Everfair (39 page)

“I say!” Forced to lean back rather than forward, Thornhill pulled the roll of barkcloth toward him by one curled end. “Hadn't you better remove that rather—obtrusive—headgear?”

“As you yourself pointed out, there are no ladies present.” By white reckoning, Nenzima and Uwimana didn't count.

Thornhill grimaced and unrolled the surrender. “It's in gibberish! I can't read this! Aren't you a Yank? You speak English. What do you mean by trying to pass off these … this chicken scratching as real writing?”

Evidently the major's studies hadn't encompassed learning the Lin-Gah-Lah alphabet. “I have provided a translation,” said Thomas, laying a second scroll on the table and withdrawing his hand swiftly—but almost not swiftly enough, as Thornhill's hand shot out immediately to take it.

“Hmmph. This seems in good order. Conditions all as agreed upon.” The major pored over the surrender in silence for several more moments. At last he set it down, grinning triumphantly.

“And here's our treaty. You'll have to sign it.”

That was why he had journeyed here. His signature was a matter of form; nonetheless, Thomas made a show of examining the document for unapproved clauses and other tricks. He caught none. Accordingly, he signed and pushed the paper back across.

“Shall we shake on it, then?”

“That's rather difficult—” Thomas began.

“—and not our custom,” Nenzima finished for him.

This was a lie. Everfairers of all backgrounds had adopted American and European habit in this regard. But Thomas, relieved at the prospect of not having to touch Major Thornhill, nodded as if it were the truth.

He stood. Thornhill remained seated. Thomas had to leave, to get away from this repulsive individual. Soon. Now. If necessary, he would use the table to shove the man out of his way. He grasped its edge. He would explain the incident somehow.

Uwimana bowed low enough to duck under the feathers and plucked at Thomas's sleeve. “You're not forgetting our gift to the
bwana
?” she asked.

The “bwana”? He knew the Kee-Swa-Hee-Lee word; it meant “master.” In Everfair he'd never heard it applied to anyone, but their gift of a barkcloth mantle was meant for Major Thornhill—and Thomas
had
nearly forgotten it. Not Nenzima, though. She brought the banana leaf–wrapped fabric forth from the sash at her waist and moved around the table to offer it to the major.

“Please accept this token of our respect,” Thomas said, edging sideways into the space freed up by Nenzima.

“What? No—no, really, I—”

Nenzima snapped the bundle's bindings and unfurled the barkcloth within.

“This
bushti
symbolizes your sovereignty over our people's heads and hearts,” Thomas improvised. “We hope you will wear it always in recognition of our faith in your protection.”

“—not really necessary—” Joined by Uwimana, Nenzima set the mantle on the protesting major's shoulders. She knelt to adjust its drape and managed to compel Thornhill to rise out of his chair and step away. Thomas's path was clear. He walked out of the room—careful to lift his feathers at the doorway—and into the sweet, cool air.

Not until he was safely returned to his house within the compound did Nenzima bring him the four poisoned slivers of wood she had removed from the cuffs of the major's tunic. A pair of these spikes had been hidden on each side of Thornhill's hands, ready to be jabbed under Thomas's skin.

 

Manono, Everfair, November 1917

Delicately, Fwendi prodded the gummed end of the splinter with her brass fingertip. She picked it up, tested its flexibility and springiness and set it back in the tin box lying open on the workbench. “Yes. I believe you're right. This wood belongs to a fig. Perhaps one of those we would find growing in the last woods before the savannah.”

“But it could have come from somewhere else?” Nenzima flipped the box's lid shut.

“Of course.” She shrugged off the wet rain cloak she'd worn to the workshop and spread it along the short rafter overhead to dry. “I don't know every tree and shrub in Everfair personally.”

“And the poison?”

“Common
kan
milk, the same substance used on most ammunition. Why ask? You knew that when you saw it.”

“Because of where I found it. And when.” The older woman tucked the box in her sash.

“You found it a month ago.”

