It was a small room, full of light and warmth by day — but the star had left them hours before, and now the cubicle held only shadows. At least Garth assumed the star had set hours ago; he had yet to find any conversion of Nualan time into Caesarean time. It has to be here somewhere, he thought irritably as he whipped through the introductory material.
Hand straying to his plate for the remains of his “noneing,” as the innkeeper called it (and why was he called an innkeeper when he ran a hostel?) Garth ripped his last roll into tiny pieces, his gaze never leaving the screen of the Random Access Module. Out of habit he left off the oral narration; until he had checked the soundproofing, he wanted to be sure no one overheard his business.
His purchase of a late afternoon snack had told him that food imports were incredibly high, and that locally-processed items prepared for off-world stomachs were almost as expensive. There was one other alternative... Garth currently did not consider it an option. Nualans made something they called rav pills, which, over a period of time, produced permanent immunity to rav poisoning. Rav was the locals’ name for Dielaan Poisoning caused by ingestion of untreated Nualan water or food. Natives needed no such protection; born to the planet, their systems had adapted to the higher-than-Terran radioactivity.
Granted, untreated food cost a fraction of the import price, except for real meat, which was rare. At this point, however, cost was not enough of a factor for Garth. Just the idea of taking those pills made him feel ill. He had saved his wages over the years, aiming for this day; what with Sleep cost usually thrown in by the cargo haulers, Garth’s purse was well-lined. First he had to decide how long he was going to stay... then he’d face a decision about rav pills.
Glancing to one side, Garth let his pale gaze flick over the rented white wool pants and long-sleeved shirtcoat of ice blue syluan. He couldn’t resist it — just once, he had to wear syluan, even if the damage deposit could have bought him a silk shirt. Fortunately syluan was as tough as silk.
Echoing bells snapped him out of his concentration. Five, six, seven — eight bells. What was... jumping back to the time and calendar sequence, he saw that eight bells was compline, the time the party began. Switching off the RAM and popping the ring, Garth stood and moved quickly into the sanitation. It was scrupulously clean, yet primitive — Garth had spent a long time trying to locate the moisture vacuum for the sink before he figured out that there was no vacuum, not even for the shower. Instead, thick, absorbent pieces of cloth were hanging at convenient intervals. Fortunately Garth vaguely remembered something about using cloth to remove water from skin. Damn inefficient — he still felt damp. Would a more expensive hostel have a vacuum... was it worth the money....
Quickly rinsing his teeth, Garth stripped off his outer clothes and carefully pulled on the tight crepe wool pants. Lined with silk — good, sometimes wool was a bit itchy. His fingers reached to carefully caress the syluan shirt. Surely syluan was cheaper on this planet? Garth checked the collar for markings, but the script was indecipherable. Shrugging minutely, he slipped on the shirt and crossed the front panels purposefully. One thing he had discovered in the last few hours was a cheap library access. If he wanted to locate the city of origin, he’d find it eventually.
Garth allowed himself to pause before the full length mirror in the sanitation. Finding a shirt that matched his iris color had been a stroke of luck. Not a hair out of place.
“You’ll do,” he told the image in the mirror. Looking closely, he saw an unfamiliar glint in his eye. “Don’t get over-confident,” Garth warned the reflected youth. How long since he’d had time to be happy about anything? “Lise’s wedding,” he murmured, his thoughts flicking to his sister. “I never did make it to your farm, did I?”
It was like cold water in the face. This is not pleasure, it’s business. Pay attention to detail — detail can make or break your plan.
The fact that he did not yet have a plan was immaterial. He would.
“I do not wish to argue anymore.” Darame’s voice was still level, but the tone could have frozen raindrops.
“We are not arguing, we are discussing,” was Sheel’s calm reply.
Darame continued to face the mirrors, carefully sliding a curved wire of trinium behind and over the top of one ear. A blood red karat ruby mounted in trinium winked at her through her loose hair. “We are not arguing because I promised your mother I would always try to hold on to my temper when you start doing this.”
“This?” Now it was Sheel’s turn to stiffen; the word sounded as if it was clamped in a vise.
Inhaling deeply, Darame slowly turned to face him. Dressed simply in a laced tunic and pants of pale topaz syluan, Sheel’s bronzed face and sun-tipped sienna hair radiated health. Only his expression was at odds with the image; lips compressed, features remote and still except for the slight tension that lined his body.
“Riva told me that hot healers were overly protective. I promised I would try to remember that whenever you tried to pad me with down.”
“I am not —”
Darame did not let him finish. “You will not call this boy in for questioning,” she began, stepping down from the pedestal. Walking right up to him, she lifted her face and waited until his wandering gaze met hers before continuing to speak. “Most of all, you will not assign people to follow me — not guaard, not Halsey or his crew, not even a freelancer. Are we agreed?”
