The Occasional Diamond Thief

by J. A. McLachlan

The Adept looks down. She takes another mouthful of food. I notice my own fork shaking in the air in front of me and lower it to my plate. “I have a right to know,” I say. “Whatever happened here, it killed my father.”

  The Adept nods once, as much to herself as to me.

  “We were walking across the landing field, your father and I, on our way to the Homestar. If it had happened earlier, there might have been time for Sariah to reconsider, or Itohan. But we were already leaving when she came to speak to him.

  “She was so young, barely eighteen. She had a vulnerable beauty that could stop a man’s heart. And your father… he was a man with a large heart.

  “She reached out to him, and he stopped. Slowly she opened her fingers. Nestled in her palm was a single, perfect Malemese diamond.

  “She demanded he take it. ‘It was my daughter’s,’ she said. ‘Every time you look at it, I want you to remember she’s dead because of you.’”

  “That’s not fair!” I cry.

  “It is not,” the Adept agrees. She takes a forkful of vegetables and chews. “I told him to come away, but he insisted he wanted to help her.

  “‘Then leave her alone,’ I said to him, and I told her she was young, she would have other children.

  “‘Never!’ she cried. ‘My daughter is dead. If I can’t be her mother, I won’t be anyone’s mother!’

  “‘It seems that way now,’ I said, trying to be reasonable.

  “‘What did you do to save my baby?’ she screamed at me. ‘It was you who brought this plague on us!’

  “I flinched, and that was my undoing. Your father saw my guilt, even though I had been exonerated, and he was furious. He lost his faith in that moment, because of me. He accepted the heart stone even though I called him a fool and asked him how he dared to take it.”

  She stops talking, as if the story’s over, as if she can leave it at that.

  I push my plate aside and stare at her. She eats calmly and methodically.

  “Why? Why did he take it?”

  She shrugs, opens her mouth to say something trite like, how can we know another’s motives? Like she isn’t an Adept.

  “I need to know why.”

  “Not because he coveted it, if that’s what you’re thinking. And not because of its value, he never would have taken money for it. I believe he took it for her, so she wouldn’t have to look at it every day. And because he thought she might be right. His ship suffered mechanical problems on the trip; he had to stop for repairs. It delayed him a week, and in that week the princess died.”

  “That wasn’t his fault!”

  “No. But responsibility is a subtle thing. We rarely get it right. Some people deny responsibility for anything; others err on the side of accepting too much.”

  “Surely he knew it was against the law? That he could be killed just for having it?” Agatha says.

  “He knew. And so did Sariah. I think that was her plan, to have him found with it, and I believe he knew that, too. But in the end she didn’t go through with it. She let him leave.”

  I stare at her, unable to speak. He was prepared to die here, was willing to? He would never have returned to us, never have seen Owegbé again, or taught Etin and Oghogho the trader business, or had any time to know me at all.

  Anger rushes through me so fast it takes my breath away. “He was prepared to sacrifice us,” I say, the words choking me. “And you were prepared to let him.”

  “It was a moral decision, and his to make. I tried to talk him out of it, but we do not impose our morals on others; that is not our brand of religion.”

  “Oh? Then why am I here?” I glare at her.

  “Because you chose to come.”

  “Some choice I had.”

  “And who is responsible for that?”

  Sodum taught me, tempted me. Agatha helped me, even encouraged me to steal that last bracelet. I could blame them, I have blamed them for my being here. I want to say my choices weren’t my own, but I can’t. Sodum made it easy, but no one made me do it.

  “I’m responsible,” I say.

  The Adept smiles. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  I swallow, unable to speak. My father’s daughter. No one has ever called me that, and meant it as praise. I draw in a shaky breath.

  “She couldn’t have another child,” Agatha says slowly. “Not without everyone knowing she didn’t have her daughter’s heart stone to pass on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t you… Couldn’t you have brought it back here later?”

  “I tried. Your father wouldn’t speak to me, or any Select, after Malem.”

