The door to the reception chamber opens. I catch a glimpse of walls hung with tapestries depicting land- and sea-scapes of Malem. Along the far wall a row of tall, narrow windows lets in the bright daylight. The guard signals us to enter. On a raised platform at the far end of the room are three high-backed, elaborately-carved wood armchairs—the most profligate use of wood I’ve seen on Malem. The Queen is seated on the middle chair, her back regally straight.
Our footsteps echo on the stone floor as we approach, our heads bowed. Out of the corner of my eye I see her tap her fingers lightly on the arm of her chair. A huge Malemese diamond sparkles on one of those fingers.
Agatha and I curtsey low in front of her, Hamza bowing beside us. Coming up, I glance quickly at the Queen. She is wearing a dark blue robe that follows the lines of her willowy figure, the wool fine and soft and embroidered at neck and bodice with intricate designs in gold thread. Her raven hair is tightly bound behind her head, revealing a heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes are large and wide-set, rimmed by long black lashes that make a striking contrast against her sand-brown skin. She looks only a little older than Agatha—early thirties, maybe—and I remember Hamza telling us the King assumed the throne at age sixteen, when his parents died in the plague, and married the Queen that year. She turns her head slightly, catches me looking at her and returns a gaze so cold and imperious I quickly look back down.
“Select,” the Queen nods stiffly to Hamza. “And this must be the new Select.” She looks at Agatha with even more disdain than she turned on Hamza.
“And your servant.”
Not sure what to do, I bob my head nervously and glance up again. The Queen is staring at me with an expression of animosity.
I can barely swallow. Now, too late, I believe everything Hamza said about this woman. Why has she called us here? And why did she include me, whom she believes to be a mere servant, in the invitation?
“The new Select’s language teacher, your Majesty, not a servant,” Hamza murmurs with another bow.
The Queen waves her hand, as though an insect has irritated her.
“Your name?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I swallow. “Kia, your Majesty.” Why is she interested in me? A feeling of dread settles in my gut.
She taps her fingers once against the arm of her chair. “Your full name.”
“Kia… Ugiagbe.”
“As I thought. Seize her!”
I freeze in a half-curtsey, disbelieving, while two guards hurry forward and grab my arms.
“What’s happening?” Agatha cries in Edoan.
“Select!” I cry. Hamza does not move or speak but his eyes dart between the Queen and me.
“Take her to prison,” the Queen orders.
“No!” Agatha cries in Malemese. Then, in Edoan, “What are they doing—”
“Quiet!” Hamza hisses in Edoan.
“We can’t just let her be taken away!” Agatha appears about to throw herself in front of the guards as they start to drag me out, but Hamza grabs her and pulls her back.
“You are here to help the people of Malem, to bring them into the Alliance. Don’t sacrifice that for one insignificant girl.” They’re both speaking Edoan in tense undertones. A third guard stations himself beside them, his hand on his lead-arm.
They stand there watching as I’m dragged out of the room.
“Your Majesty, please allow us to know the girl’s crime,” I hear Hamza say formally in Malemese as the door closes behind me.
The guards march me out of the palace at a brisk pace. I stumble trying to keep up, clumsy with fear. People avert their eyes as we march through the city. We pass the center square and stop at a building adjacent to the square. Its windows are high up and tiny, with iron grid work instead of glass. The door opens at a sharp knock by one of my captors, and they hustle me inside. I trip on the stone step, banging my shin against it, sending a sharp stab of pain up my left leg. They ignore my cry.
There are three more men inside, dressed in the same long, dark robes everyone on Malem wears, but with stylized gray and yellow insignias sewn onto their shoulders. They all wear wide belts with leather holsters holding their lead-arms on their right hips.
The guard stationed at a door in the back of the office opens it at a barked command from one of my captors. They pull me across the room and through this door to a dark stone hallway with narrow iron doors at regular intervals on each side.
