Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  Mailan gave him a long look and then toyed with the handle of the mug. “Can you always read my face?” It was more wistful than she had intended; Fion actually laughed out loud. Then his face sobered quickly.

  “No, not always. But there is something about your silence that mirrors The Atare’s. Too bad you are guaard, girl, and entirely too conscientious — I would be curious to see what strange talents a child of yours and Sheel’s might have.” He smiled faintly at the scowl which flashed across her face. “I know — too late, now. But you are unfair to him, to think he would never have looked at you. Your eyes have more life than a dozen Claire reb^Guin’s.”

  “His thoughts must walk the same path as mine,” she agreed, leaving alone Fion’s other comments. Lifting the mug, she carefully sipped a bit of the native mead, and then took a long draught of her saffra, for she was thirsty. Leaning back against the rough stone, Mailan studied the man’s somber expression. They had explained the secrets of this venture to him that first night he’d returned. Fion had offered no new thoughts or theories, except one: he had narrowed their list of suspects. A trainer himself, he was familiar with the changing of the roster, and he knew its operation inside and out. Before their departure he had found a few moments to visit the guaard system.

  “You are positive no one tampered with the computer?” she said again.

  “The answer has not changed, girl,” Fion replied, shaking his head. “If they tampered with the computer, they deleted all evidence of their entry. Such things leave traces. I would have found those traces. Either they have skills beyond imagining, or the entry into the computer was legal.”

  Silence. Say the words, stupid, say them! “I think it was legal entry,” Mailan heard herself say.

  Fion did not seem surprised. “Only eleven people have access to that screen,” he said, “except for the ‘current location’ slots, and we can alter only our own slot, with our own voice- or thumb print.” Mailan nodded. “So,” he continued. “Why do you think the entry was legal?”

  “Because no one commented on it.” Seeing his slight frown, she continued quickly. “There were only three trainers on duty in the city; you and Herb were on furlough, and the others were outland, training their groups. Surely one of three trainers, or Dirk, would have noticed the changes to the schedule.”

  “The captain only approves the schedules, Mailan. He does not enter them, and he often approves changes after the fact,” Fion pointed out.

  “I know that. For all I know, Dirk has not looked at a screen in days. But you said it is possible for trainers to make changes without signing them, although they are supposed to sign them. One of the trainers must have done it, and done it at just the right time. The people who were changed died, for Mendülay’s sake! You do not keep old rosters, do you?”

  Fion shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Why keep them?”

  “Exactly! If I had not been too busy to discard mine, who would notice that the bodies were in the wrong places? Only two people were moved: Martin and Reese. And there was movement only where two guaard were stationed. Why? Such a little thing — would people not think that they requested the change?” As Fion looked as if he would speak, she rushed on: “But they did not take a different assignment, because I saw Martin with Cort not long after compline, and Reese with Baldwin! The hospice said they all died between matins and lauds — the next shift, Fion. Why would they take another shift? Because someone with seniority asked them to take it. Someone so senior they would not call in and check.”

  “But if someone had noticed it… was to meet one of them later…”

  “The person would have the altered roster staring him in the face, denying his memory. I would think Martin had made a mistake, or something… not deliberate misdirection.”

  “But within the code banks…” Fion persisted.

  “Oh, yes, I have heard that once saved, always there, even if later deleted. But if the trainers all denied the previous schedule, and it was all you had to go on…”

  “They would assume it was something Martin and Reese had done between them,” Fion said quietly. “What other answer could there be? Since the program was not tampered with…”

  “Get someone to break into the code banks on such little evidence? Hardly! And who would take the next step — an accusation — on such a flimsy thought?”

  “Your theory has merit, even if a few of your suppositions are fragile,” Fion agreed. “Before I break a few supports, tell me why this makes sense to you. You are holding out on me,” he added.

  Mailan flushed. “I just wanted to be sure you thought it had merit before I sprung the next part on you.”

  “Yes?” Fion said dryly.