“No—I wasn't entirely honest with you about that … it was a little earlier, at the surrender. In the possession of the British commander, along with three others like it. He seemed to mean to use them against General Wilson.”

Fwendi paused on her way to the workshop's entrance, where already a few girls waited to attend the meeting she'd called. Though surprised, she thought through it swiftly. “But—but the British meant to kill him? Even though we had agreed to every term?”

“To kill him after they got his signature. Yes. And in such a way—”

“—as to make it look like one of us had done the deed,” Fwendi finished for her. A memory fought to surface through her sudden comprehension. Hadn't this happened before? It
had
. This or something similar. The attempt on Mr. Jackie Owen's life.

“And the death of such a popular man at Everfairer hands would bring about turmoil. It might even contribute to splitting the country apart, might start a—” Fwendi didn't want to say it. A war. Yet another war. Inside Everfair. It wouldn't matter who won.

“You haven't told anyone else on the Mote.” It was barely a question.

“Queen Josina knows.” Not an answer. The queen knew everything. “I thought that because of this example of their trickery you might want to change what you're planning to teach the children about such dangerous deceivers.”

Fwendi wrinkled her forehead, puzzled. “What should I change?”

“You may want to place less blame on the Europeans for their plight.”

Fwendi shook her head impatiently. “But who else caused that stupidness? We were tired. We were done! Leopold was beaten, dying—then these people decided they must fight one another, and all the rest of the world must choose sides. Yes, it was all their fault! I swear it was, and I refuse to pretend anything else.”

“Not even to prevent more fighting?”

Fwendi ignored that. She walked away toward the door once more. How could lies help anything?

Five girls stood patiently waiting in the dark, warm drizzle. Their skins glowed beneath the light of the lamps as Fwendi welcomed them in through the workshop's doorless entrance. None were old enough to bear babies—the Bah-Sangah priests insisted on that limitation for anyone working for more than a market with their sacred earths.

Nenzima retreated to the workshop's furthest, shadow-filled corner. As Fwendi entertained the meeting's early arrivals with her hand—tonight she wore a model that chimed like a repeater when she made particular gestures, and also on the hour—she considered what the older woman had said. Could her words be bent to make her listeners drive the whites out? Her goal was rather to make her followers turn themselves into exiles. Professional ones. Far-flung spies.

When her hand rang eight o'clock, only thirty girls had shown up, some with the younger brothers and sisters they were taking care of in tow. She let a while longer pass and a few more trailed in, but the meeting's attendance was far short of her dreams. Two hundred children had labored here at the height of the war, making shonguns and their blades, batteries, and Littlest Heaters. Now, many of the girls' places had been taken by adults; others had simply been rendered redundant as Manono's famous manufacturing force dropped from three to two shifts per day. Soon there'd be only one.

Fwendi rang her hand loudly for attention and launched into her speech. Would any of these girls throw in their lot with her? She watched their faces. Their gleaming eyes, unblinking, watched her back.

“If you decide you want to go to the school I'm opening,” she finished, “be ready in two markets. You'll be picked up at the airfield by
aMileng
.”

There were the usual worries: Would students' food and uniforms really be provided to them for free? Would there be anywhere for families to stay nearby?

Yes. Yes. Then came the inevitable, thinly veiled inquiry: How many of them would actually learn to
ride
?

Not many. Perhaps one child in eight had the necessary makeup. Fwendi refrained from saying so. Instead, she focused her response on the other methods of spying to be taught, and the skills she
could
impart, which would ensure her graduates were welcome anywhere on the continent—indeed, anywhere in the world.

But a tiny voice from the right of the audience asked if those who served abroad could ever come home.

Fwendi wanted to shout with sadness. What was home? Her parents, her entire family and village were dead and destroyed. Home was the past. Home was gone. There was no returning.

But then she spotted Grandmother's Brother Mkoi. He must have come in the furthest doorway, the one beside Nenzima. He stood quietly behind the seated girls. At Fwendi's silence he looked up at her and nodded, smiling encouragingly.

