by Patty Jansen
“Any fighting?”
He gave her a sharp glance. “Not that I know.”
She thought he was lying, but no point in pressing the fact. Somehow, she would have to get out of this room. Who knew what had happened outside in the past two days? There were probably guards outside the door.
She sent out a careful tendril of mist. Daya? I could do with some advice.
Fancy that. For all she knew he’d tell her to take a hike—that’s what she would do.
Shit, Daya. I’m sorry. Just talk to me all right?
There was no reply.
Then she noticed that Iztho held a folded piece of paper. “What’s that?”
“You best get dressed, Lady. The Barresh council has asked for your appearance. They declined my application to take you to Miran and want to question you in person.”
A cold feeling went over her. “Why?”
“I’m guessing that they found out that you might have been a passenger on the plane.”
“You said they didn’t know. How did they find out?”
“Your tailed friends probably had something to do with it.”
Or could it have been Daya?
“It seems the Barresh council can’t accept their incompetence and must have someone else to blame for this disaster.”
“But . . .”
He gave her an intense look.
Jessica hesitated. “Tell me the truth. Do you think. . . ? It was my fault, wasn’t it? Because of my . . .” She held up her hands. “Because I stuffed things up. With the lights and . . . Avya.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “That is only one possible explanation and not one that will impress officials responsible for the Exchange network. The incompetence of this town is well-known.”
“But it was my fault, though. Don’t you think?”
“Possibly.” Meaning yes.
Jessica sank down on the bed, feeling very small. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She’d killed three people. Four when counting Stephen. I am a monster.
Iztho took her hands in his. A smile crossed his face. “You are strong, Lady. Whatever happened to that craft, likely no one will ever know. Even if you are responsible, no one will ever believe you. No one believes this ability is real. No one knows how powerful it is. But if you follow my instructions, you should be fine. I will tell you exactly what to say.”
Jessica nodded; she had been afraid of that. She was getting sick of people telling her what to do.
He closed her in his arms.
She wanted to push him away. She wanted to understand what was going on, really understand it, not just listen to things people told her, however well-meaning.
His lips met hers in a soft kiss. “You still feel hot, my Lady, are you all right?”
“I . . .” A breeze came into the window; she shivered. “I don’t know.” She was beginning to feel very unsure about this whole flushing business, too. It lasted for a short period every ten days, he had said, not for two days on end almost without stopping.
“You are not catching a sickness?”
Jessica shrugged, considering the thought of a fever. Whatever diseases occurred here, she would be totally unused to them.
“I will arrange medical help as soon as we’re out of here.”
In the streets and alleys of the city, the festival’s parade was in full swing.
Whistles rent the air, rising over the squealing and trilling voices of Pengali girls, the chants of boys, the cheering of the crowd and the deep thumps on the huge drum carried by four males.
Jessica rubbed her arms, where the skin had broken out into goosebumps.
A group of young males walked past, hair adorned with the same white flowers that grew all over the town’s gardens and neglected planter boxes. Some of the boys danced, wriggling their hips. Their white skirts did little to hide their swaying pride. Others, especially the younger ones, looked terrified.
Soldiers watched the proceedings from the street corners, brooding, silent. So many of them.
Iztho tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Come, my Lady, let’s go. We don’t want to give the council the wrong impression by coming late.”
Iztho led her into a side street where merchants wheeling trolleys held up the flow of Pengali children taking a shortcut to the next main street, where the head of the parade was yet to arrive. Jessica clutched Iztho’s arm in the effort not to be separated from him.
Lining the street, a rusty fence had almost collapsed under the weight of a climbing plant with orange seedpods. Above it rose the roof of a building: a grey and featureless dome that, with an adhering cover of flakes, looked like it had once been painted, but it was impossible to tell in what colour.
Iztho leaned over her shoulder, his breath tickling in her ear. “The glorious residence of the Barresh council.”
That building? It looked like a prison.
Two lines of soldiers linking arms made a futile attempt to keep the crowd away from the gate into the complex. Bejewelled keihu citizens entered at a trot, harassed looks on their faces.
Iztho, too, guided her through the gate, passing soldiers who nodded at him.
In a dark hall where their footsteps crunched on broken and loose floor tiles, a man in the black outfit of the Barresh council pointed them in the direction of an arched walkway, much like that in the guesthouse. A series of murals adorned the left-hand wall, depicting flowers and fountains and beautiful buildings, bridges, gardens, all filled with smiling people from times past. In the central mural, on a balcony overlooking this splendour, stood a man. Sunlight played in his copper-coloured curly hair and drew lines of experience in his stern face. The picture intrigued Jessica. This town clearly had a rich history. Why had it gone backwards?
The soft murmur of many voices came from a set of double doors at the end of the walkway. The meeting hall.
As soon as Iztho led her into the hall, a glow of warmth went through her. Familiar, happy, it felt like home, like arms surrounding her, a familiar smell surrounding her. Unsettled, she held tight onto Iztho’s arm, while her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.
Shadows moved where people found seats on benches set in an amphitheatre-like arrangement. A large pentagonal table in the centre of the hall was bathed in bright light. It was empty.
