Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Trees surround me, their roots anchoring the tiny islands. They lean toward me in the darkness, weeping icy teardrops from each leaf. Some of the islands are larger than others, but none is big enough to be the one I’m looking for. At last, up ahead, I see an island as big as the plot on Prophet’s Lane. A stone hut stands in the center.

  It’s smaller than the Select’s house, a grim square-shaped building, low and malevolent, squatting in the swamp like a poisonous toad. As I get closer, I smell a rank and fetid odor. I don’t even want to go near it. Tira’s two, I tell myself, stopping a few feet away to stare at it. She can walk back beside me. I don’t have to touch her. I’ll let her out, that’s all. Just go and unlock the door.

  I force myself forward.

  There’s a small rectangle cut into the stone near the ground, to push a plate of food through, and one small window on the side, but it’s so dirty and the interior is so dark I can’t see anything through it. The stones are covered with moss and lichen, damp and cold to the touch. When I find it, the metal door is as filthy as the walls, but the lock’s clean and has obviously been maintained. It’s a simple antique lock, the kind that opens with a key. It takes me two seconds to pick it.

  “Tira,” I call softly through the open door. Agh, it stinks in there. I cover my nose and mouth and take shallow breaths, trying not to draw the pestilent air into my lungs. The darkness inside is so thick even the walls near the door are invisible.

  “Tira?” Why doesn’t she come?

  “Tira!” I call again, louder. What if she’s already dead? I will not go into this hut to find a dead body.

  She couldn’t die in one day. They gave her the medicine, Naevah said. She should be getting better. I lean a little way in and yell, “Tira, come here right now! This isn’t a game!”

  Silence. I peer into the darkness for any sign of movement. Nothing. I have come too late, like my father. The thought settles in my gut, as cold and fetid as the air in the hut.

  “TIRA!”

  A thin little cry comes from inside the shack, a beautiful sound.

  “COME HERE!”

  The cry dwindles to a whimper and trails off into silence.

  “TIRA, COME OUT HERE! RIGHT NOW!”

  Silence. The back of my hand brushes the door frame and comes away slimy. I’ll have to go in there and get her. I curse, using every bad word I know, which takes some time because I know four languages and those are the first words every student learns.

  Tira whimpers again. Taking a breath, I plug my nose and step inside. I shuffle forward carefully, waving my arms ahead of me in the pitch dark. The smell of vomit and diarrhea is overpowering, even while holding my breath. My foot touches something soft. I nudge it again and hear a small whimper in response. Bending down, I feel a little bundle lying on the floor. It’s wet and sticky. I pull my hands back in disgust. Vomit! I gag and barely prevent myself from adding to it. I expel the breath I’m holding but close my mouth tight before I breathe in.

  “Get up,” I choke out without breathing. Tira doesn’t move. Despite the cold night, she radiates heat; I can feel it without even touching her.

  My lungs ache for air. I begin to see points of light in the darkness and still I can’t bring myself to touch Tira. What if I faint? Then I would breathe in the fetid air. I’d lie here with my face in Tira’s vomit...

  I race out of the hut, gasping for air. My ears are ringing and my heart’s pounding so loud they might even hear it in the city. I lean forward with my hands on my knees, just breathing. The gaping black hole of the open door mocks me.

  Tira’s going to die anyway. If you could save people, my mother would still be alive, and my father, too.

  But I saw her little chest rising and falling as she labored to breathe in that stinking air. There isn’t any way around that. I’m going to have to touch her, pick her up and carry her, covered in pee and vomit and diarrhea, all the way to the city. I feel the urge to swear again.

  Of course I’ll have to carry Tira. What did I think, coming here? That a sick toddler could walk for two hours?

  I thought Agatha would take Tira, that’s what. I only meant to come and pick the lock for her.

  I can’t stall, arguing with myself, any longer. Malem’s nights are longer than Seraffa’s, but not endless, even if this one seems to be. Either I have to go back in there and get Tira or go back without her. One or the other. Now.

