Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “Yes.” She waited while he sipped at his wine.

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “Political and religious asylum,” she started tentatively.

  “Here it is more. It is a clean slate. Your past dissolves when you walk through the pillars. Once you have told the authorities why you seek sanctuary, and they accept you, you can become another person. There is no record of what name you choose to use once you take up residency.”

  “Then that’s why — ” she stopped. Sheel’s expression invited confidence, but he did not speak. “There was this man at the party. Not of the royal line, I guess; he had no guaard, but he appeared wealthy. He never asked any questions, but he was… hinting at something. I couldn’t figure out what he was suggesting.” She realized it would make no sense to him, and elaborated. “He said – casually — that he was a 20, and part of the Bellen mining family, which I gather is wealthy — ”

  “Very. Silver mines.”

  “The sort of thing people make up to impress people,” she went on, aware it sounded inane. “It… felt awkward.… “

  “If you had immigrated to Nuala in hope of marrying well, someone would have explained such code words to you,” Sheel said simply. “He was not making it up. Atare — indeed, Nuala — is too small a place for exaggeration. There was a young Bellen at the party. He found you attractive and was trying to save himself the burden of a trip to Caesarea. Was his name Kobb?”

  “Yes! He told me his name right off.”

  Sheel started to chuckle. “Poor Kobb. Wealth or wife, what a dilemma!” Seeing her expression, he continued: “Kobb is a 20. That means he is fertile. And from a wealthy line. He is highly placed in his house, a branch of Atare, and important in the mining industry. But if he goes to Caesarea, he will lose his position in the business, since he will be absent twenty years Terran. Yet his house is prestigious enough that he wants an off-world wife, not a Nualan. His few children are healthy enough, but his line has produced no healers. Therefore they prefer non-Nualan genes. If he is going to marry, why not the best?”

  “And if he can find an ‘off-world’ bride visiting Nuala, so much the easier?” Darame said, grinning. “But what if I’m sterile?”

  “You are not. Among all those tests run from your blood and energy field, we also test for disease and sterility. The guest board in the palace lobby lists all diplomatic visitors in black and blue print — in Nualan, of course. The occasional black means sterile or unacceptable. Become involved at your own risk.”

  “A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Darame said with icy civility.

  “You asked,” he reminded her gently. “Eighty percent of our population is sterile. Women fight over fertile men, and men have been known to duel over fertile women. Since being the product of a married couple is only important in inheritance cases, many people come to the embassy hoping to…”

  “Get lucky, as they say on Caesarea Station,” Darame finished. “Well, I can’t criticize. I’ve been working straight — sans sleep — for a long time. He could have figured into my recreation, if… “ She decided to leave it dangling. Forget it, he’s not helping at all, he’s not interested. “I steered him toward that brunette in silver netting, but she wasn’t interested. Poor Kobb isn’t bad looking, but he’s not my type, either.”

  “Brunette?” Sheel said, his mug pausing half-way to his lips.

  “The one who stared at you all night,” she said deliberately, wondering if that was too familiar.

  “Crystle reb^Lesli. Poor Crystle… If only she was not so obvious, I might oblige her. Tonight I simply could not stomach it.”

  Darame stared at him. “She’s gorgeous. Kobb’s crazy, he should shower her with silver.”

  “Kobb wants an off-world wife. And Crystle wants a child to solidify her line… Kobb’s house is not as clean as mine.”

  “You are an Atare?” I need some political specifics tonight.

  “Yes. For over a thousand years Terran, my family has been required to take off-world spouses for their legal line. I am mostly off-world, now, and my Atare genes were tough in the beginning, withstanding the planet’s heat.” He seemed to be considering something. “I do not think it would be violating a confidence to tell you this… Everyone knows it. Crystle’s family is one that has trouble breeding. Every other generation they must turn to the knife.”

  “The knife?”

