Diamondsong 02: Capture

by E. D. E. Bell

  Liar.

  “The escaped Ja-lal! You found her. Excellent work, High Seat.” He stared at Dime with a focused gaze that Dime avoided. Instead, she sat quietly on the stool, her eyes planted on Ferala’s desk, while she tried to think.

  If he wanted to gain her cooperation, certainly he’d reveal her biology, her planned role as hero to the Fo-ror. Play the “good agent,” even. Why wasn’t he?

  He began to step toward her, but Ferala regained his composure and raised a hand. “Seat Neimano. I did. Do not approach her; she is skittish. I’m sure you can understand how scared they get.”

  “Mmm,” Neimano said, not moving his gaze from Dime. “Oh, of course. She must be frightened. Always scurrying off, this one.”

  Dime ran through her options, her heart now thumping in her chest. Though she’d not felt anxiety alone with Ferala, she now felt uneasy. Her sense of danger grew. She glanced between the two leaders—and made a choice.

  Standing up, Dime clenched her fists and turned to Neimano. “I demand answers. If he won’t provide them, then you will.”

  Ferala stayed frozen in place.

  “First, why was I arrested from my home? You fairies have no right to invade Sol’s sacred lands, the lands of the Ja-lal. I demand an answer.”

  “Your name is Diamond?” Neimano asked.

  Dime couldn’t resist almost spitting out the words, “It is.” She remembered Ferala’s story. “And you are, Second, no, Third Seat?”

  Neimano’s eyes narrowed, but he gave her a curt nod.

  “As I said, I refuse to be denied answers any longer. I want to know why your guards tried to capture me. I want to know why I was put in prison here when I’d committed no crime. Is this Fo-ror honor? To rob one’s freedom without cause?”

  Neimano stepped forward. “The other. They said you talked to her. Why is she here? Tell me that, first.”

  It took Dime a moment to understand what he meant. “Agent Rock?” Dime rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I saw her. Low-ranking IC agent; fell from favor a while back. What does she have to do with this?”

  Neimano had clearly not predicted the scene he would find here, as he rolled his lips against each other, searching for the best approach. His robes were plainer than Ferala’s, but with studded metal trim down the edges. While it was probably supposed to complement his oversize beaded necklace, Dime couldn’t help but compare him to a sofa.

  Unlike a sofa, his shoulders were unpadded, as Ferala’s were as well. She knew it was prejudice on her part, but the drooping natural shoulders provided an odd contrast to the ma’pyrsi’s hair and clothes, all of which spoke of their high class and rank.

  Neimano’s hair was artificially dark, as dark as his naturally aged skin. She didn’t yet know whether hair color was simply fashion or had social connotation, but, she realized this elderly pyr was likely in his Eoch. In Sol’s Reach, he would have been retired, relaxing at home, revered for his wisdom and knowledge. Even in the Circles, an Eoch would stay on as a consultant only.

  As she noted the wide ribbons that laced his dark hair, a thought began to form.

  This pyr, it dawned on her, had my wings removed with a knife.

  As her blood warmed in her fingers and her face, she saw the direction he was staring. Not toward her, but toward her chest. Toward the spot under her tunic where her pendant was hidden. Her diamond. The pieces all fit.

  Ferala didn’t arrest her, as he’d said. Neimano did, without the other Seats’ permission. His guards were working with him. That’s why they tried to take her to Neimano, not Ferala. That guard had seen her pendant, in her home. Xe’d told Neimano about it.

  Dime didn’t understand why her diamond was important, just that it seemed to be. She remembered the High Guard’s shock upon seeing it. She remembered Ella’s expression, her urging to keep it hidden.

  The question was, whether Neimano would reveal its presence in front of Ferala. She bargained not, otherwise he’d have mentioned it already. And why was he calling her a Ja-lal? Not calling her to his side and urging her to assist him?

  Watching these two leaders, poised like challenging monarch pieces in a realms game, she knew she couldn’t stay here, a pawn in between them. She saw now the mess she had marched into. When Ella said the Fo-ror were honorable, that they eschewed the Violence, Ella had not met Neimano. Dime was not safe. Her family was not safe.

