Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “Why did you come to Avis?” Gently, probing the waters.…

  “I sent word to Camelle when I reached the limits of the city. She told me Sheel was not here, and suggested I talk to Avis, because Leah… does not care for other women.” Quenby trailed off uncertainly, Darame’s black gaze brushing her self-assurance.

  “Has anyone threatened your children?” Darame said, leaning forward and seizing the handle of the poker extending from the flames.

  “I am not positive.… I think so.” The woman elaborated on her statement, explaining why she was hesitant to speak. A fire at the palace of Seedar, enveloping the children’s wing. No real threat to the children, who were not in residence, but various courtiers had spoken to her in the following days… and in their words Quenby read threat. “They knew who set the fire, Serae, I am sure of it. But I have no proof, and we of Seedar have never needed a guaard to ferret out information. Each Seedar has had a group of people to do the private business.”

  “Why do your brother’s followers not help you?” This was from Avis.

  Quenby’s expression hardened. “One died recently.… An accident while hunting. Another left court. He has a young family, and… I think he fears for them. Two others are now in the camp of the Prime Minister — my brother, who seems to think he can be Seedar in all but name.” Straightening, the woman turned to Avis, her expression defensive. “I know! There is so little to use for conclusions! But Camelle thought you would listen to me… and was not sure your sister would believe me. Avis, my brother had a strong heart! We have excellent physicians in Seedar, and a healer attached to the palace. Surely there would have been some sign.…”

  “Not if he died as Seri Iver did,” Darame murmured. It had finally trickled out, the news surrounding Iver’s death. A drug overdose that faded rapidly in the body.… If those in Seedar had no reason to suspect murder, and the autopsy was not performed immediately.…

  “What should we do, Darame?” Avis fastened her bright gaze on Darame’s face. “We cannot do anything officially; each state is sovereign. I cannot send a troop of guaard just to help out in the crisis.… Only Sheel would have that authority, since there is no anointed Ragäree and the official procedure would be involved.” Frowning, Avis reached for her cup. “But surely all this cannot be Quenby’s imagination.”

  “No… I do not think so. In fact, it is a pity you Nualans are all on such poor terms with each other. It might be interesting to talk with the other families and ask them how things fare.” Darame’s words caused Avis to continue frowning, but Darame pretended not to notice.

  What to do with a frightened and threatened queen? That was what she was, in so many words, although the basis for her authority was different from anything Darame had ever imagined. The women had cut themselves off from Leah, which was probably just as well. True, Leah did not care for other women, a named ragäree especially, but the real reason Camelle had chosen Avis as a confidant over Leah was not personality. Camelle was more generous than that. No: it was because Leah still refused to believe that there was any danger to herself, to her son, or to Avis. Leah would have offered dozens of explanations for the happenings in Seedar. Now, having been passed over as the obvious authority in Atare, she would be even more likely to dismiss the Ragäree’s vague fears as imaginings.

  Quenby Ragäree did not need reassurances; she needed someplace to hide and breathe freely. Plans for the future could come later.… For now, where to hide the Ragäree of Seedar?

  Not in Atare. The intrigues swirling in this palace meant that someone would surely discover her presence, if Quenby had not already been detected. Bursting in on Riva Ragäree unannounced would be poor manners, and the event would surely reach Leah’s ears. Someplace unexpected…

  “I think we need to hide you and your children, Ragäree,” Darame said abruptly. “The best place would be with the heir of Atare… if we can find him. If not, I have a few other thoughts. We will continue to send your traveling notes by as devious a route as possible. But unless we drag others into this, such as the high priest of the local temple — ” Avis immediately shook her head negatively. “Then we must deal with it ourselves.” After giving Avis a long look, Darame faced the Seedar ragäree and said: “I imagine you know that the murderer — or murderers — of Cort Atare and his heirs have not been found. Anyone can be suspect. It is better not to turn to anyone outside this room.”

  “Darame, do you know where Sheel and Tobias are?” Avis’s eyes widened noticeably.

