Gabrel observed Calandra blinking rapidly and looking from side to side as though she were doing her best to follow the conversation. "They're arguing about who takes us out of here," he explained in a cautious undertone. "If we get any choice, we want to go with the guys in red."
"Why?" Calandra whispered back. "They're the ones who tied us up in the first place!"
"They're locals. I used to have a friend at the court here; if I can speak with him, everything will be all right. The other fellow is from Udara. We don't want to be prisoners of the Bashir of Udara, trust me." Gabrel wasn't sure exactly what happened to all the political opponents of the Bashir who had "disappeared" over the years, but then he didn't much care about the details—whether they had been beheaded, or strangled, or simply dropped over a mountain cliff hardly made much difference. The one thing they didn't do was come back from the Bashir's prisons to discuss their experiences.
After some more reasonably polite fencing, the man in blue and silver, whose name appeared to be Indukanta Jagat, gave in to the irrefutable argument of the twenty soldiers behind the captain and agreed that the Vakil might have audience with his own prisoners. He insisted on accompanying them, which did not reassure Gabrel, but he comforted himself with the thought that the alternative would have been much worse.
The palace of the Vakil was unfamiliar to Gabrel; on his previous visits to Dharampal, he had stayed in private houses—in the sprawling compound of Harsajjan himself, last time—and the Vakil had met him incognito, in the unconvincing disguise of a young merchant, which everybody politely pretended not to see through. It had been that dangerous, already, for the ruler of a state close to Udara to show favor to a representative of the Barents Trading Society.
On the way to the palace, he occupied his mind by thinking out the politics of the matter. Udara itself had had a Barents Society Resident for some years, one Lorum van Vechten, of whom Gabrel knew little except that the man had been completely unhelpful as to local information about the Independent Tribal Territories of the High Jagirs. He came of an Old Trader family, had studied offworld, and done some kind of scientific or medical work before returning to Kalapriya, and the way people in Valentin avoided talking about him had left Gabrel with the impression that van Vechten was a minor family black sheep who'd been shipped off to a conveniently distant position of little importance, where he would have few chances to embarrass the family.
But though the Bashir of Udara had accepted a Barents Resident, he resolutely opposed any of the neighboring Independent Tribal Territories accepting such a resident or having any direct diplomatic relations with the Trading Society. The events of recent years made the reasons easy enough to understand. One by one, the states neighboring Udara had come under the Bashir's control and lost their independence. A Resident in a conquered state might have complained to the Trading Society, might even have got official support against yet another Udaran conquest. So long as Udara was the only state in the High Jagirs with a resident representative of Barents, the Bashir could presumably count on Udaran interests being represented in Valentin to the exclusion of those of the conquered territories. Phalap, the Seven Villages, Rudhatta, Thamboon, Narumalar were just names to the Barentsians of Valentin, fragments of an empire that had dissolved into feuds and chaos long before their arrival. Udara itself was scarcely more than that in the general Valentin consciousness.
All of which was too complicated to explain to Calandra in the few muttered words they had an opportunity to exchange on the way, and of no particular use to them anyway, as far as Gabrel could see. The only lever he might be able to use was the fact that at least some of the advisers to Yadleen, Vakil of Dharampal, were evidently not in favor of lying down while Udara trampled over them. Certainly Harsajjan wasn't—
But Harsajjan himself, according to this young captain of infantry, had signed the orders for their detention. Gabrel felt himself lost in puzzles and ancient intrigues beyond his capability to decipher.
That was, however, no excuse for not at least trying.
Yadleen's "palace" turned out to be merely an open, airy building perched, naturally, at the very top of the mountain. It had an air of rustic simplicity and freshness that matched Gabrel's impressions of the young Vakil as a direct and honorable man, trying to do the right thing by his subjects while treading a political maze laid down in the days of the ancient empire. Wide, low-ceilinged rooms roofed with cedar and walled with white plaster opened onto dazzling blue-and-gold vistas of sky and mountains; the snowy breezes of the highest Jagirs blew straight through the rooms when the screens were rolled up, as they were today. The air was chill for travelers coming direct from the lowlands, whose ghaya-skin cloaks were still rolled up in the packs that had been confiscated, but Gabrel preferred it to the usual stale air and sweet smoky smells of rooms closed up against the winter cold. Even Yadleen's chair of state was just that, no throne, but a plain straight armchair of dark wood whose only decoration was the patina of decades. The Vakil inspected his prisoners' faces with a searching stare as they entered, and Gabrel straightened as well as he could in the ropes that bound his arms.
