Redemption in Indigo (11 page)

'The carved stool for your father's gift. Do be careful taking it down the hill. Sister Elen was forced to rush the gluing, and too much movement will shake the joints loose again.'

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Paama's return to Makendha was as quiet and fuss-free as her departure had been. Although her family was expecting her, their welcome was a touch harried, and her father was actually slightly more cheerful about seeing the stool completed than about seeing his daughter again.

Neila was glad to see her, an unusual state of affairs. She was happy to have someone to talk to about Alton and the man who had sent him, the man who hid his face. Paama listened with more attention than she was accustomed to giving to her years-younger sister and her busy love life. There was more than one stranger in Makendha, and she needed to find out which was the one to beware of.

'Let me see if I have it straight,’ she said, gently pausing her sister in midflow. ‘Alton is a poet, and he speaks beautiful words to you, and you are very interested in him??s that right?'

Neila nodded, beaming radiantly.

'Then there is Lord Taran, whose face no-one has seen, but who is tall, silent, has eyes like amethyst—so far as you have been able to observe, that is—and is very rich. And you are also very interested in him.'

Neila shamelessly nodded again.

'Which one are you considering for marriage again? I have forgotten.'

Neila gave her a hurt look. ‘Lord Taran, as you well know. Alton is only his servant.'

'Hmm,’ Paama said doubtfully. ‘And are there any other men of note in this Lord Taran's household?'

Neila stared at her. ‘I thought you were tired of men and marriage.'

Paama gave her an equally blank stare in reply before she understood the meaning of her sister's words. ‘Not for me, silly child. I?? just want to know.'

Neila smiled in disbelief. ‘There are only a few minor servants??nd the one who heads the household, of course, but he is not very interesting.'

Paama was not reassured. She had seen a djombi make do with the shadow of a six year-old girl and still achieve its purpose. Her enemy might be the mysterious lord, or the extraordinarily gifted poet, but he could just as easily be the boring majordomo, or one of the minor servants—perhaps even the one who would bear the cup of welcome when she first entered the tent of the merchant prince. She would have to meet them all herself and pray that the Sisters’ gifts and skills would give her some insight.

On the day of the dinner, Paama made her preparations carefully. She selected a dress that would help her to fade into the background, and she fastened to her belt a matching cloth purse, taking care to arrange it so that the Stick was completely covered. Then she pinned the brooch at the corner of the square neckline and bound her hair back with the headband. The cushion was already waiting by her pillow; she prayed she would need it for nothing more than an ordinary, restful sleep.

At twilight, everyone was ready. Semwe led the way to the tent of Lord Taran, carrying his gift carefully in front of him so as not to wrinkle or stain his best linen tunic. His wife and daughters walked behind him, treading gently in their embroidered cloth slippers, careful to keep to the paving-stone trail. As they approached the tent, they saw that a red carpet had been rolled out from the entrance to the edge of the trail. Neila exclaimed in delight at being treated so royally, but to Paama it resembled a great red tongue waiting to furl up and fling them into the warm glowing maw of the tent's main entrance.

As soon as they stepped off the trail and onto the carpet, a servant came hastening towards them and escorted them in. Paama discreetly turned the brooch in his direction as he guided them to the entrance, but nothing happened, no lightning flash, no sound of alarm. Then she entered and forgot about him instantly. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling were shaded with amber-tinted glass, heating the cool evening air to an uncomfortable temperature and making the very air ruddy. However, when Paama looked around at the guests in the reception area, everyone appeared contented and relaxed, sipping iced drinks and marvelling at the sumptuous interior of the merchant's tent. Many of the faces were known to her, but she remembered Giana and shuddered. It could be anyone.

She tried to copy them, tried not to look suspicious of everything and everybody, but even the servant who offered her a drink from a tray seemed to be secretly laughing at her. That was a horrible thought. She was looking for one adversary, but suppose they were all part of it, willing co-conspirators for their own gain? She drank gingerly, alert to any alien flavour, and sighed. Paranoia was an exhausting state to be in.

