Standing at the top of the winding pathway, two guaard at his back, Sheel looked down into the courtyard behind his home. A breeze both warm and biting curled past his face, bringing the shouts of children to his ears.
“Is that Drew on that white pony?” he murmured, picking out the white-blond hair of the future Atare. Yesterday the child was demanding a horse instead of his usual animal.... A quick survey noted the mounted presence of dark-haired Davi, the future ragäree, his own son Ardal, their cousin Denis, and two more youngsters who looked familiar.
“Darame let him try every horse in the stable until she convinced him that his legs needed some length,” came Avis’s lilting voice.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Sheel saw the tousled golden curls and voluminous azure dress that heralded his younger sister. Extending an arm to her, he ran an experienced gaze over Avis’s taut, round belly and slightly swollen feet, even as his fingertips gauged the pulse and chemistry of the flesh against his own. “I thought you were going to rest this afternoon.”
“We thought we would watch you keep peace at The Synod meeting. It should be an amusing change from court.” Her blue eye sparkled with mischief, the green glinting slyly.
“We?” There was movement at the corner of Sheel’s field of vision; ponderous, not the floating grace of a guaard.
“I see all chance of surprising you is past.”
Her voice was low, as great a contrast to Avis’s as her height, dark curtain of hair, and green-brown eye combination. Smiling, Sheel reached carefully to embrace his elder sister’s full figure. “You look ready to burst. Pray you both do not deliver at the same time!”
Chuckling, Leah said: “You would manage.”
“Then those other two are your girls?” Sheel asked, turning back toward the courtyard. A blaze of silver announced the arrival of his wife, mounted on her long-legged Arabian stallion.
“Very good, at this distance,” Avis said admiringly.
Darame’s clear voice carried above the murmur of the waves beyond. “Is everyone ready? Heads up, heels down — Drew, ball of the foot on the stirrup, not the arch. To the beach!”
In the flush of a beautiful spring afternoon, Sheel could forgive her anything... even her latest scheme. Rushing off to teach “riding lessons,” Darame had mentioned in passing that she had invited Kristinsson to the palace for dessert and drinks. Only Ardal’s presence had kept him from pursuing the subject then and there. Obviously, Darame had known Leah had arrived, her family in tow —
“An amusing change from court?” Sheel glanced back from the retreating flash of silver toward his sisters. Just what had Darame ?...
“Yes,” Leah said, as if reading his mind. Her nod was slight, her gaze narrowing briefly, and Sheel thought he caught a hint of a wink, her brown iris momentarily obscured.
Sheel gazed at her in silence. Although she still could not piece together the events leading to her breakdown, Leah was otherwise recovered from the daemons which drove her to condone treason and murder over ten years before. A calmer and happier woman, she was no less intelligent — and she had an eye for a rogue that rivaled Darame’s.
The Synod delegates were often careful around his wife, knowing her reputation. But many thought Leah had thrown over all her power and influence when she relinquished her hold on the throne. Not at all; she had merely changed goals. What they were Sheel had no real idea, but they no longer included ruling Atare. How strange that otherwise intelligent people would think that a woman who was breeding had stopped thinking.
“I suppose this means that you had better come with me and do your part for her current scheme,” Sheel announced, his voice slightly aggrieved. More than one scheme, I am sure, he added privately, wondering which guaard would be on duty tonight for Darame. Even as he spoke, the bell rang announcing vespers. “We are going to be late.”
It was a crowded room — barely large enough for the representatives and their honor guards — but it had served as their neutral territory for almost nine years. Settling himself comfortably at the oval table, Sheel placed his receiver into his right ear. A touch to the panel before him brought up the Amuran infonet, giving him immediate access to any general information he needed. Since the others were present and his sisters seated against the wall to his right, Sheel was free to call the meeting to order.
“Good afternoon,” he said simply. “The notes of the last meeting were placed on the net within two days of adjournment, and have been reviewed by any who were so inclined. If there is no objection from The Synod, I would like to declare the notes accepted and open the new meeting of our group.” A double row of bright green lights beneath the screen of his RAM told him that all present agreed to his request. “Please enter your codes.”
This was something Halsey had suggested. With the clan peace so fragile, there was no room for error — or impostors. The rulers of the great clans had given special codes to their senior ambassadors alone, and only the senior ambassadors could vote on critical issues. Dielaan’s strange delegation initially had caused a few problems; since Rex rarely attended the meetings, his brother had been forced to nag the heir in order to get voting instructions. Livia had put a stop to that several months ago by simply giving second son Quen the identical code. Had Rex noticed that there had been no votes since Yule — at least none that he was consulted about? Possibly... today he was present, as well as his new ambassador.
