The fewer people involved, the better. Riva did not need this grief to add to her burdens. She was a tough old woman, but to find out the house depended on one unmarried, untried girl was more than Riva needed to hear.
“I must talk with Leah about many things before a council is called, or a conferral made. You forget that an assassin still stalks our family.” Sheel forced his voice to soften, to modulate to a model of consensus.
Glancing around the cloister — fully ten guaard within sight, practically within arm’s reach — Riva said: “I can forget no more than you.” She seemed to drift again, her eyes seeing something beyond the cloister walls, beyond the courtyard and temple grounds. “It is against every law of nature for a mother to bury her children.… We have dedicated our existence to our children, we Atares. I believe it is why we prosper when other lines have failed.” Suddenly sharp once more, Riva asked: “You will speak to Leah? Soon?”
“Soon.” A flutter of cloth caught his eye, and he lifted his head. Several guaard moving around the corner, leaving — he had seen silver cloth, not black. “Who was it?” he asked Crow.
“The Serae Leah, my Atare,” he said quietly. “She saw you in conference, and departed rather than disturb you.”
“How long did she wait?” Sheel continued, wondering how much Leah had heard — and how much she had inferred.
“Not long, Atare. A few moments only.”
Sheel stood silent, considering how much could be said in “a few moments.” Without conscious thought he tensed… and finally relaxed. If she heard, she heard.… And so was warned of his suspicions — knowledge? That his talent could tell him such a thing was something she might not know.…
“I must speak with Capashan,” he said aloud. “Can I see you back to your room, Mother, or do you prefer to rest here?”
Riva waved him off. “You have a great deal of work ahead of you. I shall content myself with visiting my grandchildren and trying to cheer Avis.” She gave him a long look before closing her eyes. “If you need me, Sheel, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Turning away, Sheel started down the cloister, fighting a smile. Such spirit in that woman! That he had never bothered to connect her information network with the power it represented. He had been blind too long — it would cost him. He would have to work doubly hard to make up for his ignorance. But there was nothing for it but to try.
His racing thoughts translated into movement, and Sheel realized he was walking so swiftly it might as well be a run. The arches of the cloister whipped by like leaves in a tempest, now shadow, now light, now shadow —
The image brought him to a sudden halt, so abruptly the guaard behind him peeled off to either side to avoid trampling him.
They were not the only ones fooled. Later Sheel remembered it as a hiss, as if the air could not part quickly enough. Burning lashed across his chest, even as Crow threw him back and sideways into the wall of the outbuilding. Bright sparks shattered his vision as the slap of leather against cobblestone told him the hunt was up. An image melted in and out of his line of sight: Crow, his face ghastly pale, reaching to lift him into the light at the edge of the row.
Had his own thoughts – a teasing vision of stippled light, a memory of pain — saved him? Or had Crow’s action? His eye caught a reflection, near his head — more than one blade. So the youth deserved some thanks, except…
“Well done,” Sheel managed to whisper, though only Crow heard him through the shouts for a healer, for a doctor for The Ragäree. Damn! Had the woman suffered a stroke, seeing this? “Of course you may have done more damage than the assassin…” There was more he wanted to say, but the darkness swarmed in like starspot, and he lost his grip on consciousness.
SHEEL’S HOME
THIRTYEIGHTDAY, TIERCE
“May I watch?” The words came out very soft; Darame had no idea what possessed her to speak.
“Watch?” the healer repeated, his swift, competent hands stilling their movements.
“Watch,” Darame repeated, stepping slowly into the sleeping room. Crow, his face even now white and still, made no move to stop her. Continuing her walk, leaving her empty hands loose and free, Darame did not halt until she reached the other side of Sheel’s bed. A quick glance out the window showed a guaard’s back. The place is probably crawling with them, she decided, and then finally forced herself to look at Sheel.
