Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  Fully awake, fully alert… Slowly, pulling a blanket close, Darame sat upright. Her dreams had been hazy, and troubled. Dreams of disaster, abandonment… death in a frozen waste. A warm touch had chased away the night tremors, but whether the hand had been phantom or real she had no idea.

  “Finally, you stir,” came a husky voice, the words Caesarean, and Darame turned her head in response. Mailan had appeared out of darkness, indicating where the entrance was located. “How do you feel?”

  “Cold.” Evasiveness might serve with Fergus the Sini, but not with this guaard. She knows too much about me, at least on that score.

  “I was afraid you would say that.” Mailan was carrying a basket. “I will see what I can do.” Setting the basket on the foot of the cot, Mailan bent to sprinkle heat disks on the fire.

  Smelling food, Darame rooted around in her bundles. The bread was not fresh, but was still soft, and the cheese was the smooth, pale variety sold at the tavern. The stew actually had meat in it.

  “Go ahead, do not wait for me,” came Mailan’s voice.

  She even notices pauses, when she chooses. Lifting the lid off the stoneware mug, she sampled the contents and almost gagged. The seasoning!

  “I know.” Mailan turned and sat on a low stool near the bed. “Bad.”

  “It has been well-preserved,” Darame said politically, starting on the bread.

  “Slowly,” Mailan advised, reaching for the basket. “Make sure your fingers will hold things. How do they feel?”

  Wiggling her fingers and then her toes, Darame nodded her satisfaction. “Everything works.”

  Saffra appeared in a flat-bottomed pot with a slightly chipped spout. Mailan tilted her head toward Darame, raising an eyebrow in an excellent imitation of Sheel.

  “Please,” Darame told her, gesturing at the mugs.

  “You have been with Avis — everyone starts pointing and flinging arms around after they have spent time with her,” Mailan commented, pouring two cups of steaming brew.

  “Sheel told me to keep an eye on her,” Darame offered, one eye on the guaard. “It was the least I could do.” She did not volunteer anything else. This was strange, at best; Mailan had never spoken to Darame while off-duty. At least not in any extended manner, she thought ruefully. That one night of drinking… had Mailan been on duty or not? Almost human, then. Granted, there had been no time, no place they could feel Sheel was even moderately safe. Of course Darame never had been one to encourage idle conversation.…

  “I see you took the pills.” Blandly spoken, but the guaard was watching her closely.

  “Yes. It seemed prudent after the gas attack.”

  “We shall be interested to hear about your sojourn at the palace,” Mailan went on. “A fresh eye is always valuable.” She paused to sip her saffra.

  Darame suddenly felt as sharp as ever. Halsey, I think I found us a route home! They know nothing… or at least nothing they find valuable, even after all this time. And what if no one in Atare city is trying to find the murderers?… No one important, that is… An odd thought which had troubled her for many days returned to the surface of her mind. She decided to play devil’s advocate.

  “Well, how goes the investigation?” Darame started, reaching for the other mug of saffra. “Any leads on which guaard killed The Atare?” Although she was facing the fire, Darame could still see Mailan out of the corner of her left eye.

  The woman stiffened — there was no other word for it. After a long moment, she turned her head as regally as any queen, her intense grey gaze settling on Darame.

  Stretching out her legs toward the fire, Darame arranged herself in a cascade from the cot to a crumpled cloth rug. Only after picking up a wedge of cheese did she glance at Mailan. “Shall we dispense with the games? You have no leads — or few you can use. You told Ayers to shadow me to protect Avis and Leah from me. But I didn’t try to do anything to them because I never intended them any harm. Not now, not previously — not to any Atare. But I have eyes, Mailan, to see what can be seen, and I know how the guards are placed in that palace complex. Both regular forces and guaard, Mailan — the place is crawling with them. And was before the attacks.… Only the guards on the outer door have increased. Only the guaard on Leah and Avis has increased.”

  “Your point?” Mailan said tightly.

