Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  But I believed my reasons at the time. It’s easy to convince yourself something you want to do is alright. And it would be even easier if you knew you couldn’t be caught. Who would suspect a Select? Malem is the only world that even put one on trial. Prad Gaelig’s right: that long ago Select might have been fooled by higher members of her Order, but not very likely by a ship’s captain.

  And if that’s true, Agatha, too, could have been duped by the Adept on Seraffa and by Hamza into bringing and keeping me here. They might even have convinced her that turning me in is the right thing to do. Agatha believes in doing the right thing.

  That’s the High Priest’s theory, but I still think the High Priest is a snake. He’s locked me up here against my will, without any charges, which is against even their laws. He obviously doesn’t want me to speak to Agatha to hear her response to his accusations. And his eyes—there’s something wrong with him, something I instinctively distrust.

  That doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

  There’s only one way to be sure. I set my empty plate on the floor and pull the blanket off the cot, winding it around my right hand and arm. Taking a deep breath, I raise my arm and slam it into the window.

  The window doesn’t break. Pound on it as I will, it remains intact. I try to kick it but it’s too high. I look around the room: there’s nothing I can use to hit or throw at the window. I go back to the window and pound against it with both hands in sheer frustration.

  After several minutes I force myself to stop. The guard could come in to collect my dinner plate any time now. My dinner plate... I pick it up. No, the clay dish will shatter before it cracks glass this thick. I haven’t been given a knife or fork but the spoon is metal. I scratch it along the glass. No good, it’s too smooth and rounded. I need something sharp, like a fork or—Or a diamond! How could I forget? I hike up my robe—and stop. What if someone comes in while I’m holding it? If the High Priest finds me with a Malemese diamond... I shudder. The worst kind of sacrilege, Hamza said. But the longer I stay here the greater the chance I’ll be searched and it’ll be found anyway.

  I have to risk it. Quickly before anyone comes. I’m in such a rush to tear the pouch out of my hem, get the diamond out of the pouch, cut the glass and hide it again that when I tip the pouch into my hand I drop the diamond. It rolls across the floor. I scramble after it in a panic. By the time I manage to grab it, I’m terrified I’ve made too much noise chasing it. I’m tempted to stick it back into my hem again at once.

  I take a deep breath to steady myself and scrape the diamond across the window. It leaves a long ragged scratch. I go over the jagged line again and again, digging deeper and deeper into the glass. Then I start another line across it, the two of them making an X. I work frantically, listening over the beating of my heart for the sound of the door opening behind me. Beads of sweat dampen my forehead. My hands are so sweaty the diamond slips in my grasp several times. The tiny scratching noise it makes against the window is almost deafening.

  How long has it been since my dinner was brought? Hours, surely. Someone will come through that door any minute for the empty plate. Have I cut deeply enough to break the window if I hit it hard now? Should I try before putting the diamond away, to be sure? But the minute I break the glass someone might hear and come rushing in and see the diamond. If I put the diamond away and the window doesn’t break I’ll have to waste time getting it out again. I speed up, scratching up and down with an almost hysterical intensity.

  The scratches themselves would give away the diamond now. A drop of sweat catches on my eyelash; I blink and the salt stings my eye. Enough, calm down. The window has to break now. It’s only glass, however thick. I drop the diamond into its pouch and the pouch into my pocket. I re-wrap the blanket around my hand, turn sideways, and gripping my blanketed wrist with my other hand I swing both arms as hard as I can against the window, hitting the center of the X. The window breaks with an enormous crash, shattering out from the center all the way to the casement, glass flying everywhere. Small shards catch in my hair and robe and in the blanket but miraculously miss my face and eyes. I run behind the door.

  Any second a guard will come rushing in. It’s almost impossible to stand still, with every nerve on edge. Why doesn’t he come? Come, I think desperately, open the door!

  No one comes. The door stays shut. Maybe there’s no one in this hallway this late in the evening? Cautiously, I shake glass slivers from my hair, my robe, the towel. Still nobody comes. What if I’ve been locked in for the night, they don’t care about dirty dishes? I look at the dinner plate on the floor beside my bed. It isn’t much of a weapon but better than none at all. I put my ear to the door: no footsteps. I race across the room, grab the plate and scurry back to my position behind the door. Then I wait some more, feeling foolish.

  I’m acutely conscious of the weight of the diamond in my pocket. If I’m caught I’ll be searched; they’ll want to know how I broke that window. I look around the room, but they’ll also search it. I pull up my robe and tuck the pouch back into the hem, knotting the thread I broke to get it out. There’s a small area of the hem that isn’t sewn where the pouch used to be, but I can’t do anything about that

  .It feels like hours have passed. Could a person fall asleep standing up? Would that person fall over? Would she wake up while falling in time to put her hands out and not break her nose? I don’t like my nose, it’s too small, but it would look even worse broken.

  Stop being stupid, I tell myself severely. I’m tired, my thoughts are wandering. I have to keep alert.

  At last the door opens. Behind it, I hardly dare to breathe. It opens wider. The guard sees the window and rushes across the room toward it.

