The Book of Kings

by Cynthia Voigt

  Grammie huffed as if to say she would be the judge of that and followed the two women down the hallway. She was apparently having the same oily reaction to their host.

  The Andesian turned to give an order to the soldiers, who proceeded to carry in the valises. He announced to Ari that his servants could take them up to the bedrooms. “While I offer refreshments to the honorable Baron and his welcome compatriot. But”—and he turned to Joachim, who had claimed his one small suitcase and his large satchel of art supplies, whose shirt was not fresh, whose boots were caked with mud, and who wore a blue beret on his gray head, to ask—“who is this man?”

  Joachim let Ari answer the question. “An artist.”

  Their host seemed almost alarmed. “What purpose does the King Teodor have, sending an artist to…to do what? Did he not say you are a diplomatic embassy?”

  “The King is a man who always wishes to learn,” Ari answered. “He has asked for pictures of your country and your people, your animals, your homes, your gardens and fields, and particularly your mountains. Is it not common for an artist to accompany such expeditions into unknown lands? You must remember that it was as an artist that Darwin joined the men traveling on the Beagle.”

  “Of course I know of Darwin from my studies in Lima,” Juan Carlos said, then, “You will take the room on the third floor,” he told Joachim, and turned back to the important guests. “Come, Baron. Come, Señor Bendiff. You,” he instructed Max, “follow the artist.”

  “No,” said Ari.

  No was a word the Andesian did not welcome.

  “The man is my Private Secretary,” Ari announced. “A position of distinction,” and he walked through the door to the dining room. Without looking at Juan Carlos, Max followed Ari. The Andesian entered behind Mr. Bendiff, still protesting, “You did not introduce him to me by name.” He closed the door behind them. “How am I to know, if you did not introduce him by name?”

  Ari gave the man a quick, scornful glance, as if to say, A real gentleman would have recognized the signs. He did not have to say it out loud. The man looked daggers at Max, even while his smile did not fade. Juan Carlos did not ask to be introduced, as if to tell this Baron, He may be your Private Secretary, but he is still a servant. I have no need to know his name.

  “Eat,” Ari was told. “Drink,” and Juan Carlos poured wine first for Ari, then for Mr. Bendiff, then a goblet for himself. Max stood back, controlling his impatience. Juan Carlos raised his goblet, in a toast: “Welcome to my country. May your stay in our city be pleasurable, may your visit be of benefit to both of our nations.” He drank and announced, “The wine is French. As are all the best wines, do you agree?”

  “Of course,” Ari answered. He tasted its flavors, nodded, swallowed, and said no more.

  Juan Carlos had an itinerary for this embassy, and he smiled his oily smile, announcing it to them. “Baron? Señor Bendiff? And Secretary, too. Tomorrow my cousin and I will offer a tour of Apapa and at four you will be guests at dinner with my family, and the families of my cousins, and you will see that we know not only wine but also what it is to dine well.”

  “Tomorrow, I will see the King,” Ari announced.

  “That is not to be.” The Andesian tried to sound sorry about this, but didn’t entirely succeed. He explained to Ari, “Until the General has returned, this cannot be. Nobody can visit the King unless the General also is present. This is necessary for the King’s safety,” Juan Carlos concluded solemnly.

  Ari’s displeasure was evident. “The General had notice that I would be arriving.”

  The Andesian shrugged, held out helpless hands, shook his head. “The General comes and he goes at his own will. He does not explain himself. He is the General,” Juan Carlos said, and Max did not know if there was more fear or defeat or resentment in the man’s voice. He looked questioningly at Ari, asking him to ask when the General was due back, but it was Mr. Bendiff who spoke.

  “I take it he didn’t say how long he’d be away.” The businessman—who understood how such an undefined absence might expose the soft underbelly of the city—was as displeased as the Envoy at this news.

  Juan Carlos shrugged, raised his eyebrows, grimaced slightly, and sighed, a man forced to apologize for the errors of others.

  “I find it very strange,” Ari remarked, and turned to Max. “Have something to eat, Alexander. You’ll be as hungry as I am.” He poured some wine into a goblet he passed to Max.

  Max took the wine, although he would have preferred cold milk, or even water. For a while, nobody said anything. Everybody was playing a waiting game.