  “The labs, to stabilize the genetic tissue and produce viable offspring. It has no real stigma, but it is painful for the families, to still be so variable. Crystle is second generation.… That means she will probably need help from the labs to bear viable offspring.”

  “Unless she finds someone who is extremely fertile and extremely healthy,” Darame said finally. “You fit both categories. Why not another Atare? Iver has women falling all over him, and he doesn’t resist.”

  Sheel actually looked embarrassed. “Iver… has only three children. A few on the way, since returning, and of course his wife’s unborn child.”

  “And you?” She could not resist the giggle in her voice.

  “I knew I would regret the direction of this conversation.” Sighing, the man continued: “Thirteen documented. A few more yet to be born, and a few whose mothers see no reason to have it on record. Those unrecorded are grown and married, with strong lines of their own.”

  “How — oh. You went to Emerson.…” She moved down closer to the fire, stirring it with the poker lying near the rim of the pit. So you are the best, and she wants the best. Can’t blame her for trying. Something about the discussion nagged at the back of her mind, but she lost the thread of thought. Then something else occurred to her, and she looked over at him. Sweet Saint Jude, you’ve smiled on me. “So you’re sick of playing stud, eh?”

  He jerked slightly, but did not turn toward her. “I suppose you think it is a little thing to give her.”

  “How many Crystles are waiting in line, hoping to catch your attention? I’d think you’d be exhausted, not to mention… bored. The great Turabian lost track of his lovers, but he finally became a celibate, didn’t he?”

  A hint of a smile.... There was that dimple again, fighting to remain stern. “I am not that familiar with the great lover. But at least he was in demand because… “ Tensing suddenly, he set down his mug and folded his long fingers, resting his chin upon them.

  Dear lord, they’ve bled the playfulness out of you. How do the others stand it? Are you more sensitive – introspective — or is there something more? “It’s nothing of you, is it? They want your genes, not you. It wouldn’t matter what kind of person you are, or what you’ve accomplished in your life. Just the genes. Are they taking their temperature while they get your attention?”

  That made him laugh. “No, not yet. They probably take care of it beforehand. I have never shown any interest in a permanent relationship with a Nualan, you see, so they waste little time in preliminaries.” There was a sharp edge to his voice, hard enough to cut to bone. “On Emerson it was just the opposite: all games, no one interested in a family.”

  “But you have extremely advanced genetic techniques.” The puzzlement in her voice made him turn his head. “I mean… can’t you just… give them some material to work with and send these women to the lab?” She had never thought herself squeamish concerning fertility, but then such frank — no, brutal — discussion was not common on other worlds.

  “I do. But the lab splices everything, to better mix the gene pool. We trade cultures with other city-states as well. Some do not want the advantages of the pool, they want pure throne line Atare. But too many Atare descendants would upset the balance, cause inbreeding… so the lab does not fill those requests. A woman must pursue a royal Atare herself.”

  “Well… I am not in any hurry to start a family, if that’s any consolation. I was planning on meeting you without any idea of the… long-term advantages of such an introduction?” She considered her words. “I don’t think that came out righ
t.” Sighing, she decided to try bluntness: “You seemed amusing and interesting and attractive. And I’ve been sleeping alone and very cold the last ten years Terran.”

  Laughter bubbled out of Sheel, and he tried vainly to smother his amusement. Finally he looked over at her, but words clearly eluded him.

  She went on ruthlessly, peeling at his mask: “I like your mouth… especially those dimples you’re always fighting, when you really want to smile at something. And you have great hands — ” Abruptly she reached for one, unfolding it from its mate. Long, slender — more than competent. An unusual odor trickled past her nose… sandalwood, with a touch of dry musk.… “Anything else is dessert.”

  That puzzled him. “Dessert?” There was amusement in his voice.

  She felt a foolish grin slip out. “Not on the regular menu… not expected, or included in the price of the meal.”

