Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  I turn onto the street behind our building, which our apartment faces onto. Through our front window I see a crowd of people moving about inside. The sight makes me stop dead. I can’t face all those people. It’ll be hard enough to hide my guilt from my family. I have to get out of here. I look around nervously, and then think of the Traders’ Library, my other refuge when I need to be alone. I’m on the verge of running back to the transit strip when someone moves across the window and looks out, straight at me.

  I want to flee more than ever, because she’s wearing the blue and white habit of a member of the Order of Universal Benevolence. But when she looks at me, I freeze. It’s impossible to keep anything from a Select of the O.U.B. They train from childhood, heightening their six senses to a nearly inhuman level. The smallest twitch of a muscle in my cheek or shift of my eye will tell her I’m lying as clearly as a full confession. It never worried me before, but I never had anything to hide, before.

  What is she doing here, anyway? Father would never have let her into our house. But Owegbé believes in the O.U.B. I remember her taking me to worship services as a child. I shouldn’t resent my mother taking what comfort she can from her faith, but I do. It just seems like she couldn’t wait till Father died to change things.

  The Select stares back at me, making sure I know she’s seen me, then crosses behind the window back the way she came, toward the hall and the front door. She’s coming to see me!

  Running away now is out of the question. She’s probably already seen that I want to and she’ll be wondering why. It’s one thing to disappear all day to mourn alone, another to appear to be avoiding the O.U.B. Might as well just tell them outright I have something to hide.

  My left hand moves reflexively to the pocket of my pants. I jerk it away, and clasp my hands together behind my back. I’ll never get away with this. I ought to show her the diamond as soon as she comes outside, and tell her where it came from. If I delay at all... But I’ve already been away all afternoon. Won’t it look suspicious that I didn’t turn it over earlier?

  Besides, if I tell her told how I really came by it, I’d have to confess to speaking Malemese to my father. The pouch was so well hidden I’d never have found it unless he told me where to look. And he did. He gave me the diamond. He didn’t give it to Owegbé, or the O.U.B. There must be something special, something secret, about it. Some reason he wanted me to have it.

  Right then and there I know I won’t give it up. Even though as long as I keep it, I’m as much a thief as—As my father. A thief. How else could he have come by something so precious? Why else would he hide it so carefully, for so long, and only talk about it in a language no one else understood?

  Alright, a thief. But no one will ever call him that. No one will ever know, even if I have to be a thief, too, to keep the secret.

  There must be some way to hide something from a Select. I remember a saying: “to fool the Select, you must fool yourself.” That’s impossible—how could you deliberately fool yourself? Maybe hypnotism could do it, but there isn’t time for that.

  I’m still trying to think of something when the front door slides open and the Select steps out. Think of something else, I tell myself desperately, which just makes me even more aware of the gem in my pocket, so I picture my father in his bed, as I saw him this morning.

  Only this morning? Only so short a time ago?

  I haven’t given you much reason to love me.

  I’ve tried not to think of his words all day, and now grief hits me like a physical blow. I shudder and my legs go weak; I’m falling when the Select runs forward and grabs my arms.

  “I can’t face them,” I whisper, “I’ll cry.” And then, of course, I start to. I blink the tears back, horrified that I really will cry in front of everyone. Owegbé would be furious over such a public display of emotion. But not as angry as if she learned the truth. I hate myself for it, but I stop resisting the tears.

  “Come.” The Select leads me back into the alley where we have a small measure of privacy. This is even worse! I don’t want to be alone with a Select of the O.U.B. I pull away, wiping my face with my sleeve. Only now that I’ve started crying, I can’t stop.

  The Select waits quietly. When at last I pull myself together, she asks, “Would you like to pray?”

  “Not really.” The words slip out between a hiccup and a sob, before I have time to think. I look up, horrified. Refusing to pray with a Select is like spitting in a Worship House. Owegbé will kill me when she hears.

  But the Select doesn’t look angry, she looks relieved. “I don’t have very much experience with praying out loud,” she says. “For others, I mean. Not that I don’t pray for others, I do. All the time. Just not with them listening...”