A tiny twitch at the corner of Sheel’s eye caused the slightest lift of the opposite eyebrow. Darame reached with gentle fingers to smooth the front panels of his tunic. “I am not going to do anything foolish, like wander off down a private drive with him. And this is not Dielaan — you cannot tie Lowe up and pump him full of truth serum in your search for solutions.”
A glimmer of a smile.... “Livia would not have hesitated.”
“Lowe would not have warned Livia.” Smiling, Darame turned and moved over to her jewel box. “We have enough information to take precautions. It may be quite simple, you know. The boy’s life was destroyed with one blow — he wants to know if I can tell him anything about the incident.”
“If only I believed that,” came her husband’s soft, weary voice. “I would be happier if you knew of which scam he needs knowledge. You have no holos of this woman?”
“I have one holo, taken when we were young. His resemblance to her is startling.” Pulling out the last trinium necklace for her ensemble, she gestured for his aid. “His parents’ demise may be totally unrelated to whatever scam I was involved with at the time.”
“You have no idea who his fa —”
“Sheel, free-traders do not use their names!” Darame concealed her scorn under amusement. “I had worked more than a hundred and fifty terran years before I came here, and Nuala was the first place I ever used my real name!”
“And why was that?” Taking either end of the clasp, Sheel fastened the trinium collar with its burgundy-colored stone carefully around her neck.
“Because Nuala is known throughout the Seven Systems for its interrogation system,” she replied, turning and throwing her arms around him. “I had to give authorities no reason to doubt the foundation of my story. When you concoct an elaborate lie, my love, you must wrap it deep in truth — otherwise it will trip you. And you know it is said that Nualans do not lie, and therefore can sniff out untruths.”
“Wicked woman,” he murmured, his arms tightening around her.
“Hummm,” was her reply. When he finally freed her lips, Darame said: “This boy is nothing to me but the son of Lisbet. We will have to be content with that, for now.” Reaching to her neck, she made sure that the huge, faceted oval was centered snugly in the hollow of her throat.
“You need not wear that on every occasion, you know,” Sheel told her as he gently pulled away. “A serae stone is not a wedding ring.”
“The red tones in its depths compliment my dress,” was her mockingly prim answer. “And it does what your ancestor intended it to do when she started the tradition — it tells all who look upon it that the bearer is beloved by an Atare.” A slow wink, and she whirled away from him, letting the long, full skirt billow out in a circle. “That should reassure you — no one in his right mind would lay a hand on me.”
“Are my enemies sane?” came the voice behind her.
“Most of them,” she said quickly, grateful his tone was so light. After his older sister Leah’s breakdown ten years before, “sanity” was often a delicate subject. “Come, our guests arrive.”
Usually Darame went before Sheel down the narrow corridor leading to the front room, their guaard silently bringing up the rear, but tonight he caught up with her, sliding an arm behind her bare back. Perfectly willing to push aside their quarrel, Darame laid her fingers on top of his. Incredible warmth crept through her hand, easing the cold in her joints. Despite Sheel’s endless work in the hospices and his occasional bouts of protectiveness, having a hot healer in residence was very convenient. Darame had to constantly remind herself that what she now took for granted was a very rare talent, even among Nualans. It was not to be abused.
Was it abuse to ease your stretch marks during pregnancy? a voice within teased. Darame gave the voice a quick shove back into the nether reaches of her mind. No, it had not been vanity — not when the marks began to split and bleed, when her tiny body could not keep up with the growth of the children.
Sheel’s sudden laughter brought her back from her reverie. “I had not noticed,” he got out between chuckles. “Obviously my gaze is always on you, even if my mind is elsewhere.”
What — Tilting her head, Darame followed his line of sight to the wall at their right. Numerous holos formed a lovely grouping running the length of the sculpted wall. It was an exact copy of the display in the private corridor that lead to the Atare city throne room. They had been here months and he was just noticing —
“You work too hard,” Darame growled at him.
Shaking his head, Sheel pulled away and paused at the door, waiting for his two evening guaard to move up behind him. As the group slowly proceeded through the heavy wood archway, Darame hesitated, sparing a glance for the wall beside her.
One of her better notions, that display. Its center was a holo of Sheel and herself, ringed by their three children; the depth of the wall cases and the recessed lighting gave it especially good presentation. At the heart of Nuala’s concerns was fertility — or the lack thereof. Those who were fertile were expected to do their part to keep up the population, since off-world gene packets required lab work before they were useful. In a world where eighty percent of the population was sterile, fertility was power.
Of course Sheel had fathered children before Darame ever met him; his progeny now totaled twenty-four in all. Eight had been conceived before Sheel left on his trip to Emerson. Those children were all physically older than Sheel, grown with families of their own. Many of them were grandparents, for Cold Sleep to Emerson was thirty-four years Terran round-trip. These festival children (for many of them were undoubtedly conceived during the Festival of Masks) were in special frames circling the central holo. Their children and grandchildren radiated outward in ever-increasing circles.
