A/N: ... and even longer. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! More please :)!
Disclaimer: My plot (kind of); Tamora Pierce's characters in my AU.
10: Ransom
"He can't mean it," said Alanna. After more than two hours of triage and first aid out in the square, her hat long abandoned and her shirt and trousers spattered with drying blood, she was engaged in a rest break and whispered confabulation with Zaimid in the deserted hotel lobby. TV monitors mounted here and there on the walls continued to inform no one in particular of the latest breaking news—nearly all of it, just now, breaking only a few metres away. "It would cause an international incident. Besides which—" she paused for another long gulp of water.
"Besides which, Professor Salmalín was with all of us at the time of the incident," Zaimid finished, "and we would surely have noticed him orchestrating such an attack, had he been doing so." He swiped an arm across his damp forehead and looked at her consideringly. "Dr Cooper, just how much do you know about my friend Azan's uncle?"
"Please call me Alanna," said that lady wearily, "unless you want me to start calling you Dr Hetnim. And I thought I—well, why don't you tell me what it is I need to know?"
Under a freckling of blood spatters, a blush stained Zaimid's brown cheeks. "For present purposes, two factors are most important," he said. "First, that his grip on reality is … tenuous at times. Second, that it is difficult to change his mind once he has determined on a course of action, even one which any sensible person would regard as dangerous or foolish."
Alanna regarded the young man with narrowed eyes. "You know him well, do you?"
Zaimid sighed. "You, too, would know these things if you lived here. They are common knowledge, as is the fact that those who defy or criticize him publicly tend not to be seen alive again. Only because this little kingdom is of no great economic interest to the Western powers has … our friend … not already sparked numerous, as you say, incidents."
"You're angry."
He shook his head. "It galls me that nothing is said or done abroad when peasants starve to feed the royal treasury or brave, intelligent men and women are imprisoned and executed for speaking truth. But the true blame lies closer to home."
Alanna nodded. "You're right on both counts," she said. "What you're saying, then, is that he's crazy enough to blame all this on Numair and demand that he surrender to 'justice,' and he's unimportant enough internationally to get away with it. But—" she held up a finger— "he's forgotten something that will turn out to be important. That is, I will see that it does."
"And this is?" Zaimid was gathering up their things; it was time to return to the fray.
"Me," said Alanna. "And my husband, who has the ear of a man who has the ear of our Prime Minister—who will not be best pleased with such cavalier mistreatment of British citizens."
In spite of himself, Zaimid had to smile. "I think I begin to see why they call you 'Lioness,'" he said. "But had you perhaps not better warn your friend? If he is under threat of arrest, it will be important to keep him out of sight—and especially away from the Palace."
"It won't do any good," Alanna said ruefully, as they descended the grand marble steps, with their litter of shell casings and slime of blood—and worse. "Not when Daine's there. It'd take a whole army to keep him away. But there's always a chance that a warning will make him take sensible precautions …"
She flipped open her mobile and dialled Numair's.
Daine climbs out of the paddock, wipes her hands on her jeans, and nods at her externship supervisor. The paddock's four occupants, who have followed her, thrust their heads over the fence; two of them lip her hair affectionately.
"Pimpernel," she says to the owner of the horses she has just been examining. "It grows along the fence in the northwest corner of the paddock, and Copper and Saladin, there, have been eating it. When did you say you moved them out here?"
"A fortnight ago," the man tells her, bemused. He turns to the senior vet, who simply raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Miss … Sarrasri, but I'm not sure how you arrived at this conclusion …?"
Daine rolls her eyes at her supervisor, who gives her a warning frown. Composing herself, she says patiently, "The horses told me. Shall we go and have a look?"
They all climb back over the fence. Saladin, a big grey gelding, leads Daine and her companions to the corner in question—a distance of some five hundred metres—where, sure enough, they find two large patches of pimpernel flourishing along the weathered fence. "You'll need to dig it up," Daine says, "and re-seed with something edible. I've told them to stop eating it, but horses do forget things when they're hungry …"
Copper snorts, annoyed, and Daine grins and leans against his shoulders, as casually as if he were not seventeen hands and a hundred and fifteen stone of temperamental stallion. "No need to get shirty, your highness," she says, and Copper whickers and turns his head to nuzzle her shoulder. His owner gapes at them.
"No one seems to know quite how she does it," Daine's supervisor confides. "But it saves a great deal of time and effort, I find, to just take Daine's word for things."
Numair shut off his mobile and turned to face Lindhall, his face bleak. He looked as though he had aged fifty years in the last five minutes. "It's as we expected," he said. "He intends to have me arrested and detained, and to force me to confess to planning and carrying out this farce of an attack." He sighed. "If I'm very lucky, perhaps he'll let me see her once before he has me shot."