  If only I could go back without her!

  I think of Jumal, his face anguished as he looked at his aunt and cousin last night. I think of Tira lying sick and alone in that disgusting hut, and I really, really want to hurt whoever made those laws. But first I have to get Tira out of there. I pull my sleeves down over the palms of my hands and hold them there.

  I hope Hamza was right about CoVir not being dangerous any more. I hope the Adept was right about my vaccination preventing me from catching anything here. Then I take a deep breath and run into the fever house like some idiot storybook heroine storming the enemy’s citadel. I kneel and scoop Tira up and rise again in one motion, turn and race outside, kicking the door shut behind me.

  I get all the way to the stone footpath before I have to expel my breath and inhale again. Then I remember to go back and lock the door so whoever comes with food tomorrow won’t know anything’s wrong. He’ll think she’s sleeping when she doesn’t answer. Or dead. But they won’t check, not till her quarantine is over.

  Back on the path I walk quickly. Luckily, Tira’s small for her age and gravity’s on my side here. On Seraffa I’d never be able to do it. I begin to jog, holding Tira low against my abdomen, as far from my face as possible.

  She whimpers at being jostled and squirms in protest, a little round fire against my stomach. I look down. Her eyes are shut, with crusty stuff around them. Her body shudders, her mouth opening in little jerks. She gives a stuttering cough, and a dribble of vomit slides down her cheek. She’s choking! I kneel on the path and lie Tira face down over the water. Nothing more comes out that I can see. She’s probably dehydrated but I don’t have any drinkable water.

  I pull off her wet, stinking gown. I’m tempted to toss it into the swamp but can’t risk anyone finding it, so I tie it gingerly to my belt. Taking my own robe off, I wrap it around Tira and pick her up again. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, long and dark like Jumal’s. I wipe her little face gently with the sleeve of my robe. Her eyes open. She looks up at me.

  “Mama,” she cries, before her eyes shut again. I stare down at her.

  “Mama...” It’s barely a whisper this time.

  “I’m here,” I tell her. “I’ve got you.” And I run.

  I use the low g, driving my feet into the ground and throwing myself forward, toward Agatha, toward help. Tira lies silent and limp in my arms.

  “Don’t die,” I whisper. The words are torn from my mouth by the wind, tossed into silence. Not this one. Not this one, too, I pray as I race for help.

  My forearms begin to ache and then to tremble. I have to hold Tira higher, against my chest. She startles when I move her, too weak to cry.

  “Hang on,” I whisper fiercely, gasping for breath myself as I race on. “Help’s coming.” I reach the main road and push myself forward, faster. I have to get her to Agatha. Agatha will save her.

  My legs have lost feeling, leaden weights jogging down the road. “Please,” I pray to the silent night. I can’t bear to look at the slack little face burning against my shoulder. “Please, don’t let her die.”

  When I see the first buildings I weep.

  “Almost there,” I croak, as much to myself as to Tira.

  I stagger into the first alley between two buildings and sink to my knees, laying Tira on the ground. Just for a minute, just till I catch my breath. She lies so still I panic and lean over her, searching for a breath. Ah, it’s there, and it stinks! I laugh shakily under my breath, gathering Tira back into my arms.

  “We’re almost there,” I whisper. My legs wobbl
e when I try to stand, and I almost don’t make it up. I peer up and down the street before leaving the alley.

  The city is dark and silent. I stumble down the streets, hugging the sides of the buildings as much for support as for their shadows, listening for the sound of voices or footsteps.

  I hear the footsteps of the night watch just in time and flattened myself against a building, watching him cross the street a half-block down from me. It wakes me from my stupor of exhaustion. Quiet, I think blearily, trying to control my gasping breath.

  I need to rest but I’m afraid if I stop I won’t be able to get up again. I push myself on. Tira hasn’t made a sound since we left the swamp. She needs water. Keep walking, I tell myself, stumbling forward. Keep walking. Keep walking...

