The Devil Incarnate (The Devil of Ponong series #2) (14 page)

He leaned against the counter and scratched his head. When
he got back to Thampur, he was going to teach a class for new Intelligence
recruits called Undercover Verisimilitude: how to successfully live in poverty
for extended periods. Not that he’d figured it out yet. Being poor required
skills he hadn’t developed. Yet while it paled in comparison to his income
before exile, his remittance payment was far more than an average Thampurian in
Levapur lived on. Disgraced or not, he was a Zul, after all. But that money
rarely lasted until his next remittance arrived, despite some attempts at
budgeting. Hadre always had to lend him a bit and pay for dinner; but he could
hardly go to Hadre now and grovel. Besides, the
Winged Dragon
might have sailed already.

If only he could take his packages to RhiLan across the
landing and ask her to make dinner.

He realized how rude that would be. Ponongese rules of
hospitality aside, it would be treating her like his servant, and he never
wanted the Rhi to feel as if that was how he viewed them. It would be like
twisting every kind gesture into their duty to him. He didn’t want to be that
kind of person.

See, Hadre? I’m not a
stodgy Thampurian at heart after all. But that doesn’t mean I’ll excuse your
behavior toward Grandfather.

Well, there was
nothing to do but beg some juam nut oil from RhiLan. He had to borrow her rice
pot anyway. The only thing he knew how to cook was rice-and-eggs. He hoped he
didn’t ruin the pork and vegetables, but it was all he could afford in the
shops and if he didn’t cook it today it would spoil. He briefly thought about
trading the pork for eggs with the auntie who kept jungle fowl in a coop by the
apartment building’s outhouse, but she probably didn’t have enough eggs to make
the trade fair, and he’d learned never to insult a Ponongese by insinuating
they needed his charity.

He detached the hose that ran from the oil tin to the burner
and headed across the landing to RhiLan’s door.

There was a thump and hushed but harsh whispers before
RhiLan’s eldest son, RhiLiet, cracked open the door. The boy usually had a
smile for everyone, but today he was serious. He glanced over his shoulder and
said, “It’s Mister Zul.” Then he turned back to Kyam as he hugged the door.
“Have you eaten, Mister Zul?”

This was one of those moments when Kyam wished he understood
Ponongese customs better. ‘Have you eaten’ was the same as ‘hello’ to a
Thampurian, but it sounded so much like a real question that he felt he had to
answer. But how did one answer?

“Um... Yes, I have, and you? Is auntie RhiLan here? Can I
speak to her?” he said in a rush.

Kyam smelled an
unwashed body with an undertone of sickness to the stench. If someone in RhiLan’s
apartment suffered from one of the three fevers, that explained the boy’s
wariness. Thampurian soldiers were quick to drag anyone suspected of those
illnesses to the edge of the Jupoli Gorge and give them a hearty shove into the
Pha River below.

The boy looked over his shoulder again. A hand gripped the
edge of the door, and RhiLan peered over her son. He scooted away. She moved
into the space he’d left and wrapped herself around the door as he had.

“Mister Zul. So nice to see you.” Her tone was as flat as a
winter lake, and he hadn’t even had a chance to insult her yet.

 
“I was making
dinner” – he waved a hand in the direction of his door – “and hoped
that your family would share it with me. I may be leaving Levapur soon and
didn’t want to go without saying goodbye properly.”

He could see the conflict in her face. She was a nice woman
without a drop of unkindness in her blood. Her man and children were the same.
He truly would miss them. They’d always had such a friendly relationship. And
yet, she was clearly torn.

“Please, auntie. It’s just a humble dinner. It may be the
last chance I have to enjoy the company of your family.” He gave her his best
pleading look.

She held up her hand and looked behind the door. He
pretended he couldn’t hear the furious exchange of whispers.

“We will come, Mister Zul. Thank you for your kind
invitation,” RhiLan said.

He pressed his hands together and bowed. “Thank you, auntie.
I’m honored.” Kyam held up his oil jar. “May I borrow some cooking oil?”

She nodded as she reached for the jar.

