Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “You cannot — “She broke off, considering. “Yes, you can. Will you take a message to Serae Avis and Serae Leah? Tell them Sheel is alive and well. That will be a great help.”

  A tilt of the dark head, reflecting the blue-black of a faxmur’s wing. “And?”

  “It will be enough,” she murmured, momentarily seeing him as a double image. “It has to be. Crow… How long have you been here?”

  “Since they carried Martin out feet-first,” was the prompt answer. “Mailan, you do not — ”

  “Do you know if they killed Sheel’s cats?”

  This final interruption brought Crow up short. “What?”

  There was a reason Sheel had asked that question, but Mailan could no longer remember it. “Never mind. Thank you for finding the serae.” Turning quickly, Mailan started back along the winding trail, grateful she did not have to breach the palace. No chance of leaving the palace without being caught, questioned…

  “Mailan, wait!” Fortunately Crow did not raise his voice, but Mailan refused to turn. Too easy, to dump it on another unsuspecting victim. Who knew what Dirk would do to Jude when he got the chance?…

  Crow did not follow. Tapping down the part of her that wished he had, Mailan hurried toward the hospice. She tried to use the side roads, avoiding major throughways; it made no difference. Few people were out and abroad, and those who chose to travel averted their gaze. Do we reek of blood and death this day? she wondered. Grateful at their silence, she swerved onto another path, heading for the rear doors of the building.

  The hospice was packed with guaard. A few trainees actually registered surprise at her presence. Her stony gaze quickly brought them back into proper expression. First order: Sheel’s medical bag. Then she would deal with Dirk.

  Familiarity with the layout of the floors was a help — she avoided meeting any other guaard. Sheel’s office of muted greens was as they had left it, basically neat, a few papers scattered across the desk. He was rarely there, preferring to spend hospice time with patients. Throwing open a storage bin, Mailan found his medical bag. A quick examination revealed it stocked with basic supplies. On impulse she slipped in a few packets of rav pills. The off-worlder woman might find adaptation to Nualan food convenient.…

  Mailan’s hands stilled as she closed the bag — all the guaard. Of course, Iver was in the building. It occurred to her that Sheel wanted a firsthand report of his brother’s condition. So, was access restricted?

  Iver was indeed on the restricted level, but her thumbprint admitted her without machine comment. Her destination was not far; she could see guaard uniforms before the doors slid shut. Gar and Ayers had glints in their eyes.… They were dying to ask questions. Too bad; they stood guard before a private room, and Mailan was grateful for it. No chatter in such an intense situation. Wondering if they would stop even her, she nodded and pushed open the door.

  Four guaard within, and a delicate whiff of perfume… ah. Bette, Iver’s wife. She sat motionless next to the bed, her usually cheerful face swollen from weeping, her strong hands twisting in the edge of the sheet. Fortunate for Bette that she was sleeping restlessly, the unborn child keeping her awake nights.… That she chose to sleep alone until the birth. Hope this does not trigger a premature delivery, came an idle thought.

  Mailan nodded her respect to the woman and to White, who was one of the four attending guaard. Two she did not recognize — perhaps young reserves brought up for the emergency — and the last was White’s eldest son, Teague. Bearable, that one, if over-confident of his charms. Not like the younger son, who imitated his father shamelessly and had never had an original thought.

  Before White could even open his mouth, Bette said: “You are Sheel’s guaard, are you not?”

  “Yes, Serae. I came to see to the Seri’s condition. Sheel is concerned about him,” Mailan said simply.

  “If only he had Chosen someone,” she whispered. “This might not have happened.…”

  “I am certain that those who died for his life were no less devoted, Serae. Do not distress yourself with imaginings,” Mailan told her gently. Glancing at the chart hanging above the bed, Mailan saw a familiar scrawl. The healer who had trained Sheel. No problem there — Iver suddenly stirred.

  Idiot, you woke him. Waiting for permission to speak, Mailan studied the fluttering eyelashes, the monitor next to the bed. Injuries were not severe.… A punctured lung, it seemed, some lacerations and bruises. I think it is lucky you are a light sleeper.