  By the time I reach Prophet’s Lane I half-believe I’m destined to walk with Tira in my arms forever.

  There’s no one around. I stagger down the lane and tap once, lightly, on the door. It opens at once. Agatha pulls me inside and takes Tira from my arms. My legs buckle, as though Tira’s weight has been holding me up. I sink to the floor and close my eyes. There’s something I have to tell Agatha...Water. Tira needs water. I’ll tell her in just a minute...

  “You have to get up now.” Agatha is shaking me. “Shower and change your clothes. And Kia,” she waits until I open my eyes and look at her, “I’m proud of you.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s sleeping soundly. I got some water into her and she’s held it down.”

  Agatha’s waiting for me when I finish my shower. She holds out her hand. “Look at this.” In her palm is a diamond. It draws the brightness from the single lamp in the hallway into itself and gives it back again like a tiny sun in the black of space.

  How did she find it? Did she search my room?

  “It was sewn into her robe,” Agatha says. “I had to remove it to wash the garment.”

  What is she talking about? She washed the robe I left here? I stare dully at her, my thoughts sluggish.

  “It’s Tira’s diamond. Her ‘heart stone’, they call it.”

  Looking more closely I see that it’s smaller than mine, though it shines with equal brilliance. “It’s beautiful,” I mumble.

  “Does your father’s look like this?”

  Stupid with exhaustion, I almost shake my head.

  “Kia, don’t you know you can trust me?” She waits for me to reply. When I don’t, she sighs. “I thought you were guarding a secret the day your father died, but I wasn’t sure. And you were so young I thought it couldn’t be important. I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  “I have to get back to the inn.” I take a step toward the door.

  Agatha puts her hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “When I caught you staring at Lady Khalida’s jewels, you were focused on them with such intensity, as though you were searching for something inside the flash of the gems, something personal. I knew then I’d made a mistake, that I should have intervened when you were young. But the Newtarian Embassy wasn’t the time or place to deal with it. I intended to get back to you, but the Adept found you first.”

  “Because of the vision.” It isn’t me they care about. It’s something they think I’m going to do for them.

  “I don’t know anything about prophecies and visions.”

  “You don’t believe in the vision?” I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

  “There’s a saying: The Adept have visions, the Select have intuition, and outside the Order, it’s all guesswork.”

  “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

  Agatha smiles.

  I pull open the door and then stop and look back at Agatha. “Don’t let her die.”

  Agatha nods. “I won’t.”

  “And... be careful. Wash your hands. Don’t kiss her.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I wake up with a scratchy throat and feel my forehead. The room is freezing, so anything still alive feels warm, but is it warmer than usual? I get up and while I’m getting dressed, I sneeze twice and panic for half-an-hour, waiting for a third which never comes. My throat is better after breakfast, but what does that prove? The virus is probably already inside me, incubating. What if Agatha catches it? We could both die! What if we start another epidemic?

  I force myself to calm down. There’s nothing I can do now, anyway. What will happen, will happen. That sounds enough like the O.U.B. to make me want to gag, and that makes me feel like myself again. I get dressed and go for breakfast.

  I can’t go near Prophet’s Lane for six days. I can’t even ask about Agatha; I’m supposed to be angry at her. I hang around the dining room, keeping my distance in case I cough again, but listening to every conversation at the inn. No one mentions her. The innkeeper’s wife is always full of gossip, surely she’d say something about Agatha visiting so-and-so, or being seen at the market.

  What if they’re both lying dead in the house on Prophet’s Lane?

  By the third day, that thought drives me half-way across the city before I get myself under control and turn back to the inn. I have to continue playing the rebellious teenager.

  On the fourth night I dream I’m Tira, innocently spreading the killing fever to those I love. In the dream, Tira/I am playing beside a white bed. I stand up and see Agatha lying cold and still—so still I become frightened. I grab Agatha’s arm and shake it, calling her name. The door behind me opens and Owegbé walks in. She looks at me and holds out her arms.

  I get up to run to her, but before I can, she crumples into a heap on the floor. She lies there as still as Agatha in the bed.