Nualans had no word for illegitimacy. Only children born of marriage could inherit mining stock and use their father’s clan name — otherwise, there was no difference.
Well and good — but you have done your part, Darame announced to the holo of Sheel, reaching to touch the unattainable image. Women never stopped trying to attract Sheel’s attention, much to his embarrassment. For Sheel was a hot healer, the ultimate adaptation to Nuala’s radiation, able to draw fevers and mend broken bones by mere touch alone. And healers were always very fertile people. Occasionally he felt guilty about his reserve... as if he thought he was keeping clean gene stock to himself. Darame knew he hated the attention, hated wondering if the woman knew or cared anything about him as a person.
This display was her compromise, her way to free Sheel of his odd racial guilt and keep his attention directed toward herself. “Any man who has fathered twenty-four children has done his duty,” she murmured aloud. Smoothing the flaming syluan down one leg, Darame turned toward the end of the hallway.
Mailan was waiting. The captain of the guaard had served earlier, as well as attended several meetings, she should be with her family — Darame’s eyes narrowed. She noticed Mailan was wearing her formal black uniform, but her stance was relaxed. Glancing over one shoulder, she saw Ayers’ blond, burly form. So, Ayers was on duty... Mailan was making a social appearance.
“I thought I might run interference for you,” Mailan suggested, her tone almost offhanded. “The Wallace is lying in wait at the foot of the grand staircase.”
Tonight, Sheel reb^Riva Atare. Tonight. In a sudden flush of both anger and humor, Darame was unable to decide among numerous punishments, including a cold shoulder, a cold shower, or an attack upon strategic places with a feather. Meeting Mailan’s gaze with her own, Darame said: “Now he is in trouble.”
“But not in public.”
“Of course not,” Darame responded, wondering just how she was going to get around this “unofficial” increase in the number of her guaard. Smiling brilliantly, deceptively, Darame said: “Come, Ayers.” Knowing that actually addressing him had clearly expressed her displeasure, Darame did not trouble herself to look over her shoulder. With a nod, she waited for Mailan’s tall, slender form to precede her into the Alameda Room.
As he walked up to the entrance, Garth was surprised at how comfortable the place looked. It was not at all what he thought a palace would look like. No high wall, no guards (at least no visible guards) and a minimum of ceremony. From the road, the building appeared low and secluded, with beautiful gardens accented by walkway lamps. Its walls were not stone, and yet... they were seamless, their neutral shade soft in the subdued white lights of the landscaping. Undulant roofing tiles were lost in near-darkness; only one of Nuala’s three moons was visible, and it was old and crooked.
A tall, white-haired man of indeterminate years was greeting the guests. After inquiring whether or not Garth had taken the rav series, the door warden requested his right hand. Producing an odd pocket device, he gravely marked a damp streak across the back of it. Smiling once more, the man gestured toward the inside.
Slightly bemused, Garth nodded and walked into the hall. A divided staircase immediately curved down into the depths of the house. The high, beamed ceiling above supported a heavy, many-tiered antique chandelier lit by an unknown power source. Laughter and garbled conversation caught his ears. Walking down toward the noise, Garth decided that although the wall sconces might be reproductions, the chandelier itself was authentic — the dull matte gleam hinted at wrought iron, bent and twisted into fantastical shapes. Older than the governments of The Brethren, he thought.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Garth’s attention was caught by the room itself, which must have traced the backside of the building. It was easily six meters wide and twice that in length, and the long wall opposite him was clear. The window looked out over a huge expanse of water and sky. To the right, slivers of color glittered, lining the coast, while to the left there was only the sea, glimmering in starlight and thin moonlight.
Drawn by the scene, Garth moved like a ghost through the brilliant, swirling crowd. A few boats remained upon the water, their running lights outlining their sails. Enchanted, Garth settled upon the back of a huge, low couch.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” murmured a delicate voice, its Caesarean oddly accented.
“I have never seen its like anywhere,” Garth responded without turning his head. “Caesarea boasts of its many bodies of water, but... this is incredible!”
“It has always been a comfort to this world,” the voice continued. “When our ancestors first were trapped here, its... familiarity... was all that kept some of them sane. It is a... a monstrously beautiful world, with its hints of the Homeland. Superficial similarities, at least,” she added at the last.
“Homeland?” This caused Garth to turn his head.
“One of our many names for Earth, that place the Caesareans call Terra,” the woman said smoothly.