  Iver’s first reaction startled her, although she kept it from her face. There was no doubt… it was fear that ravaged his expression, pulling his mouth tight.

  Recognition dawned, and Iver began to speak.

  “You… are… Sheel’s…”

  “Yes, Seri. I thought I should check on you. Seri Sheel is worried about you.”

  “Tell him… tell him — ” Iver stopped, and a look of terrible confusion crossed his face. His eyes seemed clouded, as if by painkillers. Why painkillers with a healer on staff? Sheel could stimulate the body’s natural painkillers —

  “You are tired, Seri. I will return — ”

  “No! Tell him…” Bette reached sympathetically and touched his arm, drawing his gaze to her face. Behind them, Mailan heard White move forward.

  “You must rest, Seri. You are not well,” White said evenly.

  If anything, Iver looked more frightened. He reached for Mailan’s hand, tugging at her, his gaze darting back and forth between their faces. Suddenly discovery leapt in his face, and Iver actually smiled. “Praise Mendülay.” His tone was a prayer of thanksgiving. Mailan bent over, for his voice was soft. “Tell Sheel that Irulen should have believed.… Tell him exactly that. He will… know.…”

  Mailan was alarmed. Iver’s expression had passed abruptly from sheer wonder and pleasure into concern. Something had upset him dreadfully, and — Then she noticed where he was staring. At White and the other guaard. Was he delirious? She glanced at the monitor — his heart rate had increased tremendously. Her gaze flicked back as she leaned closer still, for Iver was mouthing words.

  He reads. That was all; Iver closed his eyes against the effort.

  “Rest, Seri. Do not concern yourself with anything. Serae Leah will take care of things until you are stronger — Sheel and Avis will assist. Concentrate on health.” Mailan spoke in a firm tone, as one might speak to a delirious child.

  “What did he say?” Bette asked, the strain clawing at her voice. Turning her head, studying Bette’s fear and White’s annoyance, Mailan realized that she had blocked their view — the others had heard and seen nothing.

  “I think he is delirious,” Mailan said slowly, letting the puzzlement slip into her voice. “He muttered something about Sheel reading.”

  “Do you think he wants me to read to him?” Bette sounded almost hopeful, and Mailan was shaken out of her own daze by the woman’s need to help.

  “Not quite yet, I would think, Serae,” Mailan said quickly. “Your company is surely enough. Later, I am sure it would give him pleasure.”

  Rearranging her burdens across her shoulders and hefting the medical bag in her left hand, Mailan nodded to the serae and went back out the door. Stopping to face one of the guaard, she asked: “Where is the captain?”

  “He was here within the hour,” Ayers responded. “He did not inform us of his destination. I suggest you check the daily roster.”

  Nodding, Mailan noted in passing that Ayers’s eyes were red-rimmed. The son of Martin, was he not? And fond of his taciturn father.…

  Thoughts clicked together in her head even as she took her leave of the two blond, burly guaard. The key is Martin. The key is Martin. Swiftly she left the hospice, searching for a ROM.

  A Read-Only Module was located not far from the exit gate of the hospice. Inserting the schedule Jude handed her last vespers, Mailan quickly scanned the assignments. There — the discrepancy. Surely she had heard correctly; both Jude and Crow had mentioned Martin’s b
ody as having been at the house of the heir.

  But Martin was guarding the Atare last night. Not the heir. The screen blurred momentarily, and Mailan seized the metal overhang support to steady herself. Popping the ring, she inserted the update Jude had provided scarcely an hour before.

  No. Minutely she examined the image. Not just Martin, then — several people were now listed in different places. Now why?… The authorization block stopped her musings. Last noted changes were at mid-afternoon the previous day… long before Jude had handed her the first schedule. Time of changes, person who made changes, authorized by… No one made that many changes without logging.…

  Popping the ring, Mailan carefully tucked them both into various pouches of her uniform, securely fastening the lips. Realizing her hands were shaking, she applied mental pressure to calm them. Too tired, just too tired.

  Whatever it meant would have to wait. No longer seeing straight, Mailan knew that soon her physical and mental sharpness would fade, if it hadn’t already. Would I detect the decline?

