If Jeryth also required him to walk her little girl back home, it might give him another brief opportunity to scout the stronghold. If he could catch the Monral in the act of negotiating with odalli, so much the better, but first he required sufficient evidence of their presence before he could investigate honorably.
Jeryneth ran into the school without looking back, eager to see her tutors. He walked up into the stronghold, strolling like a tourist, which in truth he was, to some extent. He didn’t think the Monral would be so careless as to lodge the star-faring odalli in the guest wing, so he wandered along the hall leading to the family wing, inspecting the banners along the walls. Guards stopped him before he could walk very far into the family wing, of course, but not before he caught a very strong scent emanating from one of the family quarters. He bowed in apology, covering himself with confusion, and backed away to leave.
Outside, he camouflaged and ran to Jeryth’s farm as fast as his enhanced speed would allow. Along the way, he passed Jeryth, a number of laborers in tow, but he was able to get to the farm and be busy spraying the north fields when she came into view, seeming to be none the wiser. He nodded respectfully as she passed and reflected on what he’d smelled.
He took a deep breath. He could still almost smell it: an acrid, unidentifiable odor. It was not Tolari. It was almost chemical in nature, and mixed with an almost-but-not-quite-Tolari odor. Beings from another world were in the Monral’s stronghold, or had been, quite recently. Odalli. He needed to get a look at them.
His thoughts were interrupted by Jeryth’s voice, calling his name.
His name, he thought. He had a name. He had been the Sural his entire adult life, more than a hundred years. The mere idea of having a name chafed him, separated him from his people, kept him from being who he was: the living representation of his province, Suralia. I am Suralia, he thought fiercely, but it resounded in his mind like a falsehood. He was still bonded to his people, but he was no longer Suralia.
“Kazryn!” she called again.
Her shout brought him out of his reverie. He deactivated the sprayer and called back. “Yes, Jer?”
“Time for the midday meal!”
“Yes, Jer.”
He stowed the sprayer and headed into the house to share a meal with the five newly-engaged laborers. All were men – wandering laborers tended to be, though no one could explain why. Three were Monrali and two were Paranian, much to his relief. No wanderers from Suralia’s side of the planet, who might be able to deduce who he was because individuals of his stature were rare. On this side of Tolar, they knew only that the Sural was a grandchild of the Jorann, and reports of his appetites tended toward the absurdly exaggerated. The reality would not match their expectations, so his height should not in itself raise suspicion.
Still, as ravenous as he was from using his enhanced abilities, he was careful not to be too obvious about how much he ate, taking only as much food as the other men, then casually continuing to pick food off the trenchers. It was probably wiser, he decided as he grabbed another roll and bit into it, if he didn’t use his abilities at all, to avoid the tell-tale increase they made in his appetites – all of his appetites. He was going to pay for the morning’s use of them by having a bad time of it around women for a day or so, but the last thing he could do was share a Monrali woman’s blanket and ignite her suspicions when the ensuing intimacy made it clear to her he was more than he appeared to be.
He hoped Jeryth’s senses weren’t keen enough to notice the desire he was struggling to suppress. She seemed to lean toward the less sensitive end of the empathy spectrum. He tightened up his barriers another fraction, but he did not dare to close them completely. Few Tolari could do that, and doing so would make his companions suspicious. No, it was better to let a little of himself show and depend upon the good manners of the others not to pry. With any luck, the other men would only think he was attracted to Jeryth and trying not to show it. With more luck, she wouldn’t notice at all.
“There will be a cook and a kitchen servant arriving later,” Jeryth announced. “You need not be worrying about kitchen duty, unless you like such.” There was a general undercurrent of amusement around the table. “Kazryn, I want you to fetch Jeryneth from the school. When you return, send her on to me and get back to spraying the north fields. The rest of you start on harvesting the south field farthest from the house. The equipment is in the storage building by the road.”
The men murmured agreement as they cleared the table and dispersed.
