Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  They are kind and helpful, Darame thought, loosening her short jacket’s front panel. With a bit of patience I will master this language.

  Dressing quickly in a floor-length, long-sleeved dress of black, and slipping on black evening shoes, Darame completed her toilette without assistance. Servants had been provided, which she gratefully allowed to clean her laundry and keep her clothes in order. The rest she preferred to handle herself. Wrapping a black lace shawl around her shoulders and securing it in front with a pear-shaped diamond stickpin, Darame flipped her hair free of confinement and started for the other end of the hall.

  Ayers abandoned his post by her door and followed. She had despaired of shaking him: not hints but bold suggestions had been thrown his way, and in vain. He shadowed her without comment… unless a friend did the honors for him. Slowly other guaard had trickled into the insular group surrounding Avis. Darame suspected that Ayers and Sheri had selected them, and only after debate and long consideration. Terrifying to examine everyone you see, wondering if they might be a murderer. She had done some of that herself.…

  Several people were already in the sitting room Avis used regularly. A sweet-faced older woman was sending her small children off to the wing reserved for all youngsters not yet presented at court. She wore traditional Nualan widow’s garb, a white dress trimmed in black velvet with a black shawl thrown over all.

  Darame felt better about her lace shawl. The bodice of this dress was cut too low for courtesy, at least during the Nualan three months of strict mourning, but there was no help for it. Every dressmaker in town had been deluged after the deaths, as the wealthy families paid tribute to their dead ruler and his heirs, so new clothing would be almost impossible to acquire. As an off-worlder, mourning garb was not required. As Avis’s constant companion, however, Darame felt her usual peacock colors would not do. The palace seamstress had helped her with a compromise, providing accessories to mask and otherwise disguise her white and dark clothing into something appropriate for the occasion.

  As the boy and girl departed the sitting room, the older woman looked up and saw Darame. The Nualan’s face was drawn, even strained, her common expression since her husband’s death. She forced a smile as she gestured to the chair at her left. “Well, did your ride calm Avis? She has been so restless today.”

  “It is always hard to tell, Serae,” Darame responded, sitting and smoothing her skirts. “She fights her grief instead of letting it run its course. I hope you were not lonely.”

  “No,” the woman said, turning toward the french windows. “Bette brought the baby up, and we spent a pleasant afternoon. I do not think she will join us for dinner; she still tires easily. But I will admit to missing Riva Ragäree. Surely she must be home by now.”

  “I understand the roads have been good the last few days,” Darame agreed. “She will probably contact her daughters soon.”

  The woman nodded absently, her gaze still fixed out the window, and Darame wondered once again if Serae Camelle would be happier under Riva Ragäree’s roof. The morganatic second wife of Fabe was a very distant cousin of the Atare line, a natural daughter of the ruler of Seedar, and Nualan to the core. By rights she should be an attendant to Leah, but that was not something either woman would choose.

  In her forties, perhaps? Several generations younger than Riva’s attendants, yet never quite fitting in with Leah’s group. She had seemed more relaxed since Avis requested her company… until today. Shrewd of Avis to see the problem, Darame reminded herself. It would not do to think Avis flighty, despite her natural effervescence. Avis had not missed Leah’s little tricks — it took the deaths of the men for the youngest daughter to have excuse enough to ask for Camelle’s “support”. Was Leah tired of baiting the older woman? Glad to have the only Nualan wife out from under her heel?

  “Seri Fabe must have loved you very much,” Darame suddenly said aloud, settling herself deeper in her chair. She had learned in a month among Nualans that blunt statements did not offend them.

  Camelle finally turned away from the windows. A faint smile toyed with her lips. “To risk the censure of marrying me? Yes… I suppose he did.” She shrugged, reaching for her needlework. “He did not care what others thought… which was why I lived with him, those last years before his wife died.” Glancing up, Camelle added: “Unnamed children of power learn to ignore gossip.”

  Darame knew enough about Nualans to understand that oblique remark. Although the child of the current Seedar, Camelle’s mother had been Nualan — hence, Camelle had her mother’s status, not her father’s clan name. Though that is not quite true. The pecking order was topped by the royal lines, but directly beneath them were the unnamed children.… Which was another reason women like Crystle reb^Lesli pursued Atare men.

