The Occasional Diamond Thief

by J. A. McLachlan

  “You may talk at your trial.” The Queen snaps.

  “Now. In private.” It comes out a croak, my throat so dry I can barely push the sounds out. “Please, listen to me. The Select’s life is at your mercy!”

  “She made the choice to risk CoVir. Every life is at its mercy.” The Queen glares at me, “And at the mercy of the law, which you have broken!” Her voice rises, frantic with rage. It’s that room, the princess’s room. She’ll never forgive me for seeing it.

  I hear boots pounding up the stairs.

  “What’s going on here?” the King asks with deliberate calm. “Do you know this person?”

  “She’s a servant to the Select.” The Queen makes a dismissive gesture with her hand.

  Behind me, I hear the guards running down the hall toward us. “Please, Your Highness! Please! The Select has done nothing but good for your people!” I’m sobbing, I can’t help it. Agatha’s life as well as mine is at stake, and I’ve blown it, completely blown it!

  A guard’s hand drops on my shoulder, pushing me down as his other hand twists my right arm behind me. Pain shoots up my arm.

  “Search her for weapons,” the King says.

  I am yanked to my feet. Behind me I hear the click of a lead-arm. I stand still, trying hard not to shake while one of the guards pats me down.

  “No weapons, Your Highness.”

  “Very well.” He looks at me. I make myself look as pathetic as possible, which isn’t hard at the moment. “Bring her into the… the breakfast room.”

  I glance at the Queen. Her face is turning purple. Her mouth forms a thin line of rage as she turns to follow her husband into a room down the hallway. The guard pushes me forward, his hand still gripping my shoulder.

  They stop me just inside the room. At the far end a large bay window is curtained against the night, with a broad, padded chair and foot stool on either side of it. The only other furniture is a small, square table, large enough for four to dine at, though two of the chairs have been pushed against the side wall. Three light globes, recessed into the walls, activate as we enter, casting a dim light over the room.

  “Close the doors and step back,” the King says. The guard with his fist bruising my shoulder hesitates, as though he wants to object.

  The king raises one eyebrow.

  The hand drops from my shoulder. I hear them shuffle back to wait by the door.

  I bow—or should I curtsey? It’s a little late for either—as the Queen settles on one of the chairs against the wall, the King standing near her. He looks expectantly at me, and I can’t say anything. Because now I’m certain whose diamond my father took, but I still have no idea how to return it. It has to be done carefully, in private, so no crime can be recorded. And this is definitely not the audience for it.

  “You may start by telling us how you got in here this evening.”

  He can’t really imagine their palace is well-guarded? “I… I broke a window—but I’ll pay for it,” I add quickly, aware of the guards listening behind me, “—at the back of the palace. I’m sorry. I had to see you.”

  “We have doors for that.”

  “—alone.”

  “So now, because you are getting your wish, you will think your criminal act paid off.” The Queen shoots an angry look at the King, which he ignores.

  “I believe the Select’s life is in danger.” I look at the King as I say it.

  “So do we all,” the Queen says.

  “Not from CoVir. From the High Priest.”

  A look of astonishment crosses the Queen’s face, quickly followed by outrage. Before she can speak the King says sternly, “You make a serious allegation against the head of our faith.”

  “I have reason to think it, Your Majesty.” I hesitate. Is it safe to speak in front of the guards? The King nods sharply for me to go on, so I explain that I was abducted and held against my will by the High Priest since the night after Agatha announced her intent to stay at the fever house. This draws a second look of outrage from the Queen. “He told me the Select is going to die in the fever hut,” I finish.

  “What were his exact words?” the King asks.

  “‘You don’t really think she’ll survive two weeks in the fever hut, do you?’” I recite the words reluctantly. They sound more like speculation than a threat; it was Jumal’s reaction that made them alarming.

  “That’s it?” The King asks. “On that comment alone you accuse him of contemplating murder?”

  I open my mouth to tell him about Select Hamza, but before speaking I glance sideways. The Queen’s face is rigid. She’s staring at me with a mixture of rage and fear.

