“Oh, that is a nuisance,” I said with a petulant scowl. “Not sure what I’m going to do now.”
“What is it exactly that you were hoping to find?” he asked.
I put my hands to my face. “It’s my senior project!” I exclaimed.
“Your…?”
“Senior project!” I shot back, as if it should be obvious, my voice rising and developing an emotional crack.
“You’re in school?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Clock Street Girls’,” I said, dropping the name of one of the city’s most exclusive preparatory schools as if it were an old apple core.
“Oh,” he managed. “I didn’t realize they took…” He blundered to a halt, and I gave him a sharp look.
“I’m adopted,” I said crisply. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, cowed. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”
I pressed my advantage. “We’re supposed to be sewing banners in support of local institutions for the Settlement Day parade,” I said with earnest hauteur. It was amazing how easily the words came when I wasn’t being myself. “I was assigned the Glorious Third by Miss Foster—who is an absolute beast to her pupils, I don’t mind saying—but she flatly refuses to help, and when I told her the museum was gone, she told me to ‘use my resourcefulness,’ and frankly, I’m not sure I have any, and now the deadline for our research is almost here and I have nothing to show for it, and Miss Foster will report me to my parents, who have devoted every penny they can spare to making sure I get a good education so that I can be a useful member of society, especially if I can’t find a suitable husband, but who would marry a Lani girl who failed out of prep school…?”
This may have been the longest sentence I have ever uttered, and as it wended its way toward its strangled ending, it got higher, shriller, more desperate, so that the poor soldier looked positively alarmed, saying, “There, there,” and, “I have a spare moment. Let’s see what we can do.”
I apologized for my shameful outburst, thanked him for indulging my weakness, and joined him in the little storage carrel. He clearly had no idea what to make of this strange young woman who looked so unlike the things she was saying and how she was saying them, but he didn’t dare offend me in case it was all true. On the battlefield, he would be sure of his authority, but in here, he was as out of place as I was.
As he dutifully showed me racks of medals won in old campaigns, I wrestled with how to ask a Mahweni why he was serving in a famously white regiment, then realized that embarrassment about such things was my old Lani self speaking. Society ladies had no such compunction.
“I had no idea there were blacks in the King’s Third,” I said flatly. “It must be terribly exciting for you.”
He seemed caught off guard again, as if I had revealed that I outranked him. “Yes,” he said. “It is. It’s an honor to be a member of such a fine old regiment.”
“And your family don’t mind?” I asked, unabashed.
“Miss?”
“I mean, the Glorious Third have fought your people for a long time,” I said matter-of-factly.
“In the past,” he said, his jaw tight. “That is true. But I am a citizen of Bar-Selehm. So are my parents. The regiment defends the city against threats foreign and domestic, and I am proud to serve.”
“Are there many black members of the regiment?”
“I am Corporal Emtezu, commander of a twenty-five-man company,” he said, his polite smile rigid.
“Really?” I exclaimed, willfully missing the tension. “How extraordinary. I had no idea. And do the black soldiers perform the same duties as the other men, or are they more like servants and cooks?”
This time his hesitation, and the way his knuckles blanched on the edges of the box he was holding, seemed impossible to ignore, but I held his eyes, my chin tipped up.
“The Mahweni company,” he replied carefully, “is as well trained and equipped as the rest of the men, and we function in exactly the same capacity.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, jolly good for you, Corporal Emtezu. Could I see some photographs of the current regiment?”
Another hesitation. He took a breath. “Certainly,” he said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Not really,” I said, shrugging. “Why don’t you show me your friends?”
He opened a wooden filing cabinet and drew out a folder of posed sepia photographs showing a company of black soldiers in dress uniforms standing on what looked to be the central square of the Old Red Fort. They were arranged in a horseshoe around a brass cannon on a carriage, the men at the front kneeling, their rifles augmented with sword bayonets. Standing on the far right, beside the men at the back, was Corporal Emtezu himself, and on the other side were two older white men.
One of them had a handlebar mustache and a monocle. The other, draped in a heavy cape and staring down the photographer beadily, was leaning on a cane. I couldn’t see much of the cane’s handle, but it had the stiff, glossy look that might well have housed a long, slender blade.
It was my turn to hesitate and breathe. “Who are these gentlemen?” I asked.
The corporal indicated the man with the monocle. “This is Colonel Archibald Mandel,” he said, “the former regimental commander.”
“The politician?” I asked.
He gave me a sharp look, and to cover my interest, I said, “His granddaughter goes to our school.”
“He retired last year, when it was determined that the regiment would be restructured.”
“And the fort closed,” I supplied.
“Yes,” he said, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
“And this one?” I asked, putting my fingertip on the image of the glowering man with the cane.
“That would be Sergeant Major Claus Gritt,” said Emtezu. “Colonel Mandel’s granddaughter goes to your school?”
I felt a chill of caution, but opted for defiance. “I believe so, why?” I said.
“That’s curious,” he said, rising.
“How so?”
“It was my understanding that the colonel was a lifelong bachelor. Never married. No children.”