  “They were happy enough in their youth,” Camelle went on, threading a needle. “And they had six fine children. But Anna was too interested in the trappings of status, the parties, the social life of the city. Fabe was a simple man.… We preferred the country. After she died, why not suit himself? He had done his duty.”

  “It is not hard to see why he loved you,” Darame said simply, watching as Camelle took a careful stitch.

  “We were happy.” Camelle glanced out the window, as if gauging the twilight. “Darame… I need to speak privately with Avis about something. It may take some time. We will probably be late to dinner. Could you smooth things over, if anyone comments? I will not keep her long.”

  “Of course.” Darame took that as a cue to depart and stood to leave. “I’ll play hostess in the fire room until the Serae arrives.” And we both know which one I mean.

  “Thank you.”

  The relief on her face aroused Darame’s curiosity. Walking down the hall toward the front staircase, she wondered if it was worth investigating, and then dismissed the thought. Caution had been her watchword the past month; her position was placid on the surface, precarious beneath the waters. I have been eliminated once already. Better not to ruffle any feathers.

  Expendable. With Sheel gone and Iver dead, she was a loose thread to the original scam. Brant had not contacted her since the funerals, and she had carefully avoided him, saving a visit for an emergency. The business community had loosened up, but nothing major was going on yet. And the government was still moving in loops; no new business was being conducted. Calls from Halsey had been few and general: “no change in status” was the only message wrapped in casual conversation. Darame suspected he was under the Nualan equivalent of “House Arrest,” but had not been able to confirm it.

  Clever, my Atare, she thought drily as she entered the fire room. Sheel had been anointed before leaving the city. That officially made him Atare, and his word was now law. His orders? “Maintain the status quo until we solve this thing,” was all Avis reported. At least that was what Leah claimed was in her frage. Why do I always think of the word ‘claimed’ when I think of Leah? I should be kinder.… Of course she is worried about her son.

  Several of Avis’s companions were already in the formal room, sherry in hand. Accepting a glass from the young man tending the drinks, Darame chatted quietly with Stephanie reb^Lena Atare, Cort Atare’s youngest daughter and Avis’s closest friend. She was a quiet, graceful woman, successful in her hunt to Emerson and rumored to be with child, although Nualan women usually did not speak of such things until they were well into the pregnancy. Remarkably free of envy, as well: Stephanie had shown no anger over Avis’s growing friendship with Darame, unlike a few of the other attendants.

  Darame had her back to the door when Leah entered, although the mirrors covering the fireplace wall enabled her to watch every person in the room. The heir apparent to the title Ragäree looked very good in white, with her dark complexion and brown hair. Black ribbons trimmed the formal gown, an elegant dress which was a bit too seductive for mourning attire. Several ambassadors dressed in black were in tow, the shadow that was Dirk last of all.

  Brant was present, of course, and
Gregg of Gavriel. Lady Tia Se’Hawkins, first ambassador from Garrison System, and her chief second, Stephen Se’Morval.… Many faces this evening. Officially they had visited only once since the funeral, but Darame knew that Brant and Gregg, at least, had seen Leah several times, and Stephen had been in constant attendance on Avis.

  Although Leah did not introduce any of the ambassadors to Avis’s attendants, all the dignitaries eventually made their way over to greet the women. Especially me. Interesting.… Why so attentive? Because she was a wild card in the deck, and no one wished to offend someone who might become a face card? Even Brant made brief small talk, asking if she was comfortable, saying that there was no change in her status — Which is “non-trade” at the moment. When will you free us up, Brant?

  Her busy thoughts continued throughout dinner, which was announced at the ringing of the compline bell. Leah sat at one end of the long, polished table, with Lady Tia on her left and Gregg on her right. Victoria, young widow of Caleb and Leah’s satellite, was to Gregg’s right. Brant was placed to the right of Avis’s chair, at the opposite end of the table, with Stephanie across from him. Darame found herself in the middle on the back side, looking through a large centerpiece for glimpses of Stephen Se’Morval. Neither of the people seated next to her were particularly interesting, so Darame bided her time and watched for Avis and Camelle.