It had been a shock, being seized without warning and thrust into a dark vehicle packed with guaard. Worse to find Sheel out cold on the floor, even worse to realize the large, dark stain across his chest was blood. No one had volunteered any information, but Darame could make a few educated guesses. The hospice was no longer considered secure; the temple also, although why they had changed their minds she did not know. This house was certainly large enough to provide several means of entry to an assassin. It smelled faintly of paint.… Sheel’s home, the evidence of violence erased by skilled hands?
The doctor had kept busy since they carried his patient through the doorway. Cleaning the wound had taken a few minutes. It no longer looked as severe as Darame had feared: long and shallow, bleeding copiously, certainly, but nothing vital was punctured. The blow to the head looked worse — could Sheel’s skull be cracked? And a few bruises on face and shoulder were beginning to show. Who would have thought they would try so quickly?
Whatever the healer read in her face, he was apparently satisfied. Reaching, he carefully brought in the edges of the wound, tracing smooth arcs from either end, and then began his seal from the center radiating out.
Much slower than Darame had imagined. Had it taken that long… when, yesterday? Two days ago? Or was Sheel faster with slashes? She forced herself to watch, to keep her gaze fixed on the injury, to think of it as an abstract problem, a demonstration, a cold torch sealing a wound. Someone entered the room; there was an intake of breath, a soft comment in Nualan. Spot touches to attend to a few nicks in the muscle and fascia, and then continuing, returning to the center to move in the opposite direction, across the sternum and breast, just under the nipple, the edge of the chest wall — finished.
Her stomach remained under control. It was fascinating to watch.… Had she imagined a faint glow around his hands? If only she could let it go, blank it out when it wasn’t necessary.…
“Does it frighten you?” she asked bluntly.
Studying the result of his efforts, his hand checking beneath Sheel’s jaw for a pulse rate, the healer did not answer at first. Then he glanced up at Darame. “His condition? There is no danger. A slight concussion, blood loss, but the blade was not poisoned.”
“I mean the healing.… That you can do such a thing.”
Thick eyebrows twitched, although his expression did not change. A pause, and then he said: “Not anymore.” His Caesarean was precise, clearly a second language, unlike Sheel’s fluency. “When I first used my talent, in my youth… yes, it frightened me. Now it fills me with awe, that Mendülay gave me such a gift.” He looked down at the unconscious man. “The Atare’s skill is greater than mine, as if the gene gains strength each generation. He can even predict the sex of a child while it is still in the womb — quite a feat, since instruments cannot penetrate a Nualan uterus without miscarriage.”
Moving toward the windows, Darame asked: “Why is healing preferable? Or are you simply more portable than a cold torch?”
The Nualan actually chuckled. “More than that. A cold torch freezes the skin layers, killing them. That is why an instant scar forms. With hot healing, the traumatized cells are soothed and encouraged to knit together. When this finally heals, only a thin white scar will remain, if anything. And of course Sheel will mend quickly, since he is a healer.”
“Capashan?” The physician turned his head, and then moved over to Mailan, who had entered the room sometime during the healing. A quick, whispered conversation ensued, all in Nualan. Darame’s gaze flicked over the walls of the sparsely furnished room, her mind drifting as s
he tried to guess their location.
“Lady Darame?” Surprised by the honorific, Darame turned and faced the speaker. Mailan, still in uniform, but without the stiffness of duty — not her shift, then. “Your employer is in the friendship parlor.” The woman — for she was a woman, despite her neutral dress and manner — gestured through the doorway, and then turned back to the healer.
Darame did not think twice about the invitation. Gliding through the doorway, absently noticing that Mailan had brought her things, she asked: “Where are we, by the way — if that is not privileged information?”
It was Crow who answered. “The Atare’s home, lady.”
The old Atare, or do you mean Sheel? Entirely too many Atares the last few days.… Darame hastened down the corridor to the living area.
He was standing over by the glass doors, his huge frame blocking a great deal of light. The thin, curly hair seemed sparser by filtered natural light, but the blazing, confident smile was the same. Halsey started to open his arms wide, paused, thinking better of it — and then shrugged, continuing the sweep of his hands.