  I tiptoe very quietly around the door.

  He hears me anyway, and turns with a bellow, but I’m through the door and pulling it closed before he can cross the room. The door shuts, cutting his voice off abruptly and completely. Has he had a heart attack or choked? I wonder, before I realize the room must be soundproofed. No wonder no one heard me break the window. I turn the lock and smile when it clicks home. Let him yell all he wants.

  I’m standing at the end of a long, dark hallway. At the other end a muted glow of light indicates the foyer at the top of the stairwell. A single guard stood there when I was brought up and there’s probably one there now, unless I’m very lucky and he’s the one locked in my room. In any event, there were two more at the bottom of the stairs guarding the door outside.

  I pull the blanket from around my arm and fold it over my shoulders and around my back under my robe, making myself look heavier, more muscular. Then I walk briskly down the hall toward the stairwell. I’m almost the same height as the guard; with any luck the man at the end of the hall won’t even look up as I pass him. He’s expecting the other guard to return with the dirty plate. Good thing I grabbed it. I pull my hood over my head and forward so it covers my face when I turn my head sideways, and hold the plate low, with both my hands under it where they won’t show.

  If you carry yourself with assurance people seldom question you, I tell myself firmly, quoting Sodum’s wisdom. They’ll see what they expect to see.

  “’Night, Yosil,” the guard calls to me. I walked purposefully across the foyer and nod without answering. There’s a box elevator, its door invitingly open, beside the door to the stairs, but I don’t know how to run it and any hesitation will give me away. Besides, I was brought up by the stairs. The elevator might only be for priests. I push the stairway door open. My scalp prickles under the hood, conscious of the guard’s eyes on my back until the door shuts behind me.

  Eight stories is a long way down. What if I run across someone on the stairs? It’s late at night, the priests and their families probably use the elevators, and it turns out I’m lucky. But as I start down the last flight of stairs, I still haven’t come up with any ideas for getting past the two guards.

  I open the door just wide enough to peek through. Only one guard is visi
ble. Is the other one there, out of sight, or is he occupied somewhere else in the building? I look at the guard again. It’s the one who was at the central square for the executions, the big one with the broken nose and the heavy, scowling eyebrows. I shut the door. I might not have much time before the second guard comes back. I’ll have to try to bluff my way past this one. I pull the blanket out from under my robe. The lighting’s better in this foyer, too good for me to pass as a guard. I’ll pretend to be a visitor, leaving late. I push the door open and walk confidently toward the door.

  “Hey! What are you doing there?” broken-nose calls before I’ve crossed even a third of the distance.

  “They told me to leave this way,” I call back, keeping my face averted and my pace quick but not visibly hurried.

  “They did?”

  “Take these stairs and go out the front entrance, they said.” I keep walking, resisting the urge to speed up. I’m half-way to the door now.

  “Wait! Who said it?”

  “They did. Upstairs.” Almost there.

  “Stop! Who are you?”

  “I’m in a hurry.” And I break into a run for the door, with broken-nose racing to catch me. I’m closer to the door, though. If I can just get outside, where I can scream, where someone might see me! He’ll sound the alarm, but he might not leave the door unguarded to chase me down the street. I reach for the door handle—And run smack into the second guard, diving for me from the side. My hood falls back, revealing my face. He grabs my arm. I twist sideways, but he’s too strong. Without thinking I jam my knee upward.

  The guard’s eyes widen. He gives a little “oomph!” and his grasp loosens. For a second I stare at him, wanting to apologize. Then I twist free and grab the door—

  Too late. Broken-nose has reached me now. He grabs my arm from behind and before I can dodge again he pins me against the door.

  The second guard straightens slowly and takes a step toward me, his face twisted in pain and fury.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. It doesn’t change his expression in the least.

  “No!” Broken-nose says. “The High Priest will want to see her. You might get your revenge later, but not tonight. Let’s go.”

  They drag me up the stairs between them. The guard at the top stares as we come through the door.

  “What do you think, letting this one escape?” yells the guard I kneed. “Are you sleeping up here?”

  “She didn’t come by me!”

  “Of course she did. There’s only one way into the stairway.”

  “The only one who passed here was Yosil, carrying the prisoner’s supper plate.”

  “Idiots, both of you! Go open the door to her room and let Yosil out. You’re lucky we caught her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Broken-nose comes for me the next morning. He holds my arm tightly enough to leave a bruise as he walks me down the hall to the meeting room. This time the High Priest doesn’t keep me waiting. He sends the guard outside and stands there, examining me. Not a muscle in his face or body moves. I stare back, trying to stand equally still.

  “Where were you planning to go?” he asks at last. His voice is cool, as though he doesn’t care what my answer is. I raise my chin, staring him eye to eye.

  “I thought I’d go to the Queen and ask her why you could imprison me without cause when you wouldn’t let her.”

  He looks surprised, then laughs. “You are an amusing person, Kia Ugiagbe,” he says. His smile dies abruptly. “Did you know that the Queen is also looking for you?” He sees my expression and nods. “I thought not. But you don’t seem very surprised, either. What do you imagine she wants with you?”