  “It is obvious that only an insider could get close enough to Cort Atare to kill him. Staff would have noticed anyone moving around the palace at an odd time — anyone, even a member of the family. Except a guaard or a regular soldier. And the guaard would have questioned a regular soldier approaching Cort’s private chambers. It had to be someone dressed as a guaard. And to actually kill two of your group without any noise at all? Another guaard, of course — who would catch them unaware, not expecting their own to turn.” Darame felt her voice was a bit relentless, but she trusted it was having the proper effect.

  “We do not think it happened quite that way,” Mailan finally said, draining the saffra in one gulp, heedless of scalding.

  “Almost.”

  There was a long pause. A stick on the fire shifted suddenly, sparks flying into the air. Mailan calmly reached for a poker and began rearranging the burning fragments. “Almost,” she agreed. Glancing at Darame, she asked, “Just what are you, anyway?”

  “I think you need to be a bit more specific,” Darame temporized.

  “No games, you said. I have seen people in your line of work before. You are… not like them. Close, but not like them. You are too good at what you do, and you do not use drugs to heighten your senses. I checked, when The Atare healed you, after the gas incident. No implants, either. Nothing to be cut off by trade embargoes, nothing to be blackmailed for.… You must be expensive, whatever you really do.”

  This turn in the conversation was unexpected; Darame had expected her records and her mind to be examined. It seemed the Nualans did not hesitate to check even mundane things, like medical implants.…

  “Your machines do not check for that on arrival?”

  Mailan shrugged. “Only illegal or dangerous implants. It is not illegal to be constantly alert… just draining. A natural must be solid trine gold to someone.”

  “And yet I have made more than my share of mistakes this trip,” Darame responded, pulling the last of the bread out of the basket.

  Mailan actually smiled. It looked good on her face. “You take chances, and use instinct. Sometimes it is clumsy, but ultimately you succeed, yes?” The strange inflection spoke of remote origins, beyond Atare city.

  “That is part of it,” Darame admitted. She was not sure about the rest of it. Risking the ragäree on a hunch.… Liar. Why did you come here?

  “So. You will help us?”

  “I am not sure I can,” Darame began.

  Mailan shook her head, still smiling. “Perhaps not. But you have already done quite a bit for us. And I do not think you are seriously in danger. After all… questions are asked when a tourist vanishes.”

  That entire pronouncement was intriguing, but Darame doubted she would get anything more out of Mailan. Not without trading something else. But how to talk without revealing her own reason for coming to Nuala?

  A sucker is needed. Brant’s words came vividly to mind. She examined them, weighing every last nuance, questioning posture, expression, intonation. He is going to let Halsey take the blame. Why? And then a second thought — one which Darame allowed to squelch all other questions, all other reasons for taking risks. If I help them, the reward could easily rival anything Halsey and I might have gotten otherwise. Better our skins and a little profit than a disaster. Something nibbled at the corners of this thought, mocking her professed reasoning.…

  Darame quickly leaned over toward Mailan. “I’ll make a deal with you. You get The Atare to agree to immunity from prosecution, for myself and my partners, and I will tell you what I know and what I guess. I suspect you could use an outside perspective.”

  Mailan’s face closed. “I cannot
give you such a thing. Almost a dozen murders, our ruler dead, and—”

  “Not that.” Darame waved a hand irritably, this time recognizing the gesture as Avis’s. “For anything else except murder. I don’t know how tight your laws are, what you classify as Localized Treason. I can’t tell you a thing without that guarantee. But I will tell you this: I had nothing to do with Cort’s death. Nothing. It was unnecessary to why I came here. I can say the same for Halsey. As for anyone else in the extended network of working associates, well, if they were involved in the murders, they deserve whatever is coming to them.” On other worlds she would have qualified that, using the word “humane” in some fashion. But the rulers of Atare were the judges, and she could not see Sheel sentencing anyone to a penalty that was less than humane.

  The guaard stood, a clean, crisp gesture, and started gathering up the dishes. “Rest a bit. I will ask The Atare of this. I will bring you his reply before vespers.” Basket in hand, she was gone.