  I nod. I guess that’s where I got my distrust of the O.U.B., from him. I finish my meal in silence, sitting between a Select and an Adept. I glance at Agatha, who put herself at risk for others, again and again, and at the Adept. But not because of me, Prad Gaelig still remembers her saying.

  “He was wrong,” I say. They look at me. “My father. And the Queen. You didn’t bring the plague here. It wasn’t your fault, just because you were on the ship it came on.”

  Her eyes remain calm and expressionless, as always, but her mouth twitches into a smile. It’s kind of creepy, that Adept smile, like she’s doing what the situation calls for. But that’s the point: they do what should be done. It’s less a matter of ideals than a matter of training. The Adept couldn’t have knowingly brought death here; she is totally lacking the emotional triggers that would let her justify murdering the innocent. I smile back at her, a real smile, eyes as well as mouth, and for a moment—just an instant—the corners of her eyes crinkle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “The High Priest kept me prisoner while the Select was in the fever house.” That’s where I start when I’m testifying at the High Priest’s trial: after my trip to jail, and definitely after Tira’s “miraculous survival” in the fever hut. I tell about finding Hamza in the swamp, and end with finding the High Priest’s man strangling Agatha.

  I force myself to look at the High Priest from time to time as I must, accusing him to his face. It makes my stomach ache—I don’t know whether from anger at what he did and tried to do to us, or from pity, because he’s about to be beheaded. Both, I guess.

  I try not to look out over the square. The size of the crowd is unnerving; everyone in Malem City must be here. They stare at us without warmth. Five days ago Agatha was their hero, they burned down the fever hut for her. And now we’re outsiders again, exposing their dirty laundry to them.

  Broken-nose steps forward, his mouth set in a grim, resigned line. He sticks to his story—that he rushed in to rescue Agatha from convulsions—despite our witness against him. The Select was having convulsions in her sleep, he says. He heard her from outside the hut, and wanted to help. Of course it’s ridiculous: no one’s allowed to go inside the fever hut while someone infected with CoVir is inside. I guess he wasn’t hired for his brains.

  The King’s guard, Broken-nose-two, climbs up on the raised platform in the center of the square to stand beside us. An ugly black-and-purple bruise extends from his swollen, bandaged nose across both his eyes to his upper lip. He confirms my story, describing the scene when we entered the fever hut and the fight that ensued. The damage to his face is proof of his story.

  The King, seated with the Queen at one end of the platform, calls out for all to hear: “Guilty of attempted murder.”

  The evidence against the High Priest is less conclusive. I am asked to describe exactly where I found Hamza’s body. Broken-nose-two and the other guard the King sent with me testify where and when they saw the body. A medic confirms Hamza died of a blow to the head. But nothing links the murder to the High Priest except the secret path, and every priest knows of that, as well as their guards. No one witnessed Hamza’s abduction. The trial drags on.

  “We cannot conclusively prove who killed the Select,” the King proclaims at last, his face tight with exhaustion and frustration.

  The Adept speaks fo
r the first time: “Let me try.”

  I bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing at the understatement, and look away, wishing I could leave. The Adept’s focus is intimidating even when you’re just an observer.

  The Adept looks at the High Priest, and then across at Broken-nose, with a cool, appraising eye. The High Priest turns to stare at his guard at the same time as the Adept turns her dreadful scrutiny upon him. The silence lengthens. The guard sinks to his knees. Sweat runs down his forehead. He looks like a blade of grass caught in the focus of a magnifying glass trained to the sun. Slowly he curls over upon himself, until his head touches the floor of the platform. Nobody moves to help him.

  The square is very quiet. I begin to sweat in sympathy.

  “I killed him.”

  The High Priest’s man has not moved. His voice is muffled and without expression. It does not seem to have come from him.

  “He’s crazy!” The High Priest raises his arm, which shakes violently, and points toward the Adept. “She’s making him say it!”