  “No.… But I suspect I know where to look for him.”

  CAESAREAN EMBASSY

  SEVENTYNINEDAY, NONE

  “You want to what?” Brant’s incredulity was actually reflected in his face.

  Controlling an inner smile, Darame sipped delicately at her wine. Let him wait.… Sweet saints, I’ve certainly waited long enough. Settling back deeper in the cushioned chair, she said easily: “I want to go look for Sheel.”

  “Whatever for?”

  That surprised her just a little bit; Brant was rarely so blunt. “Isn’t it obvious, Brant? I’m going crazy cooling my heels at the palace. I don’t have the slightest idea how things are going, and you and Halsey aren’t telling me anything.”

  “There’s not that much to tell,” Brant said dryly, pouring himself a glass of the wine and lifting it from the mirrored tray before Darame.

  Once again they were locked in Brant’s office, sharing a fine imported wine — this time one selected and provided by Darame. The language was Caesarean, of course. It was unlikely Brant knew of her growing proficiency in Nualan, unless Avis had volunteered the information. Darame had been observant in her stay at the palace, taking note of who kept track of her comings and goings. The Caesareans only noticed when she contacted Halsey, called The Gypsy Rover, or used the encyclopedia bank. No one from Brant’s personal group was tailing her. That a Nualan might be watching her had occurred to her — but there was nothing to be done about it. And who might that Nualan be working for?…

  “Wouldn’t it be convenient if we had an ‘in’ with Sheel Atare?” Darame went on. “It couldn’t hurt the plan, and might help a great deal, if only by smoothing tariffs and the like. After all, Avis claims he healed me of the effects of the gas, and he let me stay in his household up until then. Maybe I can talk him into coming back to the palace.”

  “The government would probably start moving again if he returned,” Brant acknowledged, leaning against the edge of his desk. He had his remote expression on his face, and was looking over her right shoulder.

  “I could assure him of Caesarean help during this time of crisis,” Darame suggested. “How far could I stretch such a statement?”

  “Not very far. We’re not allowed to meddle with planet politics, you know. Localized Treason Laws.” He took a long draught of the wine. “But I could personally offer my friendship and support. Sheel always kept to himself, I didn’t have much of a chance to get to know him.”

  “Perhaps I can change that.” Would he push for more information? Was her reason good enough? Good enough for the kind of person Brant believed her to be?

  “You’re not starting up another job on the side, are you?” Brant asked, chuckling. Darame let her gaze settle on the mirrored tray at this, watching his expression. The change was so minute she would have missed it if she’d not been watching for it. A tightening at the mouth, a slight hardness of the eyes.…

  I’ve never taken two jobs simultaneously when working with this group. Halsey doesn’t allow it. What makes you think I’d do it now? Because you would, if something tempting opened up? Just how close to Leah are you, Brant, and what good can she do you?

  “You know me better than that, Brant. Halsey’d dock my bonus — and the bonus money promises to be good this time.” Darame said it simply, almost flatly. Keep his mind on the money, let him think your mind is on the money.…

  “How do you propose to find him?” Brant asked. “I have my people working on it
from here to Dielaan and south to Kilgore. There’s been no sign of him.”

  “Your people — off-worlders?” A simple, obvious question.

  “Of course. Nualans are loyal to Nualans first, in almost every case.”

  “Precisely. I hope that if I send out some feelers and move into territory where he is known, word will reach him of my search. I thought I’d take the rail service as far as I could, and then just wait.” She studied the light reflecting in her wine, swirling the remaining few sips. Not really a lie. Sitting in her room last night, half-listening to a Nualan reading of a favorite book, random facts had finally fallen into a pattern. Trust an old teaching device to instruct in more than one way.…

  Solve the puzzle, Davi. It will teach you much. Halsey had always brought her puzzles as a child: intricate wooden ones, exotic woven ones, delicate paper ones. She had solved them all, and learned more than the art of assembly. There were ways to discover the picture without completing the puzzle.