  What if she was in on it? She would deny it, and the body would be gone when the King’s guards arrived. And those who murdered him would know I had seen his body.

  I look back at the King helplessly. “Has he ever been wrong?” I ask. But Jumal’s damning comment doesn’t sound very convincing coming from me.

  “All the more reason to respect his wisdom,” the Queen says coldly.

  I hate to do this. I’ve been the center of a family feud before and I hate to do this to him, but it’s nighttime and there’s a curfew, and Agatha’s alone. “Jumal agrees with me. What if we’re right, Jumal and I? What if she’s murdered and you were warned and you didn’t try to stop it?” If the King hates the O.U.B. as much as the Queen does I’m dead. We’re both dead, Agatha and I.

  Am I being paranoid? I sound paranoid. Everyone down here can’t be a murderer. I look at them closely: the King looks thoughtful. The Queen looks furious, but not… not secretive; not alarmed so much as insulted. I take a deep breath, and I make my choice: “Like the other Select.”

  “You are saying the Select who is missing has been murdered?” the King says. He looks ready to order the guards to haul me away.

  “I have proof, Your Majesties.” I close my eyes. If the Queen was involved, I’m lost. I open my eyes and look directly at the King. “I found his body. I can show you—your guards—where it is, but they have to come with me to the fever hut to guard the Select.”

  I hold my breath while the King examines me. What is he thinking? Did he know my father? Did he hate him, blame him for his daughter’s death as the Queen does? Anything, anything at all could tip the balance…

  He nods, and I breathe again. “I will send two of my men with you. If you can show them a body, I will make sure the Select is protected.” He holds his arm out to the Queen.

  “I will wait here while you arrange it,” she says. “I have something to say to this girl.”

  The King looks about to protest. The Queen raises her chin. “The house guards are at the door,” she says. She leans back in her chair, watching me through narrowed eyes as the King leaves the room. As soon as he’s gone, she orders the guards to wait outside and close the door. They do so reluctantly.

  This is my chance to talk to her alone—and I’m not sure I want to. I’ve got what I need. The guards will come with me to protect Agatha as soon as they see Hamza’s body. I don’t have to give up my father’s diamond.

  The pouch burns in my jumpsuit pocket.

  Put things right, Agatha said. Still I hesitate. If I tell, offer the diamond to her, will that save Agatha’s life, or condemn us both? Everything depends on the Queen and I don’t trust the Queen. It occurs to me that it’s fortunate I was in jail when Hamza went missing; no one can pin this on me.

  Her face looks weary and older in the dull light. She leans against the back of the chair as though needing its support. I follow her gaze to the line of curtains, staunchly holding back the night. The sweep of an arm could undo their vigilance and darkness would flood in over the dim wall lights. I lift my arm a little toward the nearest globe, accidentally casting a shadow over the Queen’s face. She startles. I drop my arm. The same fear that I surprised there once before stares out of her wide dark eyes.

  My father’s voice whispers: Take it, Sariah, it’s yours.

  I take a deep breath. �
�Your Majesty, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  “It is too late.” Her voice is low and tight. “That’s what I stayed to tell you: it is too late. Keep your secret, if you wish to live.”

  I am tempted. More than I’ve ever been before. And I am very good at succumbing to temptation, believe me. But I hear Agatha’s nagging voice say, Put things right, and my own voice, promising, I’ll do it. Those may be the last words we ever say to each other. Before I can change my mind, I reach into my pocket and pull out the pouch. My fingers curl around it in a protective fist. Protective and possessive. I force them open to reveal the little leather pouch that I have shown no one in all the years I’ve had it.

  “I was at my father’s bedside when he died, Your Majesty. He gave me this, in secret trust.”

  The Queen stares coldly down at my palm. “Your father stole one of our diamonds?”

  “I don’t believe so, Your Majesty. His last wish was to give it back to you.” I avoid her eyes. I’m telling her I lied when she questioned me four weeks ago. But if she accuses me of it, she’s admitting it’s hers.

  She has to admit it. She has to take the heart stone back. How has she concealed its loss for so long?

