Fires of Nuala Read online

  “No, we are even. I seriously doubt White will mention this incident. Or if he does, he will include my offer of adjusting guaard rotation.” Shifting onto his side, Sheel rolled upright, crossing his legs in a flurry of cotton bedding. The curled lumps of fur scattered across the bed reacted in varying degrees, one unfolding and stretching hugely, one stalking off in a huff, a third giving him an injured look before curling up once again, and the fourth jumping into his lap and purring. Absently stroking the tiny cat’s beryl-tinged fur, Sheel suddenly lifted his head and gave her a direct look. “Let me rephrase that.… I am in your debt many times over, I suspect. Why did you not tell me that Dirk was making problems for you?”

  This was definitely not in the regulations. Dear Mendülay, why did he have to treat her like a person instead of like part of the wall? The formality of the guaard made some things easier. She did not meet his gaze. It was difficult to counter Sheel’s look even on good days.

  An instant’s relaxation, Sheel’s equivalent of a shrug. “It did not occur to me that guaard selection had changed so drastically in my absence. Yet if I retracted the choice, I suspect it would be worse for you. If it is a problem, I offer my apology.” Tickling the cat to make it move, Sheel unwound his long legs and jumped out of the bed.

  Always controlled, his movements. When the temple taught the basics of elkita, the ritual dance which was also warfare, it rarely found such responsive material. Sheel was incredibly graceful, every move accounted for as he flowed through his daily routine. Mailan did not have to watch him vanish into the sanitation to know the beauty of his movements.

  Not good to follow that train of thought — she definitely needed a furlough. She had never thought him attractive, those first few months after his return from Emerson. First to admit she was as easily influenced by trends as any person of her generation, Mailan found his older brother Iver’s beauty overwhelming. Classic from every angle, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips that made him look like a Terran statue, Iver was also blessed with what many thought the most pleasing type of Atare eyes — one iris blue, and one green. Curly blond hair completed Iver’s physical charms, and he was not lacking in other graces.

  Talking to him was like taking to a stone pillar, if one desired to talk to stone, Mailan reminded herself, trying to push the topic from her mind. But who would waste time talking to Iver? Gorgeous, an Atare, and a proven 20 — women fell at his feet. His pregnant bride, a maiden from a conservative country on Emerson, turned a blind eye to his wanderings, understanding that Atare husbands were either disconcertingly faithful (as far as other women were concerned) or incurably straying, like Iver. But there it was; of the younger men, Iver was by far the one women dreamed about.

  Yet Sheel was the one they set traps for, made excuses to meet, had even fought over. Part of it was his rampant fertility. All Atares were fertile; Iver had three acknowledged children before he went seeking his wife. Sheel, incredibly, had twelve, between Atare city and lovely Maroc, and Mailan had heard there were several more in the mountains, where women did not rush to a physician to prove their child’s proud ancestry.

  What did that remind her of?… Oh, yes — another child. Claire reb^Guin had been especially persistent. Remembering how persistent, Mailan felt irritation rising and stifled it. Sometimes it was an unpleasant sensation, the feeling that Sheel often slept with a woman to get rid of her. I protect him as much as he will allow.… But he would want to know about the new child before tonight; would not want to find out from the “wrong” people. Like his sister Leah, her jealousy a draw dagger against his throat…

  Mailan could not resist a sudden smile as she saw steam drift out of the sanitation and heard snatches of an old ballad. They are fools, the ones who look no farther than the child they hope for.… Any woman who had ever met him, talked to him — surely they saw more than genetic advantage. Something about Sheel drew the eye, the spirit. The calm, even detached air he projected, maybe? Restless intelligence and flippant wit had endeared him to both his mother and her brother, Cort Atare. Mailan had finally decided he was very attractive, but not in the current fashion. Tall, taller than his guaard, who was considered tall among men and women. And thin — terribly thin, almost unhealthy at first glance, until one saw the tight muscle lining every curve and angle of his body. I can count every rib, and the striations of muscle tissue, she thought idly, moving to draw the vertical blinds and open the doors to the balcony. That slender face, so remote… and of course the eyes.

