“Our younger sisters,” Matuka added, “continue to face these choices. Rumors of chronic illness, a squint assumed at critical interviews; such are their defenses should they want them.”
“Why—why do you tell us these things?” Rosalie asked
“Ah. Perhaps we attempted an earlier divination? Our results indicated a need to become better acquainted with our allies, and to listen as well as share with them the bases of our daily lives. And also to invite—persuasion? At the very least, explication of your viewpoints.”
“You will sit.” Matuka’s gesture indicated the cushioned stools before them, though her bottomless pupils stayed fixed on nothing that could be seen.
Slowly, over the two hours that remained of their voyage, they accomplished what the Sheikhas wished. They discussed mundane personal affairs: their monthly courses, caring for their teeth and gums. They exchanged information about politics; the princesses knew much more than Rosalie would have expected concerning the doings of foreign nations. They discussed the relative merits of oil palms and petroleum fields: the palms could be planted and raised generation after generation, but needed more processing for a less potent yield. And so on.
It was agreed that Imran’s plot was the best way to render Laurie harmless.
Finally, the Sheikhas tried to explain the coming ceremony of divination.
“This method is called the science of the sand,” said Ghuza. “So we want to lay out the squares on the beach above Chake Chake Bay.” The “Mothers,” the figures filling the four initial squares, were divided into four parts: Head, Heart, Belly, Feet. From them would derive four more figures, called Daughters, and from the Daughters Nieces, and from them Judges and Witnesses, on whom depended the querent’s ultimate answer. To Rosalie it seemed unnecessarily involved. Why not simply decide based on the known facts?
“But how do you arrive at the Mothers?” asked Amrita, cutting through to the root of the confusion.
“We toss a coin. Or roll a die.” Matuka took from her sash an ivory cube marked with ebony dots. “By whatever means available we generate a random number to allow the influence of Chance.”
So much for facts.
One last effort to plead for rational thought processes. “Will it help at all to acquire what you need using your own resources?” Ghuza’s eyes were as void of expression as her sister’s. More plainly this time, Rosalie asked, “Can you not buy the food and building materials needed with your own funds?”
“Secretly? No. And the sultan will not be made to look as if he cares less than anyone for his subjects.”
“We live on an island,” Matuka said, as if the implications should be obvious. “And on that island we live within a closely watched compound.”
“But via agents?” Amrita’s question was once more to the point.
“Any we could employ are also closely watched—at least as to their business transactions,” Ghuza answered.
“Does the sultan watch us as well?” Rosalie asked.
Ghuza’s plucked brows arched with surprise. “But of course! However, he considers you little threat to his European masters. If he knew—if he could conceive how many varying classes of people are united in their dislike—”
A long, loud, two-noted hoot drowned out the Sheikha’s voice. It repeated three times.
“According to this signal we arrive shortly,” Matuka announced in the sudden silence following. Now Rosalie realized what the sound had been: a steam whistle such as blew back home in Kisangani at the start of each work shift.
“Yes.” Ghuza lifted one wide-sleeved arm as if she spread a wing. “Have your party gather by the boats. You may disembark with us in the first to leave for shore.”
§
The damp sand felt cool to Rosalie’s bare soles. Golden, with a glint like diamond dust, the long strand lay before her in shining splendor, reflecting the sky where wetted by the sea. Behind her and inland lay the stubby ruins of the ancient Arab settlement of Qanbalu; between those broken walls and the shore the Sheikhas’ servants labored to complete the erection of their pavilion, an edifice of saffron-tinted silk embroidered in scarlet and blue. Also behind Rosalie but anchored in the bay to the south floated Nyanza, kept from coming nearer by Pemba’s thick girdle of reefs.
Freeing one hand from the parasol she wielded in the role of Rosalie’s maid, Amrita lifted a pair of field glasses to her eyes and turned them Nyanza-ward. “Your brother is in the boat now being lowered.”
“Good.” The sooner Laurie was removed from the picture the better. She reached for the glasses to watch him being rowed off herself, but Amrita wouldn’t relinquish them.