Neila nudged her. ‘There's Alton.'

She pointed out a man with an expression of discomfort on his face, a young face under greying hair. He looked slightly out of place, the usual appearance for those whose status was neither guest nor visibly busy servant. Paama wondered if he would perform one of his works later in the evening, or if he was there to soak up more inspiration for another poem. She touched the Stick idly through her bag, hoping vaguely that it could help her in some way, but it was as ordinary as any piece of wood.

'Paama.'

The ghostly voice made her jump, and she stared at the Stick before she remembered the purpose of the headband she wore.

'Paama, Sister Elen says that the young man before you is not all that he seems. He has the mark of alteration upon him. Be careful of him.'

So, it
was
him! And he looked so harmless, so timid and self-effacing. She pulled her horrified gaze away before he noticed her stare.

'And that one,’ continued Neila, ‘is the head man.'

Paama looked in the opposite direction and saw a man standing on the other side of the room. He had quite a different air. Although he, too, seemed to have nothing to do, he did it splendidly, his eye on every servant, every tray, measuring the speed of service and the quantity of food and drink, and issuing orders with the smallest of nods. Only once did he need to beckon someone over and whisper, perhaps to make a more forceful point that could not be conveyed by a gesture. His eyes were??lat, expressionless. He could have been a piece of furniture animated for the evening.

'This one also bears the mark of alteration. Watch him closely.'

Paama was shocked. How was this possible? Could he be manipulating two at the same time? Sister Deian anticipated her question.

'It may be that they have had their memories altered, nothing more,’ she cautioned. ‘These are probably the men who have spoken to him directly.'

'And that's Lord Taran,’ breathed Neila.

A tall man, veiled and robed in ivory linen, came up and greeted Semwe, courteously thanking him for his gift. He ignored the three women, but Paama knew that was only more courtesy according to his culture. He would pretend that they did not exist until Semwe introduced them, thus giving him permission to speak to them.

'My wife, Tasi,’ Semwe said.

The foreign prince bowed, his hands clasped decorously behind his back. Paama noticed that he was also gloved, and she began to understand somewhat Neila's fascination with this man who exposed not even a finger's breadth of his skin to the air.

'My daughters, Paama and Neila.'

Neila lowered her eyes modestly, but Paama boldly searched the small, blurred rectangle of mesh for a glimpse of his eyes. Was he the one? Was he surprised to see her? Did he know who she was at all?

'Ladies,’ he said, and there was nothing but warm welcome in his tone. ‘I am honoured to have you in my humble home.'

'Is it really your home, my lord?’ Paama said, speaking her thought out loud and shocking herself with her boldness. ‘I mean, since you are travelling this is surely nothing more than a temporary abode.'

The blank face of cloth turned towards her. ‘I am a nomad, my lady. Wherever we sleep for more than three days, we call it home.'

Neila nudged her for her impudence, but she did not care. What she did care about was the fact that she had as yet heard nothing from the Sisters on how Lord Taran appeared to them. He spoke for a while longer with them, trivial pleasantries about the virtues of Makendha and its countryside, and then excused himself to speak to other guests.

'—probably the centre of it.’ Sister Deian's voice cut in suddenly, and then stopped.

'What?’ Paama said, speaking aloud in her frustration and earning another nudge from Neila.

She had forgotten that the Sisters could not hear her. Something had stopped Sister Deian's voice from reaching her, something that was ‘probably the centre'. That was no puzzle—the mystery man must be the enemy after all. She had a strong desire to tear that veil away.

Dinner held no drama. The food was good, but to the trained palate of a chef, it was not approaching excellence. Lord Taran was the main attraction, showing himself to be as civilised a barbarian as ever pitched a tent on the pastures of Makendha. He spoke intelligently and listened attentively and was in every way the kind of gentleman that mothers would wish to have their daughters marry. His expressive voice compensated grandly for the formless sheet before his face. Paama saw her parents glance at each other and give a little nod. His charm was magical, winning the hearts of all his guests—all except Paama.

