“Brant is disappointed at the timing.… It would have been better if we had arrived earlier. We will be met momentarily by a trinium transport, which will take us to a drop point outside Atare.”
“A mining transport?” That was not simply unusual, it was abnormal.
“The only passenger station is far to the south, a small, neutral city called Amura. Brant’s ‘sponsor’ did not want to wait the days necessary for a ship to bring us north, and so arranged for a special lander to meet Rover.” Smiling at the added questions in her eyes, Halsey paused to sip his kona. Darame waited silently and wrinkled her nose at the mere thought of drinking the bitter brew. Halsey had few annoying habits, and fewer vices. She’d allow him a bit of mystery in his schemes, and his stimulants.
“Disappointment?” she prompted finally, when she realized he wanted a leading question.
“The Festival of Masks, a rather… boisterous… celebration, will be over by a planet day by the time we enter the city. It would have been a good time for us to arrive, a chance for you to strike up conversations with no suspicion. The night following begins the Feast of Souls, a somber religious holiday.”
“Religious holiday?” Darame repeated casually, submerging her tension. Memories of Gavriel flitted through her mind — of portions of Emerson and Kiel. Just what they needed, a religious complication.
“It’s all right,” Halsey said hastily, as if reading her mind. “The Nualans are very religious, but tolerant — even of their own schisms. As luck would have it, it is an heir’s birthday, and Brant has arranged for us to be invited to the private celebration.”
“An ambassador’s aide arranging invitations to royal parties.… He moves quickly, as always,” she murmured, pouring another cup of the nutritious broth. Easy on the stomach for a few hours…
“The communiqué was signed off by Second Ambassador Brant,” Halsey offered, a definite twinkle in his eye.
“Second Ambassador? Good heavens, Halsey, did he marry someone?” Her surprise was genuine. The Caesareans were lax about some things, but usually strict about seniority and promotions. Brant had not been with their foreign branch of government that long. Of course, with Nuala so isolated, the rules could be different for this outpost.
“Or perhaps a death… “ Halsey did not continue on that path; he always avoided reminding Darame that Brant’s methods were occasionally very direct. “At any rate, he has hold of several important ears. The code breaks down into the names Iver and Caleb — they’ll be your marks. But the emphasis is light on the last code, so I think you can simply get your bearings the first night.” He smiled as he spoke, leaning back in the flexseat with an audible creak. Darame half-closed an eye, waiting for the snap, but the mold held. “Good. You need some time to play. Your last job ran past the deadline.”
“Past?” she said innocently, and he laughed, his huge frame shaking. Darame had boarded scarce moments before takeoff, the authorities in close pursuit. It seemed like yesterday.… It might as well have been yesterday — she was bundled into Cold Sleep right after briefing. Time off after this job. When was my last vacation? A year ago… More than that…
She let him enjoy the joke, while she pondered a few more questions. Usually she preferred to find out things from the natives of an area, but basics had to be observed. “Halsey… “ she began.
“Yes, Davi?” The big man patted moisture from his red face.
“The succession in Atare — on the entire planet. Your notes say it is a matriarchy?” If power was in the hands of women, why play up to the men?
“Yes and no. Descent is matrilineal. You remember that eighty percent of the population is sterile?” he asked in turn.
“The inherent genetic mutation problem.”
“Exactly. It’s one of the reasons we’ve brought gene packets as part of our trade package; they always need new strains. But they prefer the natural process, and so fertile people have power — it’s as simple as that. Certain families have historically had great fertility, and this helped them move into positions of great power. The Atare family not only controls the trine mines, it is also one of the strongest and most numerous clans. Power is shared between the eldest male and female of a single generation who are children of the last eldest female. The man carries the name of the clan as his title — in this case, Atare — and the female, whatever the clan, is called the Ragäree, the mother of the heir. Does that make sense?”
“Then… the man’s children do not figure into the next ruling generation?” she continued.