“Wait. It seems—” Amrita frowned. “—it seems they make for us, not the lagoon and the road.” At last she let loose her hold and Rosalie was able to take possession of the glasses. Amrita was right! Though foreshortened and distorted by the magnifying lenses, the newly lowered boat did appear to be headed directly toward them. Up from its center protruded Laurie’s head, unmistakable in his unfortunately ostentatious white Foreign Service helmet.
Why? Was this change of course at his direction? Or was it dictated by those who gave the Nyanza’s sailors their orders?
The pavilion stood. The servants who had protected the two Sheikhas from the sun furled their oversized parasols outside its awninged entrance; their mistresses must be within. Too bad. There would have been less difficulty in approaching to consult them out here. “Shall I request an audience?” Amrita asked. Rosalie assented.
But the big women on either side of the awning shook their heads in refusal and said something to Amrita that was impossible for Rosalie to hear. Not that she needed their exact words.
Amrita came back to her side. “The ritual has already begun. Their Highnesses are not to be disturbed.”
No one else was within earshot. “What do you suggest?” Rosalie asked. It was a most un-mistresslike question.
“Let’s assume, since they said nothing of revising the kidnapping plan, that it is your brother who has instigated this side trip. Can you guess why?”
“At a hazard, he wishes our escort and guidance. Or perhaps an introduction to the Sheikhas? The separation on board Nyanza wasn’t at all to his liking.”
“If we can keep him from causing an incident with the Sheikhas, what do we care if we’re with him when he springs the trap?”
“Yes.” Rosalie made a show of ordering Amrita to follow her to the spot on the beach where Nyanza’s second boat looked likely to land. There they drew the backs of their robes forward between their legs and tucked the hems in their sashes, making them into a sort of pantaloons. They splashed out through the low surf together.
Nine men sat in the boat. Or eight if you counted Kafeel not a man but a boy. All the passengers but Laurie were brown-skinned, the two who rowed verging on black. Her brother gave an embarrassed laugh. “Have you always behaved like such a guy, Rosie? Why not wait for one of these strong fellows to carry you safely to me?”
The rowers had stopped and shipped their oars. “To you?” The question confirmed for her that the Sheikhas were neither this boat’s controllers nor Laurie’s goal. Kafeel grasped Rosalie by her left arm and pulled; she gave her right to the idle rower on her side of the boat. As they hauled her aboard Amrita underwent a similar process on the other side.
“Where are we going?”
“Oh, nowhere we haven’t been invited.” Laurie grimaced. “Don’t worry. Your country’s precious diplomatic relations aren’t being compromised.” Her country was Everfair. Not, therefore, his.
“Though I don’t see why we couldn’t have simply anchored at Whatsit Bay instead of here.”
“You mean Mkoan?”
“Whatever you may call it—where that fuel carrier’s supposed to have had those spills. Where there’s every indication we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
Amrita busied herself straightening Rosalie’s attire.
“So to the lagoon, then?
”
“There’s transport there, right?” Laurie nodded to Kafeel, who spoke in Kee-Swah-Hee-Lee to the men crouched in front of the rowers. They switched positions. Then the new rowers brought the boat quickly about and sped them off.
Herons and heavy-beaked pelicans flew in tight circles above the lagoon’s opening. The tide was falling; bleached coral and rocks covered in strange growths thrust upwards, several times breaking the sea’s surface. One of the former rowers had moved to the boat’s prow, whence he called directions to his replacements. Rosalie leaned over the stern, longing to trail her fingers in the cool water. Once they were within the lagoon’s stillness, the bottom appeared close enough to touch.
And then it was. It must be: the boat’s keel scraped over the rippling sand; the man at the prow and three others jumped into the shallow water and hauled the vessel a few feet further in. Kafeel leapt also, laughing when he fell short of a dry landing.
“Miss?” The second set of rowers had also left the boat. They’d formed a chair of their arms and waited for Rosalie to seat herself on them. She clambered into their embrace. Still facing the boat as the two men waded toward the shore, she watched the remaining sailor help Laurie seat himself on a sturdier piece of human furniture composed of the arms of four. That last sailor swung himself over the side as Rosalie was deposited on the beach and carried Amrita pick-a-back to her side.