  “I think… I think Seri Iver sent a literal message.” Mailan studied her mentor’s expressionless face, waiting for an interruption. He nodded for her to continue. “It must have been the providence of Mendülay that he thought of that story, but he did. The perfect message. And it explains why he would not speak to the guaard in the room when he woke up. Irulen should have believed it possible that Alger would turn on him. Alger, the albino. He was white-skinned, Fion. White.”

  “You are suggesting — ”

  “I am suggesting that Iver did not speak because he knew who stabbed him. And that person was in the room! Even if he feared conspiracy, even if he did not know whom to trust, he could have whispered it to Serae Bette. I am sure he would have tried to tell her, somehow, if I had not come — perhaps in the same manner. But it answers the question, Fion! Why would he hesitate to tell a guaard he knew to be a trainer, among the most trusted of our troop? Can it be coincidence?”

  “You are suggesting treason.” Fion’s voice was mild, probing.

  “Someone has betrayed Atare. White fits. Why do you think I have waited so long to speak? You know we hate one another. I could not say anything until I was certain. I have weighed many possibilities, Fion, and this one seems to answer the most questions.”

  “Is Iver that smart?”

  “His favorite childhood story, Fion. The albino turning on The Atare — at the least, it told us a traitor walked among us. But there is more. I saw Iver’s face, Fion. I saw the fear grow in his face when he recognized White. Whether he consciously made the connection I do not know, but I know this: he feared White.”

  Fion sat in silence for several minutes, sipping his mead. Knowing better than to interrupt, Mailan waited without comment, slowly turning her mug of mead in circles between her fingers. Finally the man lifted his grizzled head, his dark gaze settling on her face.

  “Have you spoken with The Atare?” Strange, how easily that title came to his lips. He remembered Sheel as a child, yet the word “Atare” did not feel foreign.

  “No. Because something else occurred to me. I may hate the ground White treads, but I must admit he is a skilled warrior. Fion… If White intended to kill someone by stabbing him — ”

  “He would be dead,” Fion finished for her. “No doubt about it.” Fion took a long, slow sip, his eyes becoming unfocused with concentration. “Iver was not meant to die. At least not at first. I see why you hesitated, child, but you need to take it a step further. If Iver was part of a plot for the throne, it is unlikely he would have feared White. On the contrary, White would have been in his pocket, if you will. I never thought Iver wanted the rule, and would not believe it, without more evidence than what we have before us.”

  Mailan was warmed within. “We” — so he was in this with her, as always. It always felt better with a friend at your back.

  “Then…what?” She offered him her palms in a gesture of despair. “I keep coming up against Iver, and I cannot believe he would murder his uncle and five brothers for a throne he was totally unprepared to sit upon. Was he so good an actor we were all fooled?”

  “No,” came a soft voice behind her. “Iver was a lousy actor.”

  Appalled, Mailan whirled. To be so wrapped up in a conversation sh
e had not heard! But Fion was facing the irregular entrance to the small room. He had chosen not to tell her of Sheel’s approach. Facing her Atare, Mailan tried to push her heart back down her throat. No saliva. How much had he heard? She did not want to hurt him with useless speculation.…

  “Suppose you start at the beginning, Mailan.” Sheel smiled briefly as he began to peel off his damp jacket. “And take your time; otherwise, we will have to eat whatever horror old Harald has prepared for us.”

  It was Fion who reiterated their discussion; Mailan was still too embarrassed to speak. Sheel paced slowly around the table as the man spoke, his gaze upon the floor of dirt and rock. The expression on his face was at once distant and yet calculating, as if he was trying to remember something.

  He finally spoke, his tone soft and low. “Responsibility terrified Iver. He feared a judgeship — never mind about the possibility of inheriting the throne. You must step further, Mailan. There is a way for your theory to work… and it is the only theory we have right now, so we might as well explore it. It matches something I have been considering. Who would benefit in the confusion following the murders? What advantage is there to Iver’s sitting the throne?”

  “But to kill you just to make it look as if Iver should have died?” Mailan said, the horror of it rising anew within her chest.