"She wouldn't like to hear you being so pessimistic," his mentor and friend reproved him gently.
"What would you have me say?" Numair retorted. "The situation doesn't exactly warrant optimism."
"He plans to force a public confession?"
Numair nodded. "As the price of Daine's life." Lindhall winced. "Not that I trust him to keep the bargain—it's much more likely that he'll execute us both—but how could I live with myself if I could have saved her and tried to save myself instead?"
"You love each other very much, you and your wife." Lindhall smiled sadly. If only every man could have such a partner.
"Do you know what she said to me, the other night?" Numair asked him. "'I'd trust you with my life.' Daine doesn't say such things lightly, and I don't take them so. I only wonder …" he sighed. "Tell me honestly, Lindhall: if I go there, and keep him occupied for a day or so, will the cavalry arrive in time?"
"He can hardly execute you immediately," the older man replied reasonably. "You're a British citizen; there would be diplomatic outcry if he simply had you shot without trial—"
He stopped; Numair had the look of a man with a new idea. Before Lindhall could ask what it was, however, Numair's mobile rang again. He held it at arm's length and looked at it as though it might sprout teeth and bite him. Finally, looking wary, he answered it.
"Alanna," he said, sounding relieved. "Yes, we've heard … No, from a more reliable source, I'm afraid. He used Daine's mobile to ring me with a ransom demand."
There was a long pause, during which Lindhall could faintly hear Alanna's angry expostulations. "It's not so simple, I'm afraid," Numair said at last. "It isn't money he wants—it really is me. The media manhunt isn't a ruse. The man is mad, but he isn't stupid; he'll know he can wring more financial aid from a country that feels guilty for abetting a terrorist. It seems to me that the best thing is to go quietly … but not, perhaps, too quickly. I need to give our other friends time to act. Alanna, listen. You've been in touch with George?"
Another pause.
"Ring him back, will you? From a secure line, if you can. Ask him if he can involve—ah, you've thought of that, have you? Clever girl."
This time the pause was brief, but whatever was said caused Numair's dark brows to snap together in a scowl. "Absolutely not," he said. "He has Daine, and he'll kill her if I don't go along with his mad scheme. Whatever other lies he's telling, he's in dead earnest on that point, believe me. Even if the Consulate could protect me, which, frankly, I doubt, there's nothing they can do for her … Yes, of course I realize that. If you were me, could you take that risk? … Yes, obviously it was rhetorical."
Another long pause.
"You know I'm not good at goodbyes, Alanna. Be safe. Keep in touch with Lindhall and the others, and if … if the worst happens …" Numair's voice faltered, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Take good care of my Daine."
Then he rang off, squared his shoulders, and addressed Lindhall: "Alanna and Zaimid will find you. Alanna will set things in motion in London, or her husband will. You'll tell his highness what is needed? Twenty-four hours will be enough time?"
Lindhall nodded wordlessly and clasped his friend's shoulder.
"I'm off, then," said Numair. He hesitated briefly, then pulled Lindhall into a brief, crushing embrace. "I hope to see you tomorrow."
"We'll be there."
When Daine next woke, she was back in her cell, huddled in the middle of the cot with arms and legs tucked under her. She sat up, blinking. As before, muscles she had been aware of only academically throbbed painfully and protested her every movement, but, she was astonished to find, she seemed now to have control of her own body. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought.
She looked around, trying not to notice the smallness of the space, the way the walls seemed close enough to touch on all sides. If she let herself think about it, she knew, that would be the end. She had been sleeping, or something like it, but she felt more exhausted than before. She wondered idly what time it was—what day it was. On the floor beside the cot was a plastic tray holding two pitas, an orange, and a small bunch of grapes. Daine's mouth watered and her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten since the evening before this ordeal began—who knew how long ago now? First, though … grimacing, she made use of the bucket in the corner.
It's no worse than any latrine pit you've ever used on a camping trip, one part of her mind argued. But I'd never dig a latrine pit three feet from where we sleep! Another part retorted.
She transferred the food to the middle of the cot and used the tray to cover the bucket. Then (wishing she could wash her hands, but too hungry to care very much) she fell on the bread and fruit.
The spike in her blood sugar cleared her head a little, although she now had a raging thirst, and she felt more able to think. She had no idea how much time had passed, or what might have happened, since her last conversation with Ozorne. She was desperate to know, in particular, what her friends were doing: Had they been hurt in the attack? Had they—she shuddered—been forced to kill? Numair, at least, would still be alive, she was certain; she could not have slept long enough for Ozorne to find him, force him into that false confession, and execute him, and the "defenders" would surely have had strict orders not to kill him … yet. And surely Numair would not be so stupid as to walk into Ozorne's trap.