  “Mama!” Tira/I cry in a baby voice, “Mama!” Neither of them moves. It’s too late.

  I wake up crying, and lie there the rest of the night, waiting for dawn. I inhale the cold sunlight when it finally arrives, like medicine.

  Then I wait through the morning, and afternoon, and then the evening, until night falls again. All day I hear a small child’s voice, my voice, crying for someone, but I have come too late.

  On the sixth night I sneak out my window again and walk to the fever hut. Tomorrow is the seventh day. In the morning they will open the door to see if Tira has survived. She has to be there when they come. If they’re still alive, Agatha will take her back tonight.

  It’s a rare moonlit night. I can see clearly down the path to the hut. Only there’s nothing to see. I imagine a thousand scenes of Agatha and Tira gripped in the throes of fever or seized by a city guard, while I watch for them to arrive. I’m on the verge of heading for Prophet’s Lane when I see a little body scampering toward me through the darkness.

  Agatha’s voice calls softly, “Tira be careful, don’t fall off the path.”

  I stand up, grinning broadly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. They’re here! They’re here and they’re both healthy! I hold out my arms: “Tira!”

  At the sight of me, or perhaps catching sight of the fever house, Tira skids to a halt. She takes two steps backward.

  I let my arms drop. Of course she doesn’t remember me, she was unconscious most of the time I carried her. Agatha emerges from the shadowing trees. Catching sight of me, she looks surprised, then annoyed.

  “There’s no need for you to take more risks,” she scolds.

  “Okay,” I say. “You unlock the door.”

  She might have kept trying all night if I let her. She surrenders the lock pick ungraciously when I finally hold out my hand.

  “Languages and thievery. Two things you can’t learn.” I grin.

  “I can learn languages. Thievery you have to be prone to.”

  “Born to,” I correct, yanking the door to the hut open.

  “Not born to, Kia. Your father was an honorable man.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I met him once. He was just what his name implies—merciful and kind.”

  “You met him once?” I end my sentence with a snort.

  “I am a Select. I met him once.”

 
I shrug and look around for Tira. Agatha, suddenly reminded, calls softly, “Tira.”

  She’s standing on the path at the edge of the clump of land the fever house is built on, staring at the dark hut with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Tira, come here.” Agatha holds out her arms.

  “No.” Tira takes a step backward. Agatha starts toward her, and Tira backs up further.

  “Stop!” Agatha cries, but she’s too late; Tira slips at the edge of the island and topples backward into the water. We both race toward her. I skid to a stop where the land drops into swamp but Agatha plunges straight into the cold, muddy water crying Tira’s name.

  The swamp isn’t deep near the island. Agatha can still stand, and after a few seconds of anxiously flailing through the water she finds Tira and hauls her to the surface. Tira splutters and coughs a few moments then gives a piercing shriek and begins to cry loudly despite our attempts to hush her. At last Agatha gives up and carries her toward the fever house. When Tira sees it she screams even louder and begins struggling and kicking to free herself. Agatha pauses uncertainly at the door. I just stand there. This is her plan. She wasn’t happy to see me, so let her handle it.

  “No! No! No!” Tira shrieks, sobbing. She clings desperately to Agatha. “No! No!”

  “I can’t leave her.”

  “You have to,” I tell Agatha, but I’m sympathetic. I don’t blame Tira for not wanting to go in there again, or Agatha for not wanting to make her. And Agatha doesn’t even know how bad it is yet. “It’s only for the night. They’ll come get her in the morning. We planned this,” I remind her.

  “The plan didn’t include leaving a terrified child locked up alone in the dark.”

  “Yes it did.” We just didn’t know how hard that would be. “She’ll be alright. There’s nothing in there that can hurt her.”

  “She’s soaking wet. I have to get her dry.”

  “You have to leave her here. You’ll get CoVir if you stay in there all night. Tira’s already had it, she’s immune—” I stop myself and turn away from Agatha, hunching my shoulders.