by Braden, Jill
“I’m not going to carry anything for you, so stop asking,” Voorus said. “Ha! You need a boy; I found you one.” He strode across the street to the old cat-man. The cat-man tried to back away, but Voorus gripped him by the collar and dragged him over to Kyam.
Kyam wondered where he had seen this odd old fellow before. The Li Islands were a Thampurian colony several hundred miles south of Ponong in the Te’Am Ocean, but few Li lived on Ponong, just as few Ponongese moved to the Li Islands. If they wanted to escape Thampurian rule, they made the dangerous and expensive voyage to the southern continent. Chances were if Kyam had seen an elderly Li in Levapur before, it had been this man. But where? If he saw the man in context, he’d probably recognize him right away, but outside of his normal setting, Kyam couldn’t place him.
Voorus grabbed Kyam’s packages and shoved them into the old man’s hands. “There. My good deed for the day. When you get back to Thampur, tell everyone how helpful I was. Who knows? A good word might save me.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Is that the time? I’m supposed to lead drills at the fortress in an hour. I keep forgetting that I need to leave earlier now that the funicular is broken. I wonder when they’ll get it fixed?”
“Never, if the governor doesn’t allow the workers to pass through the town square to get to it.”
With a grin, Voorus shrugged. “This island... You won’t miss it, will you? Anyway, I have to go. I leave your packages in good hands.”
He stepped smartly down the street.
Kyam turned to the old cat-man who stood patiently holding his shopping. “I think I know you. Where have I seen you before? What’s your name?”
“LiHoun, Mister, Sir.” The old man bowed many times as he balanced the packages. “I’m honored to carry the worthy’s –”
“I’ll give you an extra coin if you stop treating me like a Thampurian.”
LiHoun slowly grinned, showing mostly toothless gums. His demeanor changed with his tone. “As Mister Zul wishes.”
Something about LiHoun still made him wary. It wasn’t anything he could point to, but the muscles across his back stayed tight. Paying attention to his body’s warning signs had saved his life a few times. He certainly wouldn’t head down any deserted alleyways with the cat-man, and until they parted ways, he’d keep his eyes and ears open for suspicious behavior.
“Come on. I need to buy a bottle or two,” Kyam said.
LiHoun easily balanced Kyam’s bundles as they headed for the spirit merchant’s shop.
~ ~ ~
Kyam left LiHoun on the veranda outside the spirit merchant’s shop and went inside. The merchant acknowledged Kyam before turning his attention back to his other customers. Fresh wood shavings were arranged artfully around bottles stacked on wooden crates; Kyam supposed that was meant to inspire trust that the bottles were imported and not refilled with imitation local spirits, but he knew from his days at sea that the crates were too clean to have been in a ship’s hold.
Kyam pretended to read labels while he watched LiHoun through the glass-paned door. LiHoun waited with the resigned patience of an errand runner. Kyam almost turned away as the other customers in the shop started talking about the marketplace. They seemed more upset about the inconvenience of having to go to the Ponongese market and their fear of the slums of Old Levapur than the injustice to the Ponongese merchants. He held his tongue as long as he could, but just as he was about to join the conversation, he saw LiHoun’s back straighten.
What had caught the old man’s attention? Kyam peered down the street. Five soldiers had turned the corner., and LiHoun was looking directly at them.
It was Kyam’s first good look at the new soldiers. He’d passed by them before, but he’d been drunk and couldn’t remember much. This time, like LiHoun, he watched them pass by.
Oddly, there were no insignias or other identifiers on the soldier’s uniforms. It was as if their posting, position, and even ranks had been deliberately obscured. Who were these men, and why had they come to Levapur? From their apparent familiarity with each other, they’d served together before, possibly for years. Strangers didn’t move together that way. If Voorus’ quip about every Thampurian in Levapur being there in disgrace was right, there had been a scandal back in Thampur that he hadn’t heard about – something big enough to put an entire troop into exile.
He should ask Hadre. No, he wasn’t going to talk to Hadre until Hadre apologized for attacking Grandfather. He could figure this out without Hadre’s help anyway.
