I cross the cobbled road at the end of the lane and turn down another dirt side street, preferring the earth under my feet even though I can’t feel it in these clunky Malemese boots. It’ll be months before I can walk in light, open sandals on the warm soil of Seraffa. I glance up at the tall, drab buildings. My time on Malem is slipping away and I haven’t learned anything more about my father or how he got the diamond. Knowing more about the diamonds might tell me something, but I don’t dare ask. This cold, dark city guards its secrets close.
I hear laughter, a rare sound here, and turn onto a wider street. A group of ten or twelve Malemese about my age are kicking around a ball. I stop to watch. They’re in teams, one group with their backs to me, guarding two stones a few feet apart, the other group facing them. They control the ball with their feet, never touching it with their hands.
Kickball, I think, or something close to it. The teams are mixed, girls and guys playing together, hiking the heavy woolen robes they wear up high enough to kick the ball.
I tried to join a kickball team at school when I was a kid, but everyone knew my father and the fevers that made his mind wander. Every mistake I made, they asked if he taught me that move. I quit after the second game. I practiced on my own, though, till I got every move down perfect, better than anyone playing on the school team—then I tossed my ball in the recycler.
I start to back up before they see me, but as I do a girl kicks the ball so awkwardly it wobbles straight to a guy on the opposite team, and nobody laughs or groans or hoots. Some people, I think. They can do anything and everyone likes them. But that’s not me, so I turn to leave.
Something bumps into the back of my boot. I look down at the ball they’ve been playing with. “Kick it!” someone yells.
They just want a laugh; they’re expecting me to fumble it. I’m tempted to prove them wrong, but they won’t care. If I was an outsider at home, I’m a million times more of one here, a foreigner on this isolated planet where no one looks even remotely like me.
Jaro’s image pops into my mind, shaking his head. So fail me, I think—then, Okay, what the hell, because I don’t like to fail, and I’m good at kickball. I’m already imagining the surprise on their faces as I turn and aim for the goal stones, and kick it…
The surprise is on me because it’s made of leather or something, and even in the lower g it’s like a dead weight with no bounce at all when it hits the dirt. It kind of flops before it reaches a girl at the edge of the group, and I brace myself for laughter—but she just flashes me a quick grin and gives it a really hard whack! and scores.
I figure I’m out of the game after a dismal play like that, but someone yells, “We’re a player short”—I don’t see who—and the ball comes flying toward me again. Now I’m stuck. I’ll look dumb if I play, and even dumber if I leave. Well, I can’t make a worse kick than I just did, but I can make a better one, so I hook the ball. I play with it a minute between my feet, trying to get the feel of it. What a crappy ball.
I throw myself into the kick this time, putting all my higher g muscle behind it, and send it flying right through the goal and on down the street, into a wall at the far end. Everyone stares at it, even me. Then, as if nothing happened, someone runs and gets it and the game continues.
It’s harder than I thought, controlling the heavy leather ball with my feet, holding up the skirts of my robe, and remembering to compensate for the lower g and not send the stupid thing into space again. I think I’m doing pretty well, though, not embarrassing myself any more, when someone from my team comes up behind me and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “Quack.”
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I consider taking off, but that would look dumber than staying and taking the ribbing I’ll get when they hear about me walking down the street flapping my arms. He’ll tell it worse if I’m not here. Besides, if I can get to know these teens, they’re my best chance of learning about Malemese diamonds.
The game ends at dusk, which falls pretty fast here, the sun being as inadequate for its task as this stupid leather ball is for its. He saunters up, heart-stoppingly gorgeous except for the wicked gleam in his eye. “Not bad,” he says, and smirks, just so I know he’s thinking, for a duck, but he doesn’t say it.
“You, too,” I say without smiling.
Two guys and a girl from the other team come up then. “Hey, Jumal,” one of them says to my tormentor. He’s a little shorter than Jumal, about my height, with curly hair. He nods to me. “You could be on our team,” he offers. “Micah,” he adds.