“Kazryn,” Jeryth said before he could get out the door. “Help me clean up.”
“Yes, Jer,” he replied, concealing his eagerness to leave. He had to get away from her. With his stomach full, his body had its own decidedly inappropriate idea of what he should be doing with her, and quelling it took most of his concentration. He ignored her as he washed the trenchers and cleaned the table to a shine it probably hadn’t displayed in tens of years. Then, with a respectful bow, he fled.
He sucked in a breath of air as he emerged from the cool of the house. The midday heat almost beat rational thought out of him as he paced the road toward the common school, but he grimly turned his mind to his purpose in Monralar. Odalli from the Trade Alliance had been in the Monral’s stronghold, of an exotic and unknown species. It changed any interpretation of his presence in Monralar from espionage to investigation, and it gave him a certain amount of freedom to search for evidence. How did they land without the rest of the planet finding out? Where was their vessel? He needed to know before his people were exposed. He needed proof before he could confront and halt whatever madness his old enemy was perpetrating. Unfortunately, proof took time, and his time was not his own – Jeryth had a claim on it. He chafed at that. He’d always been his own man, freely choosing to give his time to his duties. He hadn’t been bound to obedience since childhood.
As he neared the school, Jeryneth ran to greet him, arms open. He picked her up and spun her around, smiling, then gave a friendly nod to the tutors and turned back the way he came. No chance to scout the stronghold this time.
Such a delightful child. She strained to get down, so he set her on the ground and slowed his pace to match her tiny strides, letting her grasp his fingers. He found himself contemplating making his next child a daughter. The three prospective heirs he’d had – and lost – had all been sons. It had been a number of years since his last attempt at an heir. Perhaps when he returned to Suralia he would try again. The pain from losing another child to the great trial was almost bearable. Again.
“Why are you so sad, high one?” Jeryneth asked.
He frowned. “You must not call me that,” he admonished. “I am a farm laborer, not a high one.”
“But you feel like it, high one.”
“Jery.”
“But—”
He stopped and knelt on the ground to look into her eyes. “You are a very sensitive little girl,” he said, “so hear me now. I am a farm laborer. Do you sense the truth in my words?”
She nodded, confusion clouding her little face.
“You must not give to a farm laborer the title given only to members of the ruling caste. Do you understand? I am a farm laborer.”
She deflated, her young confidence shaken. He picked her up and gave her an affectionate hug, masking his regret from her. Before he left Monralar, he had to make it up to her and restore her innocent faith in herself.
“I like you,” she said, rallying. “You feel nice.” She rubbed her forehead on his cheek.
He gave her a squeeze and set her down. “Come along,” he said. “Your fafea will be wondering where we are.”
They had taken too long. He could feel it. Then he could feel Jeryth, and astonished disbelief. He turned.
“Well now,” Jeryth said.
“Fafea!” Jeryneth cried, running to her.
Jeryth settled her daughter on her hip and eyed Kazryn with a speculative gleam in her eye. He groaned inwardly.
�
�Not many as my daughter likes that well,” she commented.
He affected not to notice the look. “Children like me,” he replied with a shrug and a casual smile. He set his mind on the oil sprayer and the north fields and strode past her at a brisk pace, mentally calculating an efficient spray pattern. He had to think about anything but a willing woman.
Kazryn spent the rest of the afternoon spraying the fields and pondering the problem of finding time to get into the stronghold. He was coming to the conclusion he would have to sneak away in the night, but that was risky. Should someone wake and notice he was gone, he’d be hard-pressed to explain himself. Perhaps he could claim he enjoyed walking in the night. That had the virtue of being true.
A late evening walk? He could take a late evening walk, if he could avoid attracting Jeryth’s attention. He contemplated that, then dismissed it as implausible. After a hard day’s work in the fields, most men would be too tired to take more exercise. He noted his own inclination for a brisk walk had been far greater after a day of reading reports and attending meetings than it was after a day of spraying grain fields.
