The Fall (35 page)

They circled and turned and spun, and a collective euphoria arose, not just in the rulers taking part but in their heirs and bond-partners as well. The Jorann, eyes sparkling, extended her senses around them all, seeming to foster the harmony. Laura’s empathic nerves tingled, and a calm descended over her.

Eventually, a few individuals began to tire, and the pace slowed to a stop. As one, the rulers turned, bowed to the Jorann, and then they went back to their daises, beginning with the Sural and ending with the pair near the door. When all had returned to their places, the Sural spoke.

The Paran, his face still aglow, bent to help Laura stand. “Those not of the ruling caste—the bond-partners and the children who have not passed the trials—must leave now,” he said.

* * *

The Sural was a skilled opponent, the Monral admitted to himself. One by one, beginning with the youngest provinces, the allies of Monralar and many of the previously undecided rulers had risen to call for abandoning Tolar’s splendid isolation and pretense of backwardness, and declare their planet amenable to trade with other worlds. Not one had mentioned the question of conventional rule, or the necessities of the Game; the Monral had coached his intimates carefully, and the others had followed where they led. The Sural had sat, impassive, till they finished. A single look passed between the two most dangerous men on Tolar as the Monral ceded the floor to his enemy.

The Sural stood then and began to question the ruling caste in one human language, then another, then a third. Not a single ruler could answer. Finally, he summoned his heir, the young girl Kyza, forward and asked her in Suralian to acquaint the other members of her caste with the difficulties they would face. With a respectful bow to the Jorann, she went to the center of the Circle and began to describe,
in English
, the races of the Trade Alliance—their homeworlds, their principal culture traits, and the political stance of each. Only a few of the rulers could understand her, and as for the rest, they were looking at the Sural with a renewed appreciation…

When Kyza took a breath, the Monral coughed to draw attention to himself, then diffidently suggested that his son and heir, Farric, might assist the youngster in her presentation. The Sural’s eyes had narrowed, but precedent left him no cause for complaint as Farric kept pace with Kyza, line for line, translating for the benefit of the assembled rulers and adding details of his own, speaking primarily in fluent Suralian and handling himself admirably.

It really did not matter, thought the Monral to himself, whether outworld trade went first through Earth’s station in the Drift, or directly to Tolar. He would use the
odalli
, Kekrax, Den, or human, to get what he needed. And the other races had no reason to fear the Tolari, quite yet.

Kyza fell silent, and the Sural signaled her to return to his side without a further word. Then the Monral rose last, in the position of honor, and began to patiently explain to all those present what he had accomplished in sending his son and heir to the stars.

* * *

Farric sweated. Father had outdone himself, first in countering the Sural’s clever use of his daughter to embarrass the ruling caste, then in showing those same rulers how much they stood to gain at his hands, materially, culturally, politically. But there was more; the Monral had hinted, time and again, that the Sural’s only counter was one of force and coercion: that he was so intent on having his own descendants lead Tolar that he would use any means to prevent another’s rise to leadership in the caste. That point had certainly struck home, and any challenge from Suralia now might appear as a spoiling attack rather than a legitimate contribution to the debate.

No word came from the Sural of his own decision to name Farric as his ambassador to the Trade Alliance, and that worried him. Had it been simply a maneuver on Suralia’s part? Or was he to be exposed as a traitor later on in the proceedings?

But his real worries were closer to home.

His father had not quite lied, but to one who knew him, it was clear he had not spoken the entire truth either. He mentioned only the agreement with the Den, promising that he would explain to the caste shortly what they would gain for the trade privileges committed to the investors in the new station. He said nothing of any agreement with Earth. And yet Farric recalled the words in which he, Farric, heir to Monralar, had agreed on his world’s behalf to turn over the too-obviously-human bond-partners of Suralia and Parania to the authorities of their homeworld.

* * *

Sharana stepped out of the small transport pod. She had left Suralia at the same time as the others but had stopped in Vedelar long enough to miss the opening rituals of the conclave—anything to delay being alone with the Monral. His presence sat above the transit hub, attending the Circle, too exhilarated to hold onto the flare of anger that had surged through the bond when he realized she would not arrive before the caste shut and barred the doors.