I’m tempted, but I figure it’s better to have Jumal as a team-mate than an opponent. “Thanks, Micah.” I smile. “Might as well stay with the one I started on, if that’s okay.” I glance at Jumal.
Jaro would definitely not give me a pass for that glance. It’s not a let’s-be-friends kind of look. More of a no-more-of-that-duck-crap look.
Jumal shrugs, but it’s a friendly shrug, more or less. The others come over and introduce themselves, now that the team leaders have accepted me.
I catch myself grinning on the walk back to Prophet’s Lane. I wonder if they play every evening. I kick a stone between my feet down the street, then send it flying into an alley. Two girls on my team looked friendly, they might talk to me. I’m going to clear up some of the mystery of the diamonds before I leave, after all.
I open the door to our house quietly. Hamza and Agatha often go to sleep early, but tonight I hear them talking in the dining room. I’m about to call out when Hamza mentions my name. I stand still, half inside the door, listening.
“She is hiding something from us.”
“I know,” Agatha answers.
“Why haven’t you learned her secret?”
There’s silence for a minute, then Agatha’s voice again. “She’ll tell me if I need to know. It can’t be anything important to our task.”
“She thinks it’s important. It’s got to do with Malemese diamonds, and they are very important here.”
“I trust her.”
“Malem is a dangerous place for foreigners. Neither of you realize yet just how dangerous. We have to know what she’s hiding from us.”
I step back outside and very slowly close the door. How had I forgotten you can’t keep something from a Select? I consider going to the inn where the pilot and the engineer are staying, but all my things, including the secret diamond Hamza and Agatha are on the verge of guessing about, are inside this house. I count to twenty and noisily open the door, kicking off my heavy boots. I head straight for the room I share with Agatha and close the door. I pull off my robe, reach quickly into my bag till I find the leather pouch, and seal it in my jumpsuit pocket.
It’s too precious to bury, so I carry it with me all the next day, but that’s even worse. I don’t want to think about what will happen to me if I’m found with it. It lies like a bomb in my pocket. No wonder my father hid it so well and never told anyone.
I’m sure everyone will see the bulge in my jumpsuit pocket, which isn’t actually there but I pat it so often to make sure there’s no bulge, there might as well be one. When Hamza and Agatha are out—he’s finally taking her to meet people he knows here—I sew the pouch into the hem of my robe.
The kickball gang isn’t there the next evening, and the day after that is Friday. Hamza insists we stay home all day. I don’t see them Saturday, either. I wonder if it was a one-off, or if they decided to play somewhere else and not tell me. But then, why did they ask me which team I wanted to be on? Sunday Hamza and Agatha expect me to stay in after dinner for the O.U.B. tradition of prayers and meditation. Well, Agatha doesn’t expect it, but Hamza obviously does, and I don’t want him getting even more suspicious of me than he already is.
By Monday I’m sure there’s no regular game, or if there is, they’ve given up on me. I’m almost surprised when I find them there, kicking the ball around, limbering up while they wait for everyone to arrive. I ask Mehda, a girl on our team, if Jumal’
s coming, not sure whether I’m disappointed or relieved that he isn’t here.
“He usually comes,” she says. “He lives with his uncle, who’s a priest. Sometimes he has to help with a ceremony. It’s part of his training.” She looks like this is a really big deal, like Jumal is someone special. I think of his sardonic smile and the way he says “quack,” just to get to me, and I can’t imagine him as a priest, or helping with holy observances. Mehda obviously can, though, so I keep my thoughts to myself.
Mehda’s older sister, Kaline, comes over with the ball. She’s shy, so she doesn’t talk, but kicks the ball around a bit, trying to control it, before passing it to Mehda. Kaline could use the practice, but Mehda’s good, she’s fast and always in control of the ball. She passes it to me, and I practice, trying to forget the rubber balls I’m used to and get a feel for this one. I haven’t quite got it but I’m improving when Mehda moves in, hooks the ball and passes it to Kaline, who stumbles a bit, leaving herself wide open, before she gets control of it.