  “I have never thought of myself as a delicacy.…” he started dryly, and Darame collapsed in laughter. “You, however, are unusual. I… “

  “Go ahead, say it. If it’s too personal, I won’t answer,” she said wickedly, and saw a trace of embarrassment touch his features.

  “I have never seen a young woman with silver hair before.…”

  “You’ve never been to Norwood. The food does it — permanently. I could dye it black again, but I like the novelty.”

  “How long have you traveled in Sleep?” he said quietly, his expression unreadable.

  That required thought. “You know, I don’t know?” she said finally. “I lost count a long time ago. Over a hundred years Terran easily. I must be hovering around thirty Terra.” She studied his thoughtful face, and as if divining his thought said: “It’s a lot of places to be. I’ve never found anything to hold me.… I always wanted to see the next planet.”

  “Beyond the Seven Systems?”

  “No, not yet,” she protested. “I’m not that old! Maybe next… “ She considered the idea. “That would be a great leap in the dark. What if I couldn’t get work there? What if they limit how often you can Sleep, and I couldn’t return here?”

  “Neglect to tell them your Terran birthdate,” Sheel suggested.

  “Lie? I can’t believe a Nualan suggested that!” She gave him her best wide-eyed look.

  “I merely suggest you fail to volunteer information. It is the Nualan thing to do,” he corrected gently.

  She was still holding onto his wrist, but as he did not seem to mind, she dismissed the worry. It was a strong wrist, all bone and tendon. “Of course… “ Then she remembered that sect on Emerson which considered it a sin to waste seed. Now how can I propose that with a witness? Releasing him, she sat up and tied the robe securely. “I find myself remembering Mailan’s presence.”

  “She sees and hears only threats to my person,” Sheel said, looking away.

  “So is one old lady a threat?”

  A long pause. Finally he spoke: “How old a lady?”

  Darame thought she detected that trace of humor once again. “I was born in 2216 A.R.,” she said evenly.

  “One hundred seventy-three years should command some respect,” Sheel said dryly. “If Mailan was worried about you, she would not stand so far away.”

  Far away? The guaard was within leaping distance. “How do you make a pass at someone with a guaard present?” she asked, injecting some of her old lilt into the phrase.

  The man gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then he reached up and delicately touched her cheek. “Very slowly.…”

  Bunco:

  A swindle or confidence game in which

  the person organizing the proposed activity

  is a guaranteed winner due to the opponent’s

  naivete, ignorance, lack of skill, or faulty

  powers of observation

  Chapter Three

  MENDÜLARION S^ATARE

  THIRTYSEVENDAY, LAUDS

  It was not the first nightmare since his return from Emerson, but it was the most vivid. Sheel threw himself off the bed in one fluid movement and was on the terrace before he realized he had left the bedroom. Brisk night air caressed his skin, drawing a shiver from him. The last image of the dream hung before his inner eye like a dye canvas, bleeding into the night, slipping away like dew at starrise.

  Motion caught his eye; he glanced over to see Mailan hovering at the doorframe.

  “A dream, Mailan,” he said easily, knowing she would understand. No one knew that the nightmares usually had a thread into reality — at least he thought no one knew. Mailan had listened to him recount a few.… Had she ever put them together with current events and seen the parallels?

  Bleeding into the night… shaking, Sheel moved back toward the bedroom. Why so much blood? He had seen Cort Atare’s death.… But why so much blood? An old man, Cort Atare, and likely to slip away at any time. Would dissension follow Cort’s reign? And there had been guaard present, he had seen guaard. Guaard covered with blood, even as Cort had been.… Guaard still alive?

  He had never thought of himself having prescience — not really. It was intermittent, and always violent. Yet every nightmare of his childhood had a parallel in its immediate future. Could it be coincidence? Had he forgotten the incidents which were false dreams?

  Suddenly Sheel remembered the woman. Damn The Path! She could not have slept through his hasty departure.… Where had he — oh, yes. Now that he considered it, he had been using her stomach as a pillow. A very comfortable pillow.… Hoping she was a heavy sleeper, he glided back into the wing of the temple, pulling the terrace doors closed behind him.

