Tempt the Devil (The Devil of Ponong series #3) (6 page)

When he returned later today, she would definitely have a
few more words to say to him. For the first time in their marriage they would
live together, and that meant someone had to change his ways.

~ ~ ~

Stepping into the foyer of the compound’s main house was a
bit like crossing the Sea of Erykoli back into Grandfather’s mansion. The dark
wood floor and paneled walls cast a welcome hush. It wasn’t that Levapur was
loud; it was the bright turquoise and yellow buildings, the squawking birds,
and the intense scent of jungle that made it seem as if the island were
constantly shouting for her attention. This dark, monochromatic place was like
a cool rag on her forehead and cucumber slices for her eyes.

Then the servants shuffled in behind her, and although
they apologized, they banged the luggage about and brushed against her,
destroying her moment of peace. While the foyer was quite large, twenty people,
a small boy, and their collected possessions filled it quickly. She quashed the
desire to rush outside and fill her lungs with air. Nerves, Grandfather often
said, were an indulgence for women with little else to occupy their time, and she
had plenty to do.

First order of business: settle the household.

Before her was a broad staircase behind which she glimpsed
a door. If this were grandfather’s mansion, that would be his office. From what
she’d seen through the glass doors, there was a formal dining room to her left
and a parlor to the right. She hadn’t looked into the outermost rooms of each
wing but assumed they were the sorts of spaces one often found in palatial
homes, such as a music room, a library, and one of those long, wide rooms that
wasn’t big enough or small enough to be of any real use so you hung artworks
you didn’t much care for on the walls and only opened the doors for those
horrible parties where you couldn’t hear what anyone said and people kept
stepping on the hem of your dress.

She realized she wasn’t going to miss Surrayya much. It
was too bad that as the governor’s wife she’d be expected to play hostess to
the exiles of Levapur. On the voyage over, Cousin Hadre had quipped that for a
group of people with dark secrets, the Thampurian citizens living in exile in
Levapur were inexplicably dull. It was too bad they didn’t have the nerve to
celebrate their wicked reputations. What was the worst that could happen?
Someone back in Thampur would get angry? Who cared? This place was freedom from
all that.

Khyram escaped from his tutor and threw open the dining
room door. “Food!” He rushed inside before anyone thought to grab him. Nashruu
knew she should scold her son, but she was hungry and her servants probably
were too, so she followed him into the dining hall as if it had been her plan
all along.

It was bad enough that Kyam’s servants hadn’t bothered to
greet her; did they have to be bad at their jobs, too? It was a nice thought to
set out a meal for her, but someone had simply dumped the fruits into silver
bowls rather than arrange them with any eye for art. There were no cloths under
the bowls to protect the long, polished table. She lifted the heavy lid of an
elaborate chaffing dish. The scent of the curry rose in a puff of fragrant
steam.

Her maid, Simran, darted forward to take the lid from her.
“Please sit, Ma’am.”

Nashruu sank into the seat at the head of the table. The
master had bolted for safety rather than grace them with his presence, so she
felt entitled to the most comfortable seat.

Simran couldn’t figure out where to put the lid. She
devoted her life to making sure everything stayed in its correct place, and this
was a small nightmare in the making for her.

“Set it down in a corner for now,” Nashruu told her.

“Where?” Simran wailed.

“On the floor.”

Simran shuddered, but set it down.

“We’ll have to see about training the household staff, won’t
we? Assuming they even exist,” Nashruu said.

Her servants laughed. She always wondered if they ever
meant it, or if humoring her was like cleaning mud off boots – simply
another duty.

“Sit, sit. Someone hand around those plates.” Nashruu
extended a graceful hand.

Her servants seemed scandalized, but her son and his tutor
plopped into chairs and ladled hefty servings of curry onto their plates. With
some urging, the rest of the staff shuffled forward, but they still waited for
someone else to make the bold move.

“Either sit down or I will revoke your articles of
transport allowing you to return home.”