I look up and see Jumal watching us. How long has he been there? Kaline notices him then and kicks the ball in his direction so we can start. He moves to intercept it with no indication that she sent it sideways. Am I the only one he mocks?
Kaline’s and Mehda’s brother, Emilian, is on Micah’s team. Once, during the game, Kaline runs with the ball into Emilian’s area, and he lets her get a shot in even though he could easily have checked it. No one on either team comments.
They’d probably let me play even if I was a handicap, like Kaline and a few others, but just playing isn’t what I want. I have to impress them so they’ll stay and talk to me afterwards. Besides, I like to win.
I watch the other players, especially those on Micah’s team. Salua runs fast but she can’t kick. Emilian makes good kicks but he’s slow. Hamil is as much of a handicap for them as Kaline is on our team. Micah, like Jumal, is a natural athlete, good at all the moves in the game. That’s probably why they’re the team captains. I’ll avoid him when I get the ball.
The fourth time I play with them, I’m confident enough to move into serious competitive action. I hook the ball away from Hamil three times—why in the universe do his team-mates ever send it to him?—and twice I intercept Salua’s kicks. I score three goals by myself and pass the ball twice to Jumal. Near the end of the game, he turns aside when I’m ready to send it to him, so I pass it to Pica, instead, the other good player on our team. We win by a lightyear.
No one congratulates me. Instead of gathering to cheer over winning the game, my team-mates drift away without speaking. I stare after them until they’ve all turned down other streets.
The next morning Agatha cuts short her language lesson, saying she’ll practice on her own till my mood improves. I pull on my robe to go out after lunch, but a dense fog has rolled over the city. It envelopes me immediately on stepping outside. There’s no point walking the streets blindly. We all stay cooped up inside.
I arrive late the next evening, after arguing with myself about coming at all. The game has already started. I approach, my expression neutral, but Jumal nods me into the play without comment. His face is as expressionless as a Select’s. I brace myself, expecting to be checked hard now that they know I’m good. Instead, I’m not checked at all. Every shot is an easy shot. After four scores I begin deliberately avoiding the ball in a way that makes my anger clear. Then I think, what the hell, and I rack up every goal I can, in a fury. If they want to lose, let them. Micah’s team congratulates us afterwards with excessive humility.
“Hey,” Jumal says to me. He waits till everyone else has cleared out, then says, “You’re messing up here.”
“I’m not the one messing up. I’m the only one playing!”
“Making bad choices.”
Bad choices? What is that, priest-in-training talk? “Who gave you the right to comment on my choices?”
“I brought you in,” he says. “I vouched for you. You’re making me look bad.”
I stare at him.
“I passed you the ball,” he says, as though talking to an idiot. “I accepted you on my team.” He emphasizes the word ‘team’.
I’m getting it now, but I’m too mad to care. “Guess you made a bad choice,” I snap.
Jumal’s face is as stiff as mine when we turn our backs on each other and leave.
I don’t need their friendship.
I don’t need anyone.
But I was one of them. Not like at trader school, where I was an outcast because my father was weird and he only owned one ship. Not like the college where everyone competes and the other students only talk to me because I know some language better than they do. (Except maybe Jaro, a part of me thinks.) But here, they just accepted me for no reason at all.
And now they’ve rejected me for no reason at all.
I shrug. I don’t care.
So why do I go back the next night? I tell myself on the walk there, I just want to pick their brains. I won’t even look at Jumal. I don’t care if I don’t make friends, or help my ‘team’ win the game. I’m going to get Kaline and Mehda to talk to me about Malemese diamonds after the game and then I won’t need to see any of them again.
As soon as I get the ball I pass it to Kaline and block the better players until she finally makes a score. I do this twice more, till Kaline becomes so flustered she can barely play at all, so I ease off and stay on the sidelines—not quite out of the game, not really in it.