  Such abruptness puzzled Darame momentarily. What could they hope she knew? Do I know it? And if I do, should I tell them?

  o0o

  “I do not think we can trust her.” Mailan spoke in a terse, controlled tone, her rigid stance revealing her irritation.

  “Oh?” Sheel prompted, his gaze flicking back to where Tobias learned to throw a pot on a potter’s wheel.

  “She is withholding information.”

  Sheel felt one eyebrow lift as he turned to his chosen guaard. “Of course she is, Mailan. That is why she wants immunity.”

  A bit of exasperation slipped through Mailan’s control. “I mean I do not think she will tell us what she knows even if you give her protection.”

  Stirring slightly in his seat, index finger tapping against the table, Sheel considered the problem. “If you mean that she may not tell us what she suspects, I believe you are correct. But if Darame knows anything that might help us, she will tell us. Consider your conversation as you related it to me. Darame controlled that talk, Mailan: she implied that she might know something useful to us, and then arranged for you to barter for something useful to her. Why did she do it?” If the woman recognized it as a genuine question, she had no answer. “Several possibilities come to mind. She wants information that only we can give her, for her own reasons, or for her employer.… Her official employer, or someone else who has a claim on her services. It is possible that she has observed enough the past moon to make her want to help us for its own sake. But I may be too trusting,” he admitted, his elbow settling upon the table, his other hand reaching to support his cheekbone. “She may hope for a reward of some kind from us, or from someone else.… She may even be in some sort of trouble, and needs our protection.” Holding Mailan’s gaze with his own, Sheel added: “I do not think she intends to kill me, if that is what concerns you. She has had several opportunities. The people trying to remove me are in a hurry… or were. They would not have wasted an assassin in such a position… waiting until all other attempts failed.”

  “You will give her immunity?” Mailan asked, her face a bit resigned.

  “I want you to ask her two questions. First, did she listen to the tape every new visitor is given upon arrival? Second, did she understand it? Tell her I cannot give her immunity from anything in that introductory tape. But anything else I can waive in return for her assistance.” Sheel’s finger stopped tapping and started migrating toward an empty cup, the motion tracing a sinuous path along the table.

  “That is all I should say?” Mailan looked surprised.

  The finger stopped moving. “Do not mention names, if you can help it. White’s or anyone else’s. Other than that, use the information as you see fit.” Sheel glanced up at her once again. “I do not suggest you try standard questioning with her. She will talk rings around you. Just get her to join — ” Straightening, Sheel seized the cup. “Crow!”

  “Atare?” The youth appeared in the entrance to the room.

  “Go with Mailan. Get something warm — saffra, cocoa if we have any — and take three mugs to the meeting room. Go over the information Mailan has collected, help her discuss it.” Seeing the protest rising in the young man’s eyes, Sheel added: “I will sit in the fire room. I can hear what goes on, but you will be close at hand. If you can round up Jude, all the better.”

  “Fion is on the door,” Mailan inserted.

  VESPERS

  They were going about it wrong, Darame decided. No wonder you’re not getting anywhere. In their eagerness for information and their desire to avoid traditional questioning, Mailan and Crow had tried to direct the discussion along a half-dozen paths. Three had led nowhere, and the others left Darame completely lost, since they referred to snips of knowledge unknown to her. Crow had ended up placating and Mailan annoyed. How to turn the conversation in another direction without offending the two guaard…

  “Maybe we should start with theories on who might have done it,” Crow suggested, looking from one woman to the other. “Your news of Caesarea is more recent than ours, maybe you have ideas about motive that have not occurred to us.” Mailan frowned at him, shaking her head negatively.

  “Wrong.” Darame took a long sip of the saffra and pulled her blanket closer. The room Mailan had brought her to was larger, hence colder — fortunately they had brought blankets with them. “Forget motive. It’s not really important.” Caesarean had served them for this discussion. Where was Ayers — with the Ragäree? Had he mentioned her talent for Nualan yet?