All the codes were in order.... “The Synod welcomes the ambassador from Dielaan,” Sheel said formally.
Standing, the tall, grave Dielaaner proceeded to give his opening remarks to the others present. At no time did he offer the group his name, which was not unexpected. Dielaaners usually announced their titles, however; this one said only that he was an “advisor” to the embassy.
To the heirs, you mean, Sheel thought to himself, studying the older man’s clothing. It was black silk trickled with bright threads of red, green, and yellow — the sign of both wealth and mourning. Darame could work on that aspect of this arrival, perhaps pick up some clues to his identity. Now, Sheel’s only concern was whether this man would work for or against the existence of The Synod.
At least the man could keep his comments brief. With a courteous nod, the ambassador returned to his seat.
“Atare, Kilgore would like to introduce some new business into the old business of inter-tribal trade.” It was the lowest-ranking Kilgorian. “It concerns agricultural exchange between Kilgore and Dielaan.”
“Objection,” came Rex Dielaan’s smooth voice. “The buying and selling of any item produced planetside is the province of individual clan ministers. Let us not entangle domestic concerns with our far-flung enterprises.”
“Kilgore believes that the results of this discussion will impact upon both domestic and interstellar trade. We have spent the last year attempting to resolve this through ministry channels,” the young Kilgorian continued, a spot of color tracing each cheekbone. “If it is not resolved now, negotiations will be broken off and another grain substituted for KTL-83.”
“There is no substitute for KTL-83,” Rex pointed out gently. “Unless someone has stolen the swatch.”
The young Kilgore aide swallowed the words rising in his expression and said: “I did not mean to suggest that there was a substitute. Although we desire KTL-83, there are others, nearly as versatile, which could be used instead. If Dielaan is not prepared to set reasonable terms for their licensing, they must expect buyers to go elsewhere.”
While others divided their attention between the newest member of the Kilgore delegation and Rex Dielaan, Sheel concentrated on his RAM screen and Nadine reb^Ursel Kilgore. The piercing amethyst eyes were half-lidded; she sat almost at profile, gazing across the table and over the left shoulder of the ambassador from clan Yang. This was not a new strategy — Nadine usually let one of her subordinates start things off. Too many of the ambassadors either feared her intellect or disliked her biting humor. Introducing her own topics was the quickest way imaginable to have them tabled for discussion “later.”
Another ambassador might have grown insulting or intractable; Nadine merely grew subtle.
“Their privilege to set the terms, boy,” came the gruff voice of Alasdair of Wallace. “If you find them too tight, go elsewhere.”
“It is not a question of too tight, ambassador,” Kilgore responded, gracefully overlooking the “boy.” “Rather it is a question of vagueness, of setting a standard so loose as to be impossible to enforce.”
“Come now, there is nothing vague about the specification,” Rex said, flicking his fingers in dismissal in an unconscious imitation of his mother. “We set only three requirements — that you do not wholesale the seed grain to any other buyers, that you do not sell the grain or its by-products or finished products outside of Kilgore province, and that you mark any item which uses KTL-83 with its registration number. Surely that is reasonable?”
“Of course Dielaan finds it reasonable,” Nadine said suddenly. “Dielaan would find it quite amusing if Kilgore’s wheat trade suddenly ground to a halt. Or had you hoped we would not realize the full impact of your demands until after the bargain was struck?”
Sheel felt his body growing tense, responding to the danger in the words. Clans had gone to war over less than a tricky trade agreement. His fingers were pulling up Atare’s intelligence files on “KTL-83” even as the new Dielaan ambassador began smoothing over the scene. Now that he examined the actual wording of the agreement, Sheel could understand Kilgore’s concern. Nadine was not exaggerating by much — not if the problem had gone unnoticed until some time had passed. Wheat was used in everything, of course. It was even used in pastes and paints, in animal feed and binders. If the agreement had slipped through, it would have either completely negated KTL-83’s value to Kilgore by destroying their trade, or it would have placed tremendous strain on Kilgore-Dielaan relations, since Kilgore would have refused to halt their exports.
Nadine was in the process of ticking off the pertinent points, tapping her strong fingers one against another to emphasize each item. As understanding percolated through the group (or as other, previously briefed ambassadors decided it was time to react) a low murmuring drifted down the length of the table.