  That piece of pottery. Why leave it in her hand, unless it was to tell her something? And how to interpret the meaning without letting others know what she sought? Not the encyclopedia bank, then… the books in Sheel’s library, real books, gloriously illustrated with examples of Nualan pottery.

  And maps of where the clay was found.

  “Halsey may be in trouble,” Brant said suddenly. That brought her out of her thoughts. She looked directly at him, but his expression was an expected one, both thoughtful and slightly worried. “The local authorities are having no luck with their investigation, and the guaard apparently has nothing for them, or so my sources say. A sucker is needed.”

  “Why Halsey?” She kept emotion out of her voice.

  “Why not?” He shrugged slightly.

  Saint Elmo’s Fire, man, you have always at least pretended to cover for your partners! What are you going to do about it? She repeated her last thought aloud.

  “I’m doing what I can. The embassy has already put in an appearance, pointing out that he did not arrive until the night of the murders, that one man could not accomplish such a feat, his lack of contacts here, his ignorance of who would be worthwhile to kill off… “ Brant rattled off numerous arguments without looking up from his glass. “I don’t think they can pin it on him. Nualans may wish for someone to take the blame, but they’re not known for selecting innocent people for the post.”

  Darame controlled her anger, sharpening it like a dagger. And then an unworthy — and appropriate — thought crept to the surface of her mind. You protest much, my man, but everything in Halsey’s favor could point at you. Are you truly in all this, Brant? So much of it is messy, clumsy — you don’t usually work that way. How much is you, and how much requires that I look elsewhere? She poured a meager portion of wine into her glass. Or was all of that merely to keep me in line, aware of Halsey’s peril… and my own?

  “Should I use the money I had for my hostel?” she asked, returning the conversation to her original proposal.

  “Call Mona for what you need. And try to reassure her — don’t mention what I said about Halsey,” he added briskly. “I trust you can handle the details, and keep people from commenting. We’ve talked long enough, you’d better leave.”

  Nodding, Darame rose from the chair, leaving the wine untouched. She had a general idea of where to begin — and was afraid to ask for more specific information. But what if she was totally wrong?

  Sweet saints, can I risk the royal line of Seedar on a hunch?

  ATARE PALACE

  SEVENTYNINEDAY, COMPLINE

  “What?” Mona’s voice held the same incredulity of Brant’s, but it was sharpened by alarm. “Going where?”

  “Into the Starrise Mountains, Mona,” Darame explained patiently, hitting the transmittal button and sending her list of clothing and supplies. “I need you to send these things immediately. Can you make the next window?”

  “Mountains? What are the mountains? Halsey sending you?”

  “No, Halsey’s still under house arrest. I’m running an errand for one of the royal family,” Darame added, hoping Mona was waiting for the entire message before replying.

  She definitely heard everything. “What?” Mona’s voice went up the scale. “Lost your mind?”

  “I’m going to look for the ruler, he’s in hiding since all the attacks.”

  “Lost your mind!” Mona repeated over Darame’s words. “Let couriers run errands! Stay put in the city! Mess with local politics? Crazy!”

  “She doesn’t have any couriers, Mona,” Darame rushed on, feeling as if she was losing hold of the conversation. “She and her brothers had been home only nine months when everyone was murdered. Believe me, she’s a babe in arms and has no one to turn to!”

  “Mothering eggs, eh?” This typically Emersonian sneer was actually encouraging. “Idiot. Not your business. Getting senile — since when get involved with the natives?”

  “Mona, they have no idea what they’re doing!” This was sharp. “The new ruler was never trained for the job, the older sister’s into power games, and the younger spends her time weeping over her uncle and brother and then pretending she is fine!”

  “So the government will collapse. Why do you care?”

  “Just send the clothes and freeze packs, will you? I am fine, Halsey is fine, Brant is fine. We’ll keep you posted.” Darame hurriedly clicked off the communicator before Mona could continue the argument. She was cautious during that talk, in case of taps, but the last few comments were far from discreet. Why had Mona upset her so?