Garth realized he was staring. The creature before him — woman was too ordinary a word for her — was swathed in either green syluan or silk. Both necklace and earrings were fabricated of dozens of tiny trinium crescents, asymmetrically balanced in a waterfall of metal that rippled like tinkling bells and shimmered like the pricks of starlight dotting the lush Nualan sky. In contrast to this sea of silver and green was her hair, which was the color of burnished copper. It was twisted into a coil near the top of her head, the bulk of it falling down her back like a curtain. Shorter around her face, copper shavings curled softly in counterpoint to her tiny, elegant features. Only her hair cut through the soft vision — and, of course, her eyes and brows.
They were black, glossy black, as deep as anything Garth had ever imagined. It seemed impossible for such a tiny, red-haired creature to have such black eyes and brows, and such a golden bronze complexion. Could it be natural? You can’t ask if she’s lab get, boy, don’t even think about it.
His subconscious had another explanation. “You’re a huldre,” Garth heard himself whisper, and immediately felt a blush rising.
“I hope that is a compliment,” was the response, her smile intact even as her eyes narrowed slightly.
“It... is,” he managed to say. “It’s an old, old tale, told by the grannies of Gavriel. It is said that on old Earth there was another people who lived among my ancestors. In Scandinavia they were named huldre by the peasants. They were also called... elves?”
Her laughter was like a chiming bell. “Yes, I am tiny! It runs in my family.” Her eyes were still creased, and Garth realized it was caused by amusement. “We have no elves here,” she said gently. “They had no ships to bear them hence across the airless sea.” Her words had the rhythm of poetry, but Garth did not recognize them. Another grin popped out, and the woman said: “I think this is your first visit to Amura-By-The-Sea.”
“It is my first visit to Nuala,” Garth admitted.
“Then we must be sure your impression of us is favorable! Are you in need of refreshment? If you do not care for alcohol, there are several other beverages offered,” she began, gesturing toward one wall.
As he started to assure her that he did, indeed, drink alcohol, something within him paused. “Not tonight, at least not yet,” Garth heard himself say. “Alcohol dulls the faculties. There’s too much to see and do to waste time —” Getting drunk sounded a bit blunt....
“I agree. Come, I will find you saffra.” As she started toward one wall she suddenly hesitated and looked back at him.
Taking a guess, Garth said: “I just arrived today; I haven’t taken the series.” It was a good piece of mind reading. Smiling sunnily at him, she continued toward the sumptuous spread of food.
Before he could say yeah or nay, the elf had seized a plate and was heaping food upon it. A simple shrug of her shoulder in his direction brought an attendant to Garth’s side.
“Your hand, Sir?” the youth asked politely. Wordlessly Garth offered up the appropriate hand. “This is your refreshment table; if you see something being served at the opposite buffet which you would like to try, speak to me. I will see if an equivalent dish is possible.” With a slight nod of courtesy, the youth faded into the background.
“All those pretty words meant that some Nualan dishes have no off-world counterpart. Stevos, for example — we can grow tomatoes and the various peppers in purified soil, but most visitors find stevos too spicy for their taste.”
“The ambassadors don’t eat any native foods?” Garth asked, accepting the plate she pushed into his hands.
“Some of them — and Amura has been smart enough to arrange for off-world equivalents. But they are pale copies of Kilgore or Dielaan delicacies. I am certain, I have tried them,” she added at his expression.
“You sure have the staff hopping. Are you a... relative of The Atare?”
An odd smile crossed her face. “Hardly. What do you know of us?”
“Of Nualans?” Uncertain of what she meant, Garth searched for an appropriate reply. A tall glass of an iced reddish beverage nudged his hand; taking it from her, he finally said: “You have a... a clan system, don’t you? A dozen or so major clans, and many minor ones, all interlocking in various trade and protection treaties.”
“You have some wits,” she said easily. Her Caesarean was accented in strange places, and Garth wasn’t sure how she had stressed that last sentence. “Yes, we are many tribes, each with a ruling clan. My tribe is Dielaan. We have battled Atare for a thousand years,” she added casually. “Be grateful you said that to me and not to my cousin. She probably would have slapped you and stalked off.”
“Leaving me wondering what I had said wrong,” Garth said ruefully. “Thank you for your patience.”
“One cannot deal with off-worlders without patience.” Removing a cube of cheese from the pile on his plate, she told him: “You may call me Lucy.”
“I am called Garth Kristinsson.” Belatedly, Garth realized he was standing with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other; in a sense he was trapped.
Chuckling, Lucy took him by the sleeve. “Come; I noticed untenanted seats at the far end.”
Scarce an hour past compline and already it is packed, Sheel thought idly, pausing where the two spirals joined into one grand tier of steps. Amazing how much body heat could be generated by a crowd; Darame’s dress had been a good choice, after all. Not like several ambassadors, stiff in their formal uniforms... poor souls had to be melting.
“Atare always draws a crowd,” came a deep voice behind him.
