Jala's Mask (20 page)

She had to admit, she was particularly interested in the potential within that simple
or not
.

Azi took in a deep breath, never taking his eyes off her. “That . . . would be nice, yes. And I'll tell you everything, if you still want to hear it. The sooner I get it over with, the better. Just promise you'll pull me out of the water if I fall asleep.”

Jala pretended to be offended. “If you fall asleep with me there to occupy you, you deserve to drown.”

Azi stepped into a pair of sandals and slid the King's Earring through his earlobe. Then he took a small brass lantern from a shelf. “A souvenir from my first trip across the Great Ocean,” he told her as he closed the door behind them.

They walked through the Kayet manor, and as they walked, Azi told her about his life there, about what it was like to grow up as the king's second son. “I got away with a lot more. People weren't so concerned about me, as long as I was out of the way, so it was easy to get into trouble.” He pointed to a door. “Through there are the kitchens and the way down into the cellars where we keep the mainlander food. I was always sneaking in and tasting things, usually leaving them behind with little Azi-sized bites out of them.”

They avoided the main hall and exited the manor through a smaller side door. The sun had already sunk low, with only the top of its head peeking out above the trees. They stopped for a moment while Azi lit his lantern. Then he led Jala down a well-trodden path away from the beach. Insects flitted around in front of the lamp, bumping noisily against the glass in an effort to get closer. Their footsteps settled into a slow, easy rhythm.

“There's a different cellar where we keep dyes and perfumes and the like. Anything that isn't food but still smells. Jin pushed me in once and held the door closed until my eyes watered and I started to cry.”

“We have a cellar like that,” Jala said. “When we were little Marjani and I would steal perfume.”

“To wear?”

“To spray on our cousins,” Jala said with a grin. “Even the few that smelled nice were awful if you used more than the tiniest bit.”

Azi laughed. He had a good laugh, Jala thought. It made her want to laugh, too, whenever she heard it. “One time I stole some green dye from that cellar,” he said. “I wanted to color the well water and scare everyone, but all it did was make the water smell funny for a day. Which was lucky for everyone, really. I might have taken the yellow dye, which is poisonous. They say one of the queens even died from wearing too much of it.”

“My father always says . . .” Jala deepened her voice, mimicking him. “The only thing you can trust from the mainland is their metal, and even that'll cut you if you're not careful.”

Azi snorted. “My uncle says something like that too. Do you think there's some special storyteller that only old men know about? The one who teaches them this stuff?”

They both laughed at that.

But maybe they're right
, Jala thought, thinking about the book the Nongo had taken. Such an innocent-looking gift to be the cause of so much death. Azi led them up an uneven hill, and they reached the springs a few minutes later. Five pools, the smallest big enough for three grown men, the largest for twenty, lay before them. Wisps of steam curled over the surface of the water.

Azi set the lantern beside the smallest pool. He picked up a large, smooth stick leaning against a tree. He grinned at her. “Don't worry. They don't usually bite.”

Jala frowned and was about to ask what he was talking about when he started to poke at the water with the stick.

“Come on, out you get!” he called. “Find another spring, this one's taken.” Then in the light of the lamp she saw snakes on the surface of the water, heading for the sides of the pool. One slithered over her foot, and she squealed and jumped back, which made Azi grin at her.

“You could have said there were snakes. You just wanted to scare me!”

“Nonsense. Why would I want to do that?” he said, still grinning. “It should be fine now, I just didn't want you stepping on one.” He started to take off his shirt.

Feeling suddenly shy, Jala turned around while he stripped off his clothes. But she couldn't help glancing back at him briefly before he jumped into the dark water with a splash. He followed her lead and covered his eyes with both hands while she undressed, but she wondered if he was peeking, too. Her skin tingled at the thought.

She lowered herself into the pool and sighed as the hot water covered her body. Her muscles relaxed. She slid closer until their legs were touching and leaned her head against his arm, breathing in the warm air.
No kissing or anything else right now, though
, she told herself sternly. No matter how much she wanted to just forget the horrible things that were happening and lose herself in his arms. Now was not the time. Well, not unless
he
started it.

Azi reached over and poured some wine for them. “We say that some of the fire mountain's blood flows underground. That's where these springs come from, and the red earth.”

“Are you sure it's not just that the First Isle has terrible gas? Though I guess that doesn't explain the clay.”

“Whatever causes them, they're nice to have.”

They were both avoiding what they'd come to talk about. “Tell me what happened to the Gana,” Jala said.

Azi sighed and looked up at the sky. Night had fallen quickly, and the stars shone brightly above them. Then he started to speak, his voice low and flat. He told her about being driven back on the beach, about the days of hit-and-run attacks, about that last, horrible battle when the manor burned. Then he stopped.

Jala waited to see if he would say more, then asked the question he'd carefully avoided answering. “How many died?”

“Maybe two hundred between our families. Twice that many Gana. Two of our ships were burned as well.”

Feeling suddenly suffocated in the hot water, Jala pulled herself out of the pool, her back to Azi. She got dressed—talking about massacres was definitely not going to lead to anything more fun. “They'll come again, until we're dead or they have their book. There has to be a way to return it to them.”

Azi nodded. “My uncle thinks they've lost too many men to try again. But he didn't see the men on the Fifth Isle. He didn't see what they'd become. There's something happening here we don't understand, something more than the book or revenge or . . . I don't know. Damn it, we just don't know. We don't know who they are or where they come from, and we don't know if they'll come back or not.”