  Not intentionally. Why did her words upset you? Darame let her fingers toy with the dial a moment, contemplating that thought. Two images kept slipping into her mind… one of Avis’s heart-shaped face, worry and grief erased by Darame’s offer to escort the Seedar ragäree. The other picture was misty: grey day, grey clothes and grey mood blending like water droplets on a windowpane. Sheel was no more than an outline, folded neatly onto the window seat, two of the cats nesting in his lap. He had not spoken when she had entered the room, but the shadow of a smile that had suddenly appeared seemed a question for her alone.

  You’re getting soft, said a scornful voice in the back of her mind, but Darame did not have time to listen to it.

  Armageddon Roll:

  a gamble taken which may jeopardize

  the playing free-trader’s life.

  Chapter Seven

  STARRISE MOUNTAINS

  EIGHTYFOURDAY, VESPERS

  Rising wind that smelt of snow tickled Mailan’s nose, but she ignored it. Nodding a greeting to Crow, who huddled just within the entrance, she wound her way through scattered boulders into the cavern, knocking ice pellets from her boots as she walked.

  “How about a fire?” Crow suggested hopefully.

  “Why not just stand at the opening and yell ‘Here we are?’” Mailan responded, grinning.

  The man sighed. “Not thinking today. Hot rods?”

  “I will see what I can find,” Mailan promised, pulling off her poncho of thick vatos wool. “Do you want a poncho, too?” She eyed his regulation black jacket with thinly-disguised disapproval.

  “Trying to get me to go native?” was the response.

  Mailan shrugged and started into the cave. “So be cold.”

  “Mailan! I was kidding! Mailan!” Unable to leave his post, Crow hopped up and down to emphasize his plea, dislodging a puff of snow teetering above the entrance and sending it sliding onto his head.

  Smiling at the echoing profanity, Mailan handed her poncho to a village youth on his way out the arch. “Give this to the guaard,” she said, pointing toward the exit. Grinning back, the young man nodded and continued out the passage.

  Considering how well Crow had been trained in mountain techniques, he was remarkably susceptible to cold. Jude was also lowland, and having difficulty with the novelties of mountain life. Fortunate for Sheel he had selected his guaard from every possible background.

  Fion and I are home. A
lmost — Maroc was northwest of their position, and Mailan’s own village a full day’s hard ride, at the least. Close enough for comfort… Pausing at the portable stove, Mailan poured a mug of saffra for herself.

  “If you get a moment, take some saffra to Crow,” she told the man watching over their bubbling dinner. Make native jokes to me, will you, son of the plains? You can wait until old Harald has time for you.

  “How are the supplies?” came a voice behind her. Glancing up, Mailan met her mentor’s sharp gaze.

  “Secure. We have twentyday stored below, and I talked to Warner while I was in Portland — he will keep fresh materials coming every fiveday.” Only a handful of people knew they were here, which was just as well. Although she trusted the loyalty of these sturdy mountain people, Mailan dreaded the thought of someone testing that loyalty.

  Nodding, Fion bent over the stove and used his leather gloves as he carefully removed a pot from the warming ledge beneath. “Grab a few mugs.” Carrying the hot crock carefully, Fion started down a side passage toward the meeting room.

  “Where are Sheel and the boy?” Mailan asked, following him into the dim corridor.

  “Out watching the star set into Summer Pass,” he responded. “Jude is shadowing them.” Setting the pot on a metal trivet, Fion took the mugs from Mailan and arranged them on the old table. “Here, join me.” The pale, honeyed liquid filled one mug and half-filled the second. He shoved the partial portion toward her.

  “I go on duty at compline,” she said regretfully, shaking her head.

  “A good three hours yet. Half a mug will relax you; you are too tense. Figured out what is bothering you yet?” Settling himself in a warped frame chair, Fion sipped cautiously at the hot brew.