The clothes the people wear are gray. Perhaps they think color is frivolous, or else dye is hard to come by with so little natural color on Malem to make it from. The city and its people look washed-out, survivors of a tragedy that has left no joy or color in their world.
The plague must have been terrifying, people dying all around. My father was never able to exorcise it, physically and emotionally. Now I understand why so many buildings are boarded up. Did some of these people take years to die, with each recurrence of the fever weakening them more, like my father? I imagine ghosts everywhere: in the boarded-up apartments, in the cold streets, in the way the people rarely smile and avoid touching one another. How am I to find one ghost amid so many?
Itohan—his name means ‘mercy’. My father was Itohan Ugiagbe, I want to say to the Malemese hurrying about their business, ignoring me, a foreigner in their midst. He came here and suffered like you. I watched him die all the years of my childhood and I didn’t understand.
Every time I pass another death house, empty and boarded-up, I understand a little better my father’s long despair. What would he have been like if he hadn’t come to Malem? I never really knew him. Already his image is fading in my memory. I look around the dirty streets as I walk. They stole him from me, but they might also be able to give a little of him back. If I can find out what happened to him here, I’ll know him in a way I never did. The Malemese diamond must be mixed up in it somehow.
“Tell me,” I whisper to the cold, gray streets. “Tell me who my father was.”
*****
Agatha’s interest in learning Malemese has increased, perhaps because Select Hamza has impressed on her the importance of choosing her words carefully when she meets their Majesties. I overheard him mention she should have had a “more experienced” language teacher, as though Agatha’s inadequacy is my fault.
“The Select do not find fault,” Agatha replied, neatly defending me without belittling herself. Now I only speak in Malemese, and every minute we’re together is a language lesson.
“What’s this?” I ask Hamza at lunch, pointing to a long slice of purple. I’ve made a habit of asking Hamza questions about everything, on the pretext of learning local words that weren’t on the language discs. But really, I’m hoping the topic will stray onto diamonds or the fever, and give me more insight into my father’s time here. Hamza’s talk the first day just brought up more questions than it answered.
“A parza,” Hamza says. “It’s a local fruit, a type of melon. Very sweet.”
“And last night’s vegetable?” I reach for a slice of parza and take a bite. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten since I left home.
“A tuber. They call it ‘swamp potato’.”
“Why haven’t we had these before?” I wave the rind of the parza, reaching for another.
“The first spring crop is just coming into season. You’ll be tasting a lot of new foods soon.”
“We should go to the market.” I finish the second slice of parza in three gulps and consider licking my fingers, but Hamza would disapprove.
“It’s Friday,” Hamza says.
“Isn’t the market open on Fridays?” Agatha asks.
“Yes, in the afternoon. The farmers bring their produce in early, spend the morning in worship and the afternoon at the market.” He hesitates as though considering adding something.
“The Select,” I avoid referring to Agatha by name in front of Hamza—why irritate him needlessly?—“and I need to learn the words for produce unique to Malem. We could go by ourselves and ask the market sellers, though.”
“Don’t go alone,” Hamza says. “I’ll come with you. It will probably be alright.”
Agatha looks at Hamza. I suspect his reluctance is only pride: he doesn’t want to be seen in public with us while we exclaim over fruits and vegetables and Agatha mispronounces the new words. He’d probably refuse if he didn’t feel it his duty to acclimatize Agatha before he leaves.
The market is along a wide cobbled street not far from the city square. I don’t know why they don’t just have it in the square, a natural gathering place, but maybe that’s reserved for special events or announcements. It’s always empty, anyway.
The street smells of fish, for sale in big carts, but there are also stalls with brightly-colored fruits and vegetables. It’s noisy and cheerful and full of people. I notice that while they talk animatedly to one another, they never touch, and I remind Agatha not to brush against anyone. Hamza grows more and more ill-humored as we load him up with each new fruit or vegetable we find. Every time we add something to our basket I make Agatha repeat the name of each product we already have while Hamza stares stoically off into the distance ignoring the amused glances of the Malemese. The sun is shining for a change, and I’m determined not to let Hamza’s moodiness spoil it for me.