“No. I think they become the head of the judicial branch or something, but they have nothing to do with the rule. The ruler’s sister’s children will rule, and must be trained for their role. They are living repositories of what the Nualans value most — healthy, fertile genetic material.” Halsey had his superior look on his face.
“I heard somewhere that they dote on their children,” she murmured aloud. “I doubt that they look at their offspring as living tissue cultures.”
“Their children are everything to them,” Halsey stressed, serious once more. “Each royal family has their own system to protect their heirs. Among the Atare, it is an organization called the guaard. It’s modeled somewhat on the janissary system; they are totally loyal to the ruling Atare and Ragäree. Guaard have existed over a thousand years, and there is not one recorded incidence of betrayal. Brant claims they are incorruptible by any normal means. Fortunately the royal family and its hanger-ons are not so virtuous.”
Smiling slightly, Darame straightened in her chair. “Halsey… I… need to prepare myself on something. Are the Nualans… Do they look human?” she said quickly. “Not that it’s a big problem, but — “
“My dear child!” Halsey said, seizing her hand. “Do you think I’d throw you to dogs like a bone? Of course they look human! I’d call the Atares quite human. After all, they’ve been bringing back spouses ever since they succeeded in passing the radiation belt. By now their heredity is mostly off-worlder.” Then he winked. “Not bad looking, either.”
“If you had your choice of materials for a baby — “
“No, no! Not the Atare clan. At least not the ruling line. Their looks are solely from generations of having their pick of mates. After all, even if some of the ragärees weren’t much to look at, the idea of all that wealth, prestige, and security must have tempted a lot of people. They have become an unusually handsome line. This assignment won’t be a chore.”
“As least it will be a feast for the eyes?” she suggested, lifted her mug as if to toast him.
Halsey raised his steaming kona, gently bumping it against her molded cup. “Probably better than that — they are known as scholars and lovers, my dear Davi. Bored you shouldn’t be, in any fashion!” His merry laugh rang out again as he sipped his kona.
We’ll see. They value fertility among some sects on Emerson, too… so they only have sex during certain times of their year, and it’s poor sport, my alpha male friend. But men rarely think about how a woman sees such things. Something bothers me about this job, old man.
As if by command, memory finally returned… she had not worked with Brant since she heard about that Emerson fiasco. Darame answered Halsey’s smile, not wanting him to worry, even as she calculated how much credit she could withdraw from her account without causing comment. This place was too much of an unknown to make any better plan. Trust and adore Halsey she might, but she wanted enough money on her person for a ticket to Caesarea, if something went wrong.…
ATARE, NUALA
GUAARD HOUSE
THIRTYSIXDAY, VESPERS, NUALAN YEAR 2007
“Mailan! Where are you? The vespers bell just rang!”
The shriek penetrated her formless dream, and Mailan was suddenly on her feet beside her cot. “The vespers bell? Nev’s bones, I am dead late!”
Jude’s solid form grew out of shadows. “No one has called in; I think you have a pad. What happened to your wake-up call?”
A pad? The extra time existed only until White called for his replacement. How could she be so careless? Muscles bunched and sprang and she charged through the doorway and down the corridor, even as she heard Jude’s cry of “Your clothes!”
Moments of black disorientation followed. In and out of the shower in scarce minutes; it was necessary, she had been too exhausted at starrise to think of bathing. And the sanitation, she had to empty her bladder, duty would be until after lauds — Jude appeared so abruptly Mailan threw out an arm in defensive posture.
“Whoa! Friend!” Jude said, blocking the movement with one of her own. A towel was extended from her other hand, and Mailan gratefully accepted it. There was concern in the square, dusky face. “I have the night off. Do you need a second?”
“Enjoy your freedom; I will be fine. It is just… Last night was bad,” Mailan said finally. No point in elaborating; Jude was not part of her assignment, and any other discussion would be gossip. One did not gossip about Atare business, even the simple daily occurrences. They reached the cedar wardrobes even as she spoke. Mailan tore through her things, finally locating a clean camisole and drawers.
