Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “Because only one dead guaard was found at Cort Atare’s side.”

  Leaping up from her chair, Mailan glided over to the projection, studying it intently. “I do not — Stupid, stupid!” Mailan’s hand came up swiftly, and the smack against her forehead was audible.

  Crow was too bewildered to speak; he kept looking at the pad under Darame’s hand. She did not prompt him; she was still not certain what the information meant.

  Mailan finally turned back to face the others, raising a hand to them as if to seize their attention. “We were so busy trying to figure out why Martin and Reese were in the wrong places — “ She stopped, there, her face frozen, her thoughts far away. The hand slowly lowered to her side. “I need a drink.” She moved woodenly to a small keg resting on wooden pylons, reaching to the shelf above for a stone mug.

  “It all happened so quickly, and kept happening,” Darame offered quickly. “It’s no wonder you have had no time to think clearly. Whoever did this knew that speed was essential… and probably intended no survivors.”

  “We were dupes,” Crow said suddenly, his gaze riveted to the dregs of his saffra. “We move as one unit, and think only as ordered.… The perfect weapon of war.” He looked up at Darame, and the expression in his eyes made her shiver. “Our strength has become our greatest weakness.”

  Darame nodded. “Someone saw this, and exploited it. Either a guaard, or someone controlling a guaard.”

  Crow gestured abruptly, negatively at this statement. “No one controls a guaard.” As Darame tried to continue, he rushed on, his face set and stubborn. “No. Someone may think they control a guaard, but no. Not totally. We only act alone when an Atare’s life is at stake. We can decide for ourselves, if the crisis is upon us. If we have a traitor, he has re-attached his loyalties improperly, that is all.”

  Darame felt the puzzled look creep across her face. It was Mailan who clarified Crow’s impassioned speech, wandering over with her mug of ale. “He means there are shades of loyalty among the guaard. It is inevitable, I suppose.” Sitting once again, she hunched over her mug. “For example, I am Sheel’s guaard. He chose me — just as he chose Crow, but in a more dramatic manner. So my primary loyalty would be to him — even if Cort had suddenly decided he should be killed. I would have had to have made the decision for myself whom to support in such a case.”

  “How would you decide?” Darame was fascinated, and the subject of the conversation hushed her voice.

  “The only way we can decide: through the body of our oaths. There is a contradiction in the oath a guaard swears to The Atare.… I suspect the contradiction is intentional, or at least providential. You did not understand Nualan then, did you?” At this, a gleam lit in the guaard’s eyes.

  “Not then, no,” Darame said, smiling.

  “You are good with languages, too.” It was a statement of fact. “But the oath… It is completed with the line ‘for so long as they hold to their charge.’ The Atare and Ragäree’s response ends in a similar manner: ‘holding your trust as I hold to my charge: head, hand, and heart of the heirs, now and forever.’” Mailan’s expression grew intent. “Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

  “You’re saying… that killing the heirs is forbidden?” Darame started slowly.

  “No. I am saying that the proper raising and protecting of the heirs is The Atare’s primary concern — The Ragäree’s primary concern. The health of the land hinges on the heirs. They are the symbol of our renewal; our survival. If Cort felt Sheel was a danger to himself, he might have him watched, or restrained — but not killed. Not without absolute proof of treachery, and intent to kill — even if Sheel wanted his throne. Unless Cort could prove Sheel intended to kill him for it, he could not order his death. As you saw in the tape, we take death seriously. Few people actually die, even when we are at war.”

  “So if one of the heirs wanted the throne, and tried to get it, but failed, the Atare could only banish him?”

  “Exactly,” Mailan said, nodding. “Unless intent to kill was proved. So Crow is saying that our primary loyalty, as guaard, is to the throne line of Atare. A ruler is a passing thing, but Atare is forever.”

  “And someone no longer has the throne line’s best interest at heart?” Darame continued, smiling wryly.

  “So it would seem.”