Our teams are tied, and it’s already dusk. I look up to find Jumal watching me. He nods quickly, then moves in and hooks the ball, and passes it to me.
Is this some kind of a test? What does he expect me to do? Win the game for them, or lose it? No one’s guarding me. I have a clear shot anywhere I want to send it.
As the ball shoots toward me, I look for Kaline. Forget their stupid approval, just get her to like me and answer my questions. They were mad when I won for them, let them deal with me losing the game for them. But Kaline’s on the far side of the street, blocked by better players and not even looking my way.
I have a clear shot to Mehda, but Mehda’s well guarded. She probably won’t be able to make a hit even if she’s able to hook the ball.
If I send the ball to Mehda or Kaline, Jumal will know I deliberately lost the game, even after his nod to me. I push the thought aside, and the funny feeling it gives me. Because I know Mehda will be grateful to have her chance even if she can’t score; she hasn’t had the ball once this game. And then I can talk to Kaline and Mehda, who always walk home together, and that will be the end of it. Jumal won’t want me on his team any more, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning me away.
I hook the ball, kick it from foot to foot a moment and shoot it toward Mehda. Mehda leaps in front of the kid guarding her and hooks it, and kicks it hard toward the goal. But there are too many others nearby. Micah stops it, turns it and kicks it back. Jumal dives sideways, but the ball is already past him and through the goal, and Micah’s team has won.
Jumal goes over to Mehda and says something that makes her smile, before he turns toward me. He’s probably telling her I knew she couldn’t score, that it’s my fault we lost, not hers. He knows I threw the game.
I turn to leave. There’s no point trying to talk to Medha or Kaline now that Jumal’s got to them first.
“Hey, duckling.” His nickname for me since I’ve been playing with them. I really want to hate it, now more than ever, but I can’t stop myself from looking back.
“Good play,” he says.
I’m as lost for words as the first time he said “Quack,” and just as frustrated.
Kaline and Mehda wave at me, smiling. Go with it, I tell myself, and wave back. It’s too late tonight, but next week when we play I’ll find a chance to talk to them. None of it makes sense at all, they’re all backwards here, but as I walk home I keep hearing him say, good play, and I can’t help grinning.
The next morning, Hamza’s housekeeper answers
a knock at the door and calls us to receive a royal message. Select Hamza translates so Agatha can follow the Malemese, “On the third day of the seventh month—that’s tomorrow—” he says, “your presence is requested in Her Majesty’s reception chamber, at ten o’clock in the morning.”
The tiny line between his eyebrows reappears.
Chapter Sixteen
The three-story stone palace sprawls across several acres of land at the southern edge of the city. It isn’t the Newtarion Embassy, but after the cramped confines of the city, it looks almost as luxurious to me. The groundcover shines silver in the rare sunlight, and up against the walls of the palace is a line of shrubbery with purple and white blossoms, the first flowers I’ve seen here. Behind the palace is a thick woods and at the edge, where the trees thin out, I can see the ocean, dark gray waves tossing against a white and gray sky lit up with sunshine.
A guard lets us through the gate and escorts us to the palace door, where another guard ushers us into a large waiting room. A number of Malemese stand quietly about the room.
I’m becoming accustomed to rooms with sparse furnishings. It makes them seem more spacious on this planet where every inch of land is precious. This room is huge by Malemese standards—at least fifteen feet square, with a ceiling that must be nine feet high.
I’ve never been presented to a Queen before. My stomach’s doing flip flops as I wait. I don’t look at Hamza because even though it doesn’t show on his face I know how he feels about us being here, and I don’t want this spoiled by his constant gloominess. I glance around at the Malemese in the room, wondering if any of them are related to the King and Queen. Hamza told us the Royal couple and their children—if they have any, which these don’t—are the only ones considered royalty. The Queen was a commoner until the King married her, and the King’s own brother will live his life as a commoner unless something happens to the King and he has to assume the throne. Apparently he’s a lot younger than the King; three siblings between them died in the plague.
The Occasional Diamond Thief Page 12