“Dress uniform,” came Jude’s reminder.
“Dress? By The Path, why tonight? And he is certain to be exhausted. I wish — “
“Pipe dream — try some smoke next time you are free, your luck will be better.” Jude’s advice was oblique, but Mailan took her meaning. The Serae Leah was touchy about points of courtesy, and that meant every single throne-line Atare had to attend the heir’s birthday party. There was no suitable excuse. Even Sheel was excused from his hospice duty, and rumor had it Caleb was returning from his mountain retreat for the affair. No one risked offending the eldest daughter of the Ragäree.
The tailored black uniform of syluan slid over her lean form like a wisp of cloud, cool and delicate. Glancing in a mirror, Mailan rumpled her dark curls and groaned. “It will suffice. How can I get a roster without — “
Jude held up a flimsy information ring.
“Best of friends!”
“It is not your fault!” Jude said fiercely as she pressed the roster ring into her hand.
Turning to slide the ring into a wall screen, Mailan hid her expression. It would not do to criticize the captain — Jude knew better. Surely Captain Dirk was still not angry over her appointment. Old Fion, her trainer, had been so proud, and pleased that they would be working together. And one did not deny the request of an Atare… It was not done. True, it was unexpected, so few Atares this generation cared who their regular guaard might be.…
“Still at home, good. Better to explain only to the seri,” she muttered.
“And White.” Jude was not rubbing a sore point, only warning. White was firmly attached to the captain, and would delight in telling Dirk about this latest chip in the veneer of their elite troop.
“To the Last Path with White, that mangy katt of a man!” Mailan retorted, popping the ring from the wall and sliding it into a pocket. “I owe you, Jude. Have a good break, if that man of yours can still breathe after last night!”
“I told him to save a bit o’self for me,” Jude said, trying to control a giggle. “Off! Hurry! Cut through the temple grounds! Oh — I forgot! That Claire woman finally delivered, a manchild, and Seri Sheel is definitely the father!”
o0o
It was already dusk beneath the towering neudeya trees which covered the slopes behind the Mendularion. Mailan rushed along the path, heedless of the crunch of dry needles and seed cones. Somewhere off the path a waterfall beckoned, probably one of the tiny ones created by the temple guardians, but she ignored it. A thirteenday without a break, and fiveday yet to come — Fion would be angry, but even his presence would not have dented the will of the captain. Somehow Dirk felt slighted, and he had no one to vent his anger upon except his underlings.
Her thoughts were jumbled as she left the temple grounds and approached the restricted sector. Why was Dirk so angry about her appointment? Surely Dirk did not think of guarding an Atare as a reward for… for what? Of course their pride and joy was to guard the royal family, and Mailan would not trade her post for any price, but it was hard work, to be especially Chosen. Rotation was supposed to be a constant fivesome, each covering two bells of time. But Sheel had chosen only two so far, and since he had not requested a standard shift, Dirk perversely let Mailan and Fion share the assignment alone, four bells apiece, an inhuman load.
Could anyone except Dirk change it? Probably not, she reflected, starting up the steep hill to Sheel’s home. The Atare or Ragäree, of course, but the Ragäree was secluded, dedicated to Mendülay’s altar now that her children were grown, and Cort Atare had enough to keep him busy without handling a feud among his guaard.
Mailan stopped abruptly at the path gate, taking a deep breath and ordering her thoughts. She privately suspected Dirk was furious that Sheel had not asked for the captain’s advice in choosing official guaard, and intended to run them into the ground over it. When he had broken their health, he would probably relent, and set up a regular rotation. Fortunately Fion had been due for furlough. He was a tough old bird, but four shifts at constant alertness was a tremendous strain. The roster showed White had stood only two bells… that son of a nameless mother. She was tempted to substitute “knife” for mother, but that was an insult great enough that the law ignored a duel of honor over it. Better not to get in the habit of such thought.
