The Fall (6 page)
She’d never been all that good at etiquette.
“Ye gods,” Laura whispered to the ceiling of the Paran’s sleeping room.
She’d fallen asleep on a divan in the sitting room of his quarters, waiting for him. When she woke, the moon shone in her eyes and the Paran crouched beside her in its clear light, his gentle fingers stroking away the hair that had fallen across her face as she slept. Her half-awake murmur of appreciation brought a press of warm lips against hers, and then—
Being young again improved with age.
“It’s a wonder you Tolari do anything else.” She tossed off the blanket.
The Paran, who lay half-asleep beside her, woke enough to chuckle.
“How will it be different after we’re bonded?” she asked, groping about in the darkness for her robe. When she found it, she fumbled through the pockets until she located a coldpack.
He remained silent for moment, then said, “I do not know.”
“Well—” She cleared her throat. “No, I suppose you couldn’t.”
“I know only what I have read, my love.”
“Hm.” She draped the coldpack across her forehead and closed her eyes. His warm, golden glow shone in her senses. “So what have you read?”
He rolled onto his side. “No one seems able to put it into words, but all who have written on the topic maintain it is transcendent. The descriptions leave me wanting to experience it for myself.”
“Then how can you be two hundred sixty-four standard years old and never found anyone before now?”
“You are the first woman I have ever truly desired.”
“That can’t be true! You’ve… you know. Fathered heirs.”
“On occasion.”
“Then you had to find a few women attractive, at least.”
He snorted.
“Didn’t you?”
“There was no need.”
Her eyes flew open. “Huh?” She rolled onto her side toward him. The coldpack dropped onto the mat between them.
“Lights, low,” he said. A torch on the wall behind them flickered to dim life. “When I must couple with a woman I do not know, to give her an heir, I use this.” He reached under the mat’s top edge and pulled out a small, transparent vial containing what looked like a dried leaf.
“What is it?”
“
Samoteka
leaf,” he said. “Its oil has an effect you call, I think, aphrodisiac.”
“Truly? It’s an aphrodisiac? A real one?”
“Of course. Would you like to try it?”
Her heart thumped. “How does it… um… work?”
He opened the vial. A dark, musky scent wafted from it. He tipped the leaf out of the tube and rolled it between his palms. Then, eyes dilating and darkening with lust, he rubbed the oil on his hands onto the skin of her neck.
She had never been so wanton in all her life.
Later, when the effects of the leaf wore off, the Paran burrowed into the blankets, mumbling, more asleep than awake. He had somehow managed to remain civilized. Perhaps experience had accustomed him to the fast and business-like nature of leaf-inspired tumbles. If that was how it would be with him and... a woman seeking an heir from him... she might almost be able to tolerate the idea.
Almost.
Sleep caught her unawares while thinking that over, and when she woke, Tolar’s orange sun hung halfway up the morning sky. She sprawled alone across his sleeping mat, on top of the blankets, with a small sheet of creamy paper near her face, folded once. It opened to disclose a brief invitation to walk in the city outskirts with the Paran, written in neat and precise English lettering.
The city. She winced. She’d survived a journey through the heart of a dozen cities across half the planet. Surely she could manage a walk through the periphery of one.
A loud grumble from her midsection broke into her reverie. Snorting a little, she hauled herself into the bathing area to get clean and start her day. The refectory would be mostly deserted by now, and deserted meant peaceful.
Servants moved about the refectory, cleaning, when she walked in. A figure in an indigo robe—her language tutor, Kellandin—sat staring at something in his hands, at a table near the kitchens, where trays of food still sat out. She grabbed one and headed to his table. He sipped at his tea and nodded.
Tea. With Tolari, it was always tea. She’d kill for a cup of coffee, with milk and just a
touch
of that wonderful boosted cardamom from New China World—
“
I greet you
,” Kellandin said, in Paranian. His brown eyes glinted with the mischief suddenly coloring his presence. Like the Paran, he had a face more interesting than handsome and a cheerful expression. He differed, however, in his deep-set eyes, straight brows and nose, and lips a little on the thin side.
