Everfair (42 page)

“Thank you.” The jars glittered in the late morning sun. All were unbroken. Seeing his sister's shoulders lower and relax, Tink turned with relief to gaze out once more at the blue and white sky. They had risen significantly in only the last few minutes, though he could still distinguish the crests of the ocean's waves below.

Bee-Lung came to stand beside him. “How beautiful!”

“Wait until you see the Lakes! There is nothing like them in the whole world!”

But before he could show her Everfair, they must go into and out of Mombasa. As the British still in power there had been enemies till very recently,
Okondo
's stay was short. Bee-Lung remained on board, poring over her inventory.

Tink returned from his brief visit to the town both worried and gladdened. Glad because, here as in Mumbai, the Bharati-born soldiers who'd found ways not to fight Everfair during the war continued to rebel against their European rulers. It became less and less likely the whites would hold their empires together, and they'd certainly be unable to expand them.

Everfair was safe.

Also, though … those with whom he and other Everfairers came in contact here in 1916 had suffered something very like the illness with which he'd been afflicted soon after setting out: a fever marked by heavy sweating, coughing, nausea, and loosened bowels. An illness from which he'd finally recovered in Macao, under the care of his other sister's husband.

Tink had not died. Nor had any of those who contracted that first fever, which had apparently affected every town on the aircanoes' routes to Macao as much as a month after each went through. But as he'd been learning, a second, more lethal version of the disease had appeared last year. It killed those the first one hadn't touched. It killed the young, the fit, those in the prime of their life. It killed Bee-Lung's husband.

Bee-Lung's husband had been away in the country for most of Tink's previous visit. He had not sickened then—not even slightly. Next year he was dead.

Bee-Lung looked up as Tink opened their cabin's door. “Ah! You're back. I suppose I had better pack these up, then?”

“Yes, Captain Ekibondo will be giving the order to cast off any moment.” He stooped to retrieve a circular plug of spongy wood, its sides grooved with threads like a screw. His sister smiled gratefully as he handed it to her, then fitted it into the narrow mouth of a grey stone bottle. A smell like fragrant plums mixed with cave chalk and salts from an ancient sea filled the close air. Mustiness, too, rising from cured skins pinned to the cabin walls, and the bitter perfume of evaporated venoms.

Tink and Bee-Lung had discussed several locations where she might establish her business. He'd diplomatically brought up the hospital at Bookerville, and tried to be as positive in his description of the Albins' headquarters as he was when it came to Manono, which he thought of as his own home. Both sites were shrinking in size, though, and he didn't hide that. Nor did he disguise from his sister what he'd heard about Kamina's growth, though he hadn't gone there since Lily.

Their first stop inside Everfair was Kalemie. Shrill, long-winged birds soared in circles between the aircanoe mast and the scows tied to the wharf on Lake Tanganyika. Because of loads to be picked up and dropped off at the railway head, they'd be here several hours. Though dubious, Bee-Lung consented to descend to the ground with Tink in the loading crane's sling.

Fwendi met them on the field as arranged, four students in tow. Tink knew none of them. The white girl reminded him of his lost love, as white girls usually did. A tour of the new school and potential sites made no noticeable impression on Bee-Lung. Over hurried bowls of chocolate, Fwendi gave Tink disturbing news gathered by her pupils: a third war was brewing.

Politely declining to state a decision about coming back, Bee-Lung continued on with Tink to the capital. He fretted all the rest of the day. He stared unseeing at the blackness of the cabin's ceiling when it was his turn for the hammock. After midnight he gave up and called Bee-Lung in from the common room early. This didn't make
Okondo
travel any faster. Nor did pacing the gondola's guard-railed roof under the freezing stars.

Another seemingly interminable day passed. At last, at last, he heard the drummer signal their arrival at Kisangani's airfield. He opened the blinds. A sunless purple dusk set off the lights of fishers coming home along the river. And more lights, the distinctive lamps of his home, outlined the city's streets. Fewer and fewer the lower they flew, the closer they came to the field.