Of course he would, said a voice in her mind. So would you, if the positions were reversed.
Daine thought furiously about possibilities for escape, for sabotage, for … anything. Ozorne wouldn't leave her unrestrained for very long, presumably—was perhaps not even aware that she was unrestrained; if she was going to do anything, it would have to be soon. Her mobile was gone, she found, not that she could have used it in any case; she was barefoot, the restraining clips and ties had been removed from her hair, her wristwatch was gone, and … the unusual nakedness of her left hand finally registered. "Bastard!" she shouted, outraged. He had taken her wedding ring.
There was a faint sound; Daine stiffened, bracing to run. The door of the cell swung inward, and she sprang, almost without looking, to tackle the intruder. A shrill scream, quickly muffled, brought her up short. "Varice?" she said, staring in disbelief.
"Shut up!" the older woman hissed, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. "If I'm found here, he'll have us both shot. Or worse."
"I'm for the chop in any case," Daine whispered, thinking, You're the one who screamed. "Either that or I'll have to sleep with him, and I'd much rather die." She said it calmly, almost enjoying the look of shock on Varice's face. "And I don't recall inviting you here," she added.
"Listen," said Varice. She was twitchy and nervous—as well she might be—and, judging by her swollen, red-rimmed eyes and lack of make-up and perfume, had had other things on her mind lately than planning banquets and flirting with other women's husbands. "He's planning to—to kill Arram. To blame him for—"
"You didn't risk both our lives to tell me that, did you?" Daine interrupted in a furious whisper. "Or that you were spying on us and reporting to your—your handler?" This was a guess, but the older woman's sharp intake of breath told her it was a good one."Are you planning to help me escape, or something else useful? Because if not—"
Varice grabbed her wrist, long red-painted nails—talons—biting into Daine's skin. "It's not my fault," she hissed. "You don't understand what it's like … but believe me, I never wanted this. I loved Arram—I wouldn't—I had no idea he was still so obsessed …"
Daine made an impatient noise.
"I brought you this," Varice said, thrusting something into Daine's hand. "Someone in the kitchens gave it to me. A friend of your friend Azan Fikret." The younger woman looked down, about to protest that she didn't know an Azan Fikret, and recoiled in horror: what she was holding in her hand was a human thumb.
"It's all right," said Varice hurriedly, "it's not a real one, only a replica. But it will still work, he says."
Daine took a deep, steadying breath. "I appreciate this," she whispered. "But I don't see how I can use it. What does this … Azan Fikret say I'm to do with it?"
Varice hung her head. "We didn't discuss that," she admitted. "I asked what I could do, and there wasn't time ... I was hoping … if I let you out of here … you could use it to …" she sniffed loudly, and Daine realized that her would-be rescuer was crying.
"If you're going to let me out, we'd better get on with it," she said. "It would be better to find Numair before the silly fool turns himself in."
Numair has proposed a field trip to the Edinburgh Zoo (incredibly, Daine has not yet been there), and the three young Coopers clamour to be allowed to go along. Their parents are doubtful, but Daine insists that it will be fun, and the children plead and promise exceptionally good behaviour; eventually Alanna capitulates.
On a dry but overcast Saturday, therefore, the five of them board a Lothian bus on Princes Street, Daine keeping a firm hold on Alan and Aly while Thom explains their errand (with a self-importance that makes Numair and Daine exchange grins over his head) to the conductor. Alanna has thoughtfully dressed her offspring in identical bright-purple t-shirts – "Makes it easier to spot them when they run off," she explains cheerfully. "That is … 'if', you know. 'In the unlikely event that'."
Once inside the Zoo grounds, the three children begin a polite but vociferous debate as to which favourite animals they will visit first, Alan arguing for the bactrian camels, Aly for the meerkats, and Thom for the tigers. Numair, mediating with inscrutable map in hand, does not immediately notice that Daine has drifted toward the sea-lion enclosure and is standing transfixed, leaning heedlessly forward over the rails. It is the animals' noise that finally alerts him, just as Aly (who has given up on the meerkats for the present) tugs urgently on the hem of his anorak and says, "Uncle Numair! Look at Daine! What's she doing?"
"Stay here, and don't move," Numair orders the children. Crossing the intervening ground in three long strides, he grabs his student around the waist and yanks her back from the railing just as three huge sea lions surge toward it, bellowing – whether in anger or in welcome it is impossible to tell. "What the devil were you thinking?" he demands, almost shaking her in his horror of what might have happened. He hugs her so hard that she complains she can't breathe.