  “What do you mean?” Now Mailan was frowning at her.

  “Just what I said. Motive may be interesting, but it won’t get us anywhere. People do things for obscure reasons, Mailan — even murder. Medical types say anyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances, but everyone has different pressure points. How it was done is the question. I think you’ll find that only a few people could have done it. Eliminate those with alibis, and you’ve got your murderer.” Her words were soft, memory taking over. The man who taught her that philosophy was an acquaintance of Halsey’s, another old partner. After he and Darame were crossed on a job, he had patiently explained to her his theory of discovering the traitor. A few days later, the erstwhile third partner turned up, dead, and the gold was recovered. But there was no point in telling Mailan and Crow about the details.…

  “Then where do we start?” This was Crow; he sounded interested.

  “At the very beginning, of course. Do you have a screen here?” Darame sat up and reached to arrange a blanket closer to her feet. While she fiddled with her wraps, Mailan brought over a pressure pad and control box. Touching the box, she illuminated a screen, projecting the light onto a stack of wooden crates.

  “Good. Now, correct me if my memory is wrong. There was no attack on Avis, Leah, Tobias, or any other member of the royal family except Cort and his immediate male heirs. Correct?” Using the light stick attached to the control box, she began to draw a graph on the pressure pad. Lines of light appeared on the pad, while black lines appeared on the screen projection.

  “Seri Baldwin’s wife and — ” Crow began.

  “Incidental. They died because they were with their husbands.” Darame lifted her head, meeting his gaze. “Agreed? None of the other wives were attacked, only the ones with their husbands?” Crow nodded. “All right, then. To continue…”

  She diagrammed the entire evening for them, down to each guaard’s position before the attack. “Then we eliminate the technical things.”

  “Technical?” Mailan, her tone polite.

  “You must have an alarm system. Did anyone check it? Was it operable?” Knowing Mailan had been with Sheel, Darame turned to Crow.

  “Yes. I checked it myself at Seri Baldwin’s home. It worked.”

  “No one could have disconnected it earlier, and reconnected it before the deed was discovered?” Darame looked from one guaard to the other.

  “It is part of the wiring to the house, and has its own back-up system. It was untouched, I checked th
e historical record on the house.” Crow was emphatic, and Darame made a note in Caesarean under the graph. No tampering with alarm.

  “You understand where that leaves us? I take it the alarm is only a jump away from a guaard?”

  “The system has multiple end points,” Mailan said smoothly. “At least two in each room of the house.”

  “Worse and worse. It has to be a guaard. Did you tell Crow why I thought that?” She glanced at Crow.

  “No one else could get close enough.” His voice sounded flat, discouraged.

  “Yes. Now we get to the strange part. Two guaard took a second shift at another station. Why?”

  “There is no way to know.” Now it was Mailan’s turn to sound discouraged.

  “No way? How often do you change shifts among yourselves?”

  “Never.”

  “Never? No exceptions?” Darame wasn’t sure she believed this statement.

  “We are assigned to stations by a trainer, acting under the Captain’s direction. The Captain decides who guards which Atare, or is on door watch, hall watch — that sort of thing,” Mailan explained. “If an Atare requests a second guaard, I could call in and request one in his name — but a trainer would check later to be sure the change or addition was requested by that Atare.”

  “You checked to see if Cort or Baldwin requested a change, of course?”

  Crow nodded. “No record of a request made.”

  Darame began drawing diagonal lines inside each box of the graph. “All right, we know where everyone was before the shift changed. Then it was — what’s after compline, matins? — and the guaard changed.” She paused at that, her fingernail trailing over the pressure pad, sparks flickering under her finger. Glancing up at Mailan, she asked: “How many guaard are usually on The Atare?”

  “Two. Also on the heir.”

  “And everyone else has one, under normal circumstances?” Darame persisted.

  “Yes. Although what ‘normal’ is, I no longer know,” Mailan admitted. “Why?”