“Good morning,” she replied, in English.
He laughed, a rich rumble, and switched languages. “If you want to improve, you must practice.”
“I’ve tried, but then I spent weeks in Suralia. Most of what I managed to learn is fuzzy now. I don’t have the talent for it, Kellandin. I wish you and the Paran would realize that and just give me a language implant. I’m
tired
of working so hard for so little, only to lose it the moment I stop paying attention.”
His brows knitted. “We will have to determine how much you have lost in so short a time.”
Her gust of a sigh blew stray hairs off her face. “If you like.”
“Try a little longer, artist,” he said, in a softer voice. “The more you can learn, the more quickly an implant will integrate.”
“There’s not much else I can do but try.” She pulled one corner of her mouth sideways. “The Paran said he’d take me for a walk in the city later. I’ll do my best to pay attention and practice.”
* * *
Five camouflaged guards fanned out ahead of them. Five more trailed behind. The Paran appeared unconcerned, but then, under attack he was far more dangerous than any of his guards. He’d been trained to kill with his bare hands. They hadn’t.
Laura could detect a sort of collective good will, as she and the Paran strolled up from a transport tunnel in the outer edge of the city, but nothing else. The fierce glow around her made it difficult to separate out individuals, but no lurking intruders with nefarious intent tickled her senses—not that she expected any.
A cool breeze blew in off the ocean, carrying a different tang than the seas of Earth. Buildings of pale stone, roofed with something resembling slate, lined the avenue they walked. Most looked like artisan shops and trade-houses. Farther down, a musician sat in a doorway, playing a spritely tune on a small dulcimer-like instrument. The area might serve as a cultural district on any human world, except it seemed deserted.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Taking a midday rest.”
“Oh! A siesta? People do that in some places on Earth.”
He squeezed her hand. “I hoped the timing would make the experience easier for you.”
“Thank you.”
Ahead of them, small round tables littered the area before a shop. She peered into it. More such tables occupied the interior.
“Is this a café?” she asked.
“It is a teahouse.” He pulled out a chair for her at one of the tables in the avenue. “Are you thirsty?”
“A little.”
A small woman in black, her eyes gleaming, bustled over as the Paran took a seat. She bowed low. The Paran began to speak with her in Paranian.
Despite Laura’s best effort to hold it in, a small sigh escaped her. She could understand a word. Or two. Oh, and there, a third. They discussed… tea, not surprisingly. Her eyes wandered to a nearby shop with small sculptures on display in the windows.
“My love?”
Her attention snapped back to the Paran. A young man, all elbows and adolescent gawkiness, who from the resemblance had to be the woman’s son, placed a steaming mug before first the Paran and then her. She murmured her gratitude in Paranian, hoping she hadn’t mangled the phrase or garbled it with an impenetrable accent, and picked up the mug to take a sip. A floral aroma rose with the steam.
The tea mugged her tastebuds with a flavor as strong and flowery as its scent. Sweet. A little cloying. Not to her taste, but she smiled and nodded anyway.
“It is a local tea,” the Paran said, when the woman and her son retreated into the café, leaving them in peace. “If you like it, I can have it added to the stronghold’s menu.”
She shook her head. “It’s nice for a change, but I wouldn’t want a steady diet of it. It’s too sweet.”
He laughed, relaxing into his chair.
“We should do this more often,” she added.
“Indeed, this… how did you call it in English?”
“Café.”
“This
café
offers a large number of different teas. Perhaps another time we will find one you prefer.” He straightened and leaned his elbows on the table, his mug cupped in his long hands. “Did you see a sculpture you like?” His mouth twitched into a crooked smile.
“You noticed me admiring those?” She waved a hand in the direction of the shop with the sculptures.
“