LiHoun, he noticed, watched the soldiers until they reached the end of the street. Then the old man finally relaxed.
“Can I help you, Sir?” The spirit merchant asked Kyam.
Kyam turned away from the window. “Two bottles of rum, please.”
He ignored the rude stares of the other customers as he paid for his bottles. There were more important matters than their approval. It felt as if he’d been yanked back suddenly into his old work as a spy, and every sense, every thought, honed in on LiHoun. The old man was watching the soldiers. Why? Who did he work for? Kyam didn’t like jumping to conclusions without any proof, but the name that immediately came to mind was the Devil.
~ ~ ~
Kyam shot glances at LiHoun as they walked toward Kyam’s apartment. How could he broach the subject of the Devil without alarming the old man? What if he were mistaken?
“I’m sure I’ve seen you before. Not many Li live in Levapur,” Kyam began.
“I used to run errands for the workers at PhaJut’s. Now I’m at the Dragon Pearl, but I assist their customers.”
Something LiHoun said earlier came back to him. “You know my name.”
“It can be helpful in my line of work.”
“Fetching and carrying, or gathering information?”
It seemed as if LiHoun knew where this conversation might lead. From the twitch of his upper lip, he was enjoying Kyam’s attempts to get to the point. Cat and mouse. Of course, a Li would enjoy that game.
“I saw you watching the soldiers.”
They stopped at the steps to Kyam’s apartment building. LiHoun passed the packages back to Kyam and put his hand out for his coins. After unsuccessfully trying to juggle his purchases and reach into his trouser pockets, Kyam set the packages on the top step.
“They are not typical colonial militia men,” LiHoun said.
LiHoun wasn’t even going to try to pretend he’d been stringing for the Dragon Pearl. That was unusually direct. Direct for a Thampurian, Kyam reminded himself, not a Li, or a Ponongese like QuiTai. He wondered why the Devil was interested in the soldiers. If they were cracking down on the black market, Kyam was all for it, but so far all he’d seen was their attack on legitimate businesses.
Kyam jangled the coins in his hand.
“And you’re not a typical errand boy, uncle LiHoun.” Kyam opened his hand.
LiHoun glanced at the coins but didn’t take them.
“Two for carrying my packages. One for not bowing and scraping. And three more if you can pass a message to the Devil.”
LiHoun said nothing, but looked directly at him. There weren’t many Li or Ponongese who would dare such insolence, but he had told the man not to treat him like a Thampurian. The cat-man’s vertical pupils were narrow slits in the middle of murky green irises. Nothing in his expression suggested shock, anger, or wariness at the mention of the Devil.
While he had few coins left to live on, Kyam took a valuable one out of his pocket and put it on his open palm next to the others.
Kyam glanced up and down the street. No one was near. “I prefer that you tell his concubine this: someone paid Petrof the werewolf to kill her. I don’t think he’s succeeded – yet. He must be stopped.”
“Must?”
Kyam jerked back. Had he told the wrong person? Was the Devil behind Petrof’s attempts to kill her? Anger flashed through him. How many times had he seen bruises on QuiTai’s neck? Was the Devil stupid enough to harm the woman who controlled hi
s entire criminal enterprise? As far as he could tell, she was the brains behind the underground network. The Devil was just some lucky bastard who got a free ride on her accomplishments.
“Tell the Devil that if she dies, I will hold him personally responsible for failing to protect her. If she dies, I will come after him,” Kyam growled, inches from LiHoun’s face.
Understanding dawned on LiHoun’s ancient face along with a grin. “Ah.” He snatched the coins from Kyam’s palm as Kyam gaped in shock. LiHoun backed down the stairs, every crooked tooth showing, eyes squinting with merriment. “Don’t worry, Colonel Zul. I know how to keep a secret.”
He damn well better, Kyam thought, or QuiTai was in more danger than before.
~ ~ ~
Kyam set his packages on the desk in the corner of his apartment and went to light his cooking fire. Most people left theirs burning, but he couldn’t afford that. The flame wouldn’t catch, and he was almost out of matches. He checked the jar of juam nut oil under the burner. There was barely any left, and he didn’t have enough coins left to fill it.