Voices call out to us along the hallway. Behind the grid work in one or two of the doors I see dirty faces peering out at me. A low moaning comes from one of the cells and from another, a monotonous, hopeless weeping. I can barely take it all in as I stumble between the two guards, terrified. One of the guards opens a door and they shove me into a small stone cell. The door clangs shut.
I am alone in the cell. There’s a narrow metal cot bolted to the far wall with a tiny barred window above it, a stained washbasin and an equally grubby toilet. I take two unsteady steps and sink down onto the cot.
Why am I here? Even as I ask the question, I know the answer: because of my name. My father’s name. That’s all the Queen wanted to know. I no longer have any doubt he stole the diamond. Either he got away before they discovered the theft or there wasn’t enough proof at the time to convict him. But now they have me. The Queen clearly thinks that’s just as good.
A plate of food is delivered through the slot in my door at dinnertime. I hear a clamor of questions and pleas from other prisoners as their food is delivered, but no response from the guard, so I don’t try to speak to him. I eat the fish and fried bean mash in silence, concentrating on the taste and the sensation of warmth filling me from the inside. Briefly, as I eat, I stop shaking.
And then I am back to sitting on my cot staring at the metal door, waiting. Where are Agatha and Hamza? Why don’t they come? The gray at my window turns to black. Finally, I lie down, pull the blanket around me and fall into a fitful sleep.
I wake in the night shivering so hard the cot shakes beneath me. The wind howls outside my barred window. The wall is thick and the window is cut into it at an angle, so neither the wind nor the rain actually reach into my cell, but a steady cold draft keeps the room clammy and freezing, and the sound of the wind howling and moaning unnerves me. Tomorrow Agatha and Hamza will come and get me out, I tell myself. Surely tomorrow they’ll come.
They don’t. Nor do they come the next day. I try to remember whether it’s a holy day, and tell myself they have to get permission, but all I can think about is Hamza reminding Agatha of the importance of their mission while I was being dragged away, and of my comparative unimportance. Will they just leave me here?
There’s nothing to do in this bare little cell but think, and worry. If only I knew what happened when my father was here. How can I defend myself when I don’t know anything? I go over every word of our audience at the palace. There’s got to be some clue there, if I can uncover it. What is your name? Your full name? That’s all the Queen said. And when I told her my name, she wasn’t surprised. So she already suspected I was related to him, which means she knew him personally, knew what he looked like.
I stand up and pace the floor of my cell, trying to puzzle it out. Why would the Queen know a ship’s captain, a foreigner delivering supplies and picking up the Select?
Supplies that came too late to save the princess. What if this isn’t about the diamond at all? Maybe she hates my father because he came too late?
I imagine my father arriving at the palace with the needed medicine, and the Queen meeting him there with her dead daughter in her arms. A bit melodramatic, but wouldn’t a mother—a normal mother, not mine—hate forever the man who could have saved her child if he hadn’t arrived too late?
The more I think about it, the more this seems possible. She looked disdainful when she greeted the Select, but she looked angry when she looked at me, like she despised me. How many black people come here? Agatha’s white, and Hamza’s brown-skinned lik
e the Malemese and the Iterrians. But I’m black, like my father. She just needed to hear the name to be sure.
If she blames him for her daughter’s death, will his daughter’s death seem justified to her? I stop pacing, horrified at the thought. A cold gust of wind from the window starts me shivering and once I start I can’t stop. I sit on the cot and wrap the blanket tightly around me.
It seems to me there’s something else I should remember. I go over the brief audience again and again. I’m missing something… but I can’t recall it. If only I could talk to Agatha or Hamza, they might remember. Where are Hamza and Agatha?
On the third day I break down and ask the guard whether anyone will be allowed to see me. I’m so desperate I ask a favor—would he get a note to Agatha?—even though he’s my superior in position here. He ignores me, silently shoving my plate of food through the slot and moving on to the next cell.