“And your rice pot? And a skillet?”

Feminine laughter
from somewhere behind RhiLan was quickly muffled. It seemed they had a guest
that they didn’t want him to know about. Maybe the woman was ill? Surely RhiLan
wouldn’t have exposed him or her family to such danger, though. Even Ponongese
rules of hospitality had a limit. It was more likely that their guest suffered
from one of the many other maladies that Ponong’s heat and humidity seemed to
make worse. He’d learned that lesson all too well his second month in exile
when a simple cut on his thumb had become infected.

“Oh, and could I beg a pinch of tumejra powder?”

Merriment warmed RhiLan’s snake eyes. She motioned for him
to wait as she closed the door. Indistinct voices were followed by more muffled
laughter. When RhiLan opened the door again, she bit her lips, but her chin
quivered with suppressed giggles.
 
“Are you sure you don’t need rice and fish too, little brother?”

This was the RhiLan he was used to. Whatever worried her, it
wasn’t too serious. He grinned as he shrugged. “I have rice.”

“I’ll send RhiLiet with the pans. He’ll stay to help you
with your rice.” RhiLan’s hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes sparkled with
laughing tears. “So it’s not crunchy.”

The
hillside slums
of Old Levapur clung to banded orange sand cliffs that
looked as if they’d melt in heavy rain. Near the dirt road that connected the
Thampurian enclave of West Levapur to the town square was an old, squat
apartment building painted in mismatched pink patches. Most of the other
buildings in the slum were single story shacks with tin roofs and rotting
walls. Vines grew over the roofs that bowed under the weight. Jungle fowl
scratched in the long weeds for grubs. Paths winding up the hillside were
deeply rutted by sluggish streams that washed filth down slope, under the
funicular tracks, and down the cliff into the Sea of Erykoli.

RhiLan never would
have set up a market stall in such a place if she’d been alone. The other
Ponongese merchants seemed to feel the same – they huddled together in a
wide spot on the road between a small tavern and the apartment building. Rumor
said the Devil ruled with an iron fist here and would not allow Ponongese to
steal from each other, but the people of Old Levapur frightened her. Even the
young had weary eyes and mean expressions.

She knew it wasn’t fair
to judge people she hadn’t even talked to, but she worried that they’d scare
away customers. If only the other merchants had picked a nice Ponongese
neighborhood for their new market. The road that wound through the upslope
neighborhoods in Levapur was too narrow and steep for stalls, but around her
apartment, the streets were wider and almost flat.

The mango seller who
had squatted beside RhiLan at the meeting jerked her chin upward. “Even the
monsoon god wants us to have a good market.”

RhiLan smiled at the sky. Tall clouds towered high, stark
white against the blue, but they were far out to sea and held no rain in their
bellies. Even the daily mist that wreathed the mountains was thin enough that
she could see the outlines of their peaks. “It’s a good sign.”

Even though the shaky excitement shot through her, RhiLan
reminded herself that this was no secret party. She drew a brown and orange
sarong from her market basket and unfolded it. “I just finished this design. Do
you like it?”

The mango seller averted her eyes. “Until I sell my mangos,
I can’t think of something so frivolous.” She reached above her head and
plucked a mango from her basket. Freckled red and gold patches spread over the
green skin. “Nice and ripe. I found the sweetest one, just for you.”

Mangos and peppers was her man’s favorite dish, but RhiLan
had to decline the fruit. “I only have these coins. What if I never sell
another sarong?”

She rued her words as she heard them repeated back to her
many times through the morning. Many people had come to Old Levapur to look at
the new market, but no one dared part with their money.

Later, when the sun was high and the day turned hot,
merchants with stalls retreated deep into them to rest. The basket women
wandered into the fringes of the jungle where there was shade and water
gathered at the base of thick leaves they could drink.

RhiLan headed to her children’s school by a route that took
her up slope, along the rim of the Jupoli Gorge and back down slope. It took
much longer than usual, but she avoided the Thampurian neighborhoods around the
government building where those soldiers waited to harass Ponongese.