  Sheel shook his head. “No. If someone thought they could influence Iver, they would have to be absolutely certain I would never become prime minister. As a healer, I might refuse… but then again I might not. Even unofficially, Iver would probably have turned to me for advice with certain things. Those who wanted him as Atare could not allow that. They needed him as an easily controlled pawn.” Absently Sheel reached for the dregs of Mailan’s saffra. “What if he saw it was White who stabbed him? He may have died because someone panicked, and feared they could not turn his mind away from what he thought he saw. Even a whisper of such a possibility could not exist… or Iver might have had those code banks opened.”

  “What price to betray every oath you have ever sworn?” Fion said suddenly.

  “That is what you need, Mailan,” Sheel added, sipping the cold saffra. “Why would White do such a thing? I do not think he cares for me, but to kill Cort and the others… what was his price?”

  “There is another question, Atare,” Fion said, draining his mead and reaching for the remnants of Mailan’s. “White is Dirk’s man, ever pushing that youngling to power: star student, youngest trainer ever, youngest captain ever. Would White do something like that without Dirk’s knowledge? Have they had a falling-out? And if they are still as tight as brothers, what could Dirk gain from this that he did not have before? I can think of only trivial things… and Dirk is not a trivial person.”

  “Dirk with his ramrod spine, always following orders to the last word,” Mailan muttered. “He is one of the most powerful people in Atare. Why would he strike at the hand which gave him almost everything he has, save his family’s wealth?”

  “Especially since killing Iver would put him under my foot,” Sheel said, “which he would not care for at all. I keep too close a counsel for him.” A finger tapped lightly on the table. “If only we knew for certain how — by whose hand — and why Iver died.…”

  “Atare?” The stooped form entered hesitantly, nodding his fealty. “Dinner is served.”

  Mailan felt immediate complaint from her stomach, but she said nothing. Sheel flashed her a wry smile, and thanked the man for his efforts. As Harald walked slowly back into the corridor, Sheel leaned over and whispered: “We chose him for his loyalty and closed mouth, not for his cooking.”

  “Mendülay preserve us,” Fion murmured without a trace of humor, and the three rose from the table, Sheel leading the way toward the central fire and what passed for supper.

  PORTLAND, ATARE TERRITORY

  EIGHTYFOURDAY, VESPERS

  Somewhere within the confines of the tiny mountain village of Portland the vespers bell was ringing. Settling herself at a table near the fireplace, Darame sourly decided it was time for a drink. She ordered a goblet of the house wine, along with some cheese, bread, and fruit, and then leaned back to study the small evening crowd.

  They had reached a dead end. Unfolding her hand, Darame examined the pottery fragment she had toted for three long days. The clay came from this region, and a large retail shop faced the town square. It occurred to her that Sheel’s party might have gone to ground in that closed hotel, but there was no way to find out. Not until word filtered out to Mailan and the other guaard.

  Surely they are watching the local town. They have sent messages to Leah. Messages delivered by guaard in the dead of night, individuals who disappeared as silently as they came, forcing the reply to be announced in code by satellite. What had Leah told Sheel, in those messages? Avis said he always asked the same question: How did the investigation progress? Other than that, he was fine; Tobias was fine. They would send another message soon.…

  You should not have left her to her own devices. Shivering in the cool room despite the fire at her elbow, Darame reached for the warm wine the server had delivered to her table. Leah was a puzzle. Firm, in control sometimes, but there were other times… Darame shrank into her jacket, wishing it were warmer. Visiting the monuments of the dead, with Avis in her silent grief and Camelle’s constant, quiet tears. Nothing from Leah, except at the graves of Caleb and Iver… Then, she wept. At least something touches you besides hate.

  Ayers waited at the bar across the room. Nothing Darame said could persuade him to remain with Avis. He had trailed the off-worlder to Sheel’s home, watched her search his ruler’s books and wall charts under the thoughtful observation of the cats, refrained from comment — even when she’d confronted him, asked him if he really wanted to know what she was doing. Why did Ayers stay so close? He denied her nothing, made no attempt to steer her footsteps, much less inhibit her wishes. And he offered no explanations, not even when, exasperated, Darame had asked him to swap jobs with his sister, remaining to watch over Avis.