  Legend had it that Captain Habbukk of the starship Atare, founder of their tribe, had such eyes. Very light, they changed color, now pale green flicked with amber, at other times hinting blue. But only half the left one matched its mate. The lower half, almost a horizontal split, was a warm topaz brown. The effect was tricky — in dim light one eye was light, the other unexpectedly solid dark as the reflecting properties of the iris blended. Face to face in full day, it was unnerving.

  He sauntered back into the room, already half-dressed, reaching to stroke a cat’s arched back as he walked toward the balcony. As predictable as starrise, Mailan followed, aware they were defenseless against snipers. Our trainers intend us to become paranoid. Yet few Atares have died violently since our tenure began.

  The setting star turned Sheel’s sandy hair to gold and drew fire from Mailan’s chestnut curls. He settled upon a stone bench lining the railing and gave her a long look. “You… need a furlough,” he said calmly, and turned to look out over the drop.

  Transparent. Always, in his presence. At the least, I need a good man, she admitted. Mailan had no delusions about her position. She was a borderline 20, as yet and perhaps always infertile, and a native. And the first guaard he has selected since his return home, she reminded herself. Let others compete for his attention and children. No blame there — if she were fertile, and not a rural mountain girl, the temptation would be great. Instead, she would settle for the honor of guarding his body and providing comic relief.

  “Have I missed anything exciting, being unconscious an entire day?” he asked mildly, draping an arm over the railing as he moved into a stretching exercise.

  Hot healers should not work emergency center. They are too precious.

  He looked up when she did not immediately answer, and again, seemed to read something in her grey eyes. “Those three in shock would have died if I had not been there, Mailan. Be charitable.”

  “It is fortunate you are off duty tonight,” she responded carefully. To approve of Serae Leah’s party was more than Mailan would admit, but to criticize Sheel’s decision to serve as a regular physician would also be poor form. Her responsibility was his health and safety. Hysterical accident victims did not make her job easy.

  “I intend to stay inaccessible. Rob asked to borrow the house tonight — I shall stay at the palace long enough to avoid offense and then find some place quiet to sleep.” He covered his eyes a moment, and Mailan was appalled. He rarely revealed such exhaustion, even to her.

  “As you wish, Seri. In answer to your question, I truly slept through the vespers bell. The only news I caught was that Claire reb^Guin delivered a manchild. Number thirteen.” She placed the slightest of pauses before her last statement, wondering if he would catch it.

  The barest hint of a dimple, heralding the possibility of a real smile. “Definitely mine?”

  “I believe the ancient saying is… a baker’s dozen?”

  A chuckle escaped him as he once again surveyed the view. “Unkind, Mailan, unkind. Still another birth gift; I may need a loan at this rate.”

  “It is Mendülay’s gift,” Mailan said steadily, not sure she liked what overwork was doing to his attitude.

  “Mendülay’s will, at least.” His attention was suddenly caught. “The Caesarean transport apparently arrived. I heard Leah sent a mining lander after it.”

  Mailan moved to the railing. Below, they could see the steps of one of the most exclusive hostels. The brilliant green of Caesare
an diplomacy was highly visible, and she recognized the tall redhead Brant. Ah, that one, playing up to both daughters of the House. A dangerous line he trod.…

  Flashing silver and turquoise focused her gaze, and Mailan’s expression narrowed. An uncommonly attractive female. Glancing out the corner of her eye, she watched Sheel for a reaction.

  Sheel lifted an elegant eyebrow. “An ice princess. Brant certainly attracts beautiful women. Do you think he will remain after his tour is completed?”

  An idle question; Sheel probably did not expect an answer. Mailan chose to give him one. “I am uncomfortable in his presence.”

  Sheel’s gaze was level. It was widely assumed that Brant was Serae Leah’s current lover, and his attentions to Avis, the youngest daughter, had been noted. His dilemma was understandable; Leah was married, while Avis, like Sheel, had failed to find a spouse on Emerson. An Atare bride was quite a prize.…

  “Avis favors Stephen,” he said tranquilly.