  “I can’t imagine what you want with me.”

  “Perhaps I am trying to save myself some trouble. If Queen Sariah doesn’t know where you are, I won’t have to concern myself with getting you out of jail again. However, I’m finding you just as much trouble here.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about keeping out of jail, then?” I suggest.

  “It would weigh on my conscience.”

  “Yes, I can imagine you have a problem with that.”

  “How did you break the window?”

  “I kicked it.” He might believe this if he knows I’m used to stronger gravity. Not if I look too eager to explain that to him, though. “It’s only glass.” I shrug.

  He watches me without so much as blinking. “No matter,” he says at last. “I wouldn’t do it again, though, if I were you. Glass is precious here. Replacing it will be coming out of the guards’ pay.” He pauses. “They’re not very fond of you at the moment.”

  I shrug again. If they were permitted to harm me, they would have last night. But I get the message—my arm is still sore from broken-nose’s hold on it.

  The High Priest’s hands on the table twitch slightly. He has large hands, with long fingers. His pose is casual but there’s tension in those hands, in the veins standing out against the skin. When I look up his eyes are icy although he still speaks casually. “It’s foolish of you to make enemies here. Who will protect you when your Select is dead?”

  “She isn’t dead,” I say as calmly as I can.

  “Come now. You don’t really think she’ll survive two weeks in the fever hut, do you?”

  I look back at him without answering.

  “Perhaps you don’t care if the Select dies? Perhaps you’ve thought about what I said yesterday, and realize she was using you? Or you already knew it. Is that why you left her and went to the inn?” He leans toward me, his hands balanced lightly on the table as though he’s itching to use them to force the answers out of me.

  “She isn’t using me. She isn’t planning anything.”

  “Are you naïve? Or do you think I’m stupid?” His voice is harsh. I have to force myself not to back away from him. Never let a bully see you’re afraid—Owegbé’s advice, ironically.

  “Her goal is to bring Malem into the Alliance, we both know that. Of course she has a plan for accomplishing it. I want to know how this little drama at the fever hut plays into it.” He leans across the table, glaring at me. “Just like that other one, scheming, calculating...” He stops and pulls himself back, steadies himself with a deep breath. “I’d like to know why the Select and the Queen are both so interested in keeping you on Malem.” He looks at me as though I’m an irritating puzzle.

  I remain silent. Even saying I don’t know why would sound like agreeing that there’s a reason. Something he said earlier bothers me, but I can’t concentrate on anything but the thought: he wants Agatha dead.

  It’s in his eyes, his hands, his voice when he says the Select.

  “I see you need more time,” he says, with barely-concealed anger. “Think carefully before you cause me any more trouble.”

  He turns to the door. Before he can reach it, it opens. I hear the surprised intake of his breath and look up. Jumal is standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing here?” the High Priest demands.

  “I believe I’ve already done it,” Jumal says, looking past him at me.

  I hold my breath. My stomach feels giddy at the sight of him, but I’m terrified of what the High Priest might do. Did Jumal break quarantine? I try to count the days in my head, but so much has happened...

  “I’m glad to see you survived your quarantine. Your uncle has sent you—?”

  “I’m not here on my uncle’s behalf.”

  They stare at each other, the tension between them so thick it makes my stomach clench. Don’t punish him, I want to cry, but strangely it’s the High Priest whose face is going pale.

  “I’d like to talk to Kia alone,” Jumal says.

  The High Priest locks eyes with him a moment longer, then growls, “See if you can talk some sense into her, then.” He steps past Jumal through the door and nods to the guard to shut it.

  “Jumal,” I want to run and throw my arms around him, but the Malemese don’t touch. “Now you’re imprisoned, too!”


  He crosses the room. “Have they hurt you?” His voice is tight, angry.

  I shake my head, too choked to speak.

  He reaches for my shoulders and pulls me to him. It overwhelms me then, how frightened and alone I’ve been. I lean against him, shaking, my tears dampening his chest.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. His hands grip my shoulders. I nod and struggle for control. He holds me a minute longer and then steps back, releasing me. “Sit down,” he says. “Tell me.”

  “Are the Queen’s guards looking for me?”

  He nods.

  “Ag—the Select—is she—is she still alive?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No doubt about that. Her insistence on staying in the fever hut has stirred up the whole city. Troops of people march out every day to see if she’s still alive. Everyone’s calling her ‘the angel who saved the miracle child’.” His voice softens, mentioning Tira.

  I laugh. It comes out a bit shaky. “I’m surprised she hasn’t come out to set the record straight that it’s God’s work, not hers.”

  “Oh, she’s made that clear. The guards at the fever hut are sick of hearing it.”

  “Guards? They’re forcing her to stay in there?”

  “Just the opposite. They’re waiting for her to take so much as one step outside so they can grab her and haul her away to be quarantined in her house.”

  I shake my head. “Why don’t they just go in and get her?” I wish they would. Every minute she’s in there, exposed to... ugh!

  “Not even the Triumvirate would order someone healthy to enter the fever hut and touch a person who might have CoVir. When the incubation period’s over they might do it, though.”