I eat, although I’m not hungry. The low moaning I’ve heard since I arrived pauses long enough to eat, then resumes. Across from me the weeping is intermittent now. Is the prisoner dying?
There’s no message the next day, or the next. I sit in my cell, silent and cold, looking up at the tiny window. I eat my meals.
One morning a female guard lets me out of my cell and takes me to a small room with a tub full of water. The water is cold and I have to undress and bathe in front of her but it’s worth it to feel clean again. When I’m escorted back to my cell a Malemese man is standing in it. I think he’s another prisoner at first. My eyes dart to the blanket.
“I am Prad Gaelig,” he says. “Is there anything you need?”
I stare at him. I need to get out of here. I don’t bother to say it. He wouldn’t have asked if that was a possible answer.
“Are you being fed? Have you been beaten?”
“No. Yes. I’m fed, I haven’t been hurt.” Why are you here, I want to ask. I’ve read about prisoners receiving a final meal of their own choosing before being executed. I feel my legs get shaky and sit down on the edge of the cot before he notices.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.” I can barely get the word out. I’m not sure I want him to tell me.
He frowns. “You were told your crime before you were brought here.”
“No.”
“What was said in the court?”
“Court?” I sound like an idiot, but what is he talking about?
“How did you come here?”
“The Queen ordered her guards to bring me.” There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. Where have I seen him before?
His eyes narrow. He calls for the guard.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
But the guard has arrived and is opening the door. Prad Gaelig, whoever he is, leaves without answering me.
I replay his face, his expression when he spoke to me… Suddenly I straighten. I know why he looked familiar. I have seen him before: he stood on the platform in the square, wielding the axe of punishment.
And now I know why he came.
I don’t cry. It’s too late for crying. I lie awake staring into the darkness. For once the chill of the room doesn’t bother me. For once, I do not want to see the sun.
I wait for them to come for me the next morning. Every step in the hallway fills me with dread, but the day passes and no guards come. I lie awake again the next night wondering about death, and trying not to think of what punishment Prad Gaelig might be practicing for.
The next day I’m allowed another bath. I hold myself rigid, trying not to let the guard see me shaking with fear. The Malemese dislike public displays of emotion, and I’m too proud to let her see my weakness. All I can think is: what day of the week is it? Is it Friday? I am afraid to ask. The soap falls from my hands several times before I give up. I’m clean enough for them to murder. When I’m dressed, the guard escorts me to the front room. I walk with my back straight and my head erect. Itohan Ugiagbe’s daughter will not cringe.
Two palace guards are waiting for me. “Hold out your hands,” one of them orders, and when I do, he ties my hands together. Looping the end of the rope over his arm, he leads me out the door. The second guard falls into step behind me.
They march me to the square.
And across it. It’s empty. No crowds, no platform, no executioner-priest waiting for me. I am so numb with relief I can barely walk. The guard behind moves up and grabs my arm, supporting me, until I regain my strength.
Suddenly I know what it is I’ve been trying to remember from my audience with the Queen. It’s the last thing I heard before the door closed and I was dragged away. Hamza asked to know what my crime was. She had me arrested, but she never accused me of anything. Even if it was my father’s crime, she should have said what it was. I should have remembered that when Prad Gaelig asked what my crime was, but then he talked about court and confused me.
She didn’t accuse me of anything. Is it something she can’t prove? Something she isn’t sure of? I feel a surge of hope. Then I think: is it something so awful she doesn’t want anyone else to know? Would she have me murdered in secret?
“Where—” I swallow, forcing the quiver out of my voice, and raise my chin. “Where are we going?”
“To the palace.”
The palace? She wouldn’t have me murdered in the palace. Would she? Or perhaps the king has returned? Hamza spoke well of the king.
They don’t take me to the audience chamber, but up a flight of stairs and down several corridors to a medium-sized sitting room. One of the guards remains with me while the other stations himself at the door. I breathe deeply. Whether or not the King has returned, I will need to be very careful in what I say. If only I knew what my father did here!