  Darame considered this idea for a while. How could she help these people? They might have actually evolved beyond the rest of the seven systems, at least in some respects, but they were lambs surrounded by wolves in other ways. She felt alien among them. Although she had killed only in self-defense, Darame had been angry enough once to plot someone’s death. It had been a person who had violated the private code of the free-traders, which was what displaced persons like Darame called themselves. If Hank hadn’t killed him first, I might have.… All because I felt he had betrayed me. I didn’t even care that much about the gold. Hank got rid of him and found the gold as well. A point of honor, that. Different from the methods of other free-traders, like Brant, who she suspected would kill with little provocation.

  “Can people who avoid killing succeed against people willing to kill?” Darame murmured the words over her mug, polishing off the last of the saffra. Then an incongruity in Mailan’s explanation occurred to her. “Why did Crow have to give Sheel the oath? Didn’t he give that oath to Cort when he became a guaard?”

  Crow nodded in the affirmative to her question, while Mailan looked uncomfortable.

  “You did not know then that a guaard had turned traitor?” Darame persisted.

  “No. But Sheel…” She seemed reluctant to speak.

  “I had had a nightmare; and my nightmares are the raw stuff of reality,” came Sheel’s voice from the entranceway leading into the room. “The fire room is smaller, but warmer. Perhaps you all should join me there?” The question held a note of command; the two guaard were instantly on their feet.

  Rising slowly, Darame pulled one of the blankets closer around her shoulders. Leaning against the support dividing the rooms, Sheel watched as she reached to pick up the shawl covering her feet while Crow gathered up the screen, control box and pressure pad. Mailan was busy gathering mugs and a plate; Sheel stopped her with a gesture.

  “I have warmed some wine.” Gesturing politely for Darame to precede him, Sheel followed her into the adjoining enclosure. “Even Atares are allowed occasional moments of paranoia,” he added, sitting near the fire burning in the center of the room.

  Was that an explanation or a smoke screen? To draw my attention from your statement about dreams? It was said her father’s mother had something his people called The Sight.… Something like that? She shivered, only partially from the draft creeping past her bare feet. Of course there would be a draft, how else to draw the little bit of smoke from the room?…

  “Shall we return to the very obvious point Darame has brought home to us? Only one body was found at Cort’s side — in Cort’s quarters. Where was the other guaard?” Reaching for the mugs Mailan was carrying, Sheel poured hot wine into one and offered it to Darame.

  She did not reach for it. “You did not have to hide. I have nothing to say to Mailan that I would not say to you.”

  “Protecting me distracts them from watching you,” Sheel explained patiently, smiling. The mug was still extended.

  “I’ll take the next one.” But she smiled back.

  Sighing, shaking his head in mild amusement, Sheel passed the mug to Crow and continued filling containers. He lined up the remaining three and let Darame choose at random, which she did quickly. Crow had set up the screen in the meantime, setting the pressure pad on the table next to Darame.

  “What happened to the other guaard?” Crow asked as if she were telling a story, and he waiting on the next installment.

  “Good question. Let’s figure it out. Do you have a copy of the assignment sheet, or whatever you call it?” Darame asked, her gaze quickly taking in the group.

  “Roster.” Mailan extract
ed several information rings from one of her myriad pockets. She reached for the control box and inserted first one and then the other. A command was tapped in and the pressure pad graph disappeared, replaced by a split screen showing two rosters. “This one I had when I went on duty that night… this one was in the machine the next day. Note that no changes are indicated between the time Jude gave me the first roster, and when she gave me the second. Yet changes have occurred.”

  “Tampering?”

  Mailan shook her head. “Fion checked. The computer has not had its programming changed. The intrusion was legitimate… as far as the computer was concerned.”

  “So changes can be made without indicating who made the changes?”

  “Quick,” Crow said admiringly, reaching to point at the projection. “All that is required is for a trainer or the captain to activate the change mode. If they forget to turn it off, anyone can make changes.”

