The Devil Incarnate (The Devil of Ponong series #2) (8 page)

BOOK: The Devil Incarnate (The Devil of Ponong series #2)
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Answer me. TtZ

That’s Kyam’s
department, not mine. HnZ

Hadre immediately regretted sending that reply, but there
was no retrieving a message once it was sent. At least he hadn’t added what
he’d muttered under his breath: “So ask him.”

Are there any signs of
unease or unrest in Levapur? Is the colonial militia on alert? TtZ

“Again, you’re asking the wrong grandson,” Hadre muttered at
the farwriter. He didn’t know any of the colonial militia by name except
Captain Voorus and didn’t socialize with them while he was in Levapur. Why did
grandfather think he’d know anything? And why did the old man expect trouble?
“What are you up to, Grandfather?”

What the hell, he
was already in disgrace. All Grandfather could do was exile him to Ponong as he
had Kyam. The difference being that Kyam took his punishment. Hadre could sign
on as crew on any non-Thampurian ship. There were plenty of smugglers around
who didn’t care too much about official papers, and they were always ready to
take on experienced seamen.

I wouldn’t know. Kyam
knows Levapur and the colonial militia. Ask him. HnZ

He sent it off.

“Come on, old man. Let’s see how you feel about that.”

Any lesser man would have sweated out the seven minutes
between sending his message and the chime sounding the reply, but Hadre simply
poured himself a glass of whiskey and put his feet up on his desk.

Am unable to discuss
current affairs with KtZ. TtZ

“Unable? You’re too much of a coward to talk to him in case
he asks you why you marooned him on this damn island,” Hadre told the piece of
paper in his hand.

Need insights from
fresh perspective. TtZ

“Why are you always so obsessed with Ponong? You haven’t
been the governor for almost sixty years.”

Remain in harbor. Fix
sails and rudder. Re-tar the hull. Make any other repairs necessary to Winged
Dragon. TtZ

“Now you’re suddenly interested in the
Winged Dragon
? Or is this your subtle way of keeping me in port so
I can play spy for you? I have news for you. I’m going to sit on this junk and
never leave the harbor, and even if I do, I’ll be damned if I’ll tell you a
thing about unrest in Levapur. If you want to know, you’re going to have to
talk to Kyam.”

Hadre set down his drink and typed:
Message received. HnZ

He was enough of a Zul to know to keep some tiles close to
his chest.

 

~ ~ ~

 

A long, curved fingernail hovered over a farwriter keyboard.

She has returned.

A bead of sweat formed at his temple. It wasn’t betrayal if
the message could have been sent by several others, he told himself, but he
knew QuiTai would see it differently.

The return message
came more quickly than he would have thought. Did the old man hover over his
farwriter day after day, hoping for a signal? Had he pounced on the machine
when the bell rang?

 
What
is her next move? TtZ

This conversation
was a mistake, but it was already too late. How to reply? Two years ago, he
would have reported every rumor. Now he was more cautious.

For now, nothing.

That seemed a safe
enough answer. No one as ill as QuiTai was could make trouble for a couple of
days.

Perhaps she needs
further motivation. TtZ

The lump of fear in his stomach warned him that a dreadful
game was underway. How could he warn her without bringing her wrath down upon
him?

She probably already knew.

He nodded, willing to believe that because it comforted him.
Whatever was happening, it was over his head and out of his hands. People like
him were only ever the tiles in such games, never the players. All he could do
was hedge his bets by staying friendly with both sides.

Chapter 6: The Marketplace
 
 

Midmorning,
RhiLan walked
with her sons and daughter to a rundown Thampurian
neighborhood on the first upslope rise. Other parents greeted her as they
walked toward the same ramshackle house with their children. Near the steps
leading to the small veranda, she put a coin into the hand of each of her
children. As she kissed them, she reminded each not to mention their visitors
to their friends or teacher.

“Learn.” She wagged a finger at the eldest boy. “And
behave.”

His grin was so much like his father’s. She tousled his
hair.