Iztho led her down the stairs. Heads turned and gazes followed her; a hush fell over the crowd. Jessica stared ahead, lifting her chin, trying to ignore the prick of gazes and the increasing feeling of warmth.
A keihu man in a dark green robe waited at the bottom. He spoke briefly to Iztho and marked him off a list displayed on a reader. Jessica fiddled with her dress.
A woman directed Jessica and Iztho to an empty spot on a bench at the perimeter of the floor, lit by the glare reflecting from the central table.
Jessica sat down, clamping her hands between her knees. A flush of heat went through her, making sweat break out on her brow.
Iztho put a calming hand on her knee. “Just tell them what we practiced.”
She returned a rehearsed smile, still feeling all those gazes on her. “What are all these people doing here?”
She had imagined a much more private affair.
“The ones sitting on this bench I would expect to be the Barresh council.”
Next to her sat two enormously fat men, in light blue robes resembling tents. On Iztho’s side, a couple of younger men balanced readers on their knees. Scribes or journalists maybe. A group of robed and jewel-laden men stood talking to each other using lots of hand gestures. Half-hidden behind them sat a tall figure.
A shiver crept up Jessica’s arms as she finally recognised the reason for her unease.
Daya. What are you doing here?
You will see soon enough. The cool and professional tone surprised her. Why wasn’t he angry?
There’s no time to be angry. There are many things happening that are not good.
Someone rang a bell at the back of the hall. The knot of men in
front of Daya dissolved, giving Jessica a clear view of him, dressed in sober navy blue. Clear black eyes met hers. His hair had been combed and fell in loose curls about his face. Dark lips curled into the faintest of smiles. Warm, mesmerising, gorgeous.
You look beautiful.
Jessica inched closer to Iztho.
He rumbled, “Don’t be nervous. I’ll help you.”
But her gaze was still on Daya. One of his feet was bandaged and so were both his hands. What had happened to him? She hadn’t bitten him that badly, had she?
“Is anything wrong, Lady?” Iztho stiffened. “Is that him? The man who hurt you?”
Jessica averted her eyes.
“Is it, Lady? Tell me and I’ll make sure he’s removed from this meeting.”
Jessica cleared her throat. She glowed with heat. “It doesn’t matter.”
Iztho jumped up from the bench. “It does matter. This meeting is important for you and I will not have you intimidated by anyone. I’ll tell him to mind his own business and stop ogling you.”
Jessica grabbed the bottom of his cloak. “No, stop.”
“Why? If he has hurt you, he shouldn’t be here. This is a place where we deal with respectable people.”
“Please, don’t make a scene.”
Past Iztho, Daya had gripped the edge of the bench. Why do you let that dressed-up clown overpower you?
She glared back. That dressed up clown is . . . No, she had a better idea. As strongly as she could, she thought of Iztho kissing her.
A burst of heat shot through her, so strong she gasped.
He was jealous. Good.
Iztho pulled his cloak from Jessica’s grip. “Leave this to me, my Lady. I see he upsets you and I’ll deal with this.”
In slow paces, he crossed the floor. A council attendant waved him back, but he ignored her. The chubby and bejewelled keihu councillors halted their conversations. Iztho stopped a few paces from Daya and languidly crossed his arms over his chest. His deep voice carried in the hall. “Why are you bothering my Lady?”
Daya rose equally slowly. He was taller than Iztho, though not by much, but his lack of a big and furry cloak made him look younger and more vulnerable. “She is not your Lady.” He spoke Mirani almost without accent.
Languages—another characteristic of their race.
Iztho’s hand shot out to grab Daya by the front of his tunic. “Say that again and I’ll smash your face in.”
Jessica cringed. No, don’t hurt him.
Daya coolly yanked his tunic out of Iztho’s hand and met Jessica’s eyes; a flow of warmth went through her. “She belongs to no one. If you think otherwise, you’re fooling yourself.”
“Don’t give me that rubbish. I’ve seen what you did to her. I picked her up off the street after you were done with her. Crying, wet and covered in bruises. That may be the way you lot look after your women but in my language, it’s abuse. If I see you as much as look at her again—”
The two men faced each other, barely an arm’s length apart. White facing black, rational facing emotional, there could not be a greater contrast between them.
Daya was the first to break the tense silence. “Is that a threat?”
“Fuck it is. I want you as far away from her as possible or you will face the consequences. Why don’t you piss off and leave us alone before I get really angry. The Lady has chosen. She doesn’t want you.” He half-turned back to Jessica.
In a flash, Daya grabbed Iztho’s cloak and pulled him back. A wave of sparks flowed under the skin of his arms, escaped and flew into the surrounding air. His cheeks had gone bright red. In his eyes burned such hatred that the whole hall chilled with it. Warmth sucked out of Jessica’s skin as if an iced wind stroked past her.
No, Daya, no!
In two steps, Jessica had crossed the floor. She pushed Daya away from Iztho. “Stop! Stop it!”
Daya stumbled back a few paces.
Jessica placed herself between the two men, hands planted at her sides. “Don’t you dare attack someone with your mind. If you must, deal with me.” And if you do, I’ll never look at you again. But she was already looking at him and in that brief moment, a burst of Daya’s warmth flowed through her. I love you I love you I love you. His scent made her heart thud against her ribcage.