  Stephen… Second Ambassador Stephen Se’Morval, from Garrison System. Certainly in attendance… An order to shadow? Uncertain, Mailan locked the information away within.

  Another stretch, and Sheel jumped up, moving back into the bedroom. “I doubt I can find service this late in the day, and clean sheets would be a courtesy. Do you think, Mailan, I can impose upon you to assist me?” He moved into the hall and opened the linen hatch.

  Mailan gave him a long, haughty stare worthy of White. Then she reached for a stack of sheets and said gently: “That is the second.”

  False Colors:

  to purposely deceive as to one’s

  position, intent, resources, etcetera.

  Chapter Two

  ATARE PALACE, ATARE

  THIRTYSIXDAY, COMPLINE — FEAST OF SOULS

  Sheel stepped backwards until he came up against the stone wall, doing his best to hide within the swirl of color that was the crowd. Only eight bells, much too early to depart. Several women were especially persistent tonight, Crystle reb^Lesli the foremost, and he was determined to leave alone. If only Leah would send her son to bed; when the guest of honor said good night, Sheel would feel free to slip away. Dear Mendülay, what a mob. Anyone who was anyone in this city was present. A compliment to young Tobias, or fear of offending Leah? You have gained a great deal of power in the last few years, sweet sister. I wonder what you intend to do with it.…

  “How can you stand this noise without a drink to fortify you?” came a familiar voice. Sheel tilted his head in his brother’s direction.

  “You are fortified enough for both of us,” Sheel replied in the same language, Caesarean, giving Iver a wry look.

  The man was puzzled at first, and then laughed broadly. Iver was normally a bit slow to understand Sheel’s often deadpan humor; alcohol was guaranteed to drag out his comprehension still further. But Sheel liked his big, brassy older brother. Iver was not overly intelligent, to be sure, but he was honest, and had a kind heart. A decided weakness for attractive women and the party circuit were minor faults.

  Finally regaining control of his mirth Iver said: “You look tired. What have you been doing with yourself lately?”

  “Emergency Center. A festival is always a bad time in a hospice,” Sheel answered, keeping his tone casual. He was not in a mood to discuss it.

  “You know you should not do that,” Iver said seriously. “Cort does not like it.”

  “If our uncle had any real objections he would voice them.”

  Iver shook his head expansively. “Cort never objects to anything you do — not anything. Sometimes I think he wishes you were his son — or first heir.”

  Sheel lifted an eyebrow and gave Iver a withering look, which he missed completely.

  “But that is not possible, so he lets you have what you want, instead,” Iver continued, taking a swig of his grocha. “I envy you, Sheel. At least you have something they cannot deny you. A healer must heal. I have to wait until someone important enough dies before I can serve as a judge.” Gesturing with his drink, Iver turned to face Sheel squarely as his brother took a cautious step to the left. Grocha was a powerful concoction, and could draw the dye right out of material. “I volunteered to take that position up in the mountains a few moons ago, but Baldwin said it ‘lacked prestige.’” Irritated, Iver took another drink. “He just wants me somewhere important so when he is Atare, he can control the post. I know I will be terrible with big decisions.… Arbitrating disputes over goats and pastureland is something I could do!”

  There was little Sheel could say in response. Iver had neither false modesty nor ambition. He probably would have done a fine job in that post, Sheel reflected. It did not lack prestige, it was a regional post… but it was an area where Baldwin was not interested in maintaining direct control. And Cort Atare was a very old man, he could die before the winter was out.…

  Reaching to give Iver’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, Sheel said: “You would have done a fine job there, Iver. Baldwin could have re-appointed you later.” That was as neutral as he could make it and still give his brother support.

  Iver’s face brightened. “He could have! Why did he not think of it? I wish he could see as far as you — it is all that reading you do.”

  “I confine my reading to theology and legend,” Sheel said, laughing. “I only turn my mind to these things when you point them out to me. Baldwin, however, is always thinking — it is what he is best at. Trust him, he will not place you over your head.” The last was soft, to spare prying ears. No sense admitting that Iver had no talent for the law. “Now, on a happier note; did you see the ice princess who arrived around vespers? She is apparently attached to the Caesarean consulate.”