One thing was clear: her bond-partner was no longer using the apothecaries’ drug that had hampered his mind and body. His heart sang in hers with a clarity and exultation she had never felt before.

She ascended the steps to the main level and found her way to the closed entrance of the Circle. Duty served, she refreshed herself in the Monrali quarters before heading to the refectory, a quarter of the way around the central building’s outer ring. The beloved of Parania sat at one of the many rectangular tables, a yellow belt about her waist and an apothecary’s aide seated beside her. Across the table, Farric’s companion Bertie seemed to be in a state of consternation. When he caught sight of her, he called out.

“Hallo!” he said, beckoning with hand motions. “Just the person I wanted to see. I could use a little help here.”

Sharana went to their table and bent in a cordial bow. “I would be happy to assist you.” She turned to Laura and added, “I greet you, beloved of Parania.”

No spark of recognition came from the Paran’s bond-partner. “Do you speak Paranian?” she asked in that language, a hopeful look on her face.

“Indeed,” Sharana replied in kind.

Bertie straightened, his eyebrows rising. “I say, do you speak a language she can understand? She’s obviously human, but she doesn’t speak any language that I know.”

She took a seat next to him. “I am Sharana,” she said to Laura, “bond-partner to Monralar. Do you remember me?”

Laura gave her a penetrating look and shook her head. “Have we met?”

“At the end of autumn, you came to me seeking help to control your empathic abilities. I am like you, a sensitive.”

“Oh.” Her senses recoiled, and she curled in on herself, retreating behind almost impenetrable barriers. “I remember little of my life here, and I can no longer speak… my human language. I am not the same person you met.”

Sharana struggled to keep her face impassive. Here sat a woman full of heartache, in sharp contrast to the happiness she displayed during her visit to Monralar.
What have the Paranians done to her?

“What’s she saying?” Bertie asked. “What language is that? It sounds like a cross between Chinese and Spanish.”

“It seems she speaks only Paranian,” she answered. “She recently suffered a serious head injury. It must have destroyed her ability to speak English. She is the beloved—the bond-partner—of Parania.”

He turned a broad grin on Laura. “Enchanted. May I ask your name?”

Laura gave him a polite smile, then met Sharana’s eyes. “How well did we know each other? Did I know him
before
as well?” she asked quietly.

“No, he is recently arrived on our world. And you stayed in Monralar a mere handful of days, much of it spent observing me work with another sensitive or engaged in learning exercises.”

She nodded, and her shoulders relaxed a little. “Good—but I—you see—” She took a deep breath “I am an exile and Earth’s government wishes me gone safely into the dark. It might be a bad idea to tell this young man my name. If he says anything, if they should learn I am here…”

Sharana glanced at Bertie. “The beloved of Parania wishes to avoid discovery by your people, for reasons of her own.”

“Oh, they can’t bloody well learn anything from me. I dasn’t stick my nose back in human space after all I’ve done for you lot.”

She translated. Laura stared at Bertie for a few moments, then said, “Laura Johnson Howard.”

“Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt,” he replied, with a broad smile. “Call me Bertie.”

Laura nodded at the translation. “What did you do to anger the Xerg’gli?”

Sharana stifled a laugh. “She wants to know what you did to anger ‘the old monster.’”

Bertie grinned. “Facilitated Tolari trade,” he replied. “Made myself their financial advisor. Contracted as Tolar’s attorney and legal representative. But that’s not the worst of it, as far as Central Command is concerned. The worst thing I did was help Tolar contract with the Den to begin construction on a Tolari-owned and controlled trade station. That really stuck a firecracker in it. Apparently, our honored Chairman wanted a station in the Drift under his own control. If I ever set foot in human space again, I’m a dead man.”

Laura tittered as Sharana repeated what he’d said in Paranian. “Forgive me,” she said in Paranian, covering her mouth with a hand.

Bertie chuckled. “So how did you come to be here?”

When Sharana repeated the question, Laura went still, her eyes wide, and declined to answer.