  “And it would register in the name of the person who left the change mode on?” Darame asked. The two guaard nodded. “I imagine that rarely happens, then. It is too important. So a captain or trainer recorded the changes. Did you ask the captain why Martin and Reese were in the wrong place?”

  “There was no time for specifics,” Sheel began.

  “I asked him.” Crow’s words stopped Sheel in mid-sentence. The others turned to him.

  “Well?” Mailan prompted.

  “He said he did not know, that he doubted we would ever know, unless we found the killer.” Crow looked somber. “Fion says there is only one access code for both captain and trainers.…”

  “I assume the trainers know each other’s numbers?” Darame kept her gaze on her mug. “Why not? So the name on the entry is not necessarily the person who made the changes. Voices can be recorded for voice identification.” She pointed to the projection screen. “Are those all the people who were scheduled originally to serve at matins?”

  “Yes. All except Martin and Reese.”

  “The guaard found with Cort was not one of his regulars?” Darame kept talking, waiting for inspiration to come.

  “No. But he was high enough up that Dirk or a trainer might have sent him there, if there was need.” This was from Crow, who was clearly looking for a pattern to her thoughts.

  “And no one questioned… of course. No one was left to question.…” She finally looked up. “I don’t think your killer expected anyone to look at that schedule.… Even moving Martin and Reese was a last moment thought. I think the killers – plural — expected to have someone to take the blame, and weren’t worried about a proper investigation.”

  “But how — “ Mailan started.

  “Mob justice.” Seeing their blank faces, she rushed on. “If all had gone as planned, Iver would still be in the hospice, in no condition for anything, Sheel dead, and the two senior guaard dead! Leah would be trying to establish some sort of order. Word leaks out that outsiders — off-worlders, or simply non-Atares — killed Cort and the others, and a few names are suggested. Might not a few people take the law into their hands, and see that these people were punished?”

  “The constable’s officers and the guaard would not — “ Mailan began.

  “But if someone in the guaard allowed them to get at the suspected people? Dead men usually don’t tell their side of a story.” No one tried to break in after that. Both Mailan and Crow looked a bit pale, while Sheel kept his gaze on the fire. “When you’ve dealt with conspiracies in the past, the guaard were all united to find the problem. This time, you have a divided house, and the best of your group actually working against you.” She made a face, and decided not to soften her words. “To me it sounds crazy that you never considered such a possibility. But I begin to see why you didn’t.”

  “We did.” Sheel’s words were very quiet. “As you say… it is difficult for us to believe. We may even have a name. But we have no proof.”

  “Can you highlight Martin and Reese’s names somehow?” Darame turned to Crow for this, wanting to shake him out of his scattered thoughts. Reaching over, the young man tapped a few spots on the control membrane, and the names were washed with a pale blue. Darame studied the rosters, her mind still blank, waiting.…

  “Of course,” she whispered. “Stupid child, now who’s being dense?” Darame turned to Mailan. “It takes a mag gun to stop one of you, doesn’t it? That’s why your criminals don’t bother with weapons: they’re useless against guaard.”

  “Weapons are a capital offense, if turned against a sentient creature. The various troops of the great clans do not need a weapon to immobilize someone, if that is what you are asking,” Mailan told her. “Their training is similar to ours. Only we devote our lives to it.”

  “Even a guaard couldn’t jump a guaard. Unless there was an element of surprise! Don’t you see?” Untangling herself from her blanket, Darame moved beyond the firepit to the projection on the crate. “It’s a variation of the old shell game! Look — the traitor, someone with authority, takes the kid with him to Cort’s rooms. He gives Martin an excuse that Martin accepts, something that makes him go to Baldwin’s home. I imagine it’s just what it looks like — maybe they arrived before shift change, and he told Martin to take the next shift at Baldwin’s and send Reese on down the line. That was a mistake, see — he should have had Reese come back to Cort’s, and killed him there, so the body count would be right! But a killer was already waiting for Reese at the other brother’s; he had already killed the new shift!” Darame had no idea if they were following her gesturing, but she was sure what she was suggesting was close to the truth. Still… “But… but that means the killer must have been waiting for Martin, and how — ”

  “Yes!” Mailan leaped to her feet. “The hospice said they died between matins and lauds, but lauds is canonical for healers! That means it could have been the end of compline, because matins is late this time of year!” She moved to the projection, the others invisible to her. “Baldwin’s home is the only place to do it. They come at shift change, someone senior enough that Martin feels it is all right to leave Cort Atare. Martin walks to Baldwin’s home — “

  “But why not just have Martin tell the next shift to go back to barracks?” Crow protested, slamming his fist on the table. “They killed them for no reason!”