  “I killed him at the order of the High Priest,” Broken-nose chokes out.

  The Adept turns to the High Priest. “Is this true?” she asks.

  “Of course not!” the High Priest sputters, but then he makes the mistake of looking at her. Apparently he’s never had the focused stare of an Adept trained on him before. He blanches.

  She doesn’t repeat her question, but her eyes never waver from his, and she doesn’t let his eyes waver from hers. His face turns gray, but his lips are clenched tightly together.

  I wish more than ever that I could leave. The Adept’s calm has a tick-tock feel to it.

  “Is this true?” she says again.

  “YES!” he cries. The word explodes from him, an admission of guilt and a scream of triumph. “And they should thank me! I did it for Malem, to keep us pure, to keep us free of the contamination of other worlds! The next plague they infect us with won’t attack our bodies; it’ll sicken our souls! He was plotting! They both—” his head jerks as though he means to glare at Agatha but can’t escape the Adept’s mental hold—“both plotting against us! You’ll see! You’ll wish you’d listened to me, all of you!” He gives an inhuman shriek of laughter and falls silent as the Adept looks away.

  “What have you done to him?” the King demands.

  “Lanced the truth out of him. It is not fatal. He has had poison in him so long, he is sick without it.”

  The King gives her a long look. “And you didn’t force a false confession?”

  “No one can force another to lie. Lying requires imagination and imagination depends on freedom of thought. I cannot even force the truth out of someone who truly doesn’t want to tell it. Fortunately, in our hearts we all want to spew out our own truth. I merely encourage that.”

  The King glances at the Queen, then back at the High Priest, who is smiling hideously and rocking back and forth on his feet.

  “Guilty of murder, self-confessed,” the King proclaims. “Execute them.”

  “You dare?” the High Priest cries.

  “I dare not,” the King replies. “Neither you nor I nor anyone on Malem is above the law.”

  I try to think of Hamza in the swamp, of Agatha being strangled in her sleep. I want these two men punished. Only, I don’t want to have to watch. I’ll never accuse anyone of anything again, I resolve to myself—and realize why the accusers have to be present.

  A priest climbs up onto the platform to stand beside the High Priest and his man. Beside me, Agatha already has her eyes closed, her lips moving in prayer. The Adept is also murmuring a prayer, but her eyes are open. Probably she’s in some religious trance that removes her from her surroundings. I feel justified in squinting until my eyes are almost closed. Nevertheless, I hear the thunk of the axe digging into wood, once, and again, and again. I will hear that sound the rest of my life.

  As soon as the bodies have been carried away, the King and Queen stand up and announce the new High Priest. Prad Gaelig makes his way through the crowd to the platform, an expression of astonishment on his face. At every step people touch his arm, clap his back, congratulate him. When he mounts the platform, they break into cheers.

  Nice touch, I think, glancing sideways at the King. Always leave ’em happy.

  He turns and catches me looking at him, and arches a single eyebrow at me.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “What are you doing with that?”

  I look up quickly. The Adept stands at the doorway to the bedroom I’m sharing, once again, with Agatha. I should have shut the bedroom door. Wait, didn’t I?

  I can’t get used to living with an Adept. I’m never sure whether ‘Please make me a cup of tea’ is a request or a subliminal command. I haven’t felt inclined to refuse and find out. On the other hand, I haven’t felt inclined to refuse.

  “I’m packing.” The box of tools Sodum gave me, which I was just about to put into my spacebag, burns in my hands.

  The Adept keeps staring at me. I want to shove the box out of sight but I can’t move. Doesn’t the woman ever turn herself off?

  Agatha walks in. She takes the box from my hands and tucks it into my spacebag. “God had a use for this,” she says. “It saved a child’s life. As Kia saved mine.”

  She smiles at me, a small, slightly pained expression.

  The Adept’s face softens. “You did well here, child,” she says. “Very well.”

  I clasp my hands behind my back. “How are the negotiations going?” I ask her.