“It must be his goddaughter, or perhaps his niece,” I said. “Between us, I don’t much like the girl, so I haven’t paid attention to her family tree.”
He held my gaze, looming, and I knew he didn’t believe me. “How did you get those cuts on your face?” he asked. “Unusual in a lady of your class, wouldn’t you say?”
“I should be going,” I said.
“So soon?” His eyes were hard now.
I got to my feet. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” I said, taking a half step toward the cage door.
He reached for me, seizing my wrist in a powerful grip. “Who are you?” he said. “What are you really doing here?”
“I told you—” I began, but he squeezed deliberately, expertly, and the pain drove the words out of me.
He pulled me in close and his face was implacable. I could feel the cold pressure of the holstered revolver at his belt. When he spoke, it was in a voice low enough to be a whisper. “You’re press,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
I thought quickly. Being a reporter meant I had some coverage under the law. It meant I wasn’t alone.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why are you writing about the Third?”
It was a forceful question, but it was—I’d swear—a real one, and underneath it was something else: anxiety, even curiosity.
“It’s just a feature,” I said, improvising. “A history of the Red Fort and the handoff.”
He shook his head, and with the speed and precision of a striking snake, he snatched up my satchel and opened the flap. “If that were all it was,” he said, “you’d have said so. And,” he added, showing me the inside of the satchel with a raised eyebrow, “you wouldn’t be armed. So what is really going on?”
I couldn’t mention Ber
rit or Ansveld. I had to think of something that might plausibly interest an undercover reporter but wouldn’t make him panic.
“Land deals,” I said. “Real estate trade with the Mahweni. Might have something to do with the Grappoli.”
His eyes narrowed, but I was sure his grip on my wrist lessened slightly. “You mean the withdrawal of the garrison and conversion of the fort?” he asked.
“Partly,” I said. “But there have been other deals—quieter deals—which have given up Mahweni land to a development company, land your people have fought to hold on to for decades, centuries even. I want to know what’s changed.”
Emtezu shook his head. “Ancestral land being traded out of Mahweni control?” he said. “No. I know there have been rumors, possibilities, but nothing has happened yet. Someone has been telling you stories.”
“It’s true,” I replied. “I’ve seen the legal briefs and the maps. It’s all gone through quietly, kept out of the papers, and it looks like the trail has been partly covered by multiple retrades. But it has happened, and quickly.”
“That can’t be right,” he said, still shaking his head.
“I have notes. Copies of the documents.”
“Where?”
I nodded at the satchel and he reopened it, taking out some of my scribblings and staring at them. For a moment it was like he had forgotten I was even there, and when he remembered, it was with something like shock. He stuffed the papers back into the bag and pulled me close again.
His face, inches from mine, was studiously blank, but he couldn’t keep that flicker of curiosity out of his eyes.
I gambled. “And I want to know why the body of an elderly Mahweni tribesman was found in the ruins of the Red Fort’s central tower.”
“What?” he gasped. “When?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “I saw it myself. Looks like he was imprisoned and tortured over several days.”
He looked drawn, stricken with a horror that left him rigid and bloodless.
“I want to know if it was a revenge attack,” I said.
“Revenge?” he echoed blankly. “Against who?”
“Coloreds,” I said, choosing the word with care. “The people responsible for the Glorious Third handing over their famous bastion to be turned into a black community center.”
He stared at me, and suddenly the blood, the life, was back, and his eyes flashed. “Come with me,” he said, shrugging the satchel strap over his head and shoulder.
“What? Where to?” I gasped, the fear that had stilled for a moment rearing and plunging again in my head. I should have told Andrews and Willinghouse what I was doing. How could I have been so stupid?
“Not where to, who to,” he said, marching me out into the narrow corridor and slamming the wire door to the carrel behind him.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, moving his right hand to his belt and unbuttoning the flap of his pistol holster so that the heel of his palm rested almost idly against the curve of the revolver’s handle. “You are.”
CHAPTER
28
WE LEFT THE LIBRARY at a brisk walk, and as we crossed the great central lobby on the main floor, he even let go of my wrist, though his eyes held me almost as tight. As we passed the main desk, I caught sight of Miss Fischer, stamping cards methodically. I could call out to her, I thought, say something innocuous sounding but out of character that would make her suspicious, and then …
What? She’d summon the police to say a Lani girl had been seen leaving the building with a well-built Mahweni?
No help there. I kept walking, feeling the big man’s presence at my shoulder, and as I did so, a strange calm descended on me. Before Emtezu had led me up from the basement, there was a moment when he had looked me in the face and said, “Ready?”
It might have been a half threat that was supposed to drive away any thoughts of stunts involving Miss Fischer, just a caution with a chill core of menace, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt more like a pair of actors about to step into a scene together, an act not so much of warning as of solidarity. Whatever we were doing, we were in it together.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we went clattering down the library stairs.
He said nothing but hailed a two-seater and barked an address to the driver, who gave him a quizzical look.
“You sure about that address, sir?” said the cabbie.
“Just go,” said Emtezu.
We sat in the back and he looked out the side. His hand was still near his gun, but his attention seemed elsewhere and he looked troubled.