He’s right. Does it make any difference, after what we’ve been through? I told them I’d worked for the man twelve years, of course we’re friends! Darame reached around the huge torso as far as she could, muttering, “Old Bear.”
“Ha! And how is my precious gem?” boomed the tenor voice. “I understand you had a narrow escape, that first night.”
Of course, Brant had volunteered information. Darame loosened her grip, meeting his gaze. “How are you getting along without me to chaperon? Did you remember to tip?” Tipping was always the same: a code for “are you involved with this scam?” In this case, the assassinations.
Smiling, Halsey shook his head. “Of course not. Obviously I need you close by.” Close by — damn. Worse and worse. That meant multiple unknown factors, and the possibility that bailout would be necessary, blowing off the job and fleeing the area.
“I’m not sure that’s possible right now. They told me where I am — they may not want me anywhere I can be asked about it.” Yes, old one, I am being watched, and probably monitored as we speak, although you expected that. She glanced down at the face of her roman.… Still white.
“Well, it can’t go on forever. Surely with both the Atare family’s private guaard and the local people on it, some leads will turn up soon. Can’t have a murderer on the loose.” Saints, it can’t get any worse — so sources (probably Brant’s) can’t turn up anything, either, and multiple groups are looking. Very smooth, very professional, this job.
“The ambassador I spoke with told me to sit tight and he’d contact all citizens when there was news,” Darame went on, turning and moving toward a low couch. Did you get that one, Halsey? Brant wants me right where I am, in the bedroom of a mutated human someone is trying to kill. A good lawyer could pull a charge of “Localized Treason” out of this, and I’m not ready to die!
“I know no more than you,” Halsey said gently, strolling down the wall of glass, his light step at odds with his appearance. Hell’s bells! What do you mean we don’t have enough vocabulary to discuss the situation? By Sebastian’s arrows, we’d better come up with the vocabulary!
“Perhaps they’ll let you start making some limited presentations in town,” Darame suggested, carefully slowing her breathing. No sense in panicking — probably a delayed reaction to what had happened to Sheel, to the knowledge that she herself had missed an ugly death. She could see the length of the corridor from where she sat: Crow had a plain view of both she and Halsey, and could probably hear them as well — the air circulation system was very quiet. Not the best time to start up a new set of codes, but we may not get another chance.
“I was also told to wait on the embassy,” Halsey replied, idly shaking his head.
So… Brant doesn’t want either of us to move. I feared it was serious, but I didn’t want to think… The last time she saw Brant, in the cloister corridor, came vividly to mind. He was bidding Darame and several other Caesareans a polite farewell when the Serae Leah had rushed up to him, her eyes blazing. The troop of guaard surrounding her did not encourage them to stay, so the citizens started out into the courtyard toward the streets. Darame had heard only one thing, almost a hiss, pass between the two: He will place her before me. Leah spoke in Caesarean.… Brant had never been quick at learning languages. He’s had over 300 days. I could learn almost anything in that much time.…
“This is going to be a long day,” Darame muttered, rising and moving away from the sofa, her fingers gently trailing across a fine piece of glazed pottery displayed on a pedestal.
“Watch your step,” Halsey said suddenly, reaching out as if to steady her. Glancing down as she took his hand, looking for a cat, Darame saw nothing. Code? Uh-huh… Not good. Stay close but not too close to Sheel? That may call for more skill than even I can muster.
SHEEL’S HOME
THIRTYNINEDAY, NONE
A brisk gust of wind buffeted Darame as she stepped out onto the balcony. Bouncing after a leaf, the kitten’s behavior made it plain she approved of the weather. Settling down on a stone bench next to the building, Darame spoke to her reprovingly: “You don’t need to be so happy about it. Pretty soon it will be cold up here!” She pulled the flaps of her cape close, grateful Sheel had offered her the use of it. Not necessary to throw one strip over her shoulder — it was not a bitter wind, not yet. But they were far to the north; Atare was the most northern of the great cities.