  A Random Access Module; she needed a RAM. How to word the message? Was it even important enough to send a message? Of course it was — at the least, The Atare and his immediate heirs had been murdered. They needed Fion. I need Fion.…

  Further in toward the center of town was a functioning RAM. Fion was probably at his parents’ farm, he considered it home since his wife died.… A relay was necessary, through Maroc to his village.… Pulling her coin strip from her leg pocket, she carefully counted coins. Enough for a call? The meaning of her actions gave her pause. Why not use credit? Credit means identifying yourself to the machine.… Perversely refusing to explore the impulse, she checked the pay list hanging by the module. Just enough for a brief message.

  It would be brief. Stop and think — what was Fion’s callback? Ah — Dragonwatch. She thought a long time, and finally her fingers moved toward the message membrane. Dragonwatch, we need you. Foxes in the henroost. No room for a signature, even if she’d intended to leave one. Fion certainly would recognize the phrase from one of their favorite drinking songs. And they said I could never be his student, that only one who could match him drink for drink would be acceptable! — Would he remember the most recent meaning for the phrase? That Mailan had taken to referring to her oppressors among the guaard as foxes?

  A giggle bubbled out of her as she started shoving coins into the module slot. All those years of her mother despairing of her tomboy daughter.… Learning to hold her liquor at her father’s knee.… Who would have thought — Realizing her gasping chuckles were becoming hysterical, Mailan gave herself a shake and waited for the transmission lights to clear. Then back, back to Sheel, to give him Iver’s contorted message.

  TIERCE

  Mailan had reached the terrace when she heard the crash. Instinct took over; dropping her assorted bundles, she drew her cat knife and threw herself through the open doorway.

  A jumbled scene littered the floor. Seeking Sheel first, Mailan found him on his knees, a cat knife gripped tightly in one hand. He had the tip of the blade pressed into the throat of a guaard. A guaard? Glancing around quickly, she saw Jude crouched, both knives held in throwing position, her gaze on —

  “Crow?” Mailan’s surprise sounded shrill. Vision widened, taking in the entire room. Pressed against the inner door, the off-world woman waited, the color of her face rivaling alabaster. Crow was almost as pale — and confused. He clearly had no idea —

  “Seri?” Mailan ventured, wondering if she should speak, and if so, what were the proper words. Sweet Mendülay…

  “Did you send him here?” Almost conversational, Sheel’s tone.

  “No. I sent him to the palace to speak to your sisters.”

  “Did you tell him where we were?”

  “No.”

  “Then what” — Jude, rising now, her exasperation evident — “were you doing creeping around in the bushes?” Her voice easily rose an octave from start to finish, even as she gestured for Mailan to close the terrace doors.

  Afraid Jude would lunge at the young man, Mailan quickly said: “Crow… how did you ever guess?…”

  “Common sense. I checked a few other places on my way. Where you spent the night was not important — the current location was the major thing. And unless you went to the Ragäree’s retreat — ” The knife pressed closer, and Crow stopped his careful recitation. “I doubt anyone else would guess.… I have met you after duty before, Mailan. I knew where to look.”

  “Why were you creeping around the windows?” Again, that gentle speech pattern, which always meant Sheel was fighting anger.

  Crow actually rolled his eyes. “Because I did not want anyone to see me sneaking around the temple grounds, of course. I did not intend for the entire guaard and local enforcers to find the place. Mailan wanted it kept quiet.”

  “Then why did you come?” There was no way for Mailan to warn Crow that his life depended on the answer to her question. Why Sheel was acting this way was unimportant.… To those who knew him, he was on the edge of violence.

  “Because… whatever you were doing, you needed help. You were – are — a mess, and one alert guaard on an heir is not enough.” The youth was completely relaxed as he directed the last to Mailan; he had even dropped his knife, drawn instinctively when he was jumped, if his story was true. If? Could she doubt him? Why had she not confided in him?… In more lucid moments she would have known he would read her worry.

  “Seri… what do you need?” Mailan started, still afraid to move.

  “The oath will do.”