  “Your ways are not our ways,” the Andesian said, at last. “It is as with your language, which I warn you is not well known here. The Carrera y Carreras have studied it, as you can plainly see. The General speaks well, and understands, for he is a widely traveled man, sent for schooling in Madrid. It was General Balcor—only a captain at the time—who was selected out of all the army as companion to the son of the President of Peru when the boy was entered into the University in Madrid, and later he went with the young man on his grand tour. The natives, as you have seen, know nothing, and the soldiers…Who knows what soldiers know? It is asked of them only to follow their orders, and for the rest…I leave the soldiers to their Captain,” he said, and that sounded like a warning. “They are quick to shoot. It is they who have kept order after the recent uprising.”

  “Uprising?” Ari asked, as if this came as a surprise to him. “Was this to do with the bomb of which I have learned?” he wondered.

  Max waited with anxious interest for the Andesian’s response.

  But Juan Carlos ignored Ari’s second inquiry. “The uprising need not worry you, Baron. It was merely a few malcontents hoping to seize our mines. They brought hardship down on everyone, until our friends sent the General with his army to protect us. Sadly, in the end, the General failed to protect the late King, and his family,” Juan Carlos concluded, in the kind of voice designed to spread suspicion without actually accusing anybody of anything.

  “I understand your meaning,” Ari said.

  “So I hope you will be comfortable here,” Juan Carlos went on, satisfied. “We in Andesia are not experienced in the needs of guests, but the guesthouse has water closets, both upstairs and down. The house will serve you well, we hope. You may send Suela or Devera to me if anything has been neglected.”

  Ari glanced at Max before he asked, “The King is well?”

  The question surprised Juan Carlos. “Yes, of course.”

  “And the Queen?”—carelessly.

  “The Queen is suffering from a lingering indisposition, but you need not concern yourselves with that. We have good hope that she will soon be out of discomfort.”

  “Her healing is much to be hoped for,” Ari answered. Then, “I thank you for your welcome, and the food and drink. We will take up no more of your time.” He opened the dining room door and held it wide, for Juan Carlos to go through, dismissed.

  But Juan Carlos claimed the last word. “You will find soldiers always guarding your door. We wish you to be safe here, during your visit,” he said, and smiled.

  When the heavy front door had closed behind him, Grammie, Joachim, Colly, and Tomi all came into the dining room. “Close the kitchen door,” Mr. Bendiff told Colly, but Grammie answered, “I’ve sent the servants out to the back. It seems they have their quarters there.”

  “They know you speak the language?”

  “They know I speak a little and do not care how much,” she assured him. “What did he say, that man? When can we see the Queen?”

  “We can’t see anyone unless General Balcor is present, and he’s off somewhere,” Max told her. “That’s sort of curious when there’s been a bomb, don’t you think, Ari?”

  “I think the whole setup is curious,” Ari answered. “Hamish? What do you make of it?”

  “We’re dealing with a military occupation,” Mr. Bendiff answered thoughtfully. “Those soldiers so
und…a little dangerous. Was Juan Carlos threatening us, do you think? Or warning us, when he said there will always be soldiers at the door.”

  “Those two women didn’t dare say a word,” Grammie agreed.

  “Well, I, for one, am going to have something to eat,” Joachim announced. “After which, I’m going to bed. Since for the first time in too long a time I have a proper bed to go to,” he grumbled. “And I know it’s all my own doing, so nobody needs to remind me.”

  As if they were waiting for permission, Colly and Tomi followed his example, filling plates with chunks of bread and cheese.

  “I don’t want you boys drinking that wine,” Grammie told them. “There’s a jug of water in the kitchen—if you can call that a kitchen. Tomi, could you bring it in, please?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But do you mind if I just taste the wine?”

  Grammie laughed.

  “We should all eat and then get to bed,” Ari suggested. “We’ll make plans in the morning. Hamish, Max, and I are summoned to a city tour, followed by some kind of formal dinner, but the rest of you will be free to wander, and find out what you can.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be a secretary,” Max said now. His parents were so close and he still couldn’t see them. How could there be no way of calling out to them? “Maybe I should be a servant and free to wander, too.”