I will have to send to the ship for cold weather gear, she thought idly, lifting her arm slightly to pull her tassels away from the cat. Instantly recognizing a new game, the creature pounced on the dragging tips of the garment. “Stop that, Nyani,” she murmured, lifting the kitten by the scruff and placing it in her lap. The creature sulked for a few moments, trying to bite Darame’s hand; a piece of string dangled for Nyani’s benefit quickly mollified her ruffled feelings.
It was like the calm before a storm… both within and without the house. The guaard had kept both messages and company away from Sheel, jealously protecting his rest. Only his sisters had visited, and his mother — briefly, for the previous day’s events had been quite a shock to her.
Expecting to be tossed into a guest room, Darame was astonished at her freedom of movement. Suspicious, rather… Why was she still present? Granted, any one of these guaard could probably restrain her with one hand while disemboweling a shadowy enemy with the other, but why take the chance? Sheel had desired neither conversation nor… anything else of her, though he did seem to be mending quickly. A rattle at the doors told her he was coming out, and she glanced up, forcing her gestures to look natural.
Too drawn, too tired… He was not sleeping well. Is that surprising? she admonished herself, tugging vigorously at the kitten’s string. He needs a confidant… damn. She had forgotten the young man who had died in this very house, scarce nights ago. His only close friend? Possibly — Sheel seemed reserved by nature, and there were thirty-four years of Sleep Transit between himself and his childhood companions. Numerous court acquaintances had inquired after his health, but the messages had been ringed with formal courtesy. No time since returning to make any close friends, especially if you thought you were going to Caesarea. What now — do they ship potential brides to you?
Although he did not speak of inner distress, Darame had remained curled on her side of the master bed, and she saw his face upon rising. Tears left their mark on the cleanest countenance.…
Sheel was carelessly dressed in faded trousers and a sweater of muted greys; Darame was startled to see that he was barefoot. Eyes widening, she opened her mouth to speak and was stopped by the look of resignation on his face.
“Not you as well, please. I am quite used to the cooler months here, before the snow flies. And the sun has warmed the tiles.” Seating himself on the opposite bench, Sheel crossed his legs, tucking his feet beneath. Gazing out over the wind-tossed treetops below, he absently rubbed a
t the back of his right hand, as if seeking something.
“Do we need to get you a substitute?” Darame asked pointedly, her glance taking in his gesture.
Smiling faintly, Sheel shook his head. “I miss the weight,” he replied. “I am not always playing with it, I assure you. It will be back soon… perhaps tomorrow.” He unconsciously looked down as he spoke, to the white stripe of flesh which marked where his signet ring usually rested.
Darame had never paid any attention to the ring, after her first examination of it. It was made of trine gold, and to stare at it seemed rude. The personal crest meant nothing to her, although she understood the importance of signets to rulers: a seal for major declarations, or some such rot. Now it was to be bordered with the sign of The Atare’s seat, a chain of office circling the personal emblem. More important than a coronation.… Of course, he would work as ruler before the ceremony.…
“Any leads?” she asked abruptly.
Sheel did not pretend to misunderstand. “Nothing yet.”
Not enough. Darame would not play games with herself. The situation was serious, and grew more so by the hour. Uneasiness within the town could explode into trouble, and off-worlders were obvious scapegoats. Halsey had been confined to his room at the hostel; no doubt if Sheel dismissed her, she would join him there. No real time to set up new code words, and no chance at all for an audience with Brant. Information might protect both Halsey and her, but getting that information… Where to start?… Her mind looped, returning to the difficulty of seeing Brant; returning to his office, and Leah’s unannounced arrival. Just how close was he to the eldest daughter of the ruling house?
“It is so quiet,” she murmured, hardly certain of where her words were going. “The very sky is still. I have never been in a monarchy at the death of a ruler.”
Fires of Nuala Page 13