“Oh dash it, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Forget I asked.”

Sharana’s senses tingled. A number of presences approached the refectory—including Farric, which meant the Monral might be close behind. Time to face her bond-partner’s anger and battle their mutual bond-hunger.

Laura swiveled in her chair. The Paran numbered among the first to come through the door from the hall, heading straight for them. Laura’s presence, which had relaxed to some extent during the chat with Bertie, recoiled from him. The Paran’s presence failed to register on Sharana’s senses.

“Beloved, what frightened you?” he asked.

“It was nothing,” Laura replied. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Bertie stood and offered a deep bow when the Paran glanced his way; he waited expectantly, then launched into carefully rehearsed Suralian. “Albert St. John Rembrandt. I am to give a presentation at the next session of the Circle.”

The Paran extended a hand. “I am the Paran,” he replied in English. “Very good to meet you.”

The human’s eyes widened, and surprise radiated out from him, but he clasped the Paran’s hand and gave it a shake. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He returned to his seat as the Paran slid onto the chair at the head of the table.

Servants brought trays of food. Bertie slipped a hand into one of his garments and pulled out a small medical scanner. “A gift from Farric,” he said, in answer to the Paran’s curious look. “His apothecary identified the substances in your food that will poison me.” He snatched a piece of fruit from a tray. “Doesn’t want his pet human to kick.”

“Kick what?” Sharana asked.

Bertie laughed. “I’m not sure. It’s an old way of saying he doesn’t want me to die. Hm. Not much here I can eat.” He bit into a fruit.

Farric’s voice echoed off the walls. “Bertie!”

“Speak of the devil.”

Sharana moved down a chair, and Farric claimed the one she vacated, glancing at her with a lifted eyebrow. He nodded at the Paran.

“Deuce if I can figure your politics,” Bertie said. “It’s a complete mash-up. I sat at the right table, didn’t I?”

Farric grinned and grabbed some food. “Yes, Parania and Monralar are allies.”

“But your Dad hates Suralia, and
he
,” he pointed at the Paran, “does not.”

“Monralar is ambitious,” the Paran said. “I am content to rule my own people.”

“Oh I see. The Sural being on top doesn’t bother you.”

“In a manner of speaking. We have also our traditions. Parania has been allied to Suralia for hundreds of years.”

“Monralar, even longer,” Farric said, “until Father began to challenge the Sural’s leadership. Two ambitious men with mutually-exclusive goals can quickly come to hate each other.”

“A pity,” Sharana murmured artlessly. “Where is your father?”

“In meetings with the undecided, arguing his position.”

“Ah, campaigning,” Bertie said, rolling his eyes. “Of course.”

Farric elbowed him.

Laura nodded gracefully to the company, and pushed her food away. “I need to rest. No, stay,” she said when the Paran started to get up. “My aide is sufficient.”

The Paran eased back down, his eyes never leaving his beloved as the aide helped her to stand and leave the room.

“There goes a gracious lady,” Bertie said, after she had disappeared into the hall. “Must add learning Paranian to the to-do list. She couldn’t understand us, but she never complained. I should like to know her better.”

The Paran’s face softened. “Indeed.”

Suddenly, his barriers tumbled and the longing and heartache ran over Sharana like the torrent of a spring thaw. But his bond-partner was gone.

* * *

The Paran clicked open the door to the quarters assigned to his party, the Brial close behind him. In the dim light of the sitting room, he stopped and searched the suite with his senses; his beloved and his son’s fafea both slept.

“It does not go well,” he said, after clicking the door shut. “Unless you want to see Monralar as caste leader?”

His friend emitted a snort and flopped into a chair at one side of the semi-circular room. “The man went beyond his authority to contact the humans without consulting the rest of us. And I am in no way convinced that the
odalli
are such pushovers as he implies.”

“Then you will support Suralia?” He pulled a bottle of spirits and two small cups from a cupboard, placed them on a low table among the chairs and divans, and took a seat across from his friend.

“I would die in the snow first.” The Brial leaned forward to pour. “But the non-aligned provinces make no difference now. Monralar has won.”