He leaned against the counter and scratched his head. When he got back to Thampur, he was going to teach a class for new Intelligence recruits called Undercover Verisimilitude: how to successfully live in poverty for extended periods. Not that he’d figured it out yet. Being poor required skills he hadn’t developed. Yet while it paled in comparison to his income before exile, his remittance payment was far more than an average Thampurian in Levapur lived on. Disgraced or not, he was a Zul, after all. But that money rarely lasted until his next remittance arrived, despite some attempts at budgeting. Hadre always had to lend him a bit and pay for dinner; but he could hardly go to Hadre now and grovel. Besides, the Winged Dragon might have sailed already.
If only he could take his packages to RhiLan across the landing and ask her to make dinner.
He realized how rude that would be. Ponongese rules of hospitality aside, it would be treating her like his servant, and he never wanted the Rhi to feel as if that was how he viewed them. It would be like twisting every kind gesture into their duty to him. He didn’t want to be that kind of person.
See, Hadre? I’m not a stodgy Thampurian at heart after all. But that doesn’t mean I’ll excuse your behavior toward Grandfather.
Well, there was nothing to do but beg some juam nut oil from RhiLan. He had to borrow her rice pot anyway. The only thing he knew how to cook was rice-and-eggs. He hoped he didn’t ruin the pork and vegetables, but it was all he could afford in the shops and if he didn’t cook it today it would spoil. He briefly thought about trading the pork for eggs with the auntie who kept jungle fowl in a coop by the apartment building’s outhouse, but she probably didn’t have enough eggs to make the trade fair, and he’d learned never to insult a Ponongese by insinuating they needed his charity.
He detached the hose that ran from the oil tin to the burner and headed across the landing to RhiLan’s door.
There was a thump and hushed but harsh whispers before RhiLan’s eldest son, RhiLiet, cracked open the door. The boy usually had a smile for everyone, but today he was serious. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “It’s Mister Zul.” Then he turned back to Kyam as he hugged the door. “Have you eaten, Mister Zul?”
This was one of those moments when Kyam wished he understood Ponongese customs better. ‘Have you eaten’ was the same as ‘hello’ to a Thampurian, but it sounded so much like a real question that he felt he had to answer. But how did one answer?
“Um... Yes, I have, and you? Is auntie RhiLan here? Can I speak to her?” he said in a rush.
Kyam smelled an unwashed body with an undertone of sickness to the stench. If someone in RhiLan’s apartment suffered from one of the three fevers, that explained the boy’s wariness. Thampurian soldiers were quick to drag anyone suspected of those illnesses to the edge of the Jupoli Gorge and give them a hearty shove into the Pha River below.
The boy looked over his shoulder again. A hand gripped the edge of the door, and RhiLan peered over her son. He scooted away. She moved into the space he’d left and wrapped herself around the door as he had.
“Mister Zul. So nice to see you.” Her tone was as flat as a winter lake, and he hadn’t even had a chance to insult her yet.
“I was making dinner” – he waved a hand in the direction of his door – “and hoped that your family would share it with me. I may be leaving Levapur soon and didn’t want to go without saying goodbye properly.”
He could see the conflict in her face. She was a nice woman without a drop of unkindness in her blood. Her man and children were the same. He truly would miss them. They’d always had such a friendly relationship. And yet, she was clearly torn.
“Please, auntie. It’s just a humble dinner. It may be the last chance I have to enjoy the company of your family.” He gave her his best pleading look.
She held up her hand and looked behind the door. He pretended he couldn’t hear the furious exchange of whispers.
“We will come, Mister Zul. Thank you for your kind invitation,” RhiLan said.
He pressed his hands together and bowed. “Thank you, auntie. I’m honored.” Kyam held up his oil jar. “May I borrow some cooking oil?”
She nodded as she reached for the jar.
“And your rice pot? And a skillet?”