Glancing over his shoulder, Sheel saw his seneschal, Zaide. The slight, dark-haired man scarcely reached his Atare’s shoulder in height, yet Zaide always walked as if he were taller. How were you raised, to have such pride and yet such modesty? Sheel felt lucky to have such a person serving Atare; Zaide was the strongest personalty in a dozen provinces.
Except for Darame, of course.
“What are you doing here? I thought these things bored you,” Sheel asked.
“They do,” Zaide replied without a hint of discomfort. “But I helped Donn plan this occasion; the least I can do is make sure it starts well.” A wide smile crossed his sharp, narrow features. Leaning over, Zaide confided: “I have a few new rings, fresh off The Crowned Tiger. Before matins sounds I plan to be well into the histories of the seven great republics of Emerson.”
Nodding, Sheel let his gaze stray over the crowd. Guaard were stationed at various points around the room, but so far there had been no trouble. Not even an argument loud enough to turn heads....
“It is odd, however, how our parties are packed, while the other houses can scarcely draw representatives of each clan,” Zaide continued. “Our food is similar, and this band played at Kilgore for Yule —”
“Wallace serves cheaper wine late at night, when they think everyone has lost their discrimination?” Sheel suggested.
Zaide gave Sheel a look worthy of Elek’s most severe reproaches. “No one stays that late, my Atare,” Zaide announced, loftily overlooking the comment. “No, I have my suspicions why they come.”
“Looking for ways to knife me in the back?” Sheel asked, only half in jest.
Zaide seemed to consider the idea, even as his gaze wandered to see how close strangers were to their side. “Figuratively, perhaps. Not literally... few of them, at any rate. And the reasons of those who would might surprise you. I think the ambassador from Wallace would cheerfully slit your throat, if he thought he could convince your wife to marry him.”
“She would be on the next ship outbound,” Sheel said without hesitation.
“That is why Wallace will never be a part of a plot against your person. This way, at least her Wallace admirers can dream, and worship from afar.” Encouraged by Sheel’s thin smile, Zaide continued. “They come, Atare, because you want them here.”
Sheel lifted an eyebrow.
“Want them here,” Zaide stressed. “Not need, not expect... not hope — you genuinely want them as your guests. Though you do not think of all of them as friends, or even potential friends, there is not a man or woman in this room whom you hate, and they know it. They are welcome here, in this curiously neutral place of gathering, this heart of Atare. Your Synod allies, they may host parties... but it is because they think they are expected to host them. Or because they hope to gain useful information from them. You merely create an atmosphere that inspires trust.”
“Darame thinks it cools down tempers when The Synod heats up,” Sheel said quietly. “It helps, but I suspect the ‘cooling’ is in her efforts. Have you ever watched her work a crowd? It is fascinating.” His voice faded as he caught sight of his wife in the press. A streak of red, her hair shimmering in the warm light, Darame wandered at will, greeting embassy members, making sure drinks were filled and strangers welcomed —
Strangers. Where was... ah. By the window; occupied with one of the young Dielaan outkin, it appeared. What sort of problem would this youngster be? A fledgling free-trader, with few of the skills needed to survive the games people like Halsey and Darame played. You admit it... she still plays those games. But now she plays them for the gain of Atare.
“My cousin is successful, as usual,” came a soft voice.
Sheel was very conscious of the guaard at his back. “You cousin is a lovely young woman,” he replied. “I doubt she leaves these things unaccompanied, unless she so chooses.” Turning slightly, Sheel’s gaze flicked down to meet that of Rex reb^Livia Dielaan, the heir to the Dielaan throne. “It is a family trait, Dielaan,” he added, glancing meaningfully at the fair young merchanter who dawdled at the foot of the wide staircase.
“A Nualan trait, seri,” Rex said, chuckling, his firm stance relaxing slightly. Almost alone among the clans, Sheel had called Rex “Dielaan” ever since he arrived in Amura as Synod representative for his tribe. It made it difficult for Rex to remain remote, even hostile, in Sheel’s presence. Still, Sheel never deceived himself about Rex. Quen, the second son, respected his ancient enemies even if he could not bring himself to like them. Rex could never find a worthy enemy.
“True. I imagine my nieces and nephews are equally busy this evening.” Sheel studied the dusky face dispassionately, trying to read Rex’s mood. Immaculate as always, his red-tinged sable hair a smooth cap upon his head, Rex was one of the few people Sheel knew who never perspired. He had body control rivaling a healer’s, although Rex certainly was not a healer.
“Tell me, Atare. Is it true you do not avail yourself of this meadow full of flowers because your wife would probably stick a knife in your ribs if you did?” Black eyes gleamed merrily as Rex asked the question.
Anyone short of a ruling clansman would have been snubbed for such a question. Then Holy Mendülay gave Sheel inspiration.
“Is that how Livia keeps your father in line?” Sheel asked curiously.