The children ran up the stairs of the faded blue two-story
building that had been converted into a schoolhouse.
 
At the door, they solemnly handed their coins to Ma’am Thun,
a Thampurian lady who wore an expression of constant suffering.

RhiLan had offered herbs to soothe a grumbly stomach and
gently suggested that the thin woman need not lace her corset so tight, only to
be sharply rebuked for the personal nature of her comments. Thampurians, she’d
learned, were odd that way. They wore clothes over another set of clothes and
covered their arms all the way to their wrists. They slept inside even in the
hottest weather. And while they made much of their ability to shift between
forms, they never splashed in the chilly mountain streams during the dry season
or waded in the gentle surf of the island’s lagoons.

Still, RhiLan didn’t care how foolish Ma’am Thun was as long
as her children spoke fluent Thampurian and learned their numbers. If they had
to live among Thampurians, who controlled most of the wealth on Ponong, then it
made sense to prepare her children to be employed by them. Maybe a nice clerk
position or a job in an upscale shop. Even working upslope at a plantation
wouldn’t be bad, as long as it wasn’t in the pools. She had ambitions for her
children. That’s why they’d left Cay Rhi. And what a lucky decision that had
been. Her cousin RhiHanya said most of the villagers were still trapped on the
island. RhiHanya had faith that the wolf slayer would find a way to set them
free.

RhiLan had heard rumors about the Devil’s Concubine. It was
hard to believe that storied being was the same woman who so politely and
humbly tried to be of help in the apartment, even though she was too ill to do
much. It was harder to believe the Devil would want such a sharp and angular
woman in his bed. But what RhiLan couldn’t accept was that people in the
marketplace hated QuiTai for what
they’d
done to the Full Moon Massacre werewolves. As far as RhiLan was concerned, the
werewolves had had it coming, and no one should feel guilty about that.

Besides, hadn’t QuiTai shown concern over her children?
She’d even put their safety before her own. From now on, if someone spoke ill
of the Devil’s Concubine, she’d tell them to stop spreading lies.

Chin up, she headed for the marketplace.

The streets were still muddy from the morning rain. It was
hell on sandals, but then at least no one stole them from the rack on the first
floor of the apartment building when they were caked with mud. In the dry
season, even though they weren’t supposed to, her family carried their sandals
upstairs. Otherwise, they might not be there in the morning.

As RhiLan neared the marketplace, she passed a furious woman
balancing a large basket of roasted jikal roots on her head. There were other
tense Ponongese in the streets as she neared the town square. She couldn’t
decide if they were fearful or humiliated; then wondered why she imagined
either emotion. Maybe something had happened in the marketplace. She wanted to
ask, but the children would be home for lunch in a couple of hours, and she
needed to sell at least one sarong before she returned to the apartment.

Between the government
building and the dour Thampurian bank, she caught a glimpse of the marketplace.
There were only a few stalls set up, as if it were still very early. Craning to
see, she ignored the spice merchant who stomped past her.

Four soldiers
gathered to block her way. Thampurians were a head taller than most Ponongese
and solidly built, but these men were huge even by Thampurian standards. Their
uniforms resembled the ones the colonial militia wore, but their shewani
jackets were crisper and they had no flashy braid or jangling medals across
their chests.

“No Ponongese in the marketplace,” one of the soldiers said.

RhiLan was sure she hadn’t heard right. “But I have a
permit.” She reached into her basket for the piece of paper that had cost her
ten coins.

“All permits are revoked.”

She bowed her head and softly said, “I’ll just shop then.”
She tried to step around the soldier, but the others formed a wall of dark blue
jackets much too close to her face.

The soldier told her, “Until further notice, no Ponongese in
the marketplace, to buy or to sell.”

Her chest tightened. She pointed to the Thampurian merchants
setting up their stalls. “But you let them in!” She was so confused. What was
going on?

The soldier spoke over head as if she wasn’t there. “These
snakes are deaf. No matter how many times we tell them, they think the law
doesn’t apply to them.”