"Leutnant Eskelinen." Yadleen made hard work of pronouncing the foreign rank and name, but they were recognizable. He went on more easily in Kalapriyan. "You may explain yourself."
"Explain?" Gabrel decided there was nothing to lose by taking a high hand—verbally, anyway. "The explanations are due to me! Is this how the Vakil of Dharampal greets his friends? Or is the Vakil about to apologize for a gross error? The Honorable Trading Society of Barents can forgive a mistake. A deliberate insult to its representatives is another thing."
The soldiers lined up against either wall stirred, but the Vakil motioned them to remain where they were.
"Most of my 'friends,' " Yadleen said mildly enough, "come to Dharampal openly, not sneaking across its borders. You have been accused of attempting to smuggle an outlander witch into our territories for the purpose of creating internal disruption." His glance toward Indukanta Jagat left Gabrel in no doubt as to who had made the accusation.
"A witch?" Gabrel tried to look indignant and surprised. "My lord Vakil knows that we of Barents do not believe in witchcraft."
Yadleen waved a negligent hand. "Please do not waste my time in arguing theology. Witches undeniably exist, as do ifreets and spirits of the air; you may say you do not believe in the High Jagirs, but that will not save you from freezing in the snow if you try to cross the wrong pass in winter. The question here is whether you brought this woman into our lands knowingly, or whether you are innocent of her plans."
"She is not a witch, but an ordinary woman of my people."
"She does not look like your people." Yadleen's casual glance contrasted Maris's short, slender figure, olive skin, and tumbled black curls with Gabrel, a standard-issue tall fair Barentsian. "Although I must admit she does not look like a powerful witch, either."
"May the Vakil's wisdom and beard increase," Indukanta Jagat put in. "These Diplomatai are clever enough to conceal their otherworldly powers until such time as it benefits them to use them."
His indiscreet use of the foreign word gave Gabrel the clue he needed. "Has the Vakil been told that this woman is a Diplomat?" He laughed loudly. "What a tale! If she were a Diplo, we'd have flown out of our prison as easily as a bird leaves a tree. What has the Vakil heard of Diplos?"
"Our honored friend Indukanta Jagat," Yadleen said, with a glance toward Jagat that was anything but friendly, "tells us that the Diplomatai—what were your words, Jagat? They 'speak all languages fluently, carry maps in their heads, can render an armed man helpless with their secret fighting magic, and conceal on their persons offworld weapons more terrible than any you have seen'—was that not it?"
Indukanta Jagat bowed.
"Well then!" Gabrel nodded toward Maris. "Why did this so-powerful Diplo allow your soldiers to capture us?"
"Perhaps she was taken by surprise," Yadleen suggested.
"A
nd does the Vakil know why she has not yet spoken to him?"
Yadleen's eyebrows shot up. "A woman speak to the Vakil, when there is a man to speak for her?"
"Ah. But by the account of your 'friend' Indukanta Jagat—" Gabrel allowed a little sarcasm in his voice "—this is no ordinary woman but a Diplo. Don't you think she would speak for herself if she could? But she has so little mastery of your tongue that she does not even understand what we are saying now. She has been studying the language on our way here but has not yet reached the point where she can carry on an ordinary conversation, much less speak for herself before the Vakil."
"It is difficult to prove that someone does not speak a language," Yadleen observed.
"Well, I can certainly prove that she has been studying it!" Gabrel shot back. "Ask your captain, here, to bring forth our packs, and I shall show you the evidence."
There was a necessary delay while the packs, left behind in the courtyard where they had been held prisoner, were sent for. While they waited, the Vakil ordered chairs brought for Gabrel and Maris, had his servants bring them cups of fruit sorbet chilled in the mountain snows, and even allowed their bonds to be loosened so that they could hold the cups for themselves.