Rex burst out laughing. “It would not surprise me,” he finally got out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he chuckled. “She always has several knives secreted about her person... and she knows how to use them.” Glancing down the steps, Rex said: “My friend grows impatient. Good evening to you, seri.”
“Dielaan,” Sheel responded formally. Although his gaze drifted over the crowd, his mind followed Rex Dielaan down to the floor and off toward the buffet, his little merchanter in tow.
“Does he call you ‘seri’ to annoy you, or because he feels that political equals should be intimate?” Zaide said suddenly.
Surprised, Sheel glanced to his right. “I thought you had left.”
“I am very good at invisibility, my Atare — especially around Dielaaners. They do not see their own underlings, much less anyone else’s.” This was spoken with a polite nod in The Dielaan’s direction. It was as Zaide had said: Rex was oblivious to the courtiers floundering after him through the press of people. “To be honest, Dielaan may have seen me — but he does not care for me, and cuts me whenever our paths cross. I did not wish to force his hand, should you feel obligated to introduce me. Either he would snub me, which would annoy you — or he would greet me, which would annoy him.”
“I remember his retainers; he should remember mine.”
“I suspect he forgets only what he chooses to forget, Atare,” Zaide said gently, his gaze scanning the crowd. He stopped moving and tilted his head in concentration. Tracing the path with his gaze, Sheel looked in the same direction. Off by the window were Quen of Dielaan and his tall, bosomy redhead. They were nearly of a height, and aware of little else as they talked. “He has not forgotten that young woman. But she is too strong for him, I suspect... he will not drive her off.”
“Has he tried?” Sheel normally did not pay much attention to Amuran gossip, since Darame enjoyed sifting it for valuable information. But he liked Quen, for what it was worth, and he did not care for Rex.
“Oh, yes, he has tried ridicule, and has hinted that Quen toys with her. She hears, but she stays. I think she loves young Dielaan. He will be fortunate if he can win her.”
“Would she turn down a prince of the land? Gavrielian merchants usually do not serve on Nuala unless they are willing to consider Nualan spouses,” Sheel pointed out. “Especially the women.”
“Would you like to have Rex as a brother-in-law? If it was reversed, and Quen was eldest, I do not think she would hesitate. But Rex can call Quen — and his family — to court. I can well understand her hesitation.” Glancing at Sheel out of one eye, he said: “You missed most of the politicking of your uncle’s reign, my Atare, but your brother Caleb enjoyed mentally abusing your uncle’s retinue. Since they served The Atare, they could not slip away to their own lands... and who would speak against an heir?”
“A point,” Sheel conceded. “I would not stand for such a thing.”
“It is commonly believed that you are uncomfortably aware of the atmosphere of your court. Your lords play their little games far from your knowledge, or so they think.”
“So they think?”
“The Atarae always finds out eventually.” As a chuckle escaped Sheel, Zaide added: “You are a very good team, my Atare.”
“So it appears,” Sheel murmured. “I think I could do with some cold saffra. Coming?” Glancing to the side, Sheel started down the stairs.
“I think I shall speak to Donn one more time before departing,” Zaide responded, matching Sheel’s stride. “Good evening, Atare.” With a nod of fealty, Zaide slipped off toward the back of the great room.
Sheel was able to reach the buffet with a minimum of fuss. Accepting a glass of chilled saffra from one of the caterers, he sent his compliments to the chef in charge and then wandered in search of another vantage point. With no particular purpose in mind, Sheel chose to walk on the window side as he made his way through the crowd. This allowed him to pass quite close to the newcomer Garth and his Dielaan acquaintance, but other than making brief eye contact with the youth, Sheel continued on without stopping.
As he was concentrating on lovely Lucy, Garth was not really paying attention to the press around them. This caused him to startle visibly when a lathe-thin Nualan briefly caught his eye.
“Garth?” Lucy had paused, noticing his change of expression.
Standing swiftly to avoid spilling his drink, Garth swallowed immediate unease. Oh, lord, the white pants —
“Do not worry, I caught the drops with my napkin,” came Lucy’s voice at his side. “What is wrong? You look as if you have seen an emissary!”
“Emissary?”
Lucy dimpled. “You... would call it an angel, I believe. A messenger of Mendülay, the One God.”
“More like a daemon,” he muttered. Whoever he was, that look had intent behind it. Had that woman set a tail upon him already?
Lucy’s gaze was following his line of sight. “Oh!” She chuckled. “You have never seen The Atare before? How did you get in here, anyway?” An inquiring black gaze settled upon him.
“I met one of my mother’s old friends in the streets. She gave me an invitation. The silver-haired one over... there.” Her dress momentarily set Garth back. Sweet Peter, why did she have to be young and beautiful?
Shifting her flimsy green stole from her shoulders to the crooks of her arms, Lucy said: “The Atarae? That is what their clan calls her. She is the wife of The Atare. So you do not know Sheel... shall I introduce you? He can be very approachable.” Her look was almost mischievous.