Atop a steep rise, Kafeel waved his arms to signal that he’d reached the road. Rosalie heard Laurie swear below his breath as they followed Nyanza’s sailors up the trail. At first its loose sand slipped beneath her feet. As it climbed it became packed dirt. When they reached the patchy hillside jungle, she stopped to retrieve her shoes from Amrita and tied them on, mindful of poisonous insects and snakes. Her brother seemed glad of the halt. As she stood he beckoned her to the boulder where he sat.
“Will we need to camp here overnight?” he asked, after inquiring how she did.
“Here?”
“Not right here. On the island.” A nearby bird screeched. He flinched.
“There are villages,” she replied as coolly as she could. “I’m sure some merchant or diver would put us up.” At his glum face she relented. “And there’s an inn in Mkoan proper—but I believe Nyanza will sail to meet us there this evening.” No need to start his suffering yet.
The road stunk of oil. Rosalie hadn’t thought of that. Twice a year since the discovery of the seep, Pemba’s road crews applied what they’d collected to keep down the dust. Later in the season the smell would dissipate, but now?
Laurie noticed it. Rosalie tried to explain away the oil as salt water-tainted salvage from drums that had floated ashore after the disaster. He wasn’t stupid, though.
His pale, suspicious eyes darkened on the arrival of the promised transport: three of the steam bicycle-and-cart combinations typical of Everfair’s capital, Kisangani. She’d expected that because of their coal-fueled boilers he’d take them as proof that the existence of oilfields on the island was nothing but a rumor. Instead he made the more obvious connection: machines from Everfair at the disposal of a woman from Everfair with better access to the royal house than he had.
“How shall we split ourselves up?” she asked, hoping that if Laurie were allowed to decide their seating arrangements he’d relax his guard and go along with the proposed itinerary.
It worked. At the sacrifice of Amrita’s companionship. Rosalie wound up alone with her brother in the cart he decided was most comfortable; the others had to cram into the rest of the fleet with, he insisted, the food hampers Imran and his mother had provided. These her brother demanded to have placed inside—not strapped to the carts’ exteriors. “Keep off the flies,” he declared, easing onto the cushioned seat opposite Rosalie.
“Sure you don’t mind riding backwards?” he asked anxiously.
She didn’t. It shouldn’t be for long.
But her small store of patience was tried sorely. Mile upon mile they jogged through Pemba’s high hills. Laurie interrogated her sharply when they passed the land being cleared for aircanoe operations. She didn’t conceal anything; this part of Everfair’s aid to Zanzibar was common knowledge. About the clove plantations surrounding the road after that she had little to say. The sapling palms set out for the season in the clove trees’ shelter were better not mentioned. How to explain the aspirations of the Pembans and other oil palm aficionados without describing the faction they opposed?
Laurie filled the resulting silence with a monologue, droning on for what seemed hours about his fiancée, Theresa: what Ellen—“Mother”—thought of her; how delicate her complexion and sensibilities alike; how familiar she was to him because of the generations of friendship between their families, yet how mysterious because so essentially feminine . . . all the clichés and platitudes she’d been able to avoid when his guest in England by the simple expedient of withdrawing to her room.
At last came the descent into the valley before Limani. As planned, both the cart’s and the bicycle’s brakes failed. Bracing her feet and holding firmly to the cart’s door handle as they jounced ever faster down the rutted road, Rosalie wondered if this was when she would finally become religious. Or at least pray and pretend to be.
Their cart was first in the convoy. The others were far behind, out of sight when at last they crashed into a glossy-leaved bush.
Rosalie checked herself over and found no obvious injuries. Laurie was another matter. His silly helmet—which he’d worn, contra etiquette, in her presence inside the cart—had prevented any serious damage to his head. The same with the fat padding his figure overall, but the two last fingers on his right hand stuck out at a very curious angle, and the thumb on his left was bent back parallel with his wrist. Maman’s wife would know how to splint those injuries.