Grandmother's Brother Mkoi was her home.

Matty, as she'd recently learned, never had been. Nor had he meant to become her home. Not seriously. If he had, he would have proposed marriage by now. He would have overcome his fear, or pride, or whatever foolishness kept him from speaking. When Fwendi tired of waiting for his question, he would have followed her here to pose it.

When the girls were gone, she walked with Nenzima and Grandmother's Brother Mkoi to the house where they were staying, once the quarters of a crew of canteen workers. Inside, she set her mind to sleeping and did tolerably well.

Early in the dark morning, after saying prayers, they made their way through occasional rain to the airfield.
Brigid
was due in from Kamina en route to Mombasa at eight a.m. While breaking their fast beneath the shelter there, Grandmother's Brother Mkoi told her again that he had given Matty permission to ask her to marry him.

As she'd thought.

She told herself it was just as well Matty hadn't done so. He might have wanted a child. So might she—but pregnancy could make riding more difficult for a while, according to Grandmother's Brother Mkoi.

An inconvenience—but not as bad, something told her, as watching the candle of love smoke and die.

 

Kisangani, Everfair, November 1917

Since Fwendi was gone, Matty thought he might as well go too. He had many mansions. He could travel to any of them at any time. Though that would involve making arrangements.

For now he sat stoically in his inglenook, staring at the egg on his tray. Eventually Clapham would remove it. Then he would be alone again.

If only he'd ignored the dreams; if only he'd asked her to marry him. He was an utter failure.

He raised his hands and buried his face in them. The opening door and the discreet footsteps of his servant came as expected. He didn't need to see what was happening to know it.

But Clapham didn't leave immediately with the egg. Instead, his footsteps stopped. He cleared his throat. “A visitor,” he announced. “A Mr. Thornhill of Mombasa. I've asked him to wait in the dining room.”

This house had no library or parlor. Matty sighed and lowered his hands. “Send him in.”

The man who entered was white, which Matty had anticipated. Unusually, he didn't tower over Matty as almost everyone else did. Only a little taller than his host, Thornhill had the sense to seat himself immediately.

Looking down at the arm of his bench, Matty perceived that Clapham had left a pasteboard rectangle there. His caller's card, of course. He picked it up and read it. Nothing more was revealed by this exercise than the man's first name and middle initial: Christopher J.

“Will you have some tea—or chocolate?” Matty offered.

“Thank you, no.” Turning his canvas hat in his hands—Clapham really ought to have taken it—Matty's guest made a few remarks about the rains, which were beginning to abate, as they always did as Christmas approached. At last he seemed to feel enough time had been spent on inconsequentialities.

“I represent a consortium of traders, merchants who have long been interested in this area's potential. But lately circumstances—war—have made it difficult for us to properly invest. Now, however, we're ready to take advantage of the situation here, which is actually more favorable than Europe's, where talks, as you know, are lagging—”

Would the man never leave? Solitude would be a blessing. With an effort, Matty dragged himself out of his lethargy. “What do you want from me?”

The words were perhaps blunter than Thornhill had looked for. He paused several seconds before answering. “You could benefit greatly by—” He held up his palm to forestall Matty's interruption. “Your contacts? You could provide us with crucial access to raw materials, even cheap manufactured goods, which we would then sell to our customers at a healthy enough profit to allow you a commission.”

“Raw materials?”

“Rubber. Metals. Surely more could be mined, your country's productivity increased.”

“But why have you chosen me? I have no influence—”

“You are a Briton, of course. Better than one of that Belgian lot we had to deal with a few years back, and your native hoor—”

“My
what
?”

“Your hoor. The black—the Negress with whom you—er—have congress? I understand she receives some sort of intelli—”

“Clapham!” Red rage lifted Matty to his feet, filled all five foot two inches of his frame. “Clapham!” he shouted over the man's stuttering apologies. With commendable alacrity, his servant appeared. “This—‘gentleman'—is just leaving. Escort him.”