Remembering those strange, penetrating eyes, Garth quickly said: “No! No, thank you... not just now.”
“He is unnerving, is he not? Those Atare eyes can look right through you, and his see more than most. Too bad, really. Otherwise, he is an attractive man.” Her gaze flicked toward the window. “The moon is already low, it must be nearly matins. I have questioned you all evening! Thank you,” she added, touching his wrist gently. “I will go off-world soon, and I have been nervous about it.”
If you can face this place without qualms, you can face The Brethren, Garth thought but did not say aloud. Those odd eyes had reminded him of what he had conveniently shoved into the background — that these people weren’t quite normal.
Suddenly Lucy’s face changed radically to an expression of distaste. “This way.” Seizing his sleeve, she guided him along the glass wall.
“I left that plate —”
“The staff will see to it.”
“Lucy?” Garth got out before she abruptly stopped, causing him to crash into her. Fortunately his glass of saffra was almost empty. “What’s wrong?”
She was already grabbing the arm of a young woman moving past them. Unknown words flowed briskly; a brilliant green gaze flicked past him, looking down the path they had just traced. Then the newcomer looked back at Garth.
“Introductions?” she suggested in Caesarean.
“This is my cousin Malini. Garth Kristinsson, from Caesarea,” Lucy said quickly. The look she was giving her cousin was a clear warning.
“Cousin?” They were both petite women, scarcely reaching his shoulder, but other than that they looked nothing alike. Malini had dusky skin, as if she was powdered with spice, and her hair was as black as Lucy’s eyes. Now that he looked at them both, Garth could see a teasing resemblance in the shape of their faces; they had the same delicate bone structure.
“Distant cousins,” Malini corrected. “We are...fourth tier?” she asked Lucy. “All Dielaan cousins are distant cousins, since the plague.”
“Generations ago,” Lucy added. “You need not worry about that kind of illness. I wanted to get away from that —” A quick jerk of her chin indicated a tall, fair-haired man who was standing near the window.
That was wearing some sort of environmentally-controlled suit. It was not heavy, but it clearly had its own atmosphere. The man wore a brilliant yellow skinsuit beneath it; in his gloved hand he held a cane of polished wood, which he was leaning on. As if aware of Garth’s scrutiny, the individual looked up. Eyes like polished amber focused on him. A knowing smile crossed the man’s face, setting well on the strong, tanned planes. Not a young man, but far from feeble.
“You need not be rude, Lucy. After all, he is mock-sini. The suit is just to relieve the fears of the nervous,” Malini said easily.
Garth noticed that however casual Malini wanted to appear, she made sure to keep several people between the suited man and herself.
“Why was he invited?” Lucy muttered, sipping her drink. “You do not know, do you?” At the slow shake of Garth’s head, she continued: “You have heard that eighty percent of the population is sterile? We keep fighting the planet, we humans, and we adapt in odd ways. That creature is a mock-sini. Sinis were once human, but the radiation changed their genes.”
“Hot humans,” Malini said simply. “Some are so hot we could not approach without becoming ill — headaches, vomiting, and such. Some are mock-sinis; we can be around them for several hours without damage.”
“So scientists say. Scientists are sometimes wrong,” Lucy stated.
“Then there are sinishur....” Malini’s pretty mouth twisted. “Now those I cannot call human, though they claim the name. Hope that you never see one; the sight would haunt your dreams.” Flicking a glance at her cousin, she said: “I hope Rex has not seen him; we do not need a scene.”
“A scene about what?”
Both women jumped at the soft voice. Garth looked beyond them, and saw a slender man who looked about his own age. His hair was as dark as Malini’s, but with a halo of red reflecting from it; like Lucy, his eyes were black, but these held no warmth. A dark, burly man in a black, red, and gold uniform was close on his heels; on his arm was a full-figured young blonde.
Turning to Lucy, Garth saw her visibly relax; the reflections in the window told him that the mock-sini had disappeared from view.
“The Atare has a few of his pet sinis roaming the party,” Lucy said easily. “I hope you will refrain from baiting them.”
“There is easier sport to be found,” the man responded. “Have you two reached an accommodation, or is there a clear victor?”
“Rex!” Malini said, laughing. “You make us sound so predatory!”
“Do you prefer brunettes or redheads?” the newcomer continued.
“Is this the cousin?” Garth asked instead, gesturing at Malini. All three Nualans stared oddly at him for a moment, and then Lucy laughed.
“Yes, I was thinking of Malini.” Still chuckling, she turned toward her kin. “Garth asked me if I was one of the hostesses.”
Malini visibly stiffened, her green eyes revealing her anger; then she flexed her shoulders to relax them. “You are new,” she said dryly.