After dinner, they all went outside for the entertainment, which consisted of a grand show of firestars. It was a well-chosen diversion; the whole village could see it and enjoy it, and the next day there would be a rush to order firestars from the merchant's stores. As the guests sat under the true stars and watched the spectacle, Lord Taran's servants ranged the fields with buckets of water and wet rags, carefully slapping out the few stray sparks that still glowed after the spent firestars had fallen to earth.

'Where is your sister?’ came Sister Deian's voice, sudden and frantic.

Paama jumped up as if she had been singed by a firestar and looked around wildly. Neila's chair was empty! She excused herself hastily, but her departure went unnoticed as all were captivated by a sky full of glittering meteors and coloured fire. Wishing again for some help from the Stick, she touched it almost superstitiously as she set off in a random direction, hoping that would be where she would find her sister. Sure enough, there was the sound of her voice??'Let me go!'

Paama began to run, but just then a hand gripped her arm firmly above the elbow.

'Where are you going? It's dangerous to go roaming about in the dark.'

She wrenched around, but her arm was still held fast in a strong hand.

'You!’ she hissed.

Lord Taran put a hand over her mouth. ‘Hush! Not so loud.'

One hand remained free. She grabbed a fistful of veil and pulled as hard as she could??nd stared. He let her go and stepped away, looking at her in dismay.

'You!’ she said again, her heart pounding more in confusion than fear. ‘Then where is??ho is?'

She ran again, towards where she had last heard her sister's voice. There she saw two figures struggling in the dark. One was the poet, Alton, his young face aged with fury as he shook Neila by the shoulders.

'Give it back to me, you thief! You don't understand such power, you'll only misuse it!'

Neila screamed and broke away from him, then ran to Paama and fell sobbing into her arms. Paama held her securely for a brief moment of comfort and then shook her by the shoulders and forced her chin up.

'Neila, look at them.
Look
at them!'

The man who had been veiled walked cautiously towards the sisters and then around them, and stood next to the poet. Two men were before them, the lord and the poet, both standing very still as if trying to think of what to do next. Neila looked from one face to the other, her tears silenced in her shock. Then she cried out in anguished query to the man who had worn the veil.

'Alton?'

The lord stood with hands limp at his sides like a puppet with cut strings, looking at her with an expression of pure bewilderment. Paama could not understand why, for was it not Neila who had the right to bewilderment, faced with two copies of the same man? One was dressed as suitor and the other as servant, but both had the face of the poet Alton.

The man dressed as the poet sighed, a harsh sigh of frustration and annoyance. ‘I don't have time to play this farce any more. Let us talk plainly.'

He stretched out his hand with a grasping motion, and stillness seized the night like spreading ice quelling a river current. The popping sounds of the firestars, the screech of the crickets, and the chirp of the tree frogs were all halted in the space of one slow heartbeat. Then he stepped closer to Paama and Neila, his figure blurring, his features changing, his skin becoming a deep indigo under the white glow of a firestar frozen above. Paama, too, was frozen—frozen with deep fear.

'Now I have all the time in the world,’ he said in a chill voice that little resembled the warm tones he had borrowed from the poet. ‘Give me my power back, and I will allow you to forget that this ever happened.'

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Do not think badly of Paama. She had never had any experience of being a heroine, and she was not accustomed to otherworldly beings threatening her loved ones. So it was courage of a sort that made her step in front of Neila, whip out the Stick??nd offer it to the indigo lord.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he took another step closer and stretched out his hand. Neila ran from Paama with another shriek of fear and went straight to the arms of Alton, who was not so dazed that he did not react appropriately, holding her protectively and shielding her face from the awful scene playing out before her. Paama had no refuge; she stood her ground and trembled as that unearthly blue hand closed slowly over the Stick.

The Stick would not move. He tugged it fiercely, she opened her palms wide, but it stuck to her like an extension of her own hand. He stopped pulling and became strangely calm, almost analytical, as he held her wrists gently and turned his head to view the phenomenon from all angles.