The Queen enters and orders the guards to wait outside the door.
I am again at the mercy of this merciless Queen. I drop to my knees. “Whatever I have done to offend you, I am sorry for it, Your Majesty,” I say with my head bowed.
“Get up.”
The Queen watches me coldly as I stand. “What is Ugiagbe to you?” she demands, dispensing with the elaborate hedging and apostasy that’s integral to formal Malemese.
I consider lying, but if she asks the Select they will not lie. “Itohan Ugiagbe was my father.”
“Was?”
“He caught the Malemese fever. He is dead.”
“Was he buried with all his possessions?”
I try not to look startled by her question. “We don’t do that on Seraffa, Your Majesty.”
“What do you do?”
“We gave his clothes to the poor.”
“His clothes? What do I care about his clothes?”
It is about the diamond. Why is she dancing around the question this way? She isn’t sure he had it, I think. He wasn’t ever convicted. If I can convince her I don’t know anything about it…
“My guards have searched your possessions. What do you think they found?” She sits back, watching me. “It is treason to lie to me.”
She has the diamond. I have to confess. It isn’t like I stole it—I could just give it to her… ‘It is a sacrilege for a foreigner to own one,’ Hamza’s comment comes back to me. It won’t matter who took it, if it’s found in my bags.
Is sacrilege worse, or treason? I think of the man on the scaffold. My stomach lurches. I grit my teeth: I can’t throw up on the Queen’s shoes!
“Answer me!”
I feel sweat forming on my brow. Why does she need a confession at all, if they found the diamond? And why is she questioning me alone in this room deep inside the palace, without even a guard present? I look up, filled with indecision—
—And fall to my knees, bowing my head again at once. The Queen isn’t angry; she’s terrified. Oh God, I should never have looked up. And then to react so strongly! The Queen must know I saw her fear. An off-worlder has seen the Queen of Malem afraid.
The silence in the room is unbearable. I can barely breathe. I fight to ho
ld back tears, until I realize that they might save me. I let them fall then, let my breath become audibly ragged, my shoulders shake.
“Majesty,” I sob, “I’m afraid.” Am I overdoing this? “I don’t know what you want, I don’t understand your questions,” I sob. This is it, I think. I’m committed to defending my ignorance now. If they found the diamond in the hem of my robe, I’m lost.
“Stop that.” The Queen’s voice is cold, filled with disgust. I am a distasteful, pathetic foreigner, lacking the dignity to control my emotions. I’ve never been so happy to be the recipient of someone’s scorn. I wipe my tear-streaked face with my sleeve: another gaffe. See how ignorant I am, Your Majesty? Nothing for you to be afraid of.
Should I plea for mercy? I open my mouth, hesitating in indecision…
The door to the chamber flies open. I feel the Queen’s start of surprise although I dare not look up again. Light footsteps rapidly approach.
I know those footsteps. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder.
Agatha is rushing across the room toward me.
Chapter Seventeen
Agatha’s appearance dries my tears at once. I have no intention of crying in front of her a third time. Fortunately, the Queen is too startled to notice.
“Your Majesty—” Agatha reaches my side and drops into a low curtsey.
I groan inwardly. She used the familiar ‘you’, between friends. At least she got the inflection indicating the power differential correct. Don’t speak! I think fiercely to her. You’ll just make things worse.
“This my…” Agatha hesitates, obviously trying to come up with the right word, and gives up. “…girl,” she continues, blithely unaware of her atrocious pronunciation. “If she offends, I have the blame. Sit on me.”
Sit on me? She means ‘punish me’. She forgot the diphthong! But I hold my silence. The Queen is silent also. Probably no one has ever asked her to sit on them before. I bite down an urge to giggle.
“Sit on me,” Agatha repeats earnestly, “And let her go pee.”
The Occasional Diamond Thief Page 13