"We're making progress," Gabrel muttered to Maris.
"How? What have you been saying? I can't understand more than a word here and there."
"Good, that's maybe going to help get us out of here. Keep right on not understanding. I'll explain later." Indukanta Jagat was protesting to the Vakil that the prisoners should not be allowed to confer in their outlander tongue, and Gabrel didn't want to upset the delicate progress of negotiations by letting their conversation become an issue.
When the packs were brought, Gabrel requested the captain to open the one belonging to the woman and bring out "those articles which one of your men thought were used for women's purposes."
One of the soldiers upended Maris's pack and spilled the contents out onto the polished wooden floor. With an expression of distaste on his aristocratic features, the captain picked through the litter and eventually retrieved one of the small fibrous plugs. "This?"
"Yes. If you look at it closely, you will see it is far too small to be used for the purpose you mentioned."
The captain shrugged. "Village women use sundhu bark. It expands when, ah, with moisture. Besides, outlander women may be, um, smaller." Reddish-brown splotches of color rose on his face.
"She is made after the manner of all women," Gabrel asserted, "but it is not necessary to humiliate her by putting this to the test. Just insert the plug in your ear, Captain."
"What?" The captain's face was quite red now, clashing vilely with his scarlet uniform.
"It's not a joke, Captain," Gabrel said. "These are not what you thought, but tools for learning languages. You will hear an elementary lesson in Kalapriyan grammar if you insert the plug into your ear."
The captain brought the plug close to the side of his head with a dubious expression.
"It doesn't activate until it's fitted into the ear," Gabrel said.
"Activate?"
"Ah—speak."
With a look of determination, as if he thought it equally probable that his head would explode as soon as he inserted the thing, the captain compressed the plug in two fingers and pushed it into his own ear.
"Ai! Devil voices!" he exclaimed, reaching to pull it out.
"No, listen!"
A moment later the captain looked more amused than apprehensive.
"What do the voices say, Captain?" Yadleen demanded.
"Um—Dhulaishta, dhulaishtami, dhulaishtaiyen," the captain recited. "Varaishta, varaishtami, varaishtaiyen. Kudjiishta—"
"Enough," Yadleen said, smiling for the first time, "you will make me think I am back with my tutor!" He looked at Gabrel. "It really is a lesson in the grammar of our language."
"I told you," Gabrel said, smiling back, and too relieved to remember the polite mode of addressing the Vakil in third person only.
"But it is also a strong magic, to capture these voices and imprison them in such a tiny thing."
"No magic," Gabrel said, "only the skills of my people. The Vakil knows we come from the stars; there are many things we can do which we are forbidden to reveal to the people of Kalapriya. The point is, this woman doesn't speak your language, and she is having to work just as hard at learning it as I did, or any other outlander. These stories of her special powers are tales to frighten children."
"And the weapons?"
"The Vakil may ask if any were found in our packs."
The captain was shaking his head before the Vakil even framed the question.
"The Vakil may remember that the Diplomatai are said to carry weapons concealed in their bodies," Indukanta Jagat put in.
"An assertion rather difficult to test without killing the subject," Yadleen commented.
"And one the Vakil already knows to be ridiculous," Gabrel said quickly, "since if we were in possession of such wonderful weapons, surely we should not have allowed ourselves to be captured and brought here like this!"
"At least have them searched more thoroughly," Jagat said.
Gabrel tried again to straighten his shoulders against the ropes that bound his arms. "Search me if you like," he said, "but an insult to this woman under my protection is an insult to the Barents Trading Society!"
Jagat shrugged. "If the Vakil is afraid of the Society, of course there is no more to be said."
His words raised a flush of anger on Yadleen's dark-ivory cheeks and Gabrel tensed. What if Calandra were in fact carrying secret weapons? He dared not ask her now.