Feminine laughter from somewhere behind RhiLan was quickly muffled. It seemed they had a guest that they didn’t want him to know about. Maybe the woman was ill? Surely RhiLan wouldn’t have exposed him or her family to such danger, though. Even Ponongese rules of hospitality had a limit. It was more likely that their guest suffered from one of the many other maladies that Ponong’s heat and humidity seemed to make worse. He’d learned that lesson all too well his second month in exile when a simple cut on his thumb had become infected.
“Oh, and could I beg a pinch of tumejra powder?”
Merriment warmed RhiLan’s snake eyes. She motioned for him to wait as she closed the door. Indistinct voices were followed by more muffled laughter. When RhiLan opened the door again, she bit her lips, but her chin quivered with suppressed giggles. “Are you sure you don’t need rice and fish too, little brother?”
This was the RhiLan he was used to. Whatever worried her, it wasn’t too serious. He grinned as he shrugged. “I have rice.”
“I’ll send RhiLiet with the pans. He’ll stay to help you with your rice.” RhiLan’s hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes sparkled with laughing tears. “So it’s not crunchy.”
Chapter 10: The Oracle’s Silence
The hillside slums of Old Levapur clung to banded orange sand cliffs that looked as if they’d melt in heavy rain. Near the dirt road that connected the Thampurian enclave of West Levapur to the town square was an old, squat apartment building painted in mismatched pink patches. Most of the other buildings in the slum were single story shacks with tin roofs and rotting walls. Vines grew over the roofs that bowed under the weight. Jungle fowl scratched in the long weeds for grubs. Paths winding up the hillside were deeply rutted by sluggish streams that washed filth down slope, under the funicular tracks, and down the cliff into the Sea of Erykoli.
RhiLan never would have set up a market stall in such a place if she’d been alone. The other Ponongese merchants seemed to feel the same – they huddled together in a wide spot on the road between a small tavern and the apartment building. Rumor said the Devil ruled with an iron fist here and would not allow Ponongese to steal from each other, but the people of Old Levapur frightened her. Even the young had weary eyes and mean expressions.
She knew it wasn’t fair to judge people she hadn’t even talked to, but she worried that they’d scare away customers. If only the other merchants had picked a nice Ponongese neighborhood for their new market. The road that wound through the upslope neighborhoods in Levapur was too narrow and steep for stalls, but around her apartment, the streets were wider and almost flat.
The mango seller who had squatted beside RhiLan at the m
eeting jerked her chin upward. “Even the monsoon god wants us to have a good market.”
RhiLan smiled at the sky. Tall clouds towered high, stark white against the blue, but they were far out to sea and held no rain in their bellies. Even the daily mist that wreathed the mountains was thin enough that she could see the outlines of their peaks. “It’s a good sign.”
Even though the shaky excitement shot through her, RhiLan reminded herself that this was no secret party. She drew a brown and orange sarong from her market basket and unfolded it. “I just finished this design. Do you like it?”
The mango seller averted her eyes. “Until I sell my mangos, I can’t think of something so frivolous.” She reached above her head and plucked a mango from her basket. Freckled red and gold patches spread over the green skin. “Nice and ripe. I found the sweetest one, just for you.”
Mangos and peppers was her man’s favorite dish, but RhiLan had to decline the fruit. “I only have these coins. What if I never sell another sarong?”
She rued her words as she heard them repeated back to her many times through the morning. Many people had come to Old Levapur to look at the new market, but no one dared part with their money.
Later, when the sun was high and the day turned hot, merchants with stalls retreated deep into them to rest. The basket women wandered into the fringes of the jungle where there was shade and water gathered at the base of thick leaves they could drink.
RhiLan headed to her children’s school by a route that took her up slope, along the rim of the Jupoli Gorge and back down slope. It took much longer than usual, but she avoided the Thampurian neighborhoods around the government building where those soldiers waited to harass Ponongese.
The patch of open land beside the school was quiet. Normally, the children played outside after midday dismissal.
Through her life, RhiLan had never questioned why at such moments guilt came before fear. Her first thought was that she had done something wrong and should fix it. Her steps slowed as she neared the faded blue building. The silence seemed formidable. She winced as the veranda step creaked under her foot.