If you bolt now, leap down to the street, and break into a flat sprint as you come out of your roll, you might find an alley, a fire escape, a maintenance ladder. You might find freedom and safety.…
I could see it all in my head. It could go wrong, of course. It could always go wrong. I could be caught under the wheels of the cab or trampled by a horse going in the other direction. Emtezu might stand and draw and shoot me down with military precision before I made it across the street. But then again, maybe not. Maybe it would all work perfectly and I would vanish into Bar-Selehm as easy as winking.
I stayed where I was. Yes, I might get away. But I had looked into Corporal Emtezu’s eyes, and what I had seen there was not the henchman’s murderous chill, the sadist’s amused anticipation, or the drilled soldier’s unthinking and potentially brutal sense of duty. There was something going through the head of the man beside me, something complex and uncertain, and I wanted to know what it was.
I didn’t know this part of the city, a wealthy enclave on the north-side shore of the ocean, where the port traffic gave way to high-walled mansions and opulent oceanfront hotels. The railway had brought holidaymakers from all over Feldesland, though such visitors were almost exclusively white, so I was taken aback by the florid animal gateposts at the head of a long drive.
A uniformed Mahweni approached the cab, another a few paces behind, his rifle unslung and ready.
He spoke first in one of the tribal languages, as if on principle, then translated.
“You can go no farther,” said the officer. His uniform was unlike any I had ever seen, heavily decorated with gold braid and topped with a pith helmet sporting ostrich feathers. On other men the uniforms might have looked foppish, silly, but the earnestness of the soldiers themselves, their no-nonsense scowls and the ease with which they wielded their weapons, suggested it would be dangerous to underestimate them.
Emtezu pulled a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and thrust it toward the guard, who considered it, then stepped back to allow us room to climb down. I did so as Emtezu paid and waved the cab away. The driver gave me a look, then wheeled the horse, glad to be leaving.
I shot Emtezu a similar look, but he shook his head fractionally. He was telling me to keep quiet, to let him do the talking.
We were escorted up the long drive by the rifleman, the outer gate closing and locking behind us with a clang that reverberated through the hot air, the metal ringing. The finality of the sound, the way it seemed at odds with the bright sky and manicured grounds, gave me a chill, though Emtezu kept walking, eyes locked on the house ahead, saying nothing.
I had expected a formal mansion, but this was more a vast and luxuriant villa sprawling like a great cat on the undulating grounds. The core of the house was brick, three stories high and sprouting a single broad chimney stack, but the rest was a pastiche of traditional Mahweni architecture with dense, sloping thatched roofs and wooden verandas. There was a swimming pool ringed with a grove of what looked to be patanga fruit trees, and svengalene bushes buzzing with hummingbirds. Statues of orlek and giraffes erupted out of the lawn, huge and stylized, the marbled stone dressed with garlands of flowers and feathers. The steps up to the house itself boasted a balustrade that combined classic urns with a handrail carved to resemble a massive python, all glass and semiprecious stones. As I turned back to consider the way we had come
, a black weancat wearing a studded collar paced evenly across the gravel and on through the garden.
“What is this place?” I asked.
In answer, a young black man in impeccable livery appeared at the head of the steps and stood quite still, waiting till we reached the top before saying, “Welcome to the home of Farrstanga Sohwetti, head of the Unassimilated Tribes of the Mahweni Nation. Please follow me. His Excellency will see you shortly.”
* * *
THE INSIDE OF SOHWETTI’S lavish villa reminded me of the opera house. Though every surface was decorated with Mahweni images and artifacts—large pots and masks, ceremonial skirts and headdresses, ancient spears and hide shields—it was all somehow bigger, shinier, richer than normal, and I remembered what Mnenga had said about its owner. This was not the stuff of the life Mnenga led, nor the culture of his village. This was a gilded memory of something no longer lived, like the glass eyes of a stuffed weancat. Somewhere between the performance of heritage and its rejection was this strange house that felt, in fact, less like a home and more like the souvenir shop in a museum.
We had been shown through a long hallway, through two separate open areas, and into a formal room with a great cold fireplace and no windows, deep in the heart of the house. I perched on a bench upholstered in zebra hide and stuffed with hair. Emtezu stayed standing, his face closed, and he looked at me only when he returned my satchel to me. The pistol Dahria had given me was still inside, but Emtezu had confiscated the ammunition.
At last a pair of double doors opened and Sohwetti himself strode in. I had seen his picture in newspapers, but I was unprepared for the scale of the man. He was tall and wide, heavyset but strong, and clad in cream-colored robes that flattered his bulk. His graying hair was worn in tight braids, and he wielded a stick like a riding crop, short and with a head of orlek hair that he might flick to keep flies away. At his broad leather belt he wore a curved knife with an elaborate gold knuckle guard.
And he smiled wide as the ocean, wide as the plains, wide as the sky itself, so that you felt his power and benevolence like heat. “Emtezu, my friend,” he said in Feldish, reaching for the corporal’s hand with both of his, clasping it in the Mahweni way and looking him squarely in the eye. “It is good to see you.”
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