  “If you will not answer my questions,” she said, “I will take my leave.” She hoisted her backpack up over her shoulders. Ferala’s eyes flicked from Dime to Neimano and back again. Dime walked toward the door.

  “You’re going nowhere, Diamond,” Neimano said with a grunt. “We have more to discuss. And, as you know, you are still under arrest.” She looked back; he was still staring at her tunic. His fingers twitched.

  “The Ja-lal are not bound by your rules, Seat Neimano.” Dime decided to flush it out. Would he tell her, or would he not? That might help her reason through her options later.

  “They will be,” he growled, and Dime could see his last thread of patience snap. “Walk,” he commanded.

  At that moment, a familiar rap sounded on the door. An expression flashed across Ferala’s face that Dime could not quite read. Fear, or even relief. “Enter,” he called. Tikinal slid into the room, carrying a new tray of tea.

  “Honorous Seats,” he said, “Seat Neimano, my apologies—I wasn’t told you were here as well; I should have brought a second tea. Seat Layanie is asking after both of you; I told ver I would find you and report back.”

  Ferala responded before Neimano could collect his anger. “Clerk Tikinal,” he said, his voice raised. “Take our prisoner to the dead caves. Once you arrive, keep her under bars.”

  “Not the clerk. I will take her myself,” Neimano spat. “She escaped once before.”

  Twice, actually.

  Ferala smiled—the same cold, polite smile she’d seen from senior Circles officials a thousand times. “There is no escape possible now that the ruse was discovered. Tikinal, do you promise you will follow my orders?” Ferala walked around his desk and toward Dime, his interlaced braids swaying like pendulums.

  “As always, High Seat.” Tikinal bowed.

  “Then take her to the cages.”

  “Yes, High Seat.”

  Ferala stopped and turned toward Neimano. “Seat Neimano, if you would prefer to accompany her, I will go apologize to Seat Layanie for the delay. I can let ver know you have a special interest in the prisoner.”

  Feeling only danger in this overt discussion of her freedom, Dime almost bolted. Yet she didn’t know to what lengths Neimano would go to stop her. And there was something pleading with her in Ferala’s eyes. She held her action. Her lips pulled tight.

  Ferala leaned in with a few low words for Neimano only. To her side, Tikinal was frantically scribbling something, the notebook angled high toward his chest.

  “Come along,” Tikinal directed, and Dime, hanging her head to appear suppressed but more to avoid catching Neimano’s eyes, walked with the clerk, aware of every breath, every noise in the room and around her. In slow motion, she recalculated her options with every step. She would not enter that cage again.

  Dime followed Tikinal into a corridor, through another tapestry entrance, and out into the more public spaces. “Here,” he hissed during a lull in traffic, whisking her with abrupt motions through a door. With a wave of his hand, the door closed and a stone lit above them.

  Coughing, Dime saw they were surrounded by brooms and buckets. As Tikinal wriggled into a less awkward position, his wings bumped and rattled against the hanging broomsticks. Trying to imagine what sort of a risk Tikinal was taking, she stayed silent.

  He turned his notepad toward her, holding a large engraved pen against it. In a shaky, uneven writing she presumed not to be the writing of the Seats’ Clerk, it said:

 
My orders:

  Do not enter the dead caves. Help her out of the complex through my passage.

  Allocate her what supplies she requests.

  Make her promise she will go immediately to Sol’s Reach, otherwise you will call a guard to assist in her arrest. I trust her word.

  - H.S. Ferala

  It impressed her that he would sign the note directly. If caught, it would absolve Tikinal, and Dime herself, perhaps, of blame.

  The signature was readable, but borderline absurd. Even written with a shaky hand, its flourishes and curvy lines intertwined, almost obscuring the name itself. As she admired it, Tikinal flicked his free hand and the paper ripped out and incinerated. He blew the dust away, giving it a final wave.

  Dime found herself nearly nose-to-nose with the clerk. “Sorry if this is awkward,” she said, unable to suppress a grin.

  “I could have picked a better place, but I figured the Seats don’t even know this room exists. I am not accustomed to smuggling alien species past my leaders.”