  What is she talking about? Is she blushing? I edge toward the front door.

  She appears to pull herself together. “I’m very sorry, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble. My tears were convincing because they were real, but I don’t dare push my luck. I have to get away from her before I betray my secret.

  “Oh, don’t thank me. It’s not a nice thing, being sorry. Far better not to have anything to be sorry about. At least they tell me so. Often.” The Select sighs.

  What is she talking about now? I look at her more closely. She’s pretty young for a Select, maybe in her early twenty’s? And not much taller than I am, 5’3 or 5’4, with skin as pale as mine is dark, and wide blue eyes that look—uncertain. Uncertain? I look again.

  “Are you a Select of the O.U.B.?” As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back. But everything about her is so unusual for the Order that I can’t help wondering if I’ve mistaken the habit.

  Instead of being insulted, she looks embarrassed. “Not a very accomplished one,” she says. “I’m kind of still in training.”

  “Oh.” Then I remember what the O.U.B. are trained at, and begin moving toward the front door again. She follows me, looking a little dejected.

  I pause before lifting my palm to the infra-red dot beside our front door. “I’m sure you’ll get better at it,” I say awkwardly.

  “Do you think so?” She smiles hopefully as the door sweeps open. I step into the narrow hallway, with the Select right behind me. “I try very hard, but I always seem to say the wrong thing. They tell me it would be better if I just didn’t talk—” she breaks off abruptly.

  “No, it’s okay. I like the way you talk. It’s better than asking questions—” I break off. I don’t even want her to think about asking me questions.

  “But people respect the other Select, especially when they ask questions. I just can’t think of the right questions to ask.”

  Good. I look around the front room. It’s packed with people. I recognize some friends of my sister and brother, and neighbors, a few relatives. Across the hall, the dining room is also crowded.

  “I suppose it’s just as good to be liked as to be respected,” the Select is saying beside me.

  I almost say, take what you can get, but stop myself this time. The Select’s candor is infectious.

  Perhaps she’s trying to get me to talk, to see what might come out? She might be more cunning than she seems. I nod without answering, and glance toward the dining room again. Someone shifts sideways and I catch a glimpse of the table, laden with food. The sight makes me hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Then I see another Select, an older man, speaking to Owegbé. Two Select in our home? My father would hate that. Today, at least, should be about him, not Owegbé, even if she does follow the Order.

  The older Select straightens and turns his head, and sees me looking at him. I quickly turn back to the Select beside me, so I won’t look like I’m avoiding the O.U.B.

  “I’m Select Agatha.”

  “You have names?” For the second time I’m surprised out of my natural caution.

  “Of course we do. I’ve never understood why we don’t use them in public. It’s a silly thing to keep secret, don’t you think?”r />
  Behind Agatha, I see the man make a sign of comfort over Owegbé. Then he turns and heads directly toward us. There are too many people and conversations between him and us for even a Select of the O.U.B. to have picked up our actual words, although you can never be sure; it’s more likely his intuition is bringing him our way. Or something he saw in my face. He looks calm and reserved, the usual Select expression that actually expresses nothing. But there’s something in his eyes as he looks at Agatha that reminds me of the way Owegbé looks at me....

  ...keep secret, don’t you think? Agatha’s words register on me belatedly. Are they meant to trap me into saying something I shouldn’t, or are they another weird confession that could get her into trouble? I look at her pale face with its slightly anxious expression. She looks the way I feel, trying to please Owegbé. I decide to trust her. A little.

  The older Select is close enough now to hear what we’re saying.

  “Did you know ...Itohan?” I can’t say ‘father,’ can’t even let myself think the word, not with my face still tight with dried tears. Even saying his name causes a pain so sharp I miss a breath. But this is something we might be saying to each other, and certainly safer for both of us than the topic of secrets.

  Agatha’s expression transforms at once into the serene face of the Select.

  “I did know him,” she says, “years ago, when I was an Acolyte, younger than you are now. Before he turned away from the Order. He was a good, kind man.”