Jessica reeled back, into the fur of Iztho’s cloak. His voice rumbled. “Come, my Lady, let’s stay well away from him.”
As he led her back to their seats, Daya did not avert his gaze. Her vision went dark, and full of cold. The metal of a wall at her back almost froze onto her skin. Someone emptied a bucket of ice water over her head. A male voice screamed.
Jessica balled her fists. Stop it!
I won’t. If nothing else, I will make you believe what happens to people of our kind in Miran.
He has nothing to do with it!
A bell rang.
Iztho settled on the bench on her other side and shifted forward so Jessica could no longer see Daya, but she could still feel him. He was talking to the man on his other side, reminding him to speak slowly and wait for the translator to do his job. Daya sounded calm and confident, as if he had forgotten the argument already, as if he accepted her choice. He was helping the council?
Damn you.
He didn’t reply.
The bell rang a second time and murmur ceased. With difficulty, Jessica forced her thoughts back to the statement she and Iztho had practised in the guesthouse. She would tell of the accident, the killing of the other passengers by rogues presumed to be sent by the council, her trek through the jungle, her meeting with the Pengali, how Iztho had helped her come to the city and end with a plea to be allowed to return to her family, at which time Iztho would step in and say that he would sponsor her for Union citizenship.
It all sounded so simple.
At some stage, when she hadn’t been looking, a woman had settled herself at the pentagonal table. Light glittered in the gold embroidery around the rim of her tunic. A mediator, Iztho had explained, from the Union, and another world. She spoke in slow sentences in Coldi, the Union language; Jessica understood none of it. Iztho provided quick translations of her formal welcome and explanations of the rules of the hearing. And the question: was the Barresh node of the Exchange responsible for the death of these offworlders who had landed in the forest?
She introduced the others of the committee, and they took their places at the table one by one.
She then called the first witness.
Jessica had never seen the brown-haired man who took his position behind the lectern-like table. His hands trembled, and he stumbled over words, repeatedly wiping his face as if he was so tired he had trouble remembering what to say.
Jessica closed her eyes and sent out a tendril of energy. Images oozed from him. Three people bent over long lists of data on a screen. Despair etched their faces and hung thick in the room. Rain lashed the window. It was dark outside.
“He’s the head of the Damaru family, the bunch of incompetents who own the Exchange,” Iztho grumbled and went on to translate the man’s declaration: that the Exchange records held no evidence of a wayward translocation and that this implied the translocation had been doctored.
“Rubbish,” Iztho added. “They’re drowning in their own mess.”
But he did believe she had caused the accident and the man’s memories confirmed it: they hadn’t been able to pinpoint the cause of the plane’s translocation.
The woman at the table asked a few questions, in response to which a woman came onto the floor to deposit a stack of documents on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Proof of his word, according to him,” Iztho said. “Proof of his incompetence more like.”
The man continued to plead to the committee, his eyes wide as a zombie’s. Every second sentence, he repeated the words elish kamoraa o gamaru, which probably meant something like please believe me, but Iztho peppered his translation with lots of disparaging remarks about the Barre
sh Exchange.
Iztho might not think much of the man, but his tone sent chills through Jessica and she was glad when he finally sat down.
This is wrong. He gets the blame for something I’ve done.
The mediator raised her voice, and a translator repeated her words in Mirani. “If what this man says is true, we should ask the only person who can answer this question. In this hall is a surviving passenger of the craft. Stand up, young lady, come here.” Her eyes met Jessica’s.
Jessica gulped and threw Iztho a panicked glance.
He stroked her side with a gentle hand. “Answer the questions as I said. You know nothing.”
Too right she didn’t, and then she wondered if, as fellow passenger, he would get a turn in being questioned. He had told her, Tell no one that I was there. It would only complicate the investigation. She didn’t like it.
Jessica stumbled from the bench. A wave of heat hit her as she stepped into the light. Her voice uncertain, she asked in Mirani, “I will need a translator.”
The mediator threw her a suspicious glance, but continued in Mirani. “You were travelling in this craft?”
“Yes.”
“We are talking here about a local flight, where none of the passengers or pilot had knowledge of the Union?”
“Yes.” Cringe.
“How did your craft end up here?”
“I was flying home. There was a flash and all of a sudden, we were in a rainforest. At night—”
“Good. Sit down.”
“But . . .” What about the killings?
“I’ve heard enough.” Her face was hard. “You have rehearsed this. Your Mirani is far too good to be believable. I discount you as a witness.”
A councillor at the bench yelled out, “This is unfair, Delegate! Let her speak. The Pengali say that she—”
The mediator hit the table. “Enough, Chief Councillor Semisu. We will proceed in an orderly fashion.”
The councillor puffed out his chest. In his heavyset frame, this rather looked like his belly increased in size. He stuffed be-ringed hands in his pockets, scowled, but said nothing. Didn’t go back to his seat either.
Jessica sat down on the bench, trembling from head to foot. Iztho put a warm hand on her knee. “You did well, Lady.”