  “Your leaders are too uptight,” Dime offered.

  They both chuckled.

  “So, what do you want?” Tikinal’s voice shook and she knew, despite his orders, he was now placed in a position of immense risk, one that could have dire consequences. He likely wanted to be done with it, to the extent that he’d incinerated his evidence.

  Recalling Neimano’s reactions, Dime no longer felt the protection of a world rid of the Violence. She felt fear.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  Dime thought quickly of Rock. She wanted to help her friend get out, but she’d do her no good by getting caught herself. Nor could she compromise the trust of the one Seat who was willing to assist her. This wasn’t the right time. Yet— “Tikinal, the Ja-lal prisoner. Will you promise to ensure she’s not harmed?” The words stung, but she had seen Neimano’s eyes.

  Of all that he had taken from her, this was the most.

  “Harmed?” Tikinal drank in her implication. “Oh. Yes. I’ve seen no signs of any escalation to . . . they dislike her more than anything. Yes, I will do what I can.” Seeing Dime’s expression, he added, “I would never close my eyes to the Violence. Never.”

  “Thank you,” Dime said. She kept trying to think what she needed to get back. She’d lost a climbing hook. Did she have enough food? Balm? What else? She patted her pockets, thinking. Dime almost snorted at her own ridiculous answer, but she’d felt Ador’s dice, and remembered. “First, thank you. I am friend to the Fo-ror.” Tikinal’s unpadded shoulders relaxed a little at those words.

  “I’ll leave without delay and I promise to travel directly to Sol’s Reach. In return, I . . . would accept three gifts.” That felt silly to say, but Ella had emphasized that she should refer to needs as gifts.

  “First, can I write a note?” Tikinal handed over his notebook and pen and Dime scribbled out a note, struggling to write with the oversized instrument. She folded the paper together. Setting her own backpack down—with a bit more mutual wriggling in the cramped space—she removed a little construction putty and pressed it against the paper, using one of Ador’s dice to make an impression.

  She handed the sealed note back to Tikinal, along with the notepad. “Please give this, unread, to the Ja-lal prisoner. I promise it won’t help her escape or cause harm.” Tikinal nodded.

  Dime waved the pen, its metal highlights glinting. “May I keep this?” Tikinal shrugged and Dime slid it into her bag.

  “Next . . . I’d like a bottle of the best ferm that fairies drink. Not, like, the stuff for a party, not even government stuff. Your highest-class pyrsi—what would they drink on a special occasion? I’d like a good bottle of that, fully sealed. It’ll be in my bag while I scale the cliff,” she explained.

  Tikinal appeared to be biting his lip.

  “Last, I have a friend who loves games.”

  “Games?” Tikinal looked like he was just going to leave.

  “Tabletop games; I’m sure you have them here. I want to give him a gift, as he gave me one. Something made by fairies, like a rolling game, or a chips game—” Dime was trying to figure out how to say she wanted something nice without sounding like way too much of a mooch. But, she reasoned, the Seats still owed her a few. “Something really top notch. It can’t be too large.” She pointed to the bag.

  Tikinal actually grinned. “Three, right? That’s it?”

  Dime grinned back. “Yes, for now.”

  Tikinal appeared as though he had a thousand things to say and couldn’t bring himself to say any of them.

  “It’s ok,” Dime said. “Hey, it was really nice to meet you. I hope you don’t get into trouble for this.” The thought pinched at her insides. “You can come with me, if you need.” She’d meant well by it, but immediately realized the flaws in her offer. It wasn’t as if the winged pyr could stroll around Lodon. And without his friends and family.

  “My place is here,” Tikinal said, his grin disappearing. “I trust High Seat Ferala.” Dime nodded, awed by the clerk’s bravery. She saw the way Neimano had looked past him, like he was nothing. Maybe that would work in his favor. Maybe Ferala was counting on it.

  Dime couldn’t worry about that right now. There was too much in her mind, anyway, between Ferala’s story and her unanswered questions about Neimano— She still didn’t understand this world, and she’d already promised to leave it. The Seats would have to mop their own mess. She glanced away from a big floppy mop.