The senior staff reluctantly took the seats past her son
and tutor. The rest followed the intricate rules of hierarchy to decide if her maid
or a footman should sit in a particular place. They perched on the edge of
their chairs as if they would run away the moment they were allowed to. Most
seemed perplexed by the array of spoons and forks before them.

She suspected they would have eaten much more heartily if
she hadn’t been there. Their discomfort was her fault. She’d expected them to
have more of a sense of adventure, but perhaps that sort of thing was something
only the rich, and socially secure, could risk.

After she had her fill of curry and rice, she rose, but
gestured for them to remain sitting. “I’m going upstairs to find my rooms
– and hopefully the household staff.”

Definitely fake laughter, she decided, as the staff once
again tittered on cue.

“Please feel free to continue your meal. We’ve all had a
long trip, and this heat is not to be believed. Take the rest of the afternoon
to settle. Tomorrow morning we begin our regular schedule. That means lessons.”

She gave Khyram a meaningful glance. He groaned and slid
down in his chair until she could only see the top of his head. He’d been
allowed to skip formal lessons on board the
Golden
Barracuda
and spend time on deck, as every Zul male should. Now it was time
to return to his books.

“Master Zul! Sit up at once.” The tutor, it seemed, was
ready to reclaim control over his pupil. That was one worry off her list.

On her way out of the dining room, Nashruu took the
farwriter case from her protesting footman. The doors shut, and she took a deep
breath. It was exhausting to be in charge of that many people. She’d managed
much of the staff in Grandfather’s house, but they had little need of her
direction. On board the ship, few of her servants had been able to perform
their regular duties, which made them far more dependent on her for guidance
than she’d anticipated. This was the first moment she’d had to herself in over
two weeks. What a shame she had no time to enjoy it.

She paused on the stairs as she saw movement high in
shadowy peak of the ceiling. A lock of hair that had escaped her perfect curls
rose as if lifted by invisible fingers. She knew it was a waft of air from the
overhead fans, but enjoyed a brief fantasy that the house was deserted and
haunted. She smiled as she walked the rest of the flight of stairs. How could
any place this sunny and cheerful be haunted?

At the top landing, the hallway branched right and left.
One direction presumably led to her rooms, the other to Kyam’s. There was
nothing to do but open doors and hope it was obvious where she was meant to
live.

The heavy farwriter case banged against her leg with each
step down the lushly carpeted hallway, as if it were grandfather tapping her
with his cane to hurry up. She pictured him pacing angrily between the rows of
hundreds of farwriters in his ballroom as he awaited her message. He probably
already knew the
Golden Barracuda
had
arrived in port.

The short hallway to the left led to double doors with a
high, peaked arch. The moment she opened them she knew the rooms were Kyam’s.
Every door to the veranda was wide open, but the room still smelled of oil
paint and thinner.

Someone had told her he painted flowers. She’d pictured
tasteful bouquets. These flowers however were bold and bright, and vaguely
obscene, although she couldn’t say why they made her feel that way. One looked
like a bratty child sticking its tongue out at her.

Curious, Nashruu flipped through a sketchbook on the
corner of a paint-spattered table. She liked the charcoal drawings on those
pages much more than his paintings. Some were sketches of women balancing
large, flat baskets on their heads. Others were groups of Ponongese squatting
under a tree like that gigantic one on the edge of the town square. He’d drawn
several of an ancient cat-man smoking a
kur
.

Nashruu drew in a breath as she flipped the next page. At
some point, he’d sketched QuiTai. The sharpness of her features was exaggerated
to make her look cruel. Page after page, her glare challenged anyone who dared
gaze at her. Nashruu flipped back toward the front of the book and stopped when
another picture caught her eye. Kyam had drawn QuiTai again, but this time she
sat on steps with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking as if she were
about to laugh. She appeared younger, more carefree than she had on the wharf.
The sketch was lovingly rendered. Intimate.

At some point, QuiTai and Kyam had shared this moment; he’d
wanted to capture it. It meant something to him.