The patch of open land beside the school was quiet.
Normally, the children played outside after midday dismissal.

Through her life, RhiLan had never questioned why at such
moments guilt came before fear. Her first thought was that she had done
something wrong and should fix it. Her steps slowed as she neared the faded
blue building. The silence seemed formidable. She winced as the veranda step
creaked under her foot.

Maybe she’d come early.

She listened. The
children’s voices were low, but they were inside. Yes, she was early. She
squatted on the veranda and waited. Within five minutes, more parents were
squatting beside her.

The door finally
opened. Ma’am Thun beckoned them inside. RhiLan’s fear wrenched as she tried to
think of what she might have done to anger the teacher. Or perhaps her children
had misbehaved, but that didn’t explain why the other parents were also in
disgrace.

The converted
apartment building smelled of children and old books. The foyer’s bare timber
grass floor was meticulously clean, although the dark varnish only lurked in
corners. A gray path led to each door, and the dark, narrow stairs’ bowed
risers showed where years of students had trod.

The tension evident in Ma’am Thun’s face and strict posture
at first made RhiLan think the teacher was angry, but when Ma’am Thun spoke,
her voice was thick with sorrow.

“Do not bring your children back this afternoon. The school is
closed.”

RhiLan had never seen a Thampurian lady cry. She was so
confused that she grasped Ma’am Thun’s hands between hers. Instead of pulling
back, Ma’am Thun groaned as if she might faint.

The other parents squatted in the foyer.

“What has happened?” one of the other mothers asked.

“The soldiers. They
said I’m not allowed to teach Ponongese children anymore. I showed them my
charter. They ripped it into pieces.” Her hand shielded her eyes for a moment.
Then she flicked away her tears. With a deep breath, she smoothed the lace
ruffle at her neck. “Well,” she said in a brighter voice, as if that was all
she meant to say on the matter.

Then she rang the
bell that hung over the first door off the foyer. The first door opened and
children filed out. The sight of their parents inside the school caused many to
turn to their classmates with questioning glances.

Ma’am Thun barely
inclined her head to each student as they passed her. The children, as was
right, bowed much deeper with their hands pressed together. She also slightly
bowed to the parents. Her smile wavered, but no more tears fell.

RhiLan wanted to stay behind and ask questions, but the door
shut behind them with such finality that she didn’t dare. The Thampurians were
very proud. Any hint of pity would only anger Ma’am Thun.

Children, as they often did, ignored the strange ways of the
adults and ran ahead, glad to finally be free for their lunch.

A father with a withered right leg slowed his steps as he
waited for RhiLan to catch up to him. “I wonder what he will do.”

RhiLan wondered if she’d missed the first part of the
conversation. “He?”

The man looked around before lowering his voice. “The
Devil.”

“The Devil!” Alarmed, she stopped, her mouth open.

“You didn’t know? He pays the tuition for all Pha children
at this school. How else would those of us from Old Levapur afford such a
luxury as education?” His boney chest filled out as he took a deep breath. “My
son, he’s slow with words, but no Thampurian merchant will ever cheat him with
numbers!”

“But, the Devil!”

“The Thampurians
better watch out, because when the Devil is angry, people die.” He bowed and
hobbled after his son.

~ ~ ~

RhiLan carefully
filled her tjanting pen with melted wax and then drew the tip over the new
sarong she was making. The wax was too hot, and the line flowed into the others
to ruin the intricate design. The wobbly lines she’d drawn looked like her
daughter’s efforts.

“The Devil! My
children went to a school financed by the Devil!” She couldn’t hold back her
despair any longer.

It felt as if her
apartment were too crowded for RhiLan. She wasn’t used to having so many people
underfoot in the afternoon. QuiTai sat at the low table with RhiLan’s daughter RhiTeek
in her lap as she helped the children practice their letters. RhiHanya swept
the floor.

“It was just a school, cousin. It isn’t as if he was
teaching them to pick pockets,” RhiHanya said.

“How do we know what went on? Ma’am Thun seemed so
respectable.”

RhiHanya glanced at QuiTai. “Maybe the man was misinformed.”