“It was enough, Kellandin, thank you.”
* * *
The Monral leaned back at the desk in his closed study, frowning at his chief advisor. He had required the man to wait, standing, while he finished reading a report, but Adryth remained imperturbable. The Monral’s frown deepened. He used the tactic more from habit than necessity; it had not affected Adryth in tens of years. Finally, the Monral put his tablet aside and nodded permission to speak.
“I cannot advise you properly if you do not tell me your plans,” the man said. “I remind you—”
“—of what happened five years ago,” the Monral finished. “I would have succeeded, had Parania not betrayed me to Suralia.”
“That is my point, high one. Chaos will find its way into the most careful arrangements. I know you have set a major plot in motion. You must prepare for the consequences of failure at any point. The Monral your father—” Adryth stopped himself.
Sudden fury widened the Monral’s eyes and flared his nostrils. He dares! He fisted one hand under the desk. Early training and years of practice kept his voice soft, but he allowed himself to bristle. “Am I your apprentice, then, Scholar?” he asked.
Adryth took a small step backward, lips twitching nervously. “Forgive me, high one. I seek to inform—” He paused. Then he straightened and his expression flattened. “An advisor cannot work with incomplete information.”
“Indeed? You chastise me well enough despite that.”
Adryth opened his mouth to speak, then snapped his jaw shut. The Monral lifted an eyebrow and waited.
“The artisan caste requests more Vedeli marble,” the scholar said. “The stock of materials suitable for training young sculptors is low and contains little variety. I arranged a preliminary negotiation with the Vedelia’s heir. His counteroffer included a substantial increase in the amount of grain he requires in return, but we expected that, given the flooding and the crop failures they experienced during the summer. I sent the information to you.”
He nodded and picked up his tablet. The numbers were high, but not unreasonable given the circumstances, and well within Monralar’s surplus.
“We would do well to court Vedelar’s favor away from Suralia,” he replied. “Accept it, and return tomorrow.”
The Monral quit his chair and turned to gaze out the window as the man left. This wing of the stronghold overlooked the city, its pale stone towers gleaming in the golden sunlight. To the east and west, fields of grain busy with autumn harvesters abutted the walls, and beyond it the sea crashed against the shore. Satisfaction at the sight of his well-run province softened the annoyance caused by Adryth’s impertinence.
Soon, all of Tolar would benefit from his rule. His chief advisor’s fears had no path in reality. He would weaken Parania and punish the Paran for his part in the humiliating setback five years ago, and in the process, gain the support he needed to take leadership of the ruling caste—all without leaving a trace of his hand. The Paran would never know who bore the responsibility for his anguish.
He need only monitor his target’s movements and strike when the opportunity presented itself. Soon.
And Suralia could not interfere, this time.
* * *
CCS-52-0113
FROM: Adeline Pearson Russell
SUBJECT: Tolar activity
Officer at Gliese 877 reports contact with Tolari ruler not repeat not the Sural. Request permission to open dialog. The potential to learn valuable information is too high to ignore this opportunity.
(signed) Adeline Russell, Major, Central Security
Head of Field Operations, Inner Sector
Chapter Ten
Laura searched the keep’s second floor corridors, taking the opportunity to practice holding her empathic barriers closed and impervious to the presences around her. She didn’t have it quite right—a dim awareness of the people in this section of the stronghold filtered through. Resisting the urge to reach for the whales’ glowing empathic net around the planet, she thickened the imaginary wall.
A few doors ahead, Azana stuck her head into the hallway. “What brings you to the science hall?”
“You.” She made a show of looking around as she approached. “Have I found you?”
Azana’s face lit with amusement. “A moment,” she said, and disappeared back into what appeared to be her office.
Laura peered in. Tidy piles of paper, covered with arcane symbols and messy writing, lay scattered across a desk just inside the door. For a moment, she wondered why anyone would work with their back to a picture window, and then she glanced through it. A panorama of farms and orchards, cozied up against hills on one side and the sea on the other, spread across the landscape.
That view could distract anyone from anything.
Azana finished neatening a few stray sheets on the desk and placed a stylus on them. “You came at a fortuitous moment—” she waved a hand at the papers “—I need to rest my mind from this. Did you have a question?”
“Any number of them, but the first one is if you’d like to accompany me to the city. I need to work on my barriers, but I don’t want to go alone, or too far in.”
The brown-robed woman lifted a corner of her mouth. “I favor a certain teahouse along the western arc of the city.”
“Run by a small woman with an adolescent son?”
“Indeed.”
“I know the place! The Paran took me there.”
“Its steward is widely considered the best tea maker in the region.”
“All the more reason to pay her a visit.”
Azana led the way to the transit room. A guard joined them there. As he stepped into the transport pod, Laura glanced over him—tall and burly, but showing no signs of the tension she’d seen when the Paran left the stronghold.
Then she realized she hadn’t sent for him.
“Is there anything the Paran doesn’t hear about in this place? He’s worse than Central Command.”