“We know they're called the Hashon. And we have the prisoners. Maybe they'll talk if I show them the book.”

“I don't think you'll have much luck, but you're welcome to try. I'll have Boka the Trader help you. He tried to speak to them before and knows more of the mainland languages than most.”

“Thank you,” Jala said. She sat down next to Azi, dangling her feet in the water.

He looked up at her, his face serious. “You know that whoever you send . . . well, they'll probably never make it back.”

“I'll send one of my family's ships when the time comes,” Jala said. Captain Natari would go if she asked him. The thought made her feel queasy. She had never imagined herself sending someone to their death.

Azi stood with his back to her and stretched, then got out of the pool and wrapped his robes around his waist. “I forgot how much I love this place. I used to come here all the time before Jin died.”

Of course he's been here before
, Jala couldn't help thinking. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Did you bring Kona here, too?” She hugged her knees to her chest as though they could shield her from his reply.

“What?” Azi stammered. “Who told you about her?”

“Were you with her that night when the ships came?”

“No!” he said quickly. Then, just as quickly, “Well, yes, but it's not what you're thinking. Or what you've been told.”

“You don't know what I've been told,” she pointed out.

“I know it's nothing good. I was. . . . I met Kona back when I was just Azi the sailor. We never thought I'd become the king. I did go to see her that night, but I told her—I didn't know what to tell her. But things between us are over.”

“Did you love her?” She couldn't bring herself to ask,
Do you still love her?

Azi let out his breath in a long sigh and leaned back. “I loved her for a long time. Or I thought I did. Before Jin died, before everything changed. I thought we could get married, if I could just make my uncle and father understand.”

“You'd have been the king's brother. You'd never have been able to marry a village girl.”

“I never lied to her. I just hoped. We both did. Anyway, it was enough for her that we were together.”

Jala's chest ached, and her heart was pounding. She had to force herself to draw in her next breath, and even then she could hardly speak. “And now?”

“I still miss her,” Azi said. “But she's not you.”

She's not you.
Jala turned toward him. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a small smile, and the look in his eyes made her stomach flutter. Of course he'd cared for others before her. He'd had a life before he met her. She had, too. But he was choosing her here, now. He knew her, and he wanted to be with her. And she wanted the same. They needed each other. She reached out and took his hand.

“I miss people, too. But you can't see her again for a while, even if it's just . . . to see her. It's not fair to me, or to her. If she loves you, I don't think she'll be satisfied with just a piece of you. No more than I would.”

“Do you?” Azi whispered. “Love me, I mean.”

“You know I do.” Had she ever said it out loud? She wasn't sure. She'd thought it, but it was different to say it. To hear it. “Or anyway, you know it now.”

“I love you too,” he said. “So we both know it now.”

Azi's words repeated in her head as Jala stood on one side of a cellar beneath the manor, facing the two prisoners from the mainland. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but she wished she could be back in the hot springs now instead of staring down at two naked, dirty prisoners. The whole cellar smelled like human waste. Grime coated the prisoners' skin, and most of their hair was gone, sold off by the guards.

“I tried every language I know when they were first brought in,” Boka the Trader said. “I've been trying for two days. They don't respond. I don't even know if they can hear me.”

“Then we'll have to try again,” Jala said.

“Even if they do know a language I can speak, their brains are mush.” As if to prove his point, one of the prisoners giggled. Boka pointed. “That one always laughs. The other just stares. What do you expect me to do with this?”

“I don't want to be here any more than you do, but we have to know where they came from,” Jala said. “I brought the book with me this time. Show it to them, but don't let them touch it until they've been washed.” She handed the book to Boka.

“I hope you don't expect me to wash them as well,” he muttered as he took the book. He dangled the book in front of the prisoners, speaking to them in different languages. They stared past him. One of them started to drool. Boka turned back to Jala. “There, you see? I've seen dead fish look more lively.”

Maybe they were too far gone after all. Jala brushed past Boka and shoved the nearest prisoner. “Are you Hashon? Is that a place, your home? Do you want to go there? Where do you come from?”

“Hashon,” he whispered.

Jala barely heard him, for the other had started screaming. “Get him out of here and shut him up,” she snapped. Boka called for a guard, and the prisoner was dragged away, still screaming.

“Hashon,” the first prisoner replied. His tongue was thick and swollen, and his voice cracked.

Jala's head spun with the thick, foul air, and she tried to breathe through her sleeve. “Show him the book again. Open it and let him see it more closely. Something's going on inside his head.”

Grumbling, Boka did as she asked and opened to a random page then turned it to face the man. The prisoner hunched forward awkwardly and squinted at it. Then he thrust it away and covered his eyes with his hands. He fell to his knees and spoke so softly that Boka had to kneel down on the floor to hear.

“Well, that's something,” Jala said. “Can you understand any of that?”

Boka's brow furrowed, and he leaned closer to the man, turning his head. “A moment, my queen. I think . . .” He stopped and listened. “I think he's speaking some form of Lowsun.” Boka turned to the man and made a slow-down motion with his hands. “Slower.”

The man took a ragged breath and spoke again. Slower, and with a clearer voice. Boka listened. “He keeps slurring the words, and his accent's all over the place. It's hard to follow.”