  The group had finished the first course when Avis and Camelle arrived. The youngest child of Riva Ragäree was flushed, her lovely curls tousled and shimmering in the formal candlelight. Upon sitting at the foot of the table she properly greeted Brant and began to engage him in conversation. Camelle, on her part, seemed relaxed once again and was attending to her dinner. She seemed unconcerned with Leah’s awkward seating arrangements.

  There was nothing in the behavior of either woman to give a clue to the topic of their discussion, but Darame noticed that every time she glanced in Avis’s direction the young woman was looking her way. Not obviously, or enough to draw Brant or Stephanie’s attention, but as if trying to catch her eye. Resolving to gain a seat near Avis during the sweets and brandy in the fire room, Darame applied herself to talking politely to a distant Atare relative.

  Carrying out her decision was more difficult than anticipated. Stephen Se’Morval pounced on Avis the moment dinner was adjourned. As she had not seen him in at least three days, Avis was delighted, even as she once again caught Darame’s eye. Pausing to acquire another glass of dry sherry, Darame smiled and nodded at Avis, trying to relay that she understood her friend’s interest. After we get rid of everyone. I’ll be there.

  The rest of the social evening was enlivened with card games and conversation. Darame amused Ambassador Gregg with a rendition of her attempts to learn the fine art of riding hazelles as opposed to horses, and Avis did impersonations of various elderly dignitaries on the judicial bench. Serae Leah was bright and animated, contrasting sharply with the dour Captain of the guaard,even as she hinted at inner distress by bringing the discussion back to the topic of Sheel and her son. “We have not heard from them in a month,” she kept saying. “What if they have been abducted? Or… killed?” The only other topic that interested Leah was everyone’s theories on the murders.

  Darame was surprised at the discussion, but it did not seem to disturb Leah. Stephanie, a bit pale, excused herself half-way through the evening and Avis, still a bit flushed, chose to accompany her. The two women left during a heated exchange comparing the merits of an off-world conspiracy versus an outclan attack, but Darame stayed until the first ambassador rose to leave.

  Never draw unwarranted attention to entrances or departures, Darame reminded herself as she slipped into her own room. Peeling off the black dress and shoes she hastily donned a loose-fitting evening robe and slippers. Now, to find out what Avis was “up to”.… If it was possible for innocent Avis to involve herself in any secrets. Guileless as clear water, Avis had quickly shown Darame that skulduggery was not her game.

  Will Stephen stay the night? Even Stephen’s visits were not really a secret; only enough of one to keep the fallen suitors at bay. One or two others had shared Avis’s affections until just recently, Brant among them. Romancing both Atare women, Brant? Interesting. Maybe dangerous. Darame walked slowly down the carpeted hall, guaard Ayers still in tow, wondering about her last thought.

  Not an exaggeration. Darame had done her own silent observing the last month, and she knew why Leah disturbed her so. Not Leah’s need for men constantly in her circle, or her indifference to mourning (for her dislike of her late uncle was widely known), but because of her attitude toward Avis.

  Officially, Leah was everything that was proper to her little sister: gracious, generous, instructive — even proud of the attention Avis drew without effort. But Darame had more than once done nothing but watch Leah for an entire evening… and a chilling undertow ran beneath the surface of Leah’s concern. Leah hated Avis. Hated her, feared her, was jealous of her. Watched her, constantly.…

  Had Sheel suspected the enmity between the two? Although Avis apparently did not hate her sister, she was no more than friendly in the vague manner one might use with a distant aunt.… Even with Cold Sleep, fifteen years separated the women. Avis liked people, however, and looked for the best in them. I am not sure you know… or if you do, how seriously you take it. I am no longer sure who Sheel would have me protect you from.…

  Knocking at the oak double doors of the royal quarters, Darame was admitted by an unfamiliar guaard. Her first thought was that there were too many people present… and a number of them were in strange uniform.