Azana chuckled. “Your child is not his heir, but our men do take a protective interest in the children they father. He will watch you more closely while you increase.”
Increase. What a lovely way to put it. Laura sighed and shook her head. You knew what you were signing up for, girl, and you know he’s worth it.
Her companion left her to her thoughts until they reached the café, where the proprietor—the steward—and her son bustled about cleaning in the early afternoon lull. The black-clad woman broke into a broad smile when Laura and her companions walked through the open door and made their way to a corner table near a window. The smell of herbs, flowers, and nuts filled the place, the scents exotic to Laura’s nose but still reminiscent of herbals on Earth. She took a seat in the corner, where she could see both the café and the avenue outside the window. Then she laughed under her breath at her own paranoia. Government surveillance in Parania consisted of the Paran watching over her.
Azana gave her an odd look and chose the chair across the table, while the guard stood to one side, looking for all the world like an Earth Fleet marine at parade rest. Laura touched his arm to get his attention and said, “Please do sit with us.”
His eyes flicked from her to the mathematician.
“He cannot,” Azana said. “Guards do not relax on duty.”
“Oh.” Some things weren’t so different. “I see.”
The man murmured something she didn’t understand. “Have no concern,” her companion translated. She seemed about to say more when the proprietor’s son arrived with two steaming mugs. “Our gratitude,” Azana said in Paranian, instead of whatever she had been about to say.
Laura repeated the phrase as she accepted her mug. Beaming, the young man left them to their tea.
“Everyone seems so happy when I try to speak your language,” she said.
“We know it to be difficult for you. You honor us to make the effort.”
“The way I speak? I’d honor you more by keeping my Paranian to myself until after t
he implant.”
Azana lifted a corner of her mouth. Laura sipped and glanced around at the interior of the café. Tables were strewn at regular intervals, and shelves, each lined with labeled ceramic jars of many different colors, covered the walls. The tea’s flavor spread over her tongue, smooth and refreshing, with a light, citrus-like tang. “Delightful,” she said, taking another sip.
“Aye.”
The bustling at the back of the café caught Laura’s attention. The young man scrubbed the counters where they prepared the tea, while his mother poured small scoops of dried leaves into ceramic jars.
“What keeps them working?” Laura blew on the hot tea in her mug.
Azana tilted her head, brows drawn together. “We must all work.”
“Yes, but—I don’t understand how you get along without money.”
“Ah. You underestimate the effect we have on one another. Most of us prefer not to incur the disapproval that idleness would bring. Even those few who can tolerate it will often exile themselves before they can be cast out.”
Laura shifted in her chair. “I’m pretty idle.”
“You are known to spend a great deal of time on your art, though it would be best if you began to communicate with your caste leadership. They can provide you with projects suited to your taste and talent.”
“Once I can understand what they say.”
“Indeed.”
A companionable silence fell over the table. When the mugs stood empty, and they had returned to the avenue after a friendly leave-taking with the shop’s steward, Laura headed for the stone sculptor’s shop. Genuine urgency burst from Azana, and she grabbed Laura’s elbow to stop her.
“No, artist,” she said. “You cannot go there.”
“What? Why not?” Laura swiveled to face her companion.
“Do you see the fabric draping the door? It means they will not accept visitors.”
“But—” She looked back at the shop. Scarlet fabric, like bunting, hung over and to each side of the closed doors. “Did something happen?”
“Someone has gone into the dark.”
Laura’s throat tightened too much to speak. The old man. It must be the old man. Silently, she turned back the way they’d come, toward the outer city transit branch.
* * *
“Bright red means he met a peaceful end, beloved,” the Paran said. He paced Laura’s sitting room, moving to stay warm and wearing a blanket against the chill in her quarters. “He was a master of his craft, and he left a large family, by our standards—a son, a granddaughter, her daughter. We hold no path in higher esteem.”
Laura hugged her knees in a chair facing the windows. Condensation dripped down the outside, obscuring her view of the gardens. She heaved a sigh, letting the cold soak in and push the heat of the day’s exertions out of her bones. “It’s bothering me because it’s too close to my own grief, isn’t it?”
He sat on the arm of her chair and laid one hand on her shoulder. She tilted her cheek against it. His fingers were cold against her skin.
“I want to give them something,” she continued. “Would they accept a drawing? I could make a charcoal of the old man, sitting in that chair, watching me bring him the whale sculpture. His eyes were so bright. Would that be… would they welcome that?”
“That would be well done of you.” The hand on her shoulder squeezed. “I must return to work—my duties multiplied when my daughter left this morning to meet with several of my allies. We can speak more of this later, if you wish.”
She nodded. The door to the hall opened, letting in a gust of warm air, and closed behind him.
Her tablet chimed. Marianne, with tired, puffy eyes and disheveled hair, appeared when she touched the blinking communications sigil.
“Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?” Laura asked.
“Tell that to Rose.” On cue, a loud, happy chirp sounded in the background. A male voice hummed. “Do you have any advice for getting babies to sleep at night?”
A sympathetic chuckle bubbled to her lips. “Mine responded well to being walked around in a dark room.”