  “They could have no witnesses, Crow,” Sheel said mildly. “And Baldwin’s house is where the search was concentrated… after the evidence was removed. Martin arrives at shift change, gives Reese the message, and settles in. The second guaard going off duty returns to barracks. But what of the guaard actually scheduled for matins?”

  “On his way to his death. The second guaard was found on the path outside the house, off to the side,” Crow said quickly. “Martin gave the message, and then went into the house — “

  “No! Don’t you see? They didn’t have enough time, or enough conspirators!” Mailan’s shriek stopped all conversation. “I have watched at Seri Baldwin’s, and I know the procedure. One at the outer door, one in the bedroom. If Martin dismissed Reese and his second, he would have waited at the door for the second guaard. Who came. With intent to kill. The traitor killed the scheduled person on the way, just as you said, Crow. But somehow a killer took the place of the originally scheduled guaard. He must have told — Who was it?” She broke off to examine the projection again. “Dex! The killer told Dex that there had been a change, and he — or she — was on duty with him at Baldwin’s. Someone reasonable, possible. So Dex never suspected, never questioned — ” She whirled to Crow. “If I came up to you in barracks and told you I was taking a shift with you, would you question it?”

  Crow shook his head. “But Mailan… that is so cold-blooded!”

  “Isn’t it,” Darame muttered, studying the screen. “Go on, Mailan, this interests me.”

  “The killer takes care of Dex just out of earshot, and then comes up to Martin. Even if there was blood, Martin would not see it in the dark.”

  “Smell it?” Darame asked quickly.<
br />
  Mailan paused. “Possibly. I do not know.”

  “No blood,” Crow said, gulping some wine. “Dex’s neck was broken.”

  “So, no reason to be suspicious. Except we are always nervous at shift change! And Martin is alert. So Martin, as senior, goes inside, while the other pretends to set up outside. Only he follows Martin inside, and — “ Mailan’s gesture was graphic; even Darame winced.

  “And kills Seri Baldwin and his wife at his leisure, since they probably slept through it,” came another voice. The group looked up to see Fion leaning against the opening to the fire room. “I left Ayers on the entrance when I heard the shriek. You are getting noisy in your maturity, Mailan. I take it you are getting somewhere.”

  Both Mailan and Crow started talking swiftly in Nualan while Darame reclaimed her seat. Seeing the expression on Sheel’s face made her feel old and tired. She studied him, ignoring the storm of voices raging above her head. Now he was wooden, no trace of emotion on his face, but during Mailan’s speech she could have read him like that projection. Withdrawal was the only word for that delicate pain.… As if Mailan’s words had been weapons. As if the betrayal of guaard by guaard was even worse than what he already knew. I find I wish I could spare you this.…

  The voices had ceased. Looking up, Darame saw that Fion was studying the projection intently. “It works,” he said finally. “Unfortunately, it works. Reese is sent to the house farthest from Seri Baldwin’s, and meets his death there. I talked to the woman who was supposed to be at Seri Baldwin’s… Dex grabbed her and told her the schedule had been changed, and she was not needed. She did not question him — she had a gentleman to visit, if she was off-duty.”

  “That could have been a loose end,” Darame offered. “If Dex had only mentioned a name!”

  “No name.” There was anger under Fion’s regret.

  “But that does tell us something,” came Sheel’s voice. “Whoever left with Dex must have been authorized to watch Baldwin.” He did not look up from the fire.