The Devil Incarnate (The Devil of Ponong series #2) Read online

  The Devil Incarnate

  Copyright © 2013 by Jill Braden

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Published in the United States by Wayzgoose Press.

  Edited by Dorothy E. Zemach.

  Maps by Will Mitchell.

  Cover design by DJ Rogers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Devil Incarnate

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  Jill Braden

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  Table of Contents

  Maps of The Sea of Erykoli and The Island of Ponong

  Chapter 1: A Plan

  Chapter 2: The Zul Cousins

  Chapter 3: Dreamers

  Chapter 4: PhaJut

  Chapter 5: The Winged Dragon

  Chapter 6: The Marketplace

  Chapter 7: The Rhi Apartment

  Chapter 8: Grandfather Zul

  Chapter 9: Captain Voorus

  Chapter 10: The Oracle’s Silence

  Chapter 11: Old Levapur

  Chapter 12: The Return of QuiTai

  Chapter 13: The Dragon Pearl

  Chapter 14: An Unexpected Meeting

  Chapter 15: Déjà Vu

  Chapter 16: The Rice Riot

  Chapter 17: Strange Allies

  Chapter 18: Grandfather Zul Demands an Audience

  Chapter 19: The Stakes of the Game

  Chapter 20: LiHoun

  Chapter 21: The Hero of Levapur

  Maps of The Sea of Erykoli and The Island of Ponong

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 1: The Plan

  The morning QuiTai awoke completely sane, she knew Petrof was dead.

  He’d killed her family. He’d eaten her daughter. And he’d tried to kill her too. Three days wasn’t nearly long enough for him to suffer, but it would have to do.

  Her arms, legs, stomach, and face were raw where she’d scratched at imaginary ants that crawled over her skin on millions of tiny, prickling feet. She hadn’t been taught how to shield her mind from the empathic connection with Petrof through her venom. Some would call it sacrilege to try. The goddess Hunt decreed that the Ponongese should feel their prey’s suffering, so they’d deliver a quick, merciful death, but QuiTai had enjoyed sharing every moment of Petrof’s horror and descent into madness as the jungle consumed him.

  Now that her mind was free of him, she had business to attend to. The first step was to get out of bed. Her thick, wavy black hair had come undone from its traditional braid, and every wrinkle in her sarong reminded her of how sour her skin was, but the steady drum of monsoon rain against the shack’s tin roof made her want to pull the sheet over her head and drift back into sleep.

  The inland shack she’d withdrawn to was smaller than Kyam Zul’s apartment, too small to divide into rooms. The shack’s only bed was a low, wide cot of woven leather strips. The thin bedroll she’d put on top of it hadn’t done much to smooth out the lumps. Days before, she’d told Kyam that her bed had countless pillows, each as comfortable as a lover’s lap. There was a bed like that waiting for her, but not on Ponong. She’d have to travel through the mouth of the underworld to reach her hidden estate on the tiny island of Quinong to reach it. The vision of soft sheets tempted her, but she knew there was far too much for her to do in Levapur to run away now.

  She forced herself to sit up. Her first step on the bare dirt floor made her wince. The infected werewolf bite on her ankle oozed pus. If she’d been in her right mind the past few days, she would have gathered herbs and cleaned the wound properly. Now it was going to be much harder to heal. Although the weather was soul-sappingly hot, she suspected the dull ache in her bones was the start of a fever.

  Each step sent sharp pains up her leg as she hobbled across the room. Three low stools sat around the cooking pit, but she forced herself to stand as she lifted the small iron teapot onto the hook and swung it over the remains of the fire. The fire looked as if it had died, but as she stirred it, bright orange embers glowed in the downy white ashes. She added a small log and a handful of dry leaves. The kindling flamed too quickly to light the log, but the embers she’d banked against it would eventually catch.

  There were signs around the shack that hunters had used the remote shelter despite the green symbols painted around the doorway. They hadn’t touched her emergency food and water, though. Taboos against violating the trust of communal shelters were stronger inland than they were near Levapur.

  While she waited for the water to heat, she went to the doorway and leaned against the threshold. There were no wood screens over the windows. Rain blown inside by gusts of wind turned the dirt floor to mud in places. She combed through her knee-length hair and braided it, even though she planned to hobble to the nearby stream and bathe as soon as she had the strength. She didn’t consider herself a beautiful woman – not even particularly alluring, despite the many lovers who spouted such nonsense words during their love-making – but she had her vanities. She’d never risk being seen with her hair down as if she were a child, even in this remote place. And she most certainly wouldn’t let anyone see her in a wrinkled, filthy sarong.

  The shack sat on the north face of Ponong’s mother mountain. According to legend, at night the bioluminescent jellyfish floating in mountain’s caldera lake cast green light to the stars, but she’d never seen it.

  Curious birds with orange heads and bright green breasts watched her from nearby trees, their heads swiveling constantly. From the tracks in the mud and piles of little round black droppings, she guessed a herd of the diminutive island goats had passed this way only a few days before. Perhaps the hunters had been after them, but there was no sign of a kill.