  “Not if you want any chance of being present when we’re taken before the King,” Ari answered.

  “That’s if. If you’re taken to meet him,” Joachim said. “And I’m pretty sure no artist will be invited along for that. Cooks, either, I’m afraid,” he said to Grammie.

  “We’ll see about that,” she huffed.

  They finished their meal and carried their plates down a short hall into a kitchen that had a wood-burning stove and no icebox, open shelves, and a faucet that offered only cold water. A square table stood in the center of the room, with benches on each side. It was large enough to accommodate all of them, but Grammie said, “You three can’t eat in here, and we shouldn’t be eating in the dining room with you. Those servants will notice everything. My room is down here,” she told them, pointing to a doorway. “There’s a WC attached, things could be worse,” she concluded, with a stern look at the painter, as if to say, We don’t need to hear any more from you. “We’ll learn more tomorrow,” she promised Max, bidding them all a good night.

  The rooms assigned to Ari and Mr. Bendiff took up the entire second floor. Each had a large bedroom, its own water closet, and a separate sitting room with an alcove off it, offering a second bed. The attic Joachim occupied had four beds in it, but Tomi said he wanted to take one mattress down to the hall outside Grammie’s bedroom door, so that she would not be so alone, which seemed to them all like a good idea.

  Upstairs, unpacked, seated on the edge of his hard mattress in the sleeping alcove, Max listened to Ari settling in, the sounds muffled by a thick wall and a heavy wooden door. After a while, there was the silence of deep sleep. Max was as tired as Ari, but he couldn’t relax. A window was set into the wall of this sitting room and he would have liked to look out, but he didn’t know if he was allowed to open the shutters. Because he couldn’t look out the window, Max crept barefoot down the staircase and into the kitchen. The whole house slept. Only Max was awake. The kitchen door opened onto darkness, but his eyes had adjusted and he stepped out, into the cool air, into the night, into what might have been a small garden within high walls, into a darkness beyond which only one of the black peaks was visible. A dark mass blocked his view of the other two.

  Was this the palace, where his father and mother were…were what? living? trapped? imprisoned? There had to be windows in the stone wall, shuttered now, but in daytime they might open. His jacket buttoned close against the night air, Max stared into that flat darkness where a window had to be. All during the voyage he had imagined his arrival in Andesia, and how his mother would put both her hands on his shoulders and look into his face, and smile, glad beyond words at his presence. His father was never beyond words. Sometimes Max imagined William Starling crying out, with a laugh, You took your time getting here! and sometimes, also with a laugh, The prodigal son returns! But always, the next thing his father said to Max was, Now get us out of here.

  Silence, Max had not imagined. He had not imagined there would be even more waiting. He had not, really, imagined this feeling of not-knowing. He barely knew anything of the language, he didn’t know what the situation really was, he had no idea what to expect. Knowing so little, how could he hope to come up with a plan?

  But his parents were in danger. That he did know, so he had to come up with a plan.

  A shape moved in the doorway and he knew who it was. “You’re exhausted,” his grandmother said, softly. “Go to bed. We’re here. We’ll learn more tomorrow, and I strongly suspect that we’re going to need all our wits about us.”

  Andesia

  Before dawn had swept deep night away from the valley, Devera and Suela were in the guesthouse, opening shutters, lighting fires, starting up the woodstove. The rescue party was awakened, but because the servants were present the embassy had no chance to form common plans. Nevertheless, they all determined, each in his own way, to learn as much as they could about the situation in Andesia, and about the King.

  Max came downstairs first and splashed his face with cold water in the kitchen sink before hurrying down the hall to the front door. He wanted to see the palace with his own eyes. He didn’t know where it was or if he could gain entry, he knew nothing, but he wanted to at least see the doorways and windows behind which, somewhere, his mother and father were to be found. He slid back the bolt and pulled the front door open.

  Two soldiers blocked his way. They held their rifles across their chests, ready. They didn’t speak, only stared.

  “I am taking a morning walk,” Max said in an ordinary, friendly voice, however angry and afraid he felt, which was quite angry and very afraid. Not for nothing had he spent his childhood appearing on a stage in one role or another. Now he was Alexander Ireton, in service to an important man. He took a step forward, saying at the same time, “Thank you.”