  “He told you it was mine?” She laughs. “I have my heart stone.” She flashes her diamond ring at me. “The heart stones of the Royals pass from King to King and Queen to Queen this way, always on display for the people we serve.”

  Am I wrong? Was my father speaking of someone else? I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hallway toward us. My open hand trembles. The Queen sits smiling carelessly at me.

  “I advise you to put it away.”

  The footsteps stop outside the door. We hear the King’s voice as the guards open it.

  “Hide it, quickly,” the Queen hisses.

  I close my hand, concealing the pouch in my fist as the King enters with two of his men. I don’t turn around. I stare at the Queen, waiting…

  “Stop,” she says. “We haven’t finished talking.”

  The King gives her a puzzled look. “Wait outside,” he tells his men.

  The Queen watches the King as his men depart. Her face is indecisive. I see it harden: an off-worlder sneaking around our rooms at night. What is her word worth? The Queen’s decision is as clear as though she said the words out loud. I have to make her change her mind—but how?

  “Tell him your story.” The Queen leans back casually, a mocking smile on her face. I can still see fear at the corners of her eyes, beneath the scorn. The King won’t see that. He’ll want to believe his wife.

  As much of the truth as possible, I remind myself.

  I hold out my hand, exposing the leather pouch to the King. The Queen looks eager to take it now, she’s only waiting for me to tell my story so she can deny it. Her eyes are already taking on a false look of outrage.

  “The Select told me to give this to you when I spoke with her at the fever house.”

  The Queen draws a sharp intake of breath. The King’s attention is fixed on my palm. He hesitates a moment, as though he, too, is afraid of what I might say.

  Then he reaches for the pouch. My fingers curl reflexively as he does; I have to force myself to let him take it. He sees the gesture and looks at me. Behind him, I see the Queen clasp her hands together in her lap, her knuckles white with the force of her grasp. I open my hand for the King.

  The King unties the thongs of the pouch and tips the diamond into his hand. He stares down at it for a long moment, before he looks at the Queen. She looks back at him, barely breathing. Her eyes are wide in her pale, still face.

  “How did the Select come by this?” he asks, still looking at his wife.

  “She found it in the fever house.” I glance at the Queen. “The Select will confirm this, if necessary.” God, I hope not, I think, looking steadily into the Queen’s eyes. I hate using back-up. It’s never reliable.

  “It must have been left there by a distraught parent whose child died,” I add.

  The King looks at me. I give him my most innocent look, the one I practiced for hours in the mirror before my interview with the Adept.

  He looks back at the Queen, then down at the diamond. “By the time she realized it was missing,” he says slowly, his voice so low he might be talking to himself, “she had forgotten where she’d misplaced it.”

  “Yes,” the Queen says, leaning toward him.

  Gently, as though she is still that grieving woman, he places the diamond in her hands and folds them together around it. She bends her head. He draws his thumbs across the corners of her eyes, wiping away the dampness that gathers there.

  I turn away to give them privacy, and let my breath out slowly. I’m right. I should have thought of it earlier, but I was so sure it was the Queen’s diamond.

  “It is a miracle,” I hear the King whisper.

  “Well.” The Queen says, sounding a bit uncomfortable.

  I feel myself warm a little to her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Two of my men are waiting to go with you,” The King says, breaking away from his wife and coming up to me. “They have been told what you claim you will show them.”

  “And they’ll come with me to guard the fever hut? And the Select who found the heart stone?” I’m pushing it, I know.

  He raises an eyebrow. I feel reprimanded but I don’t back down. “You are a persistent person. Yes, they will go with you to guard her until she comes out. I can spare them one night.”

  I’m halfway through “Thank you, Your Highness,” when his words hit me. One night? I calculate quickly. He’s right, this is her last night there, and suddenly I’m desperate to leave. He sees it in my face.

  “Show them your proof, first,” he warns me. He opens the door and signals to his men: “Go with her.”

  We are stopped several times on our way through the city. The patrols let me pass, reluctantly, only when they recognize the King’s men. I watch the King’s guards go from surprise at their persistence, to irritation, to thoughtfulness after the third encounter. The fourth patrol doesn’t stop us, which frightens me more than being stopped did.