“Quack.”
I look up and there is the boy who laughed at me the other day. He crosses the street and leans against the wall of a building, facing me with the same conceitedly amused look in his eyes. I want to say something insulting but he’s far enough away now that I’d have to raise my voice for everyone to hear, so I just glare at him. He laughs, pushes himself off the building and strolls away.
Agatha’s still reciting the names of the produce in our basket when I feel Hamza stiffen beside me. The crowd has suddenly gone quiet, except for the market vendors, who are throwing tarps over their stalls. But it’s barely mid-afternoon.
I turn to ask Hamza why they’re closing so early. He’s staring down the street. Agatha has stopped talking, too, and when I look where they’re looking, I see guards coming toward us. They march in uniform, their faces grim, their right hands resting lightly on the handle of some heavy and probably deadly weapon which I don’t want to see any closer, strapped to their sides.
“What is going on?” Agatha asks quietly.
“On Fridays,” Hamza says slowly, “they distribute justice.”
“Justice?”
The people around us look grim as they turn and walk in the direction the guards seem to be herding us. Vendors wipe their hands on their aprons and hang the aprons beside their stalls then briskly move into the throng. Hamza grabs Agatha’s arm and mine and urges us forward with everyone else.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to us as we walk. “It doesn’t happen every Friday. Usually I stay home on Fridays, but I was not aware of…”
“Aware of what?” Agatha says with the deliberate control of the Select. It’s a sure sign she’s upset.
“Of any recent convictions.”
“Select Hamza.” Agatha stops abruptly, forcing the Malemese behind her to stumble as they veer sideways around her, “tell me exactly what is about to occur or I will not take another step.”
Hamza tightens his hold on Agatha’s arm and forcibly propels her forward. “Don’t stop,” he whispers harshly. “Do you want to be shot for refusing to be a witness to justice? Those lead-arms they’re wearing are crude but effective weapons.”
I’d been about to rebel also; instead, I look quickly around. One of the guards is staring straight at us, his hand half-lifted to signal another guard, but he relaxes when Agatha resumes walking.
“Where are we going?” I whisper.
“To the public square in the center of town.”
“And what will happen there?” Agatha asks, not bothering to lower her voice.
“Most likely we will witness a beheading. If there has been a theft, we will watch the culprit’s hand being cut off.”
I stumble and would have fallen if Hamza wasn’t holding my arm. Is he serious? He must be, he’s always deadly serious. I nearly choke on that—deadly serious—and feel my throat close. I swallow, and breathe in and out quickly. I can’t be sick here.
“I wish you did not have to see this,” Hamza says. “But the guards make no exceptions. Everyone on the streets is gathered to the square to serve witness. Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done.”
“You call that justice?” I ask, switching to Edoan.
“They call that justice,” Hamza replies. “We are not here to interfere.”
We’re at the square now. There’s a raised wooden platform in the middle, which I want to look away from but can’t. Hamza points to the far end where the King and the High Priest stand on a raised dais. They’re dressed in long dark robes, more elaborately designed and probably lined with something soft, but otherwise no different from their people’s attire.
A half-dozen guards surround the platform looking out into the crowd. Another dozen or so patrol the parameters of the square and still others stroll through the crowd watching for… What? Defiance? A rescue attempt? The whole thing seems unreal to me—the silent crowd, the watchful guards, even the unusual brightness of the sky which casts the wooden platform into stark clarity amid the dark robes and glum brown faces that surround it like shadows. Shadow people, I think, all standing as still as the barbaric past they appear to have just stepped out of.
A priest climbs onto the platform. He looks to be in his late thirties, and would be handsome except for his stern expression. I recognize the impassive control of a Select in his face and bearing, but don’t mention that to Hamza and Agatha.