It felt as if she’d peered into something too personal.
Grandfather would want to know about this. He’d badger her for details. Maybe
when she was a seasoned agent, such things would come easily to her, but for
now, she saw a line she would not cross.

She closed the sketchpad and hurried out of the room.

~ ~ ~

Nashruu found her suite across the landing from Kyam’s
room. Filtered light cast the sitting room before her in a soothing glow. A
little yellow and white striped settee and two delicate chairs were arranged
before an ornamental fireplace. Unlike the dark carpet covering Kyam’s floor,
the one in her room was cream with pastel yellow and pink flowers. No one could
have matched her taste so exactly without going to great effort.

She would write Kyam a nice little note of thanks. And she
might even say it to him over dinner. The idea delighted her. They’d have
something to talk about.

She set up her farwriter on a petite dressing table in her
bedroom. Even though she knew she was alone, she cast a glance over her
shoulder and at the veranda before pressing her fingertips against the
biolock
. She pried her frequency book out of the tight,
hidden compartment in the copper-bound leather case. She’d randomly selected
frequencies from the master list and diligently recorded them in two books
– one for her, the other to sit beside the farwriter assigned to her in Grandfather’s
ballroom.

She hugged the book to her chest and tapped her toes in a
quick little dance of joy. Then she opened it to page one and hummed a jaunty
tune as she set the frequency on her farwriter to the numbers on line one of
page one.

Now singing, she wound her field battery. It took about a
hundred churns of the handle above the copper wire coil to charge the battery,
but rather than count the spins, she wondered who consulted the books and
adjusted the frequencies on all Grandfather’s farwriters now. Surely not he
himself. But whom could he trust? Not his servants. Perhaps her mother-in-law
was Grandfather’s new assistant. The thought of Liragme Zul rising before noon
made her laugh. Only Grandfather would dare make the Grande Dame of Surrayyan society
do such a thing.

The moment she secured the battery to her machine, the
incoming bell rang, and paper coiled out almost faster than she could read. The
gist was that Grandfather wanted her to report immediately, and where was she,
damn it? The message repeated. Only Grandfather’s scolding varied.

Feeling bold, she spoke to the machine. “I’ve just
arrived. The voyage was pleasant enough, thank you very much. Cousin Hadre
sends his… not love, but his greetings.” She’d never type a message like that,
but it felt good to say to out loud. Now that she was almost free, she wanted
to try all those things she’d never dared do before – like talking back
to Grandfather.

She let the paper scroll to the floor as she prepared to
send her reply. She scooted her chair over a bit, then a bit more. She cleared
her throat. Her fingers curved over the keys as if she were about to play a
concerto for a salon filled with the cream of Thampurian society.

Have arrived at the
family compound. NaZ

I have been kept
waiting. TtZ

The machine couldn’t sense emotion, so it wasn’t possible
for it to pour out messages faster when Grandfather’s face grew red and he
jabbed his fingers at the keyboard, but it felt as if it did. She tore off the
long ribbon of paper and searched around the room for somewhere to burn it. There
was no fireplace in her room and nothing with a flame. She placed it beside the
machine as she reached for the incoming message.

She read the paper with increasing panic. No wonder Grandfather
was so wild to reach her.

Why did Kyam arrest
Lady QuiTai? TtZ

Go to the fortress
and make sure those fools don’t hang her. Talk to Colonel Hurust, head of the
colonial militia. Use your discretion, but evoke our royal cousin if you must.
TtZ

Nashruu wasn’t sure how he expected her to convince
Colonel Hurust without evoking the power of the King, in fact.

“Excuse me, Colonel, but my husband the governor arrested
Lady QuiTai an hour ago. And even though you don’t know me or understand why I
think I should be able to override my husband’s decisions, why don’t you let
her go?” Yes, she imagined that would be an effective tactic.

Why would Kyam
deliberately deliver Lady QuiTai to the one place we can’t protect her? TtZ

She’d never suspected the old man of musing in his
communications, although she’d often seen his fingers hover over a keyboard
before as if he were deep in thought.