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  The girl sat up straighter and regarded her father’s guests with a carefully bland expression. Farric offered her another deep bow, hiding a smile. During his own childhood, his father had many times required him to stay awake for a late arrival, as part of his training. On other occasions, he had attended without being summoned, seeking to prove himself despite his exhaustion. Either could be the case now for the heir to Suralia.

  “You honor me, dear ones,” Farric said. “I am Farric, heir to Monralar. My financial advisor, Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt, son of Alistair Montjoy Rembrandt, Duke of New Norfolk of the human colony world of Britannia.”

  The Sural inclined his head. “Be welcome in Suralia, and I will not keep you from your rest. My seneschal will take you to guest quarters. Enjoy the hospitality of my stronghold.”

  “Dear one.” Farric bowed again and turned as Bertie straightened from another bow.

  The seneschal met them in the corridor and led them to a guest suite with two sleeping rooms.

  “You did that deliberately,” Farric said after the seneschal left them. “He thinks you my lover.”

  “Horrors.” Bertie broke into a wicked grin.

  Farric snorted.

  Bertie threw himself onto a divan. “I did it so he wouldn’t separate us. Can’t get me alone to soften me up, as it were.”

  “He cares too much for his honor to act in such a manner,” Farric said, with another snort. “But as you know so little of our ways, he is unlikely to take offense.”

  “He needn’t find out.”

  “He hears every word we say within his stronghold.”

  “Damn. I should have known.”

  Farric chuckled. “Unlike you, I did not nap during the journey, and I am quite fatigued. I suggest you try to sleep.”

  * * *

  Pale winter light streamed through the high windows as Bertie glanced around the refectory. The Suralian stronghold’s dark gray stone gave it a more somber air than the lighter rock used in Monralar, but it otherwise looked the same. Round tables populated the room, and in the middle sat the raised, rectangular high table they occupied, with a throne-like chair at one end. That was currently claimed by the looming giant in embroidered pale blue who ruled this place. Bertie had never met a man who made him feel so small.

  To the Sural’s right sat his little girl Kyza. Then came Farric, directly across from Bertie, and then another young girl, this one in brown and perhaps a little older than Kyza, who ate her breakfast with shy glances around the table.

  The meal included the spiciest roll he’d ever tasted. As he took a second bite, the burn from the first turned his mouth and throat into a fusion reactor.

  “Drink your tea,” the Sural said, with a light, unidentifiable accent. One corner of his mouth twitched up, and the girls giggled. “I have been told it helps.”

  “My word,” he gasped, when he caught his breath. He lay the roll on the table in front of him and pushed it away. “And I thought the rolls in Monralar were spicy. I’m afraid I can’t quite manage this one.”

  “Try the fruit,” Kyza said in perfect English. She pointed. “The Marann says that one tastes like banana.”

  Bertie eyed the purple-skinned globe she indicated, the size of a large orange, lying on the tray of foods the Sural had declared safe for humans. “Your English is excellent,” he said, grabbing the fruit.

  Kyza grinned. “Thank you. I learned from the Marann.”

  “Do you mean Marianne Woolsey?” He found a dimple in the skin and began to peel it.

  The Sural nodded. “My bond-partner. Or wife, if you prefer.”

  “She is visiting Parania because the Paran’s bond-partner was injured, and they are friends,” Kyza added. “Human women do that.”

  Bertie chuckled. “Yes, they do, don’t they?” He took a nibble of the fruit’s inner flesh, and then took a larger bite—it did indeed taste like a banana, with an aftertaste of something unfamiliar but sweet. He swallowed. “Delightful. Parania is just next door to Monralar, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Farric replied.

  “Pity to have missed her. I wish I’d known she was there. I wouldn’t mind talking to another human, get another perspective on living here.”

  Farric tore a roll in half. “You are free to visit Parania. We are allied with them.”

  “But not with Suralia?”

  “Regrettably, the Monral does not count us among his allies,” the Sural answered. “As long as you live under his protection, he may object to further visits here.”

  Bertie shook his head. Politics. It was all rubbish, but there was no telling that to a politician. He took another bite of the banana-like fruit and waggled his fingers at the girl in brown. “Hallo.”

  Her eyes darted to the Sural, then back to Bertie. “Good morning,” she said, her accent strong and exotic, like a cross between Chinese and Norwegian.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I am Thela.”

  “Enchanted. I’m Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt—quite the mouthful, don’t you think? You can call me Bertie. That’s much easier for me to remember. What do you do around here?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Do? I live here. I study. I am not the heir.”

  “We have something in common, then!”

  The girl flashed a shy smile and turned her attention back to her food, seemingly content not to talk. Bertie let her alone and filled up on fruit while listening to Farric strike up a conversation with Kyza. The Tolari high ones danced around each other and spoke about mutual allies, mainly one called Vedelar, which they said had experienced catastrophic flooding the previous summer and needed assistance to make it through the winter without widespread starvation.

  After a time, the Sural fired off something business-like in his own language, and the girls slipped off their chairs. Thela went to the Sural and threw her arms around him briefly before running off after Kyza. When the two girls dashed through the doorway, they nearly ran into a man in an indigo blue robe. He called something stern after them, and they called back without stopping, their giggles fading with distance.