A guard climbs up behind the priest. He’s heavily built, at least 5’10 or 5’11—tall, by Malemese standards. His thick, black eyebrows join above his nose in a permanent scowl and his nose is crooked, as though it has been broken. I shiver just looking at him.
A third man follows the guard.
“Is that the condemned man?” I really want to be sick now.
“That is a doctor.”
I look at Hamza. Is he developing a sense of humor now when it’s completely inappropriate? “There’s a cure for beheading?” I ask.
“I expect we’re about to see a thief punished.” He gives me a long look.
Two more guards climb the steps to the platform with a third person between them. They reach the top and turn. Beside me, Agatha utters a cry of horror. The figure between the guards is a boy no more than ten or twelve years old.
His eyes are wide with terror and his chest heaves. The muscles of his face are clenched as though he’s afraid that if he relaxes for a moment he’ll shame himself even more by crying. His left hand moves convulsively, stretching and curling back into a tight fist at his side. He seems unaware of its movement.
One of the guards leads him to a block in the center of the platform. He kneels down and puts his left hand on it, fingers spread wide. He stares at his hand as though he’s never seen it before.
“Don’t look, Kia,” Agatha whispers. Her lips move in a silent prayer. Her face is so white that even her lips are a pale ivory color.
“You must look, both of you” Hamza says quickly. “The guards are watching to see that we do. Try to look without seeing. Stare straight ahead but focus inward. If you can’t do that, watch the priest, not the boy. Under the law he’s still a child; they’ll only take off two of his fingers, not the whole hand.”
I swallow, hard.
In a loud voice that carries across the square, the priest cries out the name of the boy and his crime: theft. The priest’s face is impassive but in the sunlight I can see beads of sweat on his forehead. He grasps an axe which is leaning against the wooden block, and raises it. He holds it aloft for one terrible moment while he takes aim. He won’t do it, I think, staring at the axe as it trembles in the air. It flashes down so quickly I don’t believe it’s really happening until I hear it thunk deep into the block of wood.
The doctor springs forward and raises the boy’s hand for all to see. The boy is staring at his hand, the thumb and first two fingers spread wide and the blood gushing from two small stumps where the other fingers were. The doctor holds it up for only a moment before pouring an ointment over it. The boy screams then, short, high bleats of terror and shock as the doctor wraps his hand in a cloth and helps him down from the platform.
My legs are trembling. I need to sit down but I can’t, the guards are watching. Hamza’s arm under my elbow holds me up.
A man is led onto the platform. The priest calls out his name and offense: treason.
Treason? What constitutes treason on this sick planet? Not watching an execution?
The man steps forward and kneels in front of the block.
“Where’s the doctor?” I whisper.
“Don’t look at him,” Hamza says. “Watch the priest’s face, only the priest.”
Agatha’s prayers are audible now, a rushed, urgent whisper of sound rising through the silent crowd. A steady line of tears tracks down her cheeks.
I look at the priest. His mouth has tightened into a thin line of distaste. At the crime? The criminal? Or at his own role in this draconian form of justice?
His arms rise, holding a larger axe this time. As he raises it above his head his sleeves fall down, revealing his arms to the elbows. The muscles in his forearms stand out in tight cords and his fingers on the axe handle are stiff with tension. The sun flashes off the blade as it hangs in the sky like an ancient sundial marking the last moment of a human life. The axe descends.
I hear the soft slicing, the solid thunk as the blade digs into the wood. My own still-beating heart is loud in the unbearable, acquiescent silence of the crowd. I lean forward and throw up.