“I can understand the desire of the Dielaan labs to limit the spread of KTL-83 seed — although we all know that exclusive control of a genetic swatch is a situation that lasts a few years, at most,” Sheel began slowly. As if it was necessary to remind any of them that cracking a genetics code took their lab people little time. Nadine’s husband was a geneticist — who no doubt knew to the hour how long it would take to duplicate the sterile seed in Kilgore labs. “And it seems quite reasonable for Dielaan to want ‘Contains KTL-83 wheat’ somewhere on each package. But I must admit that the second condition gives one pause.”
Kilgore, Yang, and Seedar, with their low rainfall, would want that seed — Andersen would pay a fortune for it. Would they take it with such binding restrictions? Sheel’s gaze wandered over toward the man whom Nadine had been carefully overlooking.
His dark face still, its ochre tinge pronounced, the ambassador from Yang said evenly: “Yang will not accept those terms.” As he spoke, his fingers were tapping something into his RAM membrane.
Since he could not be entering the entire conversation, Sheel assumed that Yang Chen, like many others of their group, had a private listening device hidden somewhere in the room. Apparently Yang’s ambassador had enough status to negate negotiations by the trade minister of his government.
From the set expressions on the Dielaan ambassadors’ faces, this had to be the case. Many buyers for KTL-83 could rapidly diminish to none... if Dielaan did not drop their second requirement.
“I do not think our minister understood the depths of your objection,” the new Dielaan ambassador said courteously. “I will personally give him the details of this discussion. Are we not in agreement on two of the points?”
Nadine smiled her broad, closed-lip smile... which was not her friendly expression. “We are indeed.” Her meaning was plain: Kilgore will concede the first and third points; strike the second, or you will have no market.
How succinct, Sheel thought.
“Looks as if that can die, now,” Alasdair of Wallace mumbled into his thick, grey beard. “Since we are speaking of things that... can... affect all the clans, I would like to ask the assembled ambassadors their opinion on a... problem... we are having in Wallace.” His face florid, Alasdair continued: “I am looking for... precedence, if you will.”
Not the smoothest of transitions, but he had succeeded in grabbing their attentions. “Objections?” Sheel asked. The light board before him remained untouched... then several green lights appeared. No reds, and several were curious enough actually to express interest. Wallace consulting the other clans?
“Continue, ambassador,” Sheel said formally.
“Well, we have had something occur which has never — to my knowledge — happened before. After some very... serious... charges were made against a private lab right outside Wallace city —”
“Which lab?” Rex Dielaan said quickly.
“It is not necessary to the story,” Wallace said neutrally, his bluff voice as even as Sheel had ever heard. “At any rate, we made a surprise visit to the lab and gained entry into their coded system. With it we had access to the inner labs, of course. We... found a problem. Not a large one,” he said hastily, when he saw the changing expressions of the others. “I need not ask that you descend en masse to wipe a sept of Wallace from the face of Nuala. They were not trying to breed super-humans. Not exactly.” Alasdair’s color heightened.
“Alasdair, we are dying of curiosity,” Nadine said dryly. “Spit it out, man. I promise I will not laugh.”
A slight tightening of the lips; Nadine had anticipated the problem. “One of the young geneticists had taken a contract from an out-clan seri. He used some general bank material with import swatches from Gavriel and Kiel, and produced some lab babies. Only they rushed things a bit.”
Sheel knew what was coming. Not from any espionage, but from personal experience. A glance at Avis revealed their uncanny ability to think alike; there was an amused blush across her cheeks.
An Anderson aide suggested: “Black market babies?”
“Worse.” Alasdair looked gloomy. “He was producing adult blank rings, intending to program them as... sexual toys, I suppose. A bunch of pretty faces without background or education —”
Rex Dielaan burst out laughing.
“Using stock noted for placid temperament, I suppose? Or were they tampering beyond that?” Sheel said quickly.
“Not sure yet.” This was gruff. “But we have twenty of them, Atare! Twenty of them, with no more education than a toddler! Training had gotten as far as hygiene and table manners. Since we do not allow sub-classification of Homo Sapiens, we have no — no materials for socialization of physically mature humans, like on Caesarea. We may have to put them in Freeze until we can get training material for them.”
“So you do not have to mindwipe any socially unacceptable bedroom traits?” Rex asked, his eyes brimming with humor.