  They continued to stare at him. Of course they hadn’t understood.

  He gestured with walking fingers. “May I pass?”

  “No,” they said in Spanish. A quick, knife-sharp word, a word that did not allow any argument.

  The soldiers wore dark blue uniforms and stood straight. One had tied his long dark hair back, at the nape of his neck; the other had a scar that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth.

  Max became imperious. “Let me pass,” he ordered.

  “No,” and now the two rifles were crossed in front of his chest.

  Gently, the soldiers forced him backward, into the house. He glared from the doorway, then closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt back into place. He strode back to the kitchen. There, he didn’t hesitate. He opened the door and stepped outside. “It’s not—” Grammie said, but he paid her no attention.

  He had stepped into a small dirt courtyard with a lean-to at one end, built against a stone wall so high that he couldn’t see over it, even when he stood on the wooden bench set out there. Two ropes for drying clothes were strung across the courtyard. On the third side loomed the square stone tower. Max studied it. It was only three stories, not at all high, but it had crenellations at its top, and for windows there were only narrow slits through which arrows or bullets could be fired.

  That had to be the palace. If his parents were living in the tower, and if they ever looked out through the slits to the guesthouse courtyard, and if he happened to be standing outside at the time, looking up, then they would see him and he might—somehow, by the waving of a handkerchief or the dropping of a brooch, maybe—learn that they knew he had arrived.

  The tower rose into the clouded sky, silent and motionless as the stony peak behind it. Fear ran lightly up along the long bones of Max’s legs. He retreated to the kitchen, where
the two servants were heating water in large pots. He wandered into the dining room, where Grammie was setting bread and a jelly of some kind and a pot of tea down before Ari and Mr. Bendiff, who were still in their dressing gowns.

  “The soldiers wouldn’t let me leave,” Max announced, adding, “The courtyard has no gate. How did the servants get in this morning, with the door bolted and the courtyard walled?” Maybe there was another entrance into the guesthouse. Through a cellar? Another entrance would be another exit, maybe not blocked by soldiers.

  “They sleep in the courtyard,” Grammie told him. “So that they’ll always be available to us.”

  But the only shelter in the courtyard was that little roofed lean-to, where spades and a sickle were kept, barely a man’s width. You might keep an animal there, but not two women, Max thought. However, all he said was, “I see.”

  What he saw was that there was no way out.

  “Your baths will be ready after breakfast,” Grammie said from the doorway.

  Max would be glad to wash away the dirt and sweat of travel even if, until then, he hadn’t noticed it. He sat down. “We have to get going,” he told the two men.

  “Breakfast first,” Ari answered with a shake of his head and a glance at the doorway. Mr. Bendiff poured him a cup of tea and offered him the bread, without a word.

  From the kitchen they heard Grammie telling the two women in her simple Spanish that sí, yes, she would bathe, and sí-í-í, yes, the boys, too, and the painter, and no, there was nothing strange about that. “Not where I live,” she said, even though they couldn’t understand. Switching back to their language, she asked if they, also, would wish to wash.

  Max heard the laughter of the two women, a normal, happy sound, at even the idea of being offered hot water to bathe in. “Oh, Señora,” they laughed. “Oh no.”

  —

  Four soldiers accompanied Juan Carlos Carrera y Carrera as he led the foreigners around the city. The first part of the tour took them past the high palace gates, where guards stood at attention, to the high walls surrounding the Carrera y Carrera compound, equally well-guarded. “We will not enter, I will leave it until tonight to show you my home,” Juan Carlos announced, then introduced the man who had been waiting for them, standing far off from the soldiers, “My cousin, Juan Luc Carrera y Carrera.” The man bowed slightly and greeted the two men, “Señor Baron, Señor Bendiff,” gave Max a quick glance and a nod, and then turned to his cousin, awaiting instructions, or leadership. Juan Luc wore the same brown corduroy jacket and close-fitted trousers as Juan Carlos, and the same high boots. He was a shorter, stouter version of his cousin and his English was more hesitant, a little clumsy. He fell in beside Max and Mr. Bendiff as they followed Juan Carlos back to the palace gates, where they observed the changing of the guard, an event not without its pageantry.