Her brother’s eyes blinked at her, dazed. In a moment he’d begin to feel his pain. Rosalie still held the door’s handle. She opened it and climbed out, which took only a slight effort. The cart was canted off its front wheels and rested more on its far side than on this one—but not much more. Shaking her robes back into order, Rosalie looked around for the bicycle driver. Gone. As instructed. Excellent. Now to improvise, as Mam’selle would say.
“Help! Help!” She let her voice wobble as if in fear—easier than exiting the cart. “We’re hurt! Someone, please!” That should be enough to let Imran know she was here with Laurie.
There he came, muffled in scarves like an old woman. “Shut up!” he commanded in Kee-Swah-Hee-Lee, sounding much gruffer than usual. No, he would not be recognized.
“It’s all right,” she replied in the same language. She attempted to whine pitifully. “My brother made all the others ride in the later carts. No one’s around to understand.”
“Hah! But I’d better stay in disguise just the same, hadn’t I.”
White-faced and shivering with shock, Laurie poked his helmeted head above the cart’s doorway. More over-wrapped men appeared out of the forest, waving shonguns, Everfairer weapons that shot poisoned blades. A wince contorted Laurie’s perspiration-covered features and his shoulders heaved; he must be trying to pull something out of a pocket—a weapon perhaps?
They needed to remove Laurie from the road before the rest of the party arrived. But when a pair of them approached to take him out of the cart he ducked down below the doorway. “Rosie!” he called. “Get back in here! I’ve got a pistol in my jacket. You needn’t even fire it, just point—”
Rosalie shrieked and threw herself at Imran. Quick of mind, he caught and held her before Laurie’s head was up again. His knife’s edge grazed her throat, drawing real blood. But not much. “Perhaps we’ll have to drag the cart into the jungle and dislodge him there,” she growled defiantly.
To her brother’s sincere-sounding cries of distress she answered, in English, that the black devils said they would kill her unless he too surrendered.
A true gentleman, Laurie stood when he heard that.
“Mind his h
ands,” Rosalie warned the men extracting him from the cart. “And see if you can find his pistol.” She hoped her Kee-Swah-Hee-Lee instructions sounded like terrified pleas. She hoped her pretended scuffling with Imran looked like she fought in ineffectual earnest to block their departure into the forest.
When they’d gone far enough off the road that Laurie’s shouts shouldn’t be heard by anyone investigating the crash, they came to a little house, temporary, woven of boards and covered in palm leaves. But they didn’t go inside it; rather, their supposed captors shoved them to the ground near the house’s fire pit. Then they stood over them, shonguns at the ready.
“You managing, my girl?” Laurie asked.
Rosalie shrugged. “I’m frightened is all.”
“What do they want?”
“Money, I gather. Ransom.”
“Well they won’t get it!” Despite his words, Laurie looked unsure of that. Rosalie hoped he was right. Her brother’s release played no part in this scheme.
Imran’s mother emerged from the house. Bizarre designs in red and white paint covered her face. They served no purpose except to transform her into a stranger—though Laurie had probably not noticed her at the guesthouse anyway. She had to be surprised to see Rosalie there, but no one could have told by looking.
In Kee-Swah-Hee-Lee the old woman asked Rosalie, “How did this happen? Don’t you want to go home?”
Imran made angry-looking gestures. “At the worst we expected one of the sailors!” he snapped. “They could have been explained. We’ll have a hard time making your brother believe you’ve betrayed him despite the fact that you did.”
“What’s he saying?” Laurie twisted his head to watch Imran pace between the empty fire ring and the house.
“They’re arguing about how much we’re worth.”
“Nothing!”
“Then we’re dead.” To Imran: “I think he’s going to try to escape. Can you tie him up?”
“I’ll get something.” Imran’s mother walked into the hut.
“We’ll run for it!” Laurie staggered to his feet. “Opposite directions!” A heavily-built man knocked him to his knees with one hand. Her brother cried out in pain. The man raised his shongun threateningly.
Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation Page 24