What he really wanted, he thought as he continued spraying, was a good hard workout with his guards. That would cool his blood. He wished Jeryth had ordered him to do the more physically demanding work of harvesting. He had to work off his appetite somehow, and he wasn’t going to do it by sharing her blanket. Doggedly, he concentrated on the sprayer, on the plants he was spraying, on not stepping on the plants he was spraying, and tried to avoid falling into reverie as the afternoon grew even hotter.
Why do farm laborers wear a dark color? He paused to wipe the sweat from his face on his sleeve. He sensed someone approaching behind him and turned. It was the house servant, Marzaina, bearing chilled water. He nodded a greeting and accepted the water, drinking thirstily and avoiding her eyes. A puzzled look crossed her face as she sensed some of his conflict, but she said nothing. He finished drinking, splashed some cold water on his face, and bowed his thanks.
“My gratitude,” he murmured as he turned back to the sprayer. He hoped Jeryth and her household would attribute his formal behavior to being, as the saying went, ‘as cold as Suralia’s glaciers.’
As the hot afternoon continued, he worked himself as hard as he could, covering far more of the north fields than Jeryth would expect. He was satisfied with himself as he headed into the house to wash up before the meal. Exhausted, dirty, and covered with cora seed oil, he was relaxed, the raw desire worn away by hard work and the hot sun. That in itself was worth it, though he didn’t think he’d be able to stay awake long enough to slip out and investigate the Monral.
After the meal, he joined the rest of the men in the sitting room, relaxing and sipping spirits provided by Jeryth. They laughed easily, these men of the warm equatorial provinces. Perhaps it was not a bad way to be. He let himself be carried along in the laughter and the joking, even joining in when they mimicked the Detrali accent – a common butt of jokes across the planet and which he could do very well. The other men roared with laughter at his imitation of the ruler of Detralar. He let some of his smug satisfaction show. He knew the Detral well, and his mimicry was near perfect.
He laughed with the others, until the laugh turned into a cough. Shocked, he kept coughing, unable to stop. The other men looked alarmed.
“Jeryth!” one of them called, projecting alarm that rippled through the house. “Come quick!”
She skidded into the room. Kazryn kept coughing, bloody foam appearing on his lips. She sniffed.
“Cora seed oil,” she muttered under her breath, pulling her tablet out of a pocket. “You great fool, you should have told me you get the reaction.” She transmitted an emergency call. “Hold on then, help is coming. Marzaina! Bring the emergency supplies!”
The house servant ran in with a bag. Jeryth dug into it and pulled out a mask, fitting it over Kazryn’s face as he tried to inhale between coughing fits.
“Breathe deep,” she told him. “This will help.”
He nodded and tried to comply. The coughs were searing, but he couldn’t stop. He felt the blood drain from his face as he slid to the floor, coughing bloody foam. Jeryth held the mask over his nose and mouth. A yellow-robed apothecary and two aides with a litter hurried into the room.
“Looks to be cora reaction,” Jeryth told the apothecary.
The apothecary had his medical tablet and scanner out. “Aye,” he said, glancing over the readout on the tablet. “Right enough, Jer. I need to take him to the stronghold to treat him. Should have him back to you before the evening meal tomorrow.”
Jeryth nodded. “Do right by him, Durzyn. Got a hard worker there, for all that he comes of Suralia.”
The apothecary nodded and gave Kazryn a sedative. As he fell unconscious, his coughing finally stopped.
* * *
Kazryn woke slowly, stifling a groan. It hurt to breathe. What happened? He remembered coughing. Coughing, and not being able to stop, and the taste of blood in his mouth. Then apothecaries, then nothing. He calculated how long he had been unconscious. It should be morning. He opened his eyes and tried to blink away the blurriness. Gradually, the world came into focus.