Wallace’s ambassador actually pretended he had not heard the question. “Well, what we do with them is our problem. They have minds and can breathe on their own — by definition they qualify as newborns, and we must make provision for them. But the question is, how do we treat a case like this?”
“Slavery, of course,” Nadine said without hesitation.
“I wish,” Wallace replied, glowering. Penalties for enslaving a sentient were severe, no matter which clan had jurisdiction. “But they were clever — no documents exist indicating what Ca — the seri was going to do with them. We suspect he was going to keep one of the women, and sell the others on Kiel. But there is no proof — we have yet to find out how he was going to get them off-planet,” Alasdair added, anticipating the next question from the group. “Even now we are tracing all leads.”
“There is precedent in Dielaan,” Quen of Dielaan said quietly. He glanced at the new ambassador as if asking for permission to speak. When the older man nodded his graying head, Quen continued: “About twohundredyear ago, a seri commissioned a breeding scheme.”
“Why did we never hear of it?” Nadine asked, no trace of humor in her chiseled face.
“Because it was considered an internal problem,” Quen answered easily, his composure unruffled. “In this case, we did not feel it was encompassed by the guidelines the tribes set down after the Eugenics War. There was no attempt to deviate from the Nualan goal of natural adaptation. This family was merely trying to vastly increase their number of warriors. The intent was overthrowing the throne, of course, and it was dealt with as treason. Fortunately it was discovered before the fetuses could be pushed beyond their first year of growth. We placed all the children with 80s families, mind-wiped the seri and his war leaders, and made an example of the geneticist in charge. It was the last known incident of its type.”
Sheel had let his gaze wander. In the mirrors lining the left wall, he could see that Leah looked a bit pale; this talk of treason had disturbed her surface calm. Some things never healed....
“Mind wipes could be tricky right now,” Alasdair said evasively. “And this is not treason, merely a proven contract between a sept leader and the head of a lab to create humans without intent to implant, foster, or adopt.”
Now was the time to volunteer Atare’s experience. “Do what we did,” Sheel said easily, “When something like this happened about six years ago.” Nadine turned her intense gaze to the end of the table. “As in this case, there was no treason, and intent to enslave was difficult to prove, since programing had yet to be accomplished. It involved the heir of a sept,” he continued, ignoring Nadine’s expression, “and the request was for normal swatches.” Nadine let her glare become unfocused. Interesting... did this mean that Kilgore had stumbled into another serious breeding scheme, and suspected that it had spread beyond their own tribe? Something to mention to intelligence....
“He was creating ‘gifts,’ if you will... pretties for some of his friends, and himself. I suspect he intended to take them along when he finally went off-planet, to use as barter material in his search for a wife.” Sheel shook his head slightly. “Of course he would have had to go to just the right place to make it worthwhile, and I do not think he would have liked that part of Emerson. Being taxed as a slaver on Kiel, or an indentor on Gavriel, would have probably shocked him.” A slight smile which had no humor at all touched his lips. “He kept swearing he had no intent to create ‘mockeries’ of humans. So we held him to his so-called word.
“We had papers processed for all six of the young women. After they were officially adopted by him, my sister and I declared him an unfit parent and made the women wards of the court. The estimate to make them independent citizens of Atare, educated and socialized to take their place in our society, was set at ten years Terran.” With the slightest of pauses for effect, Sheel added: “Of course he was expected to pay for all this education and socialization — at a level befitting heirs of the Name. We made sure it would be coming out of his accounts, not his family’s fortune.” His gaze roamed casually, taking in the red faces of several assistants struggling for control.
“Does this sept still have a dowry system?” Nadine inquired innocently.
“As it happens, it does,” Sheel said blandly. “But the manager of his estates need not worry about dowries for, oh, another two years at least. Fortunately for his accounts... Avis insisted upon generous dowries.”
It was too much. Several ambassadors burst out laughing. Freed by this informal reaction, their aides lost their own battle and collapsed over their RAM screens, smothering their humor in their arms. Even Rex Dielaan allowed himself to smile at someone else’s joke.
“We confiscated his entire personal fortune,” Sheel went on. “After his peers had had a few days of thoroughly enjoying his predicament and pretending to his face that they knew nothing about it, we had him shipped off to Caesarea to find himself a wife... who did not mind marrying a bankrupt man with six ‘adult dependents.’”
“And the geneticist?” Alasdair asked when his laughter had finally tapered off into wheezing.