  I feel my face crumbling.

  “Not now,” Agatha says. “Not here. Go and wash your face, and change. I’ll tell your mother you’re back.”

  “Thank you,” I stammer. I hurry down the hall before the older Select reaches us.

  Select Agatha will never know how close we both came to being caught.

  Chapter Three

  “I’m looking for Messer Sodum of ‘Sodum’s Jewelry’.” I force my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. What if the station concourse peddler lied to me about this jeweler? What if he demands proof of ownership before he’ll pawn the ring? I smile to hide my fear. I’ll think of something, if it comes to that.

  “Yu’ve found him. What’s yer business?” The old man turns to face me on his stool, frowning. He’s bald, with huge ears and slightly protruding eyes which stare piercingly through a pair of archaic spectacles. Spectacles! I struggle not to show surprise. Surely he’s had laser surgery. Even the poor are entitled to necessary health care, and although his store is small and far away from the main shopping station, Messer Sodum is obviously not poor.

  His outfit is unusual for Seraffa, but it’s so carefully cut and fitted it has to be the latest fashion on some planet or other. The top, a long tunic with bloused sleeves, is ornately embroidered with swirls of turquoise and midnight blue. The threads stand out against the softer blue of the material itself, which looks so cool and light and rich it might actually be real Earth silk. The high-back collar fans away from his neck in a way that will give protection from the sun and yet allow easy movement and cool air around his neck and the back of his head. I wish I had a collar like that on my jumpsuit. The rest of his outfit is hidden by the counter, but an arch of sapphires and turquoise jewels glitter around the edges of both his overgrown ears.“Yer business?”

  I blink, embarrassed at being caught staring. Quickly I unseal one of the side pockets on my pants and pull out a small ball of folded tissue, which I drop onto the counter. He looks at me a moment before unwrapping the tissue to reveal an ornate ring with a pattern of small, brilliant diamonds encircling an emerald. I can’t help giving a small, tight smile at the sight of it. The minute I saw the ring it screamed ‘escape!’

  “And who’s’s this?” Messer Sodum lifts the ring negligently from the nest of crumpled tissue. His right hand, which holds it up to the light, is unadorned, but on his left hand are two large rings, glittering with diamonds and sapphires. He’s watching me, waiting for my answer.

  “It’s... my mother’s.” I glance around, moving my head as little as possible. There are no other customers, but an assistant stands a few feet away, rearranging a display of precious necklaces while the clear plexiglass hums above his hands in self-cleaning mode. I lean in toward the old man and say, in a carrying whisper which will surely reach the clerk, “she can’t come herself. She needs the money without my father knowing.”

  Sodum’s left eyebrow slowly rises into a scornful arch. “I’ll have t’evaluate this.” He picks up the ring. “See we’re not interrupted,” he tells the clerk, who smirks at me until his master gives him a look.

  I follow Sodum to a small back room. As soon as the door is closed he turns on me. “What d’yu think yer up to here? Who sent yu?”

  I stumble against a table and stammer out the name of the concourse peddler, thinking, the peddler lied! I’ve been set up!

  I back up to the door, ready to grab it open and dash out.

  His expression changes from suspicion to anger. “Bringin’ me somethin’ in daytime? He told yu that? No, no I didn’t think so! Yu didn’t think t’ ask how it’s done, did yu? I should turn yu in, yu little fool! Yu let me know when yer coming and yu come at night. There’s a door in the back there.” He juts his chin sideways toward the darkened end of the room. “Opens onto th’alley behind the shop. Use that.”

  I gape at him. What makes him think I’ll ever come again?

  He glares back at me. After a moment, I nod. He might give me a better price if he thinks I’ll come back.