  All three guaard stared at him a moment. Mailan was lost.… What oath? Did he…

  Glancing over at Jude’s defensive posture, Sheel drew his steel away from Crow’s throat and reversed the blade, holding it point down between them. Crow did not risk looking away; his gaze still meeting Sheel’s, the young guaard reached to wrap his right hand around the offered hand and hilt.

  “On this I swear,” Crow began, the whisper slowly gathering volume, “by life and honor, by blood and trust, that with this oath I will serve the son and daughter of Atare, obeying all words and following all leads, shielding their line and prizing their secrets as Mendülay guards mine own, for so long as they hold to their charge.”

  Mailan’s knees felt weak. That oath — the sharing of oaths, the duty accepted by each at the feet of their Atare, the moment they were chosen to become guaard.

  Sheel responded by folding his left hand over Crow’s. “On this I swear, by life and honor, that I will take you as a guaard to serve Atare within the bounds of your oath, holding your trust as I hold to my charge — head, hand, and heart of the heirs, now and forever.”

  The group remained frozen in their tableau for several moments. Finally Mailan moved, reversing her grip on her cat knife. Noticing her action, Sheel sat back on his heels and shook his head.

  “No, Mailan.… I only ask for that oath once. And you… ‘spoke’… for Jude.” Grinning suddenly at Crow, he released his grip and added: “You did not have time to speak for him.” Standing and turning his back to Crow, Sheel stretched, loosening massively constricted muscle. Glancing at the off-worlder, he said in Caesarean: “It is all right. No one is going to die.”

  Crow seemed to wake out of a dream. Taking up his discarded cat knife, he muttered: “Die… the sack!” Jumping up, he sprang to the travel pack which had landed on the cushioned bench. “Seri, I found them! At least the ones still alive.”

  This caught Sheel’s attention. Immediately at Crow’s side, he asked: “Them?”

  “I used those skin patch things in your medicine cabinet to knock them out.” Crow opened the stretch fastenings and carefully lifted out a brown and white ball of fur. Taking the cat, Sheel held it a long moment, checking its internal state, Mailan was certain.

  Moving toward the off-worlder, Mailan held out the small roll containing her possessions. Her other hand fumbled for the frage. “Do you know how to use one of these?” Mai
lan asked slowly, studying the woman’s face. The stranger’s response was negative. “Slip your fingernail under the exposed edge and unroll the cylinder. Use good light — it can only be read once, it is very fragile. It was waiting for you at the hostel.… The doorkeeper said a heavyset off-worlder left it for you.” Remembering her other impulse, Mailan popped open Sheel’s medical bag and handed the woman a packet of pills. “Rav pills. You may find acquired immunity to our planet desirable.” Leaving the woman studying the pill packet, reading the Caesarean instructions — she could read Caesarean, interesting — Mailan turned to gain Sheel’s attention.

  Faust, the forest coon cat, was now curled on the bench, the delicate short-haired calico next to him. Sheel was holding the tiny, pale green oriental, and Mailan noted with alarm that there was blood on the animal’s coat. She glanced in the pouch — empty. No sign of Fathima, the elegant, haughty Somali. What had Crow said – “ones left alive”? Damn.… Sheel was fond of the creatures.

  Her seri was wasting no time. Slipping into that state of consciousness which surrounded healing, Sheel bent to his task. Could he heal an animal? Why not? It was just a different collection of fluid and tissue.… It was rare that Mailan was able to witness a healing, and the event had yet to lose its lure.

  Checking the gash for infection, a solution to cleanse the edges of the ragged wound, and then… Mailan watched intently, forcing herself to focus, grateful Jude was on duty. The injury drew together, carefully closing, free of hair and debris —

  A sharp intake of breath startled her. Turning, Mailan found the frozen visage of the off-worlder. Her back once again pressed against the inner door, the woman’s gaze was glued to the scene before them. As Sheel finished, relaxing, checking the tiny creature’s heartbeat, the off-worlder wrenched her gaze away from the tableau, focusing on Mailan. The guaard was astonished at the terror reflected from those black eyes.

  Now the woman’s attention turned to the packet of rav pills still clutched in her hand. Staring at them blankly a moment, she released her grip. Clattering, the packet’s fall threw echoes into the high, arched ceiling.