Now her face was hot and her hands trembled. The regular
soldiers called her people snakes when they thought no one else could hear, but
they’d never said it loudly in front of her. She was so embarrassed. She turned
around and walked away with as much dignity as she could summon, but hot tears
welled in her eyes.

RhiLan wondered for a moment if it was because she harbored
the wolf slayer in her home. Could the soldiers sense the fear wrapped around
her shoulders? She should have heeded QuiTai’s warning against taking her in,
but now it was too late. After the swift stab of fear passed through her, she
realized that the soldiers ignored her. They didn’t seem to care about QuiTai.
Afraid that they’d see guilt in her face, she walked away quickly with her chin
pressed to her chest. If only she could turn invisible, or maybe the ground
would kindly rip apart under her feet and swallow her. She wanted to hide in
her apartment until the shame went away.

At the next street corner, the Ponongese spice seller she’d
passed earlier rushed over to her and stroked her arm. “It’s okay, auntie.
You’ll be fine. We were all turned away. Come talk with us. Please, auntie.
Don’t cry.”

Tears dropped down her face, but she nodded and followed him
to the group that squatted on the veranda of a café. She’d often seen
Thampurian ladies seated inside, with plates of delicate food so pretty that it
had to taste like music. Of course no Ponongese would ever be allowed inside,
except maybe to work in the kitchen where they couldn’t be seen. She felt
special and brave simply sitting on the veranda outside.

The spice seller smiled at her as he gestured for her to
take a spot closer to the center of the gathered Ponongese. She set her basket
at her feet and cast fleeting glances at the others. Many of them she
recognized from the market, and most she knew by name. That made her feel a
little better.

“We should protest
to the governor!” someone said.

“How? First, we’d
have to get to the government building, and that means getting into the town
square.”

“And who controls
the soldiers? The governor.”

“I’ve never seen
those soldiers before.”

RhiLan turned to the woman who’d said that and nodded. When
her family had moved to Levapur, the town had seemed huge, confusing, and full
of strangers, but now she recognized most people she saw even if she didn’t
know their names. Who would have thought she could know so many people? She
could even tell the Thampurians apart; and as the other woman said, the
soldiers she’d seen today were strangers. Could they possibly have been hiding
down in the fortress all this time?

“If they won’t let us into the marketplace, how are we going
to sell our wares?” someone asked.

There were many suggestions. Some RhiLan thought were good,
until someone pointed out why they weren’t, and she changed her mind to agree
with them. As the group traded ideas, she watched a Thampurian inside the café
peer out at the Ponongese on his veranda from behind a curtain. He looked
scared, or maybe he was just upset that he had no customers. It was hard to
read Thampurian expressions. After a while, he edged to the back of the café
and out of sight.

Next to RhiLan, a barefoot upslope woman balanced a basket
of mangoes on her head. She whispered, “I’m so angry.”

Why hadn’t she
thought to be angry instead of humiliated? RhiLan wondered. What did she have
to be embarrassed about? She had a permit. The paper was still clasped in her
hand.

“So, it’s decided.
Tomorrow, we’ll meet in Old Levapur and have our own marketplace,” an auntie in
the center of the group said. Her face was lined from many hours in the sun,
even though her hair showed no grays. A clay pot, probably full of juam nut
oil, sat by her feet. “Tell everyone you see.”

The others nodded.

Someone lit a kur.
It passed through the group. Warm energy flowed through RhiLan’s blood as the
smoke filled her lungs. She looked up at the sky. It wasn’t raining, but the
clouds had gathered and looked grumpy enough to pour on their heads.

“What will my children eat if we have no rice?” RhiLan
wondered out loud. “I planned to buy some today.”

People turned to look at RhiLan. She blushed and bowed her
head again.

The woman in the center of the group spoke directly to her. “Rice
isn’t the only food, little sister.”

“But auntie, a little piece of meat gets lonely in an empty
rice bowl.” The man laughed, making a joke of it. Some laughed with him, but
many nodded in agreement.

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