  Avis was seated in a circular grouping around a huge firepit. Darame could see her beyond the flames, dressed in a fiery coral caftan which floated from her shoulders like a cloud. Next to her on one side was Camelle, still in her widow’s weeds, pouring hot saffra into delicate cups. The young woman to the left of Avis was unfamiliar.

  Moving closer did not solve the mystery — Darame’s puzzlement increased. The features were teasing, from her past.…

  Gavriel? Not the height: Darame could tell from the sleek lines of her black syluan dress that this woman was dainty. But the eyes were the same, irises so pale a blue they might have been glacial, while the thick braid of hair was a blonde so fair it was almost white. Nualan clothing, however… and she was speaking Nualan to Avis. Oddly accented Nualan.

  Noticing her entrance, Camelle stood and reached out a hand for her, a tense smile crossing her face. “Thank you for coming. The Serae was certain you could help.” As always when Camelle helped her with the Nualan tongue, the words were slow and well-formed.

  “If I can, you know I will,” Darame answered, her gaze flicking toward the stranger.

  With perfect aplomb, Camelle said: “That is Quenby Ragäree.”

  For a moment Darame stared at her, confused, although aware that something ominous was threaded through those words. “But… Sheel has not — ” Then she stopped, because she understood. Part of the mystery, at least. The woman was a ragäree… but not of the Atare clan. “Where is she from?”

  “She is the Regent of Seedar. She has come for consultation.”

  Avis finally noticed her presence and leapt up, reaching to pull Darame close. “Oh, good, Praise Mendülay you have come! It is all a mess, and we need your tricky brain. Quenby, this is Serae Darame Daviddottir, an off-worlder from Caesarea, and a friend of The Atare.”

  I wonder what Sheel would think of such an introduction. Darame chose not to volunteer her thoughts, but glanced at the roman on her wrist. No indication of surveillance.…

  It was one of the strangest gatherings Darame had ever attended. Like a tea party gone mad, from the steaming red fluid they sipped from delicate china cups to the big, burly blond men arranged in a half-circle at the back of the suite. She could not laugh, however — not after seeing the two tiny children curled up on huge pillows in the corner. Apparently the guards would not let either Quenby or her children out of their sight. Wi
sely, no one took offense at their attitude.

  Something was wrong in Seedar. “He has been weak for years, Avis, for many years, but the illness sapped his legs, nothing else,” Quenby whispered, her voice shaking although her hands were steady. “They told me that he died in his sleep, that his heart stopped. He was but sixty-five Terran! As young as your brother Baldwin. Since I have both son and daughter, the line passes on, with my regency. But, Avis… things are wrong in the government. Someone was pressuring my brother, I am sure of it! Information is missing, and there have been deaths among the blackmarket traders. That much I am sure of — other things are more hazy. I did not know who to trust, and I feared my surviving brother as advisor, because some of his advice…” She shook her head, sipping at her cup of saffra. “I cannot tell even you. But he does not have the best interests of the state at heart.”

  “So you just packed up and left?” Darame prompted, grateful the woman spoke competent, if accented, Caesarean.

  “Not exactly.” Quenby smiled, her eyes suddenly glinting. “We thought it up together, my husband Rollin and I. I left him to act in my absence, handling the day to day things. He has no authority to change anything, so they cannot pester him. I am on a religious pilgrimage to visit the great temples of Mendülay!”

  Avis began giggling. “That is wonderful! Even if they doubted you, they could not challenge it.”

  “I travel as the spirit leads me… and send back messages at regular intervals, all designed to keep them thinking I am a grief-stricken sister, atoning for the distance between my brothers and myself. It may allow mischief to brew at home, but Avis, I could not risk my son! And after I heard what had happened up here — ” Tears surfaced in her huge, starry eyes, and Avis reached quickly to comfort her.

  “Why did you choose to come to Atare, ragäree?” Darame asked gently, pouring herself a fresh cup of saffra.

  “Because Kilgore was at war with the Ciedärlien again,” she answered, dabbing at her eyes with the hem of a priceless gown, “And it was easier to reach Atare than any of the other houses. Of course,” she added, “Sheel is still alive, or so folk say. A man who can keep himself and his heir alive may be capable of other things as well. I wanted his advice.”