I am barely aware of the long walk back to Prophet’s Lane. The smell of the crowd, a rank scent of fear and excitement, clings to me. In my room, I pull off my Malemese robe and fling it away. I want to bathe, but I’d have to leave the room and pass Agatha and Hamza to get to the wash room, and I can’t bear to look into the face of anyone who watched the execution with me. I lie across the bed. The sound of the axe digging into the wood block echoes in my mind. I crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and recite verb declensions in Kandaran…
I wake hours later, still dressed in my jumpsuit. It is pitch dark. My left arm, minus the hand, lies heavy across my chest. I can feel the stump of my wrist above my breast. I cannot breathe, cannot move. I lie there paralyzed with terror. A strangled whimper gurgles in my throat, and I am breathing, sweating, but still too afraid to move, my every sense focused on the arm across my chest. Is there a hand or not? As nightmare and sleep recede, I gather the courage to raise my right hand, to feel along my forearm… and grasp my left hand with a relief so great it leaves me dizzy. I become aware of Agatha lying beside me in our bed, her breathing deep and regular. I am safe in the house on Prophet’s Lane.
Not safe. None of us are safe, stranded here at the mercy of barbarians.
I think of my bags and what’s in them, and close my eyes. My left hand is still cradled in my right, but I’m no longer reassured. I listen intently: all is quiet. I get up and grope by touch in the darkness through my spacebags until I feel the smooth, hard surface of the little box of thieves’ tools Sodum gave me.
Opening the bedroom door soundlessly, I peer out. Hamza’s bedroom door is closed. I tiptoe into the kitchen, find a large steel spoon in the cupboard, and quietly let myself out the back door.
The clouds have returned to Malem’s sky, obscuring even the dim starlight. Nevertheless I keep close to the house, a shadow figure against the dark walls.
What’s that? If I should be discovered now—
A night bird repeats its call. I breathe out slowly.
At the back corner of the house I crouch and dig into the dirt until I have a hole almost as deep as my elbow. I put the plastic box inside it and refill the hole, replacing on top the square of groundcover I carefully set aside. Groping in the darkness, I find a large stone which I place just to the left of the sod as a marker. The wind and rain will soon erase all sign of my digging.
Agatha half-wakes and mumbles something when I return to the room.
“I’m just getting undressed,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
Chapter Fifteen
A reply to Hamza’s request for a royal audience arrives three days la
ter. As abruptly as is possible in official Malemese, the royal courier welcomes Select Agatha and bids Select Hamza farewell. There is no invitation to attend the palace. He turns to leave.
“I wish their Majesties good health and happiness and thank them for allowing my presence in their city,” Hamza says quickly. “Please convey my gratitude.”
The courier bows. “I will inform the Queen. The King left this morning on a tour of the farms and will be away for several weeks.”
“That explains Friday,” Hamza says when the courier has gone. “The King pushed those convictions through before he left. It was the only way to get the boy out of jail. The order must be signed by two of the Triumvirate and the Queen won’t sign against a child.”
“She’s a kind woman, then,” Agatha says.
“Do not delude yourself. The Queen has no compassion. She cannot abide the sound of a child screaming, and those who sign off must watch their commands carried out.”
“What is it that concerns you?” Agatha asks.
Hamza looks up slowly. “If I had known the King was leaving, I would not have brought you to their attention.”
“They know we are here.”
“But not that you are staying.” Hamza forgets himself so far that even I notice the small furrow between his eyebrows.
“What are you afraid of?” Agatha’s voice is mild but she is watching Hamza intently.
The little crease disappears. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Nothing, I said.”
I pull the woolen robe over my jumpsuit and go outside. Hamza’s always gloomy, I tell myself. He’s been here ten years and nothing has happened to him. I walk slowly, looking down at the road and kicking up dirt. I’ll be leaving on the ship; it’s no concern of mine. The thought makes me feel worse instead of better.
It’s just as well Agatha won’t be meeting their Majesties yet. Her Malemese is hardly presentable. She’s reached a plateau of semi-intelligibility and seems to be stuck there. I kick a stone from the dirt with such force it clatters to the end of the lane. How could the Adept have sent her here? How could she order Hamza to return, leaving Agatha alone?
The Occasional Diamond Thief Page 11