The Princess Trap (9 page)

N
ahira sat on
the threadbare sofa, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.
Much too hot in this sweltering weather
, she thought as the first drop burned her lips.
But I’ll never get through the day without it. I don’t get enough sleep. Too much to think about.

She switched on the old television. It took a while to warm up.

Piece of junk
, thought Nahira. But at least now she had a satellite dish she could carry from outpost to outpost and still have some idea of what was being broadcast.

It was a shame that they’d had to abandon their headquarters last summer, because she’d loved that house. Hidden in the forest but so near to the sea that you could smell the salt. Now they constantly had to keep on the move. Still, losing that house wasn’t the worst thing that had happened in the past year.

After she, Malena, Jenna, and Jonas had freed the king and his sister from the clutches of the conspirators, Nahira had hoped for a while that all of this would come to an end — living in remote safe houses, waging a daily struggle to gain equal rights for the north, constantly in fear of some of her own people who thought she was too cautious, too accommodating, and kept demanding more and more violent action. They said she was a coward, and they had stopped listening to her. She didn’t like to think about what they might do next.

And yet it had all looked so promising!
thought Nahira. The king free, the country celebrating his return and outraged by the kidnapping. They had quickly acceded to the first reforms.

But now the original plotters were fighting a different fight with different methods. They’d had to change their tactics, and it was difficult to judge what they might be planning next.

Since last summer, she and her people had moved from place to place, never staying long in any one spot, though many of her followers had long since returned to their families in the hope that, after the elections, there really would be the justice, equality, and secure future they had fought for.

There were others, however, who did not trust all the new promises. Nahira stared at the TV screen. Who had set fire to the pipeline and disrupted the electricity supply to Holmburg? Could it have been them? Had she finally lost control over her people?

All she could do was wait, and watch, and try to understand what was really going on in the country.

The fact that she was still in contact with Liron was dangerous. If he was under surveillance, she might be caught that way. She was still regarded as the leader of the rebel movement, and she had never been forgiven for the bombing of parliament last summer, even though that had been a symbolic act — she had deliberately avoided causing any damage or taking any lives. But now there was the pipeline incident, and the disruption of the power supply.

Liron is running even more of a risk
, she thought. Merely communicating with the rebels constituted high treason, and that was punishable by imprisonment or even, since he was Minister of the Interior, by death.

The last time she’d spoken to him, she’d told him she suspected there was a spy close to the king. He’d said, “Don’t worry, I’m ultracautious. My cell phone’s secure. And I have to know what information you’ve got, Nahira, what to expect from your people, what we must do to keep peace in the country. It’s a risk I have to take.”

“So you’re cheating on your people, and I’m cheating on mine,” Nahira had said wryly. “Maybe we’re both in the wrong position, Liron.”

He’d been dismissive. “And what would the right one be?” he’d asked.

She hadn’t known how to answer him.

The theme music introducing the afternoon news brief began playing on the TV. The image flickered. Nahira turned up the volume.

“… another problem in Scandia now?” the newscaster was saying with a grim expression on her face. Despite the change in government, it was the same woman who’d anchored the news a year ago. “Scandian customs have been asking this question after an unexplained and disturbing incident at Holmburg airport this afternoon.” On the screen were blurred images of the inside of the terminal, with panic-stricken people rushing around while soldiers fired submachine guns. “Passengers from at least three incoming aircraft were allowed to bypass passport control and exit the airport without any form of clearance or documentation; all customs posts in Terminal A were left unoccupied for almost an hour. It was not until an alert passenger noticed strange noises coming from a storeroom and informed the airport police that five customs officers were found bound and gagged. A sniffer dog had been drugged.” Now the screen showed the face of a young man in the green uniform of the Scandian immigration office. His eyes were still full of fear as he spoke into the microphone. “They had stockings over their heads,” he said. “There were too many … They overpowered us in no time. They were definitely rebels, and we …” His face faded out, and the anchorwoman turned to another man in uniform, who was linked to the studio via satellite. Nahira recognized General von Thunberg, commander in chief of Scandia’s army.

“Based on initial reports from the scene, our preliminary conclusion is that this attack was launched by members of the former North Scandian rebel movement,” he said. “We have feared for some time that they might try to disrupt the stability of the current political situation by committing acts of violence, and recent incidents appear to support this theory. Airport officials have yet to confirm a specific reason why customs was targeted, but the obvious deduction is that this afternoon’s attack was for the purpose of smuggling contraband into the country.”

“Are you suggesting the illegal importation of controlled substances?” asked the news anchor. Her expression was now not merely grim, but positively distressed.

The general nodded. “Until today, Scandia has set an example for the rest of the modern world,” he said. “Because our borders were more difficult to cross than those of many other countries, Scandia had been virtually drug-free. Inevitably, opening up our borders was bound to make it easier to import illegal substances, and the rebels can use the profits from their illicit trade to finance the acquisition of weapons …”

“What?!” Nahira exclaimed out loud, though there was no one to hear her. “What kind of journalism is this, when the commander in chief of the military can go on national television and make these outrageous and unsubstantiated accusations!” Whatever the real reason for the attack on the customs officials, though, Nahira knew it was yet another public relations disaster for her and her men.

She heard a familiar sound in the distance. The TV was now showing scenes of people lining up outside shops in various towns across the country — nothing new. She turned away from the screen and went outside. With screeching brakes, her ancient pickup truck came to a halt on the weed-covered driveway.