  It was a fruitless hope. A rustle of cotton sheets, and a rose glow erupted from a tiny nightlight next to the bed. Sheel folded himself onto the mattress, a tangle of long, hard limbs, and studied Darame.

  Her hands shielded the gleam, allowing their eyes to adjust. Not bothering to pull the blankets up beyond her ribs, she settled comfortably on her side, a statue of pale bronze, her hair tumbling down to pool brilliant against the dark blue sheets. Deep, shadowed eyes studied him dispassionately, their question unvoiced.

  It took a moment for Sheel to remember she did not speak Nualan. “A dream,” he said softly in Caesarean.

  “A nightmare,” she corrected, her gaze still dissecting.

  “I suppose…”

  “A common occurrence?” she asked, her expression guarded, aware that the question might be too personal.

  “Not really.… I have not had one in many moons.” Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and let his head drop down to his arm. Correctly interpreting the gesture, Darame twisted her supple form and reached to extinguish the nightlight. Sheel noticed a shiver as the room plunged into darkness. “If you are cold, there should be an extra blanket on the shelf in the closet.”

  “I… I was afraid it would make you hot,” came the simple reply.

  He considered it. “Possibly,” he admitted. “Come over here, instead; surely I have enough heat for two people.”

  “Blankets are not restless sleepers,” she replied, sliding next to him and bringing with her the scent of allspice and cloves.

  “When I am not having bad dreams, I am a quiet sleeper,” he promised, slipping an arm around her back.

  At first unwilling to relax, her form stiff, cautious, Darame finally shifted to meld herself against his side, snuggling into his shoulder. “You’re better than a hot water bottle,” she muttered.

  “A what?”

  “Something used in the Gavriel system — a soft plas container filled with hot water and wrapped in a cloth. It’s used to warm up sheets, or sometimes for a sick person,” she explained, letting her fingers glide across the smooth skin of his chest. “You’re not very fuzzy, you know.”

  Sheel fought back laughter. “No, few Atare men are… fuzzy.”

  “That’s all right. There are some disadvantages to all that hair. A woman can end up covered by morning. You’re so warm you don’t need it.” She sounded half-asleep, murmuring a confidence that probab
ly would never see the light of day. Then she stiffened again. “Where’s Mailan?”

  The laughter bubbled out, and Darame reached to touch his face. “You’re laughing at me,” she said crossly, her delicate fingers finding the betraying dimples.

  He was; she was quite funny, the way odd things popped out of her mouth. But he chose to say: “Nualan women also find the guaard disconcerting.”

  “Common sense,” she said, burrowing against him. “I think I’ll attach myself here for the rest of the night.”

  It had been a long time since anyone had spent the entire night. The thought was pleasant, and Sheel folded his arms around her in response. Beneath the woman’s calm, elegant exterior was a personality which liked to be cuddled. A personality that meant what it said, and kept its promises, unlike the women of Emerson.…

  Unfair. He could not know that; he had been wrong about Constance. Disastrously wrong about Muriel.…

  At least this woman had pushed for no more than he wanted to give, had been quite content with play that had no purpose save mutual joy. Right now, that was enough. Someone to hold was enough.

  Later, it was not quite close enough… but she politely refrained from commenting on his change of heart.

  PRIME

  At first Mailan thought the bell ringer was confused. Third bell had rung only moments before — the light of the rising star was barely filtering through the trees. Then the tolling continued, and it was plain something was wrong. A three minute ring at the death of someone important.… Why did the peal persist?

  Finally she moved to the omni, punching up the silent mode in case Sheel was sleeping through the noise. Some listings were not yet broadcasting, and others were finishing their darkside programming. Only two had news, and the brief message the coastal channel passed on was not totally unexpected: Cort Atare had taken The Path. It was the local station’s report that slowly numbed Mailan’s senses.