  “I can’t risk leaving you here,” he said. “We’ll get you through Ferala’s tunnel first. Neimano shouldn’t know about it. I shouldn’t know about it; I just don’t happen to matter. I’ll go another way around and meet you.”

  “If getting the gifts puts you in danger, then we can skip them.”

  Tikinal actually rolled his eyes at that. “Not returning you to prison might put me in danger. A couple of trinkets from the lounge; that I can manage. Besides, the High Seat’s orders.” Tikinal tilted forward, though not much given their already-close quarters. “He did probably think you’d ask for, you know, socks.”

  “I have socks.” Dime wiggled her toes in her boots. Harm, I should have asked for boot oil.

  Dime had pushed that far enough.

  Tikinal opened the door a bit and peered around the corner. Pausing, he grabbed the large mop. “Hold this,” he said. “Just in case.”

  Dime lifted the mop and Tikinal pushed the floppy strands over her head. “Consider it our best invisibility cloak,” he joked. “Tale of the Traveler?” he asked, seeing Dime’s blank expression. “No?”

  “We have cloak issues up my way, sorry.”

  Together they walked out, Tikinal chattering a stream of nonsense while pointing to various corners, appearing to instruct her on how to clean the passages. Not a single pyr even glanced their direction.

  In a passageway that must have been near the kitchen, for Dime could hear splashing water and clanking pots, Tikinal waved an arm, and a portion of the wall pushed back into itself, leaving an opening.

  “No time for goodbyes. Now that’s our best mop,” he said, taking it back from her. “When you get outside, hide, and wait. If I’m not there to meet you in . . . two spans, then leave.” Not waiting for a response, he ushered her into the opening. Before she could say anything to the pyr, the wall had closed again and she was alone in a very pitch dark, completely silent place.

  The fairies probably waved on the lights. “My life,” Dime murmured, using her hands to feel her way along a winding passage.

  Her sense of time had been warped without the reminder of bells, yet it didn’t seem like more than two takes had gone by when the passage ended. Not feeling a door handle, she hoped the door didn’t require valence too. Tikinal probably hadn’t considered that, so she hoped this was the push side. With both hands, she gave it a hearty heave, and squinted
at the bright light of Sol glaring in over the top of a tall hedge.

  Trying to ignore the overwhelming smell of rot, she pushed the heavy door shut behind her, grunting as it finally clanged back into place. Running her hand along the textured wall, she marveled at how seamlessly the door blended in.

  As the door had no handle on this side, she could not have found it again, let alone opened it. He did say to wait outside, right? She covered her nose, glancing with regret at the now unopenable panel.

  Still, she took a moment to note the surroundings. Finding a stone with an unusual shape, she twisted it into the soil to mark the spot, just in case.

  Tikinal had said to hide, but was staying behind the hedge hiding? She wasn’t sure. The area smelled so bad. Creeping along its edge, she peered through a thinner section. As she’d suspected, this appeared to be a compost area for the complex. Piles of old food and wrappers spread over a field, through which scruffy little trees had started to poke through.

  She wasn’t going to go hide in that either.

  Keeping a sleeve over her nose, she tried not to worry about the passing of the takes as she leaned back and waited. She replayed Ferala’s words in her mind, and Neimano’s as well, remembering the details so she wouldn’t forget them, trying to find any additional clues she had missed.

  The thought of the remaining five victims weighed on her, just as much as the four who had died did. Why had they died? Did any of the living know their biology? Would they admit it? Without clues, would she just walk through Lodon asking to see pyrsi’s bare backs? To feel their tattoos for any telltale bumps?

  If they knew, it wasn’t her job to expose them, but if they didn’t know, wouldn’t it be her obligation to tell them? She wasn’t sure.

  She’d been happy in Sol’s Reach; maybe they were too. Was disrupting them now, in a place they’d lived their lives, an even greater cruelty? Or did pyrsi always deserve their truth? Ferala had asked about Sol’s Reach. He’d grown agitated when Dime asked about the others. Perhaps he’d considered those same questions. And then Neimano had strolled in, calling her Ja-lal like it was an insult.