A taxi took them into town. At first all looked normal. Then Tink saw that more fighters had been stationed outside the palace—perhaps many more? Perhaps double their usual number? As they passed the homes of Sir Jamison and the Poet, he noticed fighters there, too. And others elsewhere, possibly guarding the homes of more whites. Protecting them? Imprisoning them? Impossible to tell. Without Fwendi's warning, he might not have spotted anything amiss.

After all, he and Bee-Lung hadn't been escorted from the airfield. Nor, when they arrived at the flat where he always stayed, were there any fighters waiting for them.

But then, according to Fwendi, Everfair's latest troubles were only just getting under way.

 

Kisangani, Everfair, June 1918

Daisy did her best to convince herself she felt the difference in temperature. Traditionally this month was held to be very slightly cooler than May, and quite a bit less rainy than July or August. Nonetheless, she continued to take her walks early in the morning or long after dark. And she always carried an umbrella.

She wished she could persuade her guards to do the same. But as they stepped out of the shelter of her building's eaves to join her, they held only their shonguns. And though the clouds overhead glowered down threateningly, for the moment, at least, the air was clear.

Bafwaboli was to her left.

Loyiki had explained to Daisy that her “escorts,” as he called them, were meant to keep her out of gaol. They stopped her from doing risky things such as talking to other whites and members of the Mote. Though some would argue against counting Lisette in the first category, she belonged indisputably to the second. Further, rumour claimed Lisette was capable of travel within Everfair, performing in a special capacity for Josina. As a spy, probably. Better for Lisette not to have her standing compromised by a call from Daisy.

Going in the opposite direction would take her to the airfield. But Daisy was prevented by her guards from working there. For the first time in her adult life, circumstances forced idleness upon her.

She turned neither way.

At the intersection with Source Boulevard she hesitated again. The floods that filled the roads during the rains had receded, but they'd left in their wake a soft, ill-smelling mud. Many swings had been set up on this corner, though none bigger than a double; she shared the crossing with a tall woman fighter named Nadi.

They followed the boulevard down to its end: a pier extending a few dozen feet into the Lualaba River. As the heavy overcast lightened and the heat climbed, she watched the day's sailors come and go.

Her arrest—for so she thought of it—had started almost eleven markets ago, in late April. Surprisingly, it was apolitical Rosalie who'd told Daisy what was coming. Rosalie, who'd steadfastly refused to stand for the Mote, had known what she, Daisy, had not: that non-natives were on the verge of being declared personae non gratae in the nation they'd helped to create.

During the course of the girl's preparations for her long-postponed journey to England, some unspecified occurrence had enlightened her as to the prevailing mood among Everfair's black majority. As they sat in the mooring tower waiting for
Boadicea
to arrive, she urged her mother to leave with her.

“What, with no luggage? Why didn't you mention you wanted me to come earlier?” The lack of luggage, it seemed, was an important element of what Rosalie dubbed her mother's “escape.” Daisy hadn't taken the idea seriously, even when Rosalie showed her where she'd secreted both their passports. Naturally enough, she wished now she'd given her more credence.

Well, at least one of them had gotten away to England safely. Rosalie would rendezvous with Laurie Junior in London, and perhaps meet someone nice to marry there.

Daisy's repeater began chiming and she pulled it out to silence it. Only 8:30, and already the sweat gathered on her back and arms and neck. She led her entourage back to her flat and took a cool shower.

There was nothing to do. Nothing to write. Passion fueled poetry, and what she cared about was quite indifferent to the king and queen. By what they claimed, the same indifference applied to most of Everfair. Daisy wanted not to believe that.

Not long after she'd emerged from the bathroom she heard someone scratching at the door. She opened it, expecting a guard with questions about what further expeditions she might go on that day. Instead it was little Za, who, after a short, civil preamble, declared she'd been sent on business by the block's drummer. With full consciousness of her importance, the child recited a memorized message:

“King Mwenda commands the Poet's attendance upon him at midday.”