  Through a break in the trees, QuiTai looked down into the valley. The wide, shallow river winding between the steep mountain slopes was as gray as the sky. Sheets of rain pocked the surface of the water. She’d seen children play in the river before and knew of two small villages along its banks, but there wasn’t a human to be seen there this morning.

  Her gaze moved to the smaller mountain across the valley. Agricultural terraces like bands of malachite carved laboriously into the mountain’s rock face reached all the way to the peak. The villagers working in the rice paddies would have blended into the scenery if it hadn’t been for the pale yellow of their woven hats.

  It was a good thing the Thampurians rarely set foot across the Jupoli Gorge Bridge, although they claimed to control the entire Ponong Archipelago. Some day, when they grew brave – or greedier – they might dare to explore the island and discover these and many other forbidden farms. If they thought Levapur was hot and humid, they’d melt in the interior valleys, but the Ponongese couldn’t rely on that to keep the Thampurians from stealing the food from their mouths.

  She wished nature had provided other deep water routes through the archipelago besides the Ponong Fangs, which separated the island of Ponong from a much smaller island. Or maybe if there hadn’t been a natural harbor on the sheltered side of the island, the Thampurians would have left the Ponongese alone. She’d often heard her grandmother ask their gods, “Why us? Why not some other people?”

  Gifts from the gods always came with a price.

  The whistle of the tea kettle roused her from her thoughts. Although she knew she should dr
ink tiuhon tea to help fight the fever rising in her blood, she chose pale leaves that smelled like fresh grass and sunlight. While it steeped, she went back to the doorway.

  Could she be content now that Petrof was dead? Vengeance had robbed her of too much time already. It had made her do unforgivable things. She wanted to let it go, to find peace and move on with her life, but she knew she couldn’t. Once people figured out that Petrof was dead and she was still alive, the men who’d hired him to kill her might seek another assassin. She would be foolish to give them the chance. Despite how weary she was of killing, it came down to them or her, and she definitely chose herself.

  Taking inventory of her situation, she put into the negative column an ankle that had to be tended to and a colonial militia that would gladly hang her on sight. On the plus side, she was the Devil now. Better than that, she was QuiTai. If there was one thing she excelled at, it was gathering information and digging for the truth. The men who’d hired Petrof didn’t stand a chance against her.

  She blew a gentle breath over the surface of her tea. Before she tasted it, she glanced at the tin in which it had been stored.

  “Maybe the people who stayed here were hunters. Maybe they were hunting me.”

  To her ears, her voice seemed to crack uncontrollably, like a teenage boy’s.

  With a flick of her wrist, the tea flew out of the cup and onto the ground outside the shelter. Several of the tiny birds flew down to see if she’d scattered food, then flew back to their perches and scolded her for fooling them.

  “How should I find the men who paid Petrof to kill me?” she asked the birds. “Tell me that, and I’ll give you crumbs.”

  Their trust, once lost, seemingly couldn’t be restored. If they knew, they kept the answer to themselves. What she needed was some sage advice. A vision. She slumped against the doorway.

  Across the valley, mist swirled over the higher mountain peaks like curls of smoke.

  Or vapor.

  The corners of her mouth curved.

  A plan unfolded in her mind.

  Chapter 2: The Zul Cousins

  Every year at the first sign of monsoon, Thampurians in Levapur stayed home and vowed to wait out the rains. After the third week, tired of staring at their walls and perhaps deciding getting wet was better than throttling their families, they returned to the brothels and gambling dens in the Quarter of Delights.

  At the Red Happiness, three people behind the bar filled drinks as fast as they could, and the sex workers rarely spent more than half an hour in the long, narrow room before heading upstairs with a different customer. Even though the rain fell heavily, so many people were on the veranda that wrapped around the first floor of the brothel that most stood in clusters around the wicker chairs. Everyone was in the mood for a party, especially Kyam Zul.

  Kyam wore his finest Shewani jacket and trousers. Everything else he owned was packed. Finally, after over a year in exile, he could go home, his dishonor forgiven. He smacked the mosquito that landed on his knuckles, and then smeared the blood and insect away. How he hated this damned island.

  He shared a small table with his cousin Hadre. They were tall, broad shouldered, well-educated gentlemen, scions of the most powerful of Thampur’s thirteen families. Hadre always looked the part; Kyam didn’t usually bother. Hadre wasn’t much older than Kyam, but years at sea had etched lines around his eyes and his straight black hair was turning gray at the temples. Kyam’s hair had finally been cut properly, although his bangs still fell into his dark eyes, and for the first time in months, he hadn’t missed a patch while shaving.

  “Business is good,” Hadre said. He glanced around the bar with his glass still pressed to his bottom lip.

  Kyam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It depended on who profited – the Devil or QuiTai. She’d been right about the records in the government office: They were in such disarray that he hadn’t been able to find the deed to the Red Happiness in his short search. Not that it mattered now. If she chose to stay with the Devil, it was no longer his business. Had never been his business. She had certainly made that clear.

  He wasn’t going to miss the Red Happiness, but he wanted one last look at it before he moved on. No brothel on the continent was so self-indulgently tawdry, but it struck a perfect balance between Thampurian furnishings and colonial decadence. Lewd figurines gleamed under the white-light jellylantern chandeliers that must have cost a fortune. Nowhere else in Levapur, not even the Governor’s compound, was that well lit.