“Since he was not in a position to assist financially in this judgment, he was required to ‘donate’ a certain number of hours of service to the Stargazer Lab — the free lab established by Adel Atare Stargazer and his consort Kathleen Atarae.” Allowing his face to remain deadpan, Sheel added: “He should finish his service in the third moon of 2036 Nualan.”
This time everyone started laughing, even Yang Chen, who had spent much of the last twenty minutes in silent withdrawal. This was rare for The Synod, so Sheel let it run its course. As the laughter and comments slowly began to recede, Sheel spoke above the noise: “I hope these suggestions will be useful to you, ambassador. Incidentally, there are Caesarean acclimation tapes in Amura’s libraries — the university’s Psychology Department has them. They might help your socialization attempts.”
“Yes, indeed,” Alasdair chuckled. “Yes, indeed. I shall pass on your information, and we of Wallace appreciate the time of The Synod. Perhaps we should call a special session someday, and pound out a few planetwide solutions to such problems. But today the schedule called for addressing the subject of a joint passenger ship for our children on spouse search?”
Sheel was not sure if he should send Alasdair a bottle of fine wine or kick him under the table. An inter-tribal council on law was a very touchy subject for several of the tribes. But he had passed it by smoothly, and no one seemed willing to draw attention to the idea by returning to it — not even Rex Dielaan, who had grown silent and remote at Alasdair’s words.
But no one walked out, like the first time it was suggested. No one even entered a formal protest, as Valdez and Andersen had the last time the topic appeared. Someday, someday...maybe the grandchildren of Avis can pull off that trick, and even make it hold the center. It had been literally years since he had felt this good at a synod meeting.
As the ambassador of Boone presented a plan for a joint travel venture, thus reducing costs and security problems, Sheel glanced at the mirrors. Avis gave him a merry wink, obviously amused by the proceedings; in Leah’s face there was also amusement, but her eyes held something more. A mere flick of her gaze toward the Dielaan faction....
What do you see, Leah? What do you fear?
He should have known better than to feel confident about The Synod.
Pawn or Queen? Pawn or Queen? Words, mere words, rumbling through her brain, trying to distract her from the conversation at hand. But behind those words Darame could hear her father’s voice, whispering the eternal question. Are you a pawn, to be pushed and pulled by the will of another, or will you be a queen, and cover the board with your schemes?
It had not really surprised her that there were Nualans who still enjoyed chess, shal mat, The King is Dead. It was one of the last things her father had taught his ten-years-Terran daughter, before he overplayed his final game. Long ago she had surpassed him, at least at the game of free-trading; the talent always seemed to skip a generation, the child either vanishing in the mists of time or erasing the parent’s fame. Was that why Halsey never spoke of the children she knew he had fathered? Had they vanished in the mists?
Is it my will that he is here, or his that I called him to me? A ride on the beach with the children had calmed the storms within, but only momentarily; Halsey’s call had thrown Darame back into silent reflection.
He is like a labyrinth, Halsey had stated without hesitation. Full of twists and turns and dead ends. Ah, to have a little less scruples....
“Only sixty-three people!” came Kristinsson’s voice. “I can’t understand that — how can you have a war, and only sixty-three people die?”
So. Back to Nualan history. Sighing inwardly, Darame said aloud: “By Nualan standards, that is a lot. The previous clan war claimed only two lives. And that was Kilgore and Andersen, who are always at each others’ throats. They boast of it, in their sly manner — that they had only two fatalities, while Atare and Dielaan let their anger overcome them.” She was acutely conscious of the presence of her guaard, Jude.
Garth Kristinsson shifted in his chair, his pale, restless gaze searching the water stretched before them. Although they had talked for little less than an hour, Darame felt as if it had been years. Now she was sure — this young man was avoiding talking about Lisbet, except in the most general terms. It was as if the subject was painful. He kept his face tranquil, but there was something in his eyes and voice that said otherwise.
“If not to kill their enemy, then why do they fight?” he said suddenly.
Darame considered the question. “For prestige, and power,” she said finally. “To erode the power and prestige of the other. Sometimes you can win and still lose — or lose and yet ultimately win. Back in the Eugenics War, clans Cantrel and Saunder were decimating the opposition, but in the end the other clans joined and wiped out their royal lines. For all intents and purposes, clans Cantrel and Saunder no longer exist. As for winning and still losing.... “ Darame considered the safety of mentioning her best example... ah, he could find out for himself without too much trouble. “Cort Atare won that last war with Dielaan, yet he handled it badly. Both his own people and Dielaan felt the losers hadn’t been punished enough. This made Cort Atare — and by inference, Atare itself — seem weak. I think his actions, or lack thereof, led to the attack on the royal line by off-worlders... and to some Nualans helping that plan along.”