Settling her mind into the proper framework, Mailan pressed her thumb against the lock, waiting for it to acknowledge her presence. She kept her walk down the path silent, in case Sheel still slept.
The mirrors in the front hall did not startle her… was that one of the reasons Sheel chose her? Because his house did not — distress, annoy, amuse? — her. Or because he had forgotten the protocol of dealing with the captain of the guaard, or never learned it before he took the Cold Sleep to Emerson, over thirty-four years Terran round-trip.
He left before I was born, Mailan thought as she slipped through the elegant, sparsely decorated friendship parlor and toward the sleeping quarters.
White was a bronze statue at the door, his broad face immobile. No reaction, no greeting as she entered; he always took the strictest interpretation of regulation when changing shifts.
As he wished. She, too, could take the absolute interpretation — which in the case of a sleeping subject was no speech at all. Nodding once in the manner which indicated accepting duty, she gave the slight bow of respect to a trainer and took the other side of the door. Without taking her gaze from White’s face, she knew Sheel still slept: the breathing was relaxed, even, slower than his waking pattern.
Something flickered in White’s eyes, but his gaze did not meet hers. “You are late,” he said concisely in an undertone.
Her expression warned him. Sheel was a very light sleeper, and the exhaustion of last night’s work was no guarantee the guaard level of whisper would go undetected. Mailan knew he saw the warning; he chose to ignore it.
“You realize I must report this incident,” White went on, still looking through her.
She considered waving him into the corridor, but thought better of it. If Sheel would wake, he was already awake. “White — “ she began softly, evenly.
“Trainer White.” He managed the emphasis without raising his voice.
Mailan did not respond. There were only two ranks in the guaard, trainer and captain. The captain was usually, but not always, chosen from the group of trainers, and was the only guaard spoken of by rank. But only students addressed a trainer by title — and Mailan was no longer a student. Seniority meant nothing except courtesy. She refused to take the bait.
“Trainer White.” The soft, slightly weary voice came from the rumpled bed. Not tired, really … It was more the weariness of the world that she always heard, as if Sheel had seen too much in his short life, and had become cynical. And fine-tuned, controlled, like a bow drawn across the strings of a cello… “I suspect Mailan was
as exhausted as I was, after last evening. Surely there is no need to speak to the captain. Four bell shifts is a strenuous assignment, or so I would imagine. Perhaps I should speak to my uncle about current guaard rotation.”
It took all Mailan’s self-control to remain expressionless, although exultation sang through her blood. White did not fare so well, his face momentarily startled. The captain would not be amused… not at all.
“As you wish, Seri,” White said, the tone lacking emotion. A brief nod to Mailan, a bow in the direction of the bed, and White disappeared. Only the tap of leather against the tile porch betrayed his passing.
Several long moments passed, but Sheel did not speak again. Wondering if he intended to sleep until the banquet, which he was known to do, Mailan repositioned herself against the doorframe White had vacated. She now had a view of the entire corridor and bedroom, as well as part of the friendship parlor. Paranoid, she scolded herself. But she watched alone, and she was tired. Better to be over-cautious. Sixth in line to the throne he might be, but Sheel was still an heir. The Atare-Dielaan clan war had ended scarcely three years ago.…
A slight rustle from the sheets… “Mailan, it is possible I will be able to drag myself out of this bed, but it will be easier if you adjust the blind so there is more light.”
A quick glance down the hall, and Mailan moved to comply. Technically she was required to do nothing but guard her charge — anything else was the prerogative of the individual guaard. But she knew Sheel’s strange eyes were sensitive to abrupt light changes, and after the nightmare of last night’s emergency center, she was ready to indulge him a bit. Slightly cracking the blinds, she returned to her post.
“That is the first,” she said gravely, stifling a desire to laugh. They constantly ‘owed’ each other favors, when they presumed upon each other’s rights and responsibilities. It amused Sheel, in a positive sense — and so little actually made him laugh she was quite willing to humor him… when other guaard were absent.
Fires of Nuala Page 2