He was on a bed in what looked like stronghold apothecaries’ quarters. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the windows, and there was an aide nearby, mixing something in a small cup. He tried to take a deep breath and spasmed a cough. The aide was instantly beside him.
“You have pain,” he said.
“Yes,” Kazryn rasped.
An apothecary appeared on the other side of the bed. “Do not speak yet,” she said while scanning him. “You can damage your voice. Nod or shake your head. I can sense your pain. It comes from taking a breath?”
He nodded.
She produced an instrument from somewhere and pressed it against his neck. After a few moments, his breathing eased. He smiled his thanks.
“Good,” she said. “Have you never had a cora reaction before?”
He shook his head.
“Unusual. Most what are sensitive get the reaction long before they reach full adulthood. How is it you could be a man full grown and never have the reaction till now?” As he shrugged, she appeared to be struck by a sudden thought. “Have you taken the Jorann’s blessing?” she asked.
His brows knit together – it was a strange question – and he nodded slowly. He braced for a blast of suspicion, but instead the apothecary appeared satisfied.
“This happens,” she said. “The Jorann’s blessing can make you sensitive to cora. It is not clear why, and there is no cure for it. You must never spray cora seed oil again, farmhand, nor eat cora fruit. Never.”
He nodded, allowing his confusion to show. He’d read all he could on the farm laborer’s trade before he left Suralia, but he’d never come across this information. Then he realized it might be because laborers, like most Tolari, never took the Jorann’s blessing. Only the ruling caste, caste leaders, and those with exceptional gifts or talents tended to make use of it to extend their lifespan.
“You are unusual, farmhand,” she continued. “Never met a farm laborer what had taken the Jorann’s blessing before. You surely must enjoy your trade.”
He shrugged.
“Well, neither fresh nor salt, so we say,” she said. “You need to eat. Do you feel strong enough to walk?”
* * *
Small tremors shook Kazryn as he walked down the stronghold corridor from the apothecaries’ quarters. He closed his barriers as much as he dared before entering the refectory. Even so, the Monral looked around and frowned. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as his impressive height would allow. Bonded rulers, he thought with a small shake of his head. Bonded rulers could almost smell each other. He grabbed some food and drink and headed for a table as far from the Monral as he could get. Some laborers, noticing him, invited him to eat with them. With no polite way to refuse, he smiled and took a seat at their table, closer to the Monral then he wanted
to be. When they asked his name, he patted his throat and shook his head.
“Aye,” one of the laborers said. “Cora reaction, is it?”
He nodded with a rueful smile, glad he couldn’t answer more than yes-or-no questions. He swallowed painfully, letting the conversation flow around him, watching the Monral. Much to his relief, the ruler soon finished his meal and headed off to attend his duties. Kazryn sighed and paid more attention to the laborers. His attention pricked as they mentioned their current project: reinforcing the stronghold roof. He masked his interest and listened as he ate. Repairing the roof wouldn’t have caught his attention, but reinforcing it? The stronghold would only need that if the Monral wanted the roof to support something very heavy indeed. Such as an outworlder’s landing craft?
His table companions wondered aloud at their strange assignment, but they didn’t utter a word to question their ruler. He throttled his concern as they mentioned the modern materials they were using to complete their work. If odalli detected more than just stone up there ... Kazryn blessed the misfortune he was sensitive to cora. He was feeling weak and tremors still shook him, but he was learning valuable information without the risk of concealing an ulterior motive for his presence.
All too soon, the laborers left to start their work day. Kazryn pondered what to do as he went back to the apothecaries. He’d have a perfect opportunity to investigate, as soon as they released him. He planned and schemed as he walked, shaking but feeling stronger for the food and the chance to stretch his legs.
His grandmother would have been proud of him, he thought, scheming in an enemy stronghold. She’d been a consummate ruler, and nothing would have pleased her more than to trick an old enemy under his very roof.
Into Tolari Space (Tales of Tolari Space) Page 4