"The Vakil of Dharampal fears neither the Barents Trading Society nor the upstart empire of Udara," Yadleen said after a moment's visible struggle to control his anger. "We will convene our council to consider this matter further. In the meantime, Captain Thanom, you shall escort the prisoners to a place where they can be kept in safety and all reasonable comfort."
"The cells of Dharampal's Stone House are comfort enough for such as these!" Jagat interrupted.
Yadleen turned an icy glance on the Udaran envoy. "Indukanta Jagat, if you think that Dharampal maintains prisons like those of Udara, your spies have much misinformed you. We have no need to confine so many of our subjects. Let me inform you of two things." He paused for so long that Jagat's face paled with the fear that he had gone too far.
"First," Yadleen said, "we have found a better use for the Stone House than the ancient Emperors who built it. Being of stone and quite solidly built, it makes an excellent granary; it can be kept almost free of rats. And second," he added as Jagat began to relax, "the last man to interrupt a Vakil of Dharampal upon his chair of state had his mouth closed by filling it with salt. That was, of course, in the time of my father of blessed memory," he went on, "but for some reason it has not been necessary to apply the penalty for many years."
"An envoy of Udara is not subject to the laws of Dharampal!" Jagat protested.
"No? But what, then, of these envoys of the Barents Trading Society?" Yadleen asked with brows slightly raised. "At one time, Indukanta Jagat, you were pleased to praise our even-handedness. Surely you would not have us treat these Barentsian envoys with any less courtesy than we have shown to your honored self." He glanced at Captain Thanom. "Escort them to the private house of my trusted councillor Harsajjan Bharat. They will not, of course, be permitted to leave the house while the council deliberates, but I would have them used with all possible courtesy short of giving them their freedom. Oh, and cut off those ropes. If we start tying up envoys from other states now, we just might get carried away and tie them all up."
* * *
By the time Maris got a chance to talk to Gabrel in reasonable privacy she was close to dying of curiosity. It clearly hadn't been safe to confer while he was—she supposed—talking for their lives in front of the ivory-skinned boy who carried himself like a great king in a historical holodrama. And even after they were untied, he ha
d discouraged her from talking while the soldiers in red and gold escorted them to their new prison. If it was a prison? She didn't know what to make of the endless sprawling compound, with its big and little courtyards and balconies and three steps down and two steps up leading through a maze of rooms that seemed to have been designed one at a time by people with vastly differing sensibilities. And almost as soon as they got there they were separated. Gabrel seemed to understand why they were being led off in different directions and not to be worried about it, so she copied his manner of lofty unconcern.
She was surrounded by women who fluttered around her talking too quickly for her to catch more than an occasional word, all waving their hands from swathes of tissue-light shalin dyed in brilliant jewel colors until Maris felt as though she were being abducted by a flock of talkative butterflies. They touched her hair and skin lightly, as if to reassure themselves that she was human like them. The middle-aged woman who seemed to be in charge clucked with disapproval when her fingers caught in the snarls of Maris's tangled curls, and kept saying, "Ghur, ghur!"
At least that was one word Maris knew from her surreptitious ventures with the audio plugs. "Dirty, dirty, is it? Well, I'm sorry to inform you of this, but the washin' facilities in this wonderful country leave something to be . . ."
She stooped to pass under a low door curtained with layers of hanging tapestries, and came into a dark place glowing with banked fires and moist with aromatic steam.
" . . . desired," Maris finished with a longing look at the great cedar-lined sunken tub of steaming water that occupied the center of the room.
The women smiled at her and started taking off her clothes.
"I can do that for meself," Maris protested, but to no avail. She gave up, abandoned herself to events. After all, they all wanted the same thing: to get her clean.
Thoroughly, blissfully clean and totally relaxed, she corrected after an hour of their ministrations. There'd been hot steam and warm water and cold water, gentle scrubs with wads of bark that were just scratchy enough and that released a scented, soapy foam, oils and powders and massages and soft warm towels to wrap up in, more washing and combing and oiling for her hair, and finally, clean clothes in what seemed to be the style of the country—that was to say, soft loose trousers, an indecently tight upper garment, and a long pleated shalin with enough fabric in it to clothe a dozen people.
Disappearing Act Page 26