  “Yu have an eye fer value,” he says sullenly, and I guess that’s the only reason he hasn’t kicked me out on the street. He settles on a stool and lays the ring under his jeweler’s eyecomp. I watch him move it slowly, recording each stone. “People yer age don’t often reco’nize quality when they see it. They go fer big and flashy. Fake stuff.” He snorts in derision and checks the numbers flashing across the rectangular screen at the base of his eyecomp before looking down into the eyepiece again. “Mmmm. Nice, very nice. Could be beginner’s luck.” He glares at me. “Who taught yu?”

  “No one.” I’m feeling a little sick, hearing that it’s so valuable, but I tell myself to douse it. Why take it at all, if it wasn’t valuable? “I inherited the skill,” I say defiantly.

  “Don’t be cute. Tell me how yu came by this. The truth, or I’ll send yu away with it.”

  I narrow my eyes and stare back at him. But when he picks up the ring and holds it out to me, my resolve breaks.

  “In a washroom. A woman took it off to wash her hands. Then she turned to fix her face, and forgot it.” My face feels hot. I could have called her back, told her she’d forgotten it; instead I watched her leave.

  “She saw yu?”

  I shake my head. “I was in a cubicle. She’d moved to the make-up mirror before I came out. She was focused on it, listening to its instructions.” My mouth twists in disgust. Why would anyone let a communal mirror tell them how to make up their face? Couldn’t the woman even pretend to have some originality?

  “No cameras in a washroom.” Sodum nods, looking satisfied. “Come ’ere.” He places the ring back under the eyecomp. When I move closer he ignores me, as though he didn’t order me over. He rotates the ring gently with his electronic tweezers until each of the stones has been exposed once again to the light of the ’scope. After a final look, he stands up and motions me onto the stool. I hoist myself up and peer down into the eyepiece. A huge diamond gleams fiercely up at me.

  “Looka its planes—the angles it’s cut at. See how they draw the light t’the centre and toss it out again? Now look at it with yer eye alone.” He slides the ring out from the groove of the eyecomp and holds it up so I can see the diamond I’ve been looking at through the comp. The fire in it leaps from plane to plane as he turns it slowly.

  I nod, bored. Fine, it’s pretty. Is it worth as much as I need it to be?

  “Now looka this.” He pulls out a drawer underneath the table and lifts up a necklace. It’s
got a single diamond, half again the size of the one in the ring; but where that one sparkles with life, this one is dull, its center oblique. He moves it around in the light. Its edges shine flatly, taking light in without throwing it back.

  “I understand.” I don’t really care. It’s not like I’m ever going to do this again. And compared to my father’s diamond, neither one is worth breaking a sweat over.

  Sodum smiles. Most people’s smiles widen their face, plumping out their cheeks to create a younger appearance. Sodum’s smile emphasizes the cadaverous thinness of his face with its long, narrow chin and avaricious eyes, slightly protruding as though there isn’t enough room for them in his face. I try not to grimace. He appears not to notice my reaction.

  “Shame to break down a piece like this. Looka that beautiful work.”

  “All right.” I’m done with this. What do I care if he thinks the thing is lovely? The woman didn’t, or she wouldn’t have left it lying there. People pay attention to things they love. That’s what makes them beautiful.

  Messer Sodum frowns through his ridiculous spectacles, then he shrugs. “Long as yu can recognize quality, yu don’t have t’appreciate it. This ring’s worth a thousand creds.” He points to the final numbers on the base of the eyecomp. I’ve heard that the meter can be ‘fixed’ and if it’s possible, this is the guy who’d do it, so I just look at him, as though I know more about this than I do.

  “I’ve got t’melt down the gold and cast the jewels into fresh pieces. My clerk saw yu, and he saw the ring. If there’d been a customer in the store— Yu put me at risk. I should send yu away. But since I like yu, I’ll split it 40-60 with yu. Next time, come at night and I’ll give yu 50-50.”

  “50-50 this time. 30-70 if you want me to come again.”

  Is the gleam in his eye amusement or anger? I don’t care; I’m the one who took the risk getting the ring. And I need the money. Five hundred creds will barely be enough. Of course I’ll never do this again, but it’s clear he wants the future business, so if I seem to be negotiating for it, he may let the more reasonable 50-50 go.