  If I suggested to Sheri I could do her work better than she could, she would gut me, was Ayers’ only comment. I was told to stay with you until further notice.

  Even Avis in danger could not sway him… if he believed an off-worlder’s suspicions. Reaching for the tiny loaf of bread, still warm to her touch, Darame began methodically ripping it apart. Was I right to tell her to skirt the truth?

  Pregnant. Avis was pregnant, to her great joy. Only Darame, Camelle, and her cousin and attendant Stephanie knew, and none of them was talking. The obvious questions — who was the father, and when was it due? — were not easily answered on Nuala. The woman was positive Stephen Se’Morval was the father, unless Sheel had missed a new life in his hasty search the night of the party. When? She could count only from that date. Late spring or early summer…

  Why did I tell her to mislead them? It had burst from Darame’s lips without thought. “Tell them it is Stephen or Brant — is there anyone else possible? No? Then tell them just that, will you, please? For me?” Avis had promised she would, although the odd look she gave her new friend spoke volumes.

  The guaard will protect a pregnant daughter of the line, and if necessary, Brant will protect a child that might be his… a child who might rule Atare. But the looks Leah sometimes gave Avis… I begin to doubt that woman’s sanity, and I fear to leave you to her power.

  And Halsey. Her old friend’s plight ran through her thoughts like counterpoint. Brant has abandoned him, I know he has.… The thought made Darame angrier every time it crossed her mind. Always guard your partner’s back, always! Blinded by trinium, Brant was — Enough. Halsey could look after himself, if necessary. She was not so sure about Sheel and Avis. No choice but to hide in the mountains? Have you no allies? A disturbing idea. For what it’s worth, I’ll help you. She still was not sure why.

  Now, in a silent, snow-covered town in the shadow of Mount Habbukk, she waited. How long until word of her presence would rea
ch Sheel? Who of these villagers would carry the message? Several of them had been studying her since she entered the village limits. Slogging through fresh powdery snow, from stores to hostels to taverns, with Nualan shadows dogging her heels. No, no one had heard anything.… If the Atare was in the region, he had not greeted the town elders.… Yes, if his people came through, they would pass along a message.

  “Serae?” Darame lifted her head to face one of the shadows that had flitted in her wake all the long afternoon. Bright eyes peered at her from under shaggy brows. The man wore a long, hooded poncho over some type of skintight, insulated suit; his face was hidden.

  “Yes?” she said in Nualan, wondering what this meant. She had not expected an approach so soon.…

  “You seek Sheel Atare in the Starrise Mountains?” the husky voice asked.

  “I seek him,” she answered, studying the man’s stiff stance. He clung to a staff with his right hand, the left holding a mug which was supported by the fireplace mantle. The poncho was belted close to his body, and heavy gloves were tucked in that belt.

  “Why does an off-worlder seek our Lord?” No change in expression or tone that she could see. It was that strange Nualan bluntness, at odds with their fetish for privacy.

  She opened her palm to reveal the chip of pottery. “He left me a token of his passing, if I should have need of him. I have need of him.”

  Nodding once, his gaze devouring the fragment, the man turned his head to sip at his drink.

  Uncertain of mountain protocol, Darame indicated with a gesture that he could join her table. Choosing instead to sit at the opposite end of the fireplace, the man propped up a foot on a box marked FIRE CRYSTAL STICKS and leaned his staff against the stone wall. Shrugging, he pushed back his hood.

  Blond hair both long and greying, as thick and shaggy as the brows and beard. His eyes were unexpected.… They echoed the watered topaz of old Riva Ragäree’s right eye, their color like polished amber. Darame liked his face; although solemn, the crinkles at his eyes and mouth promised humor, as well as time spent outdoors. His gaze was too steady to lie.