“Redheads,” Garth said courteously to the young man. “At least until I know a bit more about this planet.”
The other smiled slightly. It was an expression full of capricious pleasure. “You should stick to redheads. Malini may not have the hair, but she has the temper. Lucy is the kindest of us all.”
“Except to sinis?” He said it teasingly, but as he spoke, Garth realized that might not be a joking matter.
“Even to sinis,” the Nualan said smoothly. “I prefer her open fear and dislike to Malini’s progressive piousness.” Beside him, the dark woman stiffened again, but she did not respond.
“Garth, we are very lax in our manners tonight,” Lucy said quickly. “This is another of my cousins. Rex, this is Garth Kristinsson. He just slipped in the door, it seems — his mother knew The Atarae.”
“Indeed?” Some life actually flickered in Rex’s black eyes.
“We were schoolgirls together,” came a low, vibrant voice.
Turning slightly, Garth found “Silver” at his elbow. “You have come a long way since then,” Garth said neutrally.
“A long way,” the woman agreed. “I wish we had stayed together; Nuala would have amused her. Lisbet had a wonderful sense of the absurd.”
“Have you been on Nuala long?” Garth hadn’t intended to risk much conversation with her — someone might remember that they had talked, after it was all over — but she drew him like metal to a magnet.
“Not long, really,” was the murmured reply. Facing toward the others, she said: “Good to see you all. Have you found things to your liking?”
“You have the best whiskey in town,” Malini assured her.
“I imagine your embassy uses the same importer.”
“But we do not share it quite so freely,” Rex responded with a smile. Nodding graciously to the women, he said: “A pleasure, Garth. Come see me; I am sure our conversation would be enlightening to both of us.” And with that, he disappeared back into the crowd.
“Did I meet that blonde earlier?” Garth asked Lucy.
“Not since I met you; Rex has a new one every few days, we usually do not bother to learn their names. What do you think of our special ambassador, Atarae? I saw you speaking with him,” Lucy said politely.
“He is quite a charmer; I shall have to warn the ladies of my court,” the silver-haired woman said easily. “I look forward to bettering my acquaintance with him.” Her perfect features lifted; a swirl of silver hair revealed a huge, burgundy stone set in a trinium oval, suspended between triads of chains. “Nadine reb^Ursel Kilgore has arrived. If you will excuse me? Come see me, Kristinsson.” A gracious nod, and the pale woman backed into the press, her flanking, black-suited shadows close to her heels.
“I would kill to look like that after three children,” Malini said flatly. “If only the timing had been different, and she had married a Dielaan.”
“Why?” Garth asked.
Malini looked amused. “She is an enemy, my dear. Scarcely thirteen years ago we were at war with them; we are on speaking terms now only because we found an enemy more dangerous than Atare.”
“Who?” If Atare was, as he understood, the enemy of a thousand years, who could be a larger threat?
“Why, you, my dear. It was an off-worlder who nearly destroyed the royal lines of three clans.” Glancing at her cousin, she added: “One can never be too careful.” Nodding easily, she moved off up the window corridor.
Bewildered, Garth turned to Lucy. “Did I offend her somehow?”
“Not really,” Lucy said soothingly. “You did say you preferred redheads.”
“I was just —”
“I know.” Lucy glanced away for a moment, and then looked him directly in the eyes. “It is nearly matins; I have had enough of partying. Would you like company for the night, or shall I say good bye?”
The abruptness of it startled him. “But... you don’t know anything about me,” Garth said slowly.
“I know that you have no communicable diseases, are attractive, and good company. You have no criminal record, or you would have been detained. I doubt you would be foolish enough to commit murder within a half-day of your arrival.” She gave him a brilliant smile.
“How do you know I have no disease? Do you work at the medical center?” Garth said, genuinely surprised.
“It is posted.” Seeing his confusion, Lucy reached for his wrist. “You said you arrived today; these marks confirm that, they fade within a few days. Crowned Tiger is the first to arrive in a moon. I checked the listing, and no one was starred as black except a man who was quarantined — that means all the men and women who arrived today are fertile and healthy.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her eyes widened appealingly. “Would I tease you?”
“Probably.” Garth did not know whether to be flattered or insulted. “When did you have time to check this ‘posting?’”
“Oh, I checked before the party. If there had been a few black listings, I would have memorized their names, so I did not leave with any of them. Our fertility is too fragile to risk it for a bit of fun.” Her eyes were twinkling, now. “I will show you the listing, if you wish... I am even in there, somewhere, if you want to check my rating.”
“I imagine The Atarae would have dragged me off if you were a secret sini.” At her puzzlement, he amplified: “A sini pretending to be normal.”
Nodding, Lucy seized his sleeve once again and drew him toward the stairs. “I am about as far from a sini as you will find,” she promised him.
Somehow those words seemed carefully chosen, but Garth had no idea why.