Daisy shivered. Not from the coldness of the room, which was more than warm enough, but from the summons's chilly tone. No embellishments or inquiries as to her health. Nothing but a bare order.

She offered Za a boiled sweet in thanks for her services, one of a treasured hoard sent by Matty many long years ago. Za accepted her reward with a pretty bow, unwrapping it before she was outside. Gesturing through the still-gaping door, Daisy invited Nadi and her two fellows inside. So far, no one had entered without her express permission.

The fighters had their own system of communication. Doubtless they'd known since dawn that she'd be sent for. “Will you drink tea with me before we leave?” Daisy asked.

Nadi's acceptance comforted her as much as the ritual of brewing, as much as the faintly bitter taste of the familiar beverage. She gathered her three guests around the tray like a screen against fear. You couldn't kill anyone you'd shared a meal with, could you?

Not that death was the real threat. She'd never truly thought so, and King Mwenda made his actual aims abundantly clear when at last he saw her, which was after making her wait in a passageway for over an hour. At least she'd been given a chair.

The audience chamber, on another floor entirely than the passageway, was the former hotel's old dining room. Its tables had been removed, and a long carpet stretched from the entrance to the throne. Over Daisy's head hung unused crystal chandeliers. French windows along one wall provided most of the light—and, her heart leapt to see, a lamp shaded by the pierced globe she had popularized.

The king sat on his throne. The stool next to it was empty—no Queen Josina. Old Kanna stood beside Mwenda, and against the pale pink wall ranged well over a dozen armed fighters.
They must be for show,
Daisy assured herself. Who expected her to attack the king?

“You should prostrate yourself before me,” said Mwenda, indicating the carpet.

“I beg to be excused.”

“Because of your age? Old Kanna has no difficulties.”

She merely nodded.

The king decided, evidently, against pressing the issue. “The Mote has been dissolved. You and all the other foreigners will return to your homes before the next dry season.”

Daisy's mouth opened, but for a moment no words came out. She tried harder. “Our—our homes?”

“Where you came from. England, America, and so on.”

“Our homes are here!”

“I say they are not.”

She took another tack. “Besides that, you can't dissolve the Mote. Only a vote of the Mote itself—”

“I say I can.” He glanced significantly at the fighters surrounding him. “My people say so, too.”

“We are
all
your people—all of us, all colours, all—”

“Then you will not argue with me!” Mwenda's voice crashed over Daisy like a loud wave, drowning her quite reasonable protestations. “No! Do what I tell you to! Obey your king!”

Trembling with anger, she refused to give an inch. “And what is to happen to General Wilson? And your builders, inventors, engineers? What of—”

The king slashed the air with his metal hand, cutting her off. He spoke more quietly now. “I see no need to explain any of this. My wishes are known to you. You may leave as you came.”

Which should have been enough, more than enough, to satisfy her. Daisy would not die, only be exiled. Yet her mind whirled with questions, doubts, worries, as she followed her escort along the hotel's damp-walled passages. What of her son, George, whose marriage no other country would recognize … but perhaps that was for the best. But what of poor dead Lily? How dare the king exile his rescuer's mother? How could she ever bear to leave her Lily's grave behind?

And where would Lisette go? Somewhere Daisy could go too?

Light flared in a doorway: An unshielded lamp suddenly brightened steps ascending behind the beckoning figures of Josina's favorite attendants. Daisy's escort halted with her at the sight.

“Come,” the farther off of the two women said in English. “The queen also wishes to speak with you.”

Daisy climbed the stone staircase, the repeating grit and thud of her boots echoing loudly in the silence of the others' naked footsteps. Passing the first-story landing without stopping, they came to a second landing with an open doorway in its far side. Warmth and silvery cloudlight spilled through. And a smell, somehow familiar … questioning her memory about it brought no answers, so she followed it forward.

Outside, on the palace's roof, a brazier smoked. Tobacco! She placed the scent now: a European gentleman's vice, totally unexpected here. Other herbs appeared in the mix to lesser extent—she identified basil, lemon verbena, and what the Bah-Loobah called dagga.