This turns out, of course, to have been something of an overreaction; the enclosure is well planned and sturdily constructed, and even a very angry sea lion would present no real danger. Daine is annoyed with Numair,insisting that the animals were only being friendly, but for the rest of the day he watches her as closely as he does the eight-year-old twins, fearing that the next beast to make such "friendly" overtures will manage to do her an injury. There are many of these, as it turns out: everywhere they go, animals gravitate toward Daine, from the chipmunks and native birds that roam the grounds to the Amur tigers and the elderly rhinoceros. On the other hand, keeping track of the children is easier than expected: after the sea-lion incident, Thom, Alan and Aly stick to Daine like so many burrs, eager to see what will happen next.
On the bus back to Haymarket station at the end of the day, while Daine and the children sing "The British Grenadiers" at the top of their lungs, to the bemusement of their fellow passengers, Numair slumps in his seat, exhausted.
As he and Daine hand their charges back to their father, Aly, her green eyes shining, says, "That was the most fun we've ever had at the zoo, Uncle 'Mair. Will you take us again next Saturday?"
"Yes, Numair, do let's!" Daine exclaims, as excited as Aly. The boys nod vigorous agreement.
"I'm an old man," protests Numair, who is twenty-nine but, at the moment, feels ninety. "I can only handle so much excitement."
"Children play up a bit, did they?" George inquires.
"Your children were no trouble at all," his friend replies darkly. "Mine did her best to give me a heart attack."
Daine stops what she is doing and stares at Numair, looking betrayed. Before he can attempt an explanation, she has said hasty goodbyes to George and the children and hared off down the street, disappearing into the crowd of tourists and weekend shoppers.
"You shouldn't have called her that," Aly reproaches him. "You hurt her feelings."
They had made it as far as the kitchens before they were spotted—or, rather, Daine was, Varice having the excuse of legitimate business there: it was five o'clock in the afternoon, and preparations were in full swing for that evening's banquet in honour of the new Libyan ambassador. The plan (Daine didn't think much of it, but there was nothing much else on offer) called for Varice to distract the kitchen staff long enough for Daine to sneak out via the adjacent loading dock. Unfortunately, three of the assistant chefs had been following the King Ozorne Hotel Crisis (as the local media had dubbed the morning's events) and had seen the mug shots of Numair and Daine featured on all three of the local TV stations under the heading, in Arabic, English and French, "Terrorist Ringleaders Wanted By Police."
Fortunately, two more were agents of Kaddar's conspiracy.
"We are friends of Azan Fikret," one of these murmured in Daine's ear as he made a show of turning out her pockets. "There is a plan. Tomorrow morning."
"Take the thumb," she replied out of the side of her mouth, before turning her face forward again to spit at another of her captors. She had begun by kicking, scratching and biting, but despite her recent meal she was still too weak, her muscles too strained and sore, to fight effectively. Still, she couldn't bring herself to submit quietly. Her surprising ally found the item in question in a pocket halfway down her trouser leg and quickly palmed it, before announcing something in Arabic that Daine assumed meant "she's clean." He showed no surprise that she should be carrying a replica of the King's thumb, and Daine wondered more than ever who this mysterious Azan Fikret would turn out to be. I'll have to find out tomorrow, she thought. Assuming I don't die.
The kitchen staff were arguing noisily, again in Arabic, apparently over what to do with Varice. Under cover of the noise, Daine whispered to her, "The zoo. Get someone to let the animals out in the morning." At Varice's incredulous look, she shook her head impatiently and hissed, "Just take my word for it, all right? It'll help."
Varice nodded slowly.
Then Daine cleared her throat and raised her voice above the arguing: "I made her do it. I threatened her – can't you see how frightened she is? You can let her go. Then you can all get on with preparing your banquet."
They stared at her, suddenly quiet. Then the man holding Varice's wrists turned her loose and she collapsed, whimpering, into the arms of the large-bosomed pastry chef.
As a whole squad of palace guards came to frogmarch Daine back to her cell, the kitchen staff went back to their preparations, more frantically now that they had lost a vital fifteen minutes.
This time, nothing was left to chance: as well as giving her another injection—the amount in the syringe was twice the last dose, she noticed with interest, just before she blacked out again—the guards shackled her wrists and ankles together and chained her to the cot.
At six-fifteen in the evening, Professor Numair Salmalín of the University of Edinburgh (a.k.a. Arram Draper, wanted terrorist mastermind) presented himself at the main gates of the Royal Palace, between the ten-foot-high statues of the King. He wore khaki trousers and a shirt that had once been crisp and white; he looked deadly tired and, all in all, much less threatening than the Palace Guard had been led to expect.
"I'm unarmed," he said to the guardsmen who challenged him, holding up both his large hands. "I believe His Majesty is expecting me."