“Nahira!” cried Lorok. The door of the truck rattled in protest as he opened it. One day it would fall off its hinges. “Nahira, I was right! We’ve got them now!” He slammed his hand down on the hood, and quickly jerked it away again because of the heat. “Criminals! But we’re onto them. We know what they’re up to with their trucks!”

No one at the party mentioned pizza to Jenna — at least not directly. After all, they knew the rules of decorum, how they were supposed to behave at such a party, and around royalty to boot. But three times, people had come up to her and nodded toward the buffet table with a smile. “Aren’t you going to get yourself a little something to eat?” they’d asked. Jenna was pretty much the only person wandering around the manicured lawns without a plate or even a glass in her hand.

The third person to ask had been Ylva’s mother, the hostess herself, and when Jenna merely shook her head and moved away — how rude! — she was almost certain that Mrs. von Thunberg’s next remark to the other guests was about her: “Well, as we all know, she’s been eating her fill, anyway.”

The buffet spread, Jenna noticed as she walked past it, was as lavish as it had always been at these parties: platters of fish, fowl, and roasted meats, tureens of summer soups, bowls of mixed greens, vegetables tucked in pastry, or caramelized, or grilled. In between were exquisitely carved ice sculptures: swans; the von Thunbergs’ coat of arms; the skyline of Holmburg with the palace in relief. And for dessert, various fruits from the south — pineapple, mango, guava — had magically been turned into strange animals by some clever chef. That is, if they weren’t already baked into the wide selection of pies.

Where had all the food, all that fresh produce, come from? Jenna wondered. What about the shortages that had customers lining up outside supermarkets? She caught sight of another guest, and turned quickly away. The man standing by the desserts, wearing a loose-fitting linen suit and holding a glass in his hand — wasn’t he the editor in chief of one of those awful tabloids? She couldn’t let him see her here, anywhere near the buffet.

After the official greetings, she had made her way through the chattering groups toward the fringes of the party. Slowly, unobtrusively. She didn’t want to talk to anybody.

Why had Mom left her standing there on her own? She was talking to someone near the broad flight of steps down to the terrace. Jenna could hear her laughing. She saw Ylva crossing the lawn, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, nodding to the right and nodding to the left, exchanging air kisses and passing comments to all and sundry. Oh, to be as confident as Ylva, or Malena, to feel at ease during parties, as she had back at home … Well, actually, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she’d never felt entirely at ease there, either.

Where
was
Malena, anyway? Jenna’s gaze wandered all around the grounds. It was plain to see that the von Thunbergs were among the oldest and wealthiest families in the country.
Maybe that’s why Ylva hates me so much
, thought Jenna.
Because of the reforms, her family will lose some of their wealth, and she blames the northerners. She blames me.

Malena had to be somewhere. Malena, or maybe Jonas. All Jenna wanted was someone she could walk and talk with, someone who knew how you were supposed to behave — who would help her get through the afternoon.

It was strange that she hadn’t yet spotted Malena. She was always on time; she was obliged to be at the reception, making small talk with the important guests, as was her royal duty. But where? All the women were fair-haired, all the women were slim, and they all wore loose-fitting summer dresses in pretty pastel colors. All except her.

Where
are
you, Malena?
thought Jenna, feeling desperate. She was now completely alone at one end of the lawn, and the voices of the guests sounded muffled, as if they came from far away.
If I can’t find her or Jonas, I’ll just have to wait here till this horrible party is over — not that anyone will even notice that I’m gone.

Just a few steps away was a summerhouse of weathered white wood, with wild roses climbing up its sides to its mildewed copper roof.

As pretty as a picture-book illustration
, thought Jenna.
A bit like the pavilion at Osterlin where I eavesdropped on Norlin and the chief of police last year. Stop — don’t think about that, don’t think about Norlin, my horrible father
— she managed to shove him out of her mind most of the time since she’d learned the awful truth. She focused her attention back on the summerhouse.
I’ll just sit inside, nice and cozy, and wait out this hideous party
. It had to end eventually. She could even practice her irregular verbs to pass the time: Then the afternoon wouldn’t be a complete waste.

She listened. Nothing stirred in the undergrowth. No one spoke, no one laughed. No one was there. And yet somehow she had the feeling she was not alone …

Cautiously, Jenna leaned forward and peered through one of the glassless windows. Then, startled, she pulled her head back. On the white-painted bench that ran the length of the interior sat Malena and Perry, in a close, silent embrace.

Malena!
thought Jenna in total disbelief.
So she
is
here! But how come she’s with Perry? It’s always been Jonas who she
…

Her heart began to pound. She tried not to make a sound. She had to see what was going on in there! But how could a girl like Malena be with a boy like Perry?

Malena was gently stroking Perry’s face with her index finger, from his forehead down to his nose. Then her fingertip rested for a moment on his lips.

Stop looking!
thought Jenna.
Oh God, what am I doing? Imagine if someone did that to me! Someone watching if Jonas and I …

Jonas.

Deep inside her, Jenna suddenly felt an unbridled surge of joy. She had to stay there, at least for another moment or two. She had to be absolutely certain …

“Did you really think I didn’t like you?” Malena was whispering. Again she gently stroked Perry’s face and looked straight into his eyes, ran her fingers over his lips, and bent forward until her mouth was almost touching his.