaya and dispelled her annoyance. He turned away to approach a short, rotund older man with grey-streaked black hair. Amaya wondered if he was someone with whom Edmund had business. She knew Edmund worked for the government as a translator, but that was all she knew—that, and how Edmund’s parents spoke occasionally of his excellent prospects in that field.
She stood alone beneath the glittering chandelier that cast its light and warmth over the already warm room. No one seemed immediately inclined to speak with her, which relieved her mind even as it disappointed her. She felt slightly foolish, standing beneath the light as if she believed herself deserving of being set apart by its glow.
“Miss Salazar, I hope you are enjoying yourself.” Mrs. Gates approached with her hand outstretched. She was one of Bess’s Speaker friends, and Amaya clasped her hand briefly, smiling in a pleasant way. Being friendly to Bess’s friends seemed important.
“May I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Ellery,” Mrs. Gates said, indicating the couple beside her. “They have traveled extensively in Spain.”
“Buenas tardes,” Amaya said. Mr. Ellery chuckled, an uncomfortable sound. Mrs. Ellery looked confused.
“We don’t speak Spanish,” Mr. Ellery said. “Never could get the knack of foreign tongues.”
“But Spain is lovely—do you, that is, have you much experience with your home country?” Mrs. Ellery added.
Amaya looked for Mrs. Gates to take up part of this awkward conversational burden, but the woman had moved on. “I was born in Peru and I do not know Spain,” she said.
This apparently left the couple with nothing to say. More awkwardness descended upon their little group. “I know only my name,” Amaya offered, then wished she had not said anything so potentially personal.
“Of course,” Mr. Ellery said, then fell silent again.
“Lord Braithwaite,” Mrs. Ellery exclaimed, “have you met Miss Salazar? Miss Salazar, this is Lord Braithwaite.”
Lord Braithwaite was an attractive older man, possibly a Shaper by the regularity of his features and the broadness of his shoulders. “Charmed,” he
said, bowing over Amaya’s hand. “You are an Extraordinary Shaper, are you not? I am also a Shaper, though I do not intend to trade upon any supposed connection our shared talent might give us. I’ve always said there is a great divide between Shapers and Extraordinary Shapers. It’s the calling, don’t you agree? The ability to Shape others, to Heal broken bones and other wounds—that suggests God intended you to use that talent to help others.”
He spoke so rapidly she barely understood one word in five. Her enhanced hearing did not help; Lord Braithwaite’s words tangled with more distant conversations until she felt even more confused. “I do not know. I think yes,” she said, hoping she had not just agreed to something unpleasant.
“I disagree,” Mr. Ellery said, but placidly, as if his disagreement was not personal. “Why should Extraordinary Shapers be held to higher expectations than other talents? If Miss Salazar, for example, chooses not to direct her talent in a medical way, should that not be her decision to make?”
“The War Office—” Lord Braithwaite began, but Amaya took advantage of their conversation to drop into the meditative state from which she Shaped her body. This, at least, was comforting and familiar, this sense of her physical form and how it moved and breathed and changed according to her will.
A Shaper’s body, whether Extraordinary or no, differed from an ordinary human body in its elasticity, in its readiness to accept a new Shape. Amaya rarely had cause to Shape herself so rapidly it hurt; she was accustomed to taking her time, relishing the buzzing, tingling sensation that came with altering her body. Now, she instantly assessed her physical condition, a habit dating from her years as a jaguar warrior, and was satisfied at finding her body still as perfect as she could make it—better than perfect, as her senses were superior to the average human’s, and her lungs and muscles would allow her to run for miles without stopping. No hidden defects, no incipient illnesses. Perfect.
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