  A new Ingosolian Madam stood at Jezereet’s post on the sweeping staircase that led up to the rooms. That was the only change Kyam could see from before his adventure with QuiTai. But he couldn’t help trying to detect something different about it, something he’d missed those many nights and afternoons he’d sat in the bar, painting, drinking, and occasionally going upstairs with one of the workers. As he glanced around, he realized that he was searching for some hint of QuiTai’s presence; but the flocked wallpaper and Thampurian furnishings didn’t reflect her personality, except that both were meticulously maintained façades.

  Kyam tried to think of QuiTai as the aloof, cruel, inscrutable Devil’s concubine he’d matched wits with from the first hour he’d set foot in Levapur, because that woman would be much easier to salute as a formidable foe when he left. But the memory he always returned to was of her sitting on the stoop of an apartment building, hugging her knees to her chest. She’d turned to him, offering a rare true smile. She’d said, “There’s more. Want to hear it?”

  She’d been talking about the crime scene they’d just left and the harbor master’s mutilated body – hardly a topic to inspire such a delightfully unguarded moment – but in his dreams, she hinted at something he’d failed to grasp, even though it was probably right in front of him. He only had that one intriguing glimpse of her soul to go on. It wasn’t nearly enough, no matter how many times he replayed it in his mind. His answer, then as now, would always be, “Yes. Amaze me.”

  If only he could find out what had happened after she fled Cay Rhi with some of the slaves. Had she escaped the militia? Was she back with the Devil? And was Petrof still trying to kill her? He at least deserved to say goodbye to her.

  “Feeling your rum?” Hadre asked.

  Kyam picked up his empty glass and shook his head. “Don’t care if I am. I can sleep it off as I sail for home.”

  “You must be drunk if you’ve already forgotten what I told you.”

  Kyam leaned back in his chair and laughed. “You almost had me believing you. Almost.”

  “I wasn’t joking, Kyam. I can’t honor your articles of transport.” Hadre grabbed his drink and swallowed half of it in one gulp. He made a face then drank the rest.

  “But Governor Turyat and Chief Justice Cuulon both signed my papers. I assure you, those signatures are real.” Kyam still grinned, but Hadre’s grim expression added unwelcome uncertainty to his celebration.

  Hadre couldn’t even look at him. “There isn’t a captain in the Zul fleet who will honor your papers, even if they were signed by the king.”

  Kyam started to say something, but the deeper meaning behind those words sank in and he closed his mouth. He tried to cling to his joy, but it was fading fast. “Grandfather.”

  Hadre nodded.

  “Why does he always do things this way? He could have just told me himself.”

  “Because he’s a cruel old man who treats his family like tiles to be played.”

  “Hadre! Respect.”

  Hadre grabbed his empty glass and lifted it as he turned to catch the bar keep’s eye across the room. After his glass was filled, he turned back to Kyam. “And when will he respect you? You’re a sea dragon! Grandfather might not have let you follow the sea, but you’ve been sailing since you were five years old. You know most ships in our fleet better than you know your house back in Surrayya. How can you sit there and accept being landlocked?”

  “There must be a good reason.” Kyam was growing ang
ry, but not at his grandfather. Hadre had no place talking about the head of their family like that. Grandfather was difficult to please, but he had a right to high expectations of his family. Kyam could recall each time Grandfather had praised him, maybe because there had been so few, but he’d worked hard for those scraps of approval. “It’s not our place to question him.”

  “Underneath all your dash and devil-may-care, you really are a traditional Thampurian at heart, Ky-Ky.” Hadre’s thick black brows drew together. “A landlocked sea dragon is no better than dirt. I told Grandfather that.” Hadre’s smile was grim. “Grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.”

  Shock left Kyam speechless for a moment. Another thought interrupted before he scolded Hadre for assaulting their Grandfather. “Wait. You didn’t have time to sail home and back here in two days. How could you have possibly –”

  “Because he was here, Kyam. Didn’t want anyone, even you, to know. Sailed out this morning.”

  Kyam couldn’t believe it. Little of this conversation made sense, and he wasn’t drunk enough to be that confused. “And he didn’t see me?”

  “He gave me a direct order not to tell you that he was here. He didn’t have the balls to tell you the bad news to your face, so he ran away and left it to me.”

  Anger lashed out of Kyam’s control. “Are you calling him a coward? How could you be so disrespectful? How could you attack him?”

  Hadre tipped his glass back and forth, sending waves of rum close to over-spilling the rim. “Your argument is with Grandfather, not with me. Besides, Grandfather made sure I learned my lesson. He gave the Golden Barracuda to cousin Malk and sailed home on it. I’m presently the proud captain of the Winged Dragon.”

  Hadre lost the Golden Barracuda? The Winged Dragon was the oldest and smallest junk in the Zul fleet. It should have been scuttled decades ago. Being assigned to it was a disgrace almost as bad as exile. But then he remembered what Hadre had done. “Serves you right.”