“That’s what the Sural is doing now.”
“Don’t your Suralian apothecaries have any advice?”
“None of it works.”
“You poor thing. She’ll come around eventually. Until then, maybe you should adopt her schedule, instead of trying to get her to adopt yours.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Laura tried not to laugh, but failed. “Well, maybe you’ll feel better when it happens to me.”
Marianne’s eyes popped wide. “What? Laura! Congratulations! You didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“The apothecaries said the baby implanted in a very short amount of time. Short enough for the double dose of pregnancy hormones to interfere with the bonding hormones.”
“So the two conditions interfered with each other?”
“Did they ever.” Laura flushed. “We fell asleep before it was over, so we came out of seclusion, and, well... The guards won’t try to get between a ruler and his bond-partner. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh no! You didn’t!” Marianne snorted with laughter.
“We did.” Her face flamed. “In the main corridor, near the audience room. The Paran wasn’t even embarrassed afterwards, when the bonding hormones died away for real. I feel like a cheap wanton.”
“Oh Laura, you have to believe you couldn’t help it. There’s a reason bonding couples are supposed to stay in seclusion.”
“That’s what the Paran said, more or less.”
“Then believe him if you won’t believe me.”
“Didn’t you have surgery after you started bonding? I don’t recall hearing any stories of the two of you bonding in the hallway.”
“The first half day or so you can control it. More or less. Guide the process was the phrase the Sural used at the time. But he’s... unusual. Even then, it was a near thing. We almost started in Cena’s quarters after the surgery. She was very annoyed.”
“I imagine she was.”
“So. You’re going to have a Tolari heir.”
“Even though I already have five heirs, by their lights.”
Her friend chuckled. “Large families really seem to baffle them.” She paused and glanced up. “He got her to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m going to try to get a little myself. Congratulations! Joy of the bond!”
“Good luck!” The tablet went blank.
A large drop of water rolled down the outside of the window. Sitting here doesn’t accomplish anything, Laura. She’d done enough sketch studies; time to get to work on the gift to the stone sculptor’s family. She heaved herself up from the chair and headed for the family library. It felt empty, with little Veryth gone—he was far too young to be apart from his mother, and had accompanied her—but it was less lonely than her quarters and less busy than the guest wing common room. Kellandin loitered among the books, doing his own research, while she outlined a portrait of the old sculptor at an easel near the window. The Paran dropped in now and again, through the afternoon. Sometimes she didn’t notice he had been there until after he left, his amusement bubbling through their bond.
By late afternoon, her feet ached enough to get her attention, and she minced her way across the room to where Kellandin huddled over several stacks of books, writing in a small notebook similar to the one the Paran used to write poetry.
A sense of foreboding whispered across her nerves. She halted, looking around, extending her senses. A disturbance erupted in one end of the stronghold, followed by guards clamping down on their emotional reactions in waves. She pulled out her tablet with a frown. No notification.
Just as she reached the table, a blast of grief seared her heart. Her knees buckled, and she landed in a chair with a whump. The tablet in her hand clattered onto the floor.
“Artist!” Kellandin’s presence flared with alarm. “Shall I summon an apothecary?”
More agony sliced t
hrough her.
“No!” she cried. “The Paran!” She bolted out of the chair, racing for the Paran’s open study, pushing the pain in her feet from her mind, begrudging every meter of the distance between the family wing and the Paran’s study off the audience room. A stitch grew in her side. Grimly, she clenched her teeth and ran on, wishing she had Marianne’s training as a marathon runner. She couldn’t cover the ground half fast enough.
Her heart plunged through the floor as she skidded through the door to the study. The Paran stood bent over his desk with his hands splayed flat on its polished wood, his head bowed so far down that his chin touched his chest. A woman—a guard—his head guard—stood across the desk from him, and five advisors sat stiff, silent, their faces frozen, the atmosphere thick with shock.
She threw her arms around the Paran, breathing hard, and felt a tiny part of his pain ease. Just a tiny part. “What happened?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
The guard standing at the desk cleared her throat. Laura glanced at her.
“A transport tunnel collapsed,” she said in a low voice. “The Paran’s daughter was mortally wounded. Her son followed her into the dark when she succumbed to her injuries.”
Raw grief sliced through her at the words—her own or the Paran’s, she couldn’t tell. Something in her that remained cold and rational told her it was probably both. Eyes stinging, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. It wouldn’t help the Paran if she became caught up in her own feelings.
“I’m so sorry, beloved,” she murmured. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The advisors began to get up from their chairs to file out the door. Whatever they had been discussing, it wouldn’t be finished today. The guard bowed low and turned to leave.
“Guard.” The Paran’s voice was almost inaudible, but the guard turned back.
“Yes, high one?”
The Paran lifted his face. Dry-eyed, he seemed to stare right through the woman facing him, and when he spoke again, his voice was dark. “Investigate this—accident. I want to know why and how a transport tunnel could collapse.”
“Yes, high one.”
The Fall Page 9