“Nualans will work with off-worlders?” That seemed to surprise Kristinsson. He shook his head negatively at her offer of more cocoa.
“Nualans are still Homo sapiens,” was her mild reply. “The best of them may have evolved into something superior to the average off-worlder, but there are still many, many average and — defective — examples.”
“You would think they’d splice out anything they couldn’t control,” the youth suggested, removing a cookie from the heaped dessert tray. “Since the royal lines are the government, and the government controls the labs.”
Darame frowned into the dusky light. The closest of the solar lights rimming the patio was behind her, to keep direct light from her face, but the Caesarean seemed to sense her reaction.
“I don’t mean to —”
“No insult taken,” she responded, cutting him off. “Most of the labs. You must remember that the Nualans are the descendants of a scientific force which was stranded, then abandoned to its fate. I’ve never probed too deeply into the histories, but I suspect that in the first few hundred years the Nualans were more humanoid than human. Fortunately they did not lose their knowledge when they lost their refined metals. Genetics work continued, even as each generation became stronger, better able to deal with the radiation of the planet. A few groups tried to control and direct the patterns, but it didn’t work — the mutation rate was incredible. There was an obvious choice — turn to the labs, and raise their fetuses in glass and plastic forevermore, or keep trying to bear their own. The Nualans decided that ‘life must be viable in its own environment, and survive without extraordinary measures. It must be as nature decreed, and any changes must be transmittable through genetic code.’ That’s actually spelled out in the agreement that binds all the tribes. It’s one of the things that can destroy the peace — more than one tribe has taken it upon themselves to decide what will be used for breeding, and what will not.” A faint smile traced her lips. “One of the reasons Atare and Seedar are so large is because many of Cantrel and Saunder fled to other tribes — Atare and Seedar foremost — before the final confrontation took place.”
“Fleeing their own governments?”
“Yes,” Darame answered. “In Cantrel, becoming pregnant from the wrong source was punishable by ‘therapeutic abortion’. No true Nualan would stand for that; only twenty percent of the population is fertile. The ‘80s’ would gladly go to war to protect fertile family and friends. Later, the winners divided up the tribes and moved the survivors. Today the capitals of those provinces are tumbled stone.”
“Must ‘survive without extraordinary measures,’” Kristinsson repeated quietly. “My aunt had Rh blood problems... she could only have one child.”
“That is one of the odd exceptions they have,” Darame said. “Since there is nothing wrong with either mother or child — only the problem of the link between them — the fetus is placed in an external unit until birth.” Sighing, Darame added: “They don’t do surgery in the womb, though... the fetus has to make it to birth on its own. Of course, Nualan women have changed slightly, in the centuries since they arrived. The same thing which protects mother and child from inherent Nualan radiation in one or the other prevents most probes and in utero scans from succeeding. To attempt to see what’s going on aborts the embryo or fetus.”
“But once it has a life of its own, that life is sacrosanct? I mean, what with war being fought without fatalities.” Kristinsson’s voice was intent.
“From the first moment of brain activity, it is a person, with the right to life. If a mother doesn’t want it, for some odd reason, or simply doesn’t want the stress of carrying it to term, it is brought to term in a ‘bottle.’ But bearing children is something every Nualan desires. Even the men — there is status in fathering children which grow to term within a womb.” Darame decided it was time to try the subject of Lisbet again. “Your mother would have appreciated such a value on life. There was nothing of the coward in her, but she hated fighting. In her opinion, it was a waste of valuable time and energy.”
“One thing mother never wasted was time,” Kristinsson said idly, twisting his body so he was facing the sea.
“I think she would have understood the Nualan concept of honor,” Darame murmured. “It is more complex than it seems.”
“Loss of face or position is everything... but its importance varies, depending on how others respond to that loss,” Kristinsson said under his breath. Raising his voice, he asked: “Are you Nualan — in that sense?”
“In some ways, I suppose... in other ways, I am free-trader to the bone.” After a while she added: “But I have learned to love these people. I care about their tragedies and triumphs... I wish them health and peace.”
“And what do they wish for you?” Very soft, and not quite a question.
Darame chose not to answer.