  “Quite well.” The Adept allows a note of satisfaction into her voice. “I believe we will be sinking the first shafts for the sky elevator within the year. The Select and I will be able to return to Seraffa in two years at the outside.”

  “But Malem hasn’t joined the Alliance.”

  “No. This is not an unqualified success.”

  “They are helping their neighbors on Iterria,” Agatha murmurs. “Many members of the Alliance do far less.”

  “True.”

  “The High Priest thought the Malemese would lose their religion if they joined the Alliance,” I say.

  “Nonsense,” the Adept replies.

  “Prad Gaelig says if you destroy a religion, you destroy its people.”

  “We are not trying to destroy the Malemese.” Her expression is neutral, but I’ve begun to notice she talks just a tiny bit faster when she’s ticked. You’d have to live with her to hear it.

  “Prad Gaelig has a point,” Agatha says, looking at me. “Losing their religion can destroy a people’s sense of identity, the way they differentiate themselves.”

  “No one is trying to undermine the Malemese religion.”

  There it is, just a smidgeon faster than normal.

  “But Prad Gaelig’s job goes beyond that. His job is to increase their faith. As is ours,” Agatha adds.

  “This is the outcome you were after all along!” I grin at Agatha.

  Agatha looks uncomfortable. She glances at the Adept.

  “We strive to follow God’s plan,” the Adept says. “Presumably, this was the outcome He was after.”

  For no reason that I can actually see, I get the impression she isn’t completely happy with Him about it.

  “Will you have another task for me, then?” Agatha asks. “When we leave Malem in two years?” She keeps her face very still, as though the answer is of little concern to her.

  “We will both pray about that,” the Adept replies. Her voice has slowed back to normal.

  Agatha looks downcast. A tiny worry-line creases her forehead.

  I seal the top of my spacebag and begin its inflation. Standing up to leave, I look around awkwardly. I said goodbye to Jumal last night. I don’t think he’ll ever be King. I’ve seen the way the Queen smiles at the King now that she has the diamond she needs to pass on to her next child. Even so, I’m going home and Jumal is staying here and nothing can change that for either of us. And now the same is true, at least temporarily, for
Agatha and me. I straighten resolutely.

  In three steps Agatha is at my side, her arms around me.

  “I’ll see you again, on Serrafa,” I mutter.

  Agatha tightens her embrace. “Of course you will,” she says, “God doesn’t build bridges that won’t hold.” And then, as if she can see right inside me, she says, “Your brother will be there when you get home. The captain will contact him as soon as you reach space.”

  I hug her back, blinking fiercely.

  The Adept appears not to have noticed. Which means she saw everything. I straighten and let go of Agatha.

  “Another assignment,” the Adept says, looking at Agatha thoughtfully. “That may depend upon whether you can secure a good translator.”

  Agatha smiles.

  I grab my bag. “Excuse me,” I say, heading for the door. “There’s a ship waiting for me.”

  To The Readers of This Book:

  The title of this book is a gross exaggeration. Technically, I am NOT a diamond thief, even if I did take a few things that weren’t mine, and perhaps they did have diamonds on them. But I have STOPPED doing that. So I do not think it’s fair that the title of this book is “The Diamond Thief.”

  I was going to suggest that all of you email the author and object to this unfair title, and force her to make a retraction, but I don’t like relying on back-up. So I took matters into my own hands and wrote “Occasional” across the top. Just to set the record straight. Now you know.

  If you agree with me, you can write a review of this book on Amazon, and in your review you can say you don’t think I’m a thief. I would appreciate the support, and if Jaro sees all of you saying good things about me, he will have to give me at least a B+.

  If you see another book by this same author with the word “thief” in the title, you and I will know that she is not open to subtle hints. Jaro has already demoted her to D- for calling me a thief, and if she does it again, she will be an F-. You can still read the book, because if I am in it, it is sure to be an EXCELLENT story, but I wouldn’t associate with her if I was you. She’s had her warning.

  ~ Kia