  The Sural stood and nodded at the new arrival. “Farric, Lord Albert, come with me.”

  He led them back to the audience room where he’d greeted them the night before and through it to a small office with a desk surrounded by a number of graceful, padded wood chairs. The Sural settled himself in the chair behind the desk while the man in dark blue took up a stance at his right shoulder; Bertie waited for Farric to sit before choosing a seat for himself.

  “My chief advisor, Storaas,” the Sural said. He tilted his head toward Storaas, then nodded toward his guests. “Lord Albert Saint John Rembrandt, Monralar’s financial advisor, a man I believe may prove of great value to us all in the near future, and Farric, heir to Monralar, whom the Monral has seen fit to name Tolar’s representative to the Trade Alliance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Farric shut his barriers as much as he could, though it would not be enough to shield him from the man reputed to be the most powerful sensitive on Tolar or from a notoriously clever grandchild of the Jorann, enemies both. One misstep, and he would not come away from this alive.

  Sense-blind though he was, Bertie’s face stiffened. “At your service,” he said, bowing in his seat.

  “You may speak freely,” Farric told him, unsure whether to be relieved or alarmed that the Sural had signaled his intent to discuss Bertie’s potential value to Suralia first.

  The human’s eyes flicked from one man to another. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion and leaned forward, still taut. “When Farric approached me on Capella Station, I must say I was stunned. I’d heard of your people, of course, but if your technology really is as advanced as you say, there are far more powerful men who would be happy to take advantage of what you have to offer.”

  “It seems a majority of the ruling caste has decided to expand Tolar’s trade with other worlds,” the Sural said. “We need some
one with the capacity to generate wealth and who is relatively unimportant.”

  Bertie’s voice went dry. “Well, I certainly qualify on both counts.”

  “Can you conduct your work from Tolar?” Storaas asked. “Earth’s government is unlikely to respond well to your involvement in Tolari trade.”

  “I brought him back with me for this precise reason,” Farric said. “Central Security monitored us closely, and Adeline Russell attempted to warn us away. Her weapon hand twitched when she looked at him.”

  Bertie paled. “I hadn’t noticed. Good thing I took you up on your offer.” He cleared his throat. “Before we left Capella Free Station, I set up a privately-funded shell corporation with dummy subsidiaries all under my personal control. I’ll have no problem making whatever transactions I need to do no matter where I’m at, so long as I have good communications.”

  “Excellent,” the Sural murmured. “Storaas, our analysis of provincial resources that can be considered for near-term trade—please review it with Lord Albert, and send me a summary of your conclusions when you are finished.” He fell silent while Storaas and Bertie left.

  “Farric,” he continued when they had gone, “we must speak of your father.”

  “He desires the return of his beloved.”

  The Sural lifted an eyebrow. “Sharana is free to choose her path. I do not compel her to stay and I will not compel her to leave.”

  “She must attend the Circle.”

  “As must Monralar. Can he not collect her there?”

  Farric studied his father’s enemy—to little effect. The Sural had closed his barriers enough to make his empathic presence undetectable. Tightening his own barriers, hoping his host would choose not to look past them, Farric took a slow breath. They could circle around each other with words. Or he could ask for the information he wanted.

  “I think you know why Sharana wanted to see the Jorann.” Farric paused, then spread his hands. “Will you tell me?”

  The Sural’s lips flattened into a grim line. He pressed his fingertips together before his chin. “A young member of the ruling caste might become entwined with a sensitive trained and engaged by his parent. Such a pair might decide to bond, against the advice of all. And such a one might have more ambition than is possible to pursue.”

  A cold feeling gripped Farric’s stomach.

  “He might start,” the Sural continued, “pace by pace, stride by stride, down a path toward actions which would have shocked him in the beginning of his rule. And his bond-partner might be driven away by the violence his heart pours into hers, to beg relief from the only one capable of giving it.”

  Farric closed his eyes and expelled a breath. “Sharana seeks release from her pair-bond with my father.”

  “I did not say that,” the Sural said when Farric met his gaze again. “I told you a story, one that has occurred a few times throughout history. What you learn from it is not the concern of your father’s enemy.”

  “Yet travelers with a common goal might help one another to find a safe route across a glacier, where one alone might fall through unsupported snow into a crevasse.”

  “Indeed. One might.” The Sural’s eyes glittered. “Tell me everything you did and said at the Trade Alliance station, and to what, exactly, you have committed our world.”

  * * *

  CCS-52-2303

  Memorandum

  FROM: Adeline Pearson Russell

  SUBJECT: Tolar activity

  After giving sufficient time for the Tolari ambassador to return to his homeworld, we made an attempt to communicate with the Sural, with no results. The minor functionary (probably guard caste) who spoke with us stated that the Sural is still planetary ruler (recording and transcript attached) and referred to Farric of Monralar as their ambassador to the Trade Alliance. The interdict against humans in the Beta Hydri system still stands.