  “Hurry!” I urge the guards, breaking into a jog. They increase their speed without any questions. When we reach the road out of the city, I start running.

  I lead them to the secret path—the priests’ shortcut to the fever hut—and then I wonder if that’s a mistake. The High Priest must know by now that I took this pathway to escape his guard. We are utterly alone, without even the possibility of witnesses to curb the High Priest’s actions. What if he’s already sent his men to meet us on the route? Would he dare dispose of a King’s guard? But it’s more likely he’s sent someone to take care of Agatha before we arrive, so I strike out onto the first underwater pathway, calling them to follow.

  It’s pitch dark outside the little beams of the guards’ hand lights. I have to focus on finding the hidden path. When I realize the next island is the one where I buried Hamza in leaves, I fight down the urge to vomit as a vivid memory of his billowing robes and bloated body comes back to me. I have to force myself to lead the King’s men over behind the tree. The smell assures me the body is still where I left it.

  Their hand lights play over the body as I describe finding it in the swamp and dragging it over here. I choke on the words, fighting a rising panic. “We have to get to the Select!” I finish.

  They don’t answer. They don’t believe me, any more than the King—

  I hear a voice, loud enough for me to catch some of his words, and I realize one of the guards is calling for back-up. On his comradio.

  “Does the High Priest have a comradio link with his guards?” I shout at the other guard.

  The expression on his face gives me my answer. I take off running. He calls to his comrade to deal with the body, then I hear his footsteps pounding right behind me.

  We have to slow down at the edge of the island; the trail is too treacherous for racing full out. I want to scream wi
th impatience as I jog the interminable zigzags from island to island. Beyond us, the swamp is ominously silent. Is Agatha sleeping, unaware of the danger she’s in?

  Is she still alive?

  The guard grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. He snaps off his light and whispers, “Quiet.” I nod. The fever hut lies just ahead.

  We approach the final island cautiously. The sky is already lightening to gray, enough for us to see the stone hut. There’s no guard in sight.

  Am I wrong? Was it all in my head, this suspicion? A figment of my imagination because I didn’t like the High Priest? I’m going to be horribly embarrassed, I think, as I hurry across the island toward the fever hut—

  And see the door hanging open! I race forward. When I reach it I hear the muffled sound of bodies struggling together, the heavy gasping of a single breath. The King’s man grabs my shoulder, pushing me behind him as he runs into the dark stone hut. I rush in right behind him, my eyes following the arc of his light as he swings it around the dark interior: stone walls slick with mould and mildew; the slate floor, slippery with slime; a single, narrow cot, covered in a crusted mire that looks as vile as it smells; a broken chair, discarded in the corner; and there!—the High Priest’s guard, bending over Agatha!

  Agatha thrashes on the floor, her hands clutching at the guard’s beefy fists, which grip her neck. I catch a quick sight of her bulging eyes staring desperately up at us before the King’s guard rushes forward with a shout, blocking my view. The High Priest’s man lets go of Agatha, reaching for his lead-arm, but the King’s guard already has his in hand.

  “Stand aside!” he shouts.

  “She was having a convulsion!” the guard cries. “She called for help. I was loosening her robe so she could breathe.”

  Agatha lies on the floor beside the broken chair, sucking in gasps of air with a desperate noise. The harsh rattle of her breathing fills the stone hut. The sound of that rattle terrifies me. “Don’t die!” I scream, running to her.

  The moment’s distraction is all the murderer needs. He rushes the King’s guard, knocking his lead-arm aside, and envelopes the smaller man in a crushing bear hug. I see him bring his forehead smashing down against the guard’s face. The crunch of bone and the guard’s cry of pain bring me leaping to my feet. I look around desperately, searching for the fallen lead-arm, for anything!—as he slumps to the floor. When the High Priest’s man bends down to finish him off, I bring the chair down on his head. He staggers back, dropping his weapon. It skitters across the floor, lost in the darkness. With a swipe of his arm he throws me against the wall and turns back to the King’s man.