  A broad grin crossed Iver’s face. “As delicate as a snowflake! And Sheel, she has eyes as black as coal, as bottomless as a well.… You could fall into them and never climb back out.”

  “If you do not climb back out, I believe your wife will become annoyed,” Sheel suggested.

  “Well, true, but I do not mean anything serious! She is so tiny and perfect — look for yourself!” Grabbing his brother’s arm, Iver pulled him to one side and pointed through an opening in the crowd.

  “Pray do not be obvious, Iver. It will spoil your hunt,” Sheel said. He looked, however. Silver hair was not common — it was currently not popular, at least on Nuala. Nor on Emerson… And she appeared young, too young to have tried any of the treatments to put off aging. She was too far off for a glimpse of the amazing black eyes, but she was wearing an interesting dress that was holding the attention of men around her. Shimmering like turquoise silk, it was what some cultures called a wrap, the long skirt slit up the back to the matching short pants. A second piece of material tied behind the neck, wrapped across a promising front and crossed in back over the ribs, tying in front at the waist. Open-toed black shoes with a tall heel finished off the effect.

  “Are you sure she is your type, Iver?” Sheel said curiously. “You have never — ”

  “What is life without variety?” Iver interrupted. “And she smiled at me earlier, Sheel! A nice smile.” His expression grew sad. “I am already too drunk to introduce myself, but I think I will ask Brant to make sure I meet her sometime soon.”

  “Excellent idea, Iver,” Sheel said, resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder a moment. “Take care — I should pay my respects to Cort.” Iver nodded a casual farewell as Sheel moved off into the glittering crowd.

  Cort Atare, forty-eighth ruler of his line, eldest survivor of his generation and far older than he liked to admit, was bored. He was doing his best to disguise that fact, but Sheel knew that as Cort had aged he had had less patience with “idle chatter,” as he termed socializing. Summoning his official smile, Sheel walked up slowly to the small group around his uncle, waiting for a courteous opening. As he approached, he heard the beginning of a “Cort explosion”: “I want no further discussion of it — the Atare-Dielaan war is over, and the extremists are — ”

  Motion caug
ht the man’s attention. Cort immediately turned to Sheel, a smile lighting his fierce hawk face, a glint of humor in his green eye. Surveying first Sheel’s clothing and then the impassive reserve of the guaard shadowing him, The Atare said: “Chose her because she glowers at people, eh? Fion says she will be the best someday.”

  “I thought so,” Sheel said casually, not embarrassing Mailan by looking at her. A quick glance around the circle revealed Cort’s companions to be the archpriest Ward, second in authority to High Priest Jonas and his likely heir, and Cort’s own heir Baldwin, eldest of Ragäree Riva’s eight surviving children. You are an old man, Baldwin. You look to be Cort’s brother, not his nephew. Go climb a mountain, brother, or take your grandchildren to the southern beaches. You need to feel young again.

  As if sensing Sheel’s thoughts, Baldwin shifted, touching the collar of his formal shirt as if to ease its constriction. Few people made Baldwin doubt himself, but Sheel knew just the look that could make him uneasy. Actually, he liked his eldest brother — Baldwin was a steady personality, and would make a competent Atare. Little imagination, of course, and a tendency to be overbearing when he exerted his place as head of the immediate family, but a good man. And Baldwin returned his regard, if despairing of his lack of interest in the politics of Atare City.

  “Archpriest Ward keeps trying to explain the importance of ritual in our religion,” Cort said easily, apparently unaware that Sheel had heard his last words. “As usual, most of it went beyond me.”

  “Do you truly pay attention, uncle?” Baldwin asked, no hint of humor in his face.

  “Of course he does not,” Sheel said quickly, a genuine smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Theology has always bored Cort. He would much rather watch the seri and me argue about the necessity of ritual in our religion.” He glanced toward the priest as he spoke, and was rewarded with one of Ward’s rare smiles.