  (signed) Adeline Russell, Major, Central Security

  Head of Field Operations, Inner Sector

  * * *

  The bitterness lodged in her heart could not entirely dull Laura’s enjoyment of the wonderful chill on the evening breeze. She leaned on the veranda rail and turned her face into it. Her senses sharpened.

  Of all the new things she had awakened to discover, her delight in cold temperatures ranked among the strangest. Cold, cold, and more cold, she couldn’t get enough of it. The night chill here dropped near freezing, and she should fall sick from the amount of time she spent out here wearing nothing but a short bed-robe, or get hypertension, or hypochondria, or whatever they called it when your body temperature dropped too low. Instead, it gave her energy. Even her fingers and the tip of her nose stayed warm.

  A presence in the apothecaries’ quarters made its way to the veranda door behind her—an aide who had, it turned out, seen but never spoken with Laura before the accident. That was good enough, as long as no one had any expectations of her, and it had given Meilyn, the apothecary in charge, time to engage aides who didn’t know her at all.

  “Artist,” the aide said, “the kitchen has brought the evening meal.”

  “My gratitude,” Laura murmured, turning toward the door and pushing her stiff right leg forward. She grimaced; she’d stood motionless at the rail too long.

  The aide hurried to her side. “Lean on me,” she said, grabbing the belt—a heavy sash, really—about Laura’s waist.

  Together they walked into the entrance room, where a table stood, laden with food. A green-robed guard sat at it, his right arm held against his body by yellow wrappings, sipping a bowl of soup. He nodded at her as the aide helped her ease into a chair, and then he turned back to the bowl in his left hand. He didn’t ignore her, but he didn’t speak, either. His heart sang.

  Maybe he’s in love.

  The thought carried only bitterness. She applied herself to the food, quelling it. The Paran had seemed to love her. He’d been so caring, so kind, until he revealed his true thoughts. Now—she felt his heartbreak, from the other side of the stronghold.

  Good. She ripped a roll in half. He didn’t really love me anyway.

  He stayed away as she’d asked, and so did Marianne, but since then, the memories had dried up. Maybe the company of people she’d known really did trigger them. She didn’t care. Living without her memories was easier than living with people who claimed to love her but really didn’t, and besides, she could occupy her time with art. The aides had delighted in bringing her whatever she requested in the way of media and supplies, and she’d begun making initial color studies of planets from orbit. Drawing in color had never much interested her before, so far as she could remember, but now it fascinated her.

  She glanced at a landscape on the wall beside her. It looked like a hot wax painting. Her mind crowded with possibilities. Maybe someone would teach her the technique. It would work beautifully with the planets she’d been drawing.

  At least she hadn’t forgotten art. Meilyn told her she’d remember even less if she hadn’t been early in the process of transforming from human to Tolari. Not much of what he said made sense, but he seemed to know what he was about.

  She might keep him on. He didn’t say it—he didn’t have to—but he didn’t want her to change back to who she’d been, and she had more than a passing suspicion he hadn’t liked her before. Now, on the other hand, she seemed to amuse him, and they got on very well. It made for a refreshing change to talk to someone who appreciated her for herself.

  Too bad she couldn’t look up more people who didn’t like her before.

  Her hands and feet began to tingle, and the Paran’s emotional distress focused into a point. That happened, Meilyn had told her, when the Paran went down to a training facility under the stronghold. Sometimes Meilyn had to repair the Paran’s hands and feet afterwards.

  The guard staggered to his feet, helped by an aide, and moved with a heavy limp toward one of the little patient rooms. The short bed-robe revealed more yellow wrappings on his right leg. He looked like he’d t
aken quite a tumble.

  Just like her, maybe.

  Meilyn walked in as she drained the last of a bowl of soup. Approval tinted his presence when he spotted her sitting at the table. It cemented a sudden decision on her part.

  “I want you to be my apothecary,” she said.

  He started. “Explain your reasoning.”

  “You are the only one here who likes me the way I am.”

  He dropped into the chair the guard had occupied. “Insufficient.”

  “You are the best apothecary in Parania.”

  “Better.” One corner of his mouth lifted.

  “We get along.”

  “Truth.” Meilyn lifted one straight black eyebrow. “I will consent, provided the Paran agrees to share my services.”

  “Oh.” Laura slumped against the back of her chair.

  “I think it likely he will, artist. He cares about you.”

  “He cares about a woman I cannot ever be again.”

  “You both need time to adjust, and this is not the way to achieve it. You are bonded. You must spend time together. If you continue to stay away from him, you will make the situation worse.”

  “Then I make it worse.”

  * * *

  Farric’s tablet vibrated with an anonymous message that Sharana had gone to the guest wing common room. He shook his head, half a grin twitching itself onto his lips. The Sural seemed to make plans within plans. Leaving Bertie draped across a divan, succumbed to travel fatigue, he left their quarters and went to intercept her.

  She stiffened as he entered the room, standing in the small library at one end, book in hand. With slow, deliberate movements, she returned the book to its place on the shelf and turned to face him.

  He pulled her tablet from a pocket. “You left this in Monralar.”

  She gave it a weary look.

  “Sharana, I am not your enemy.”

  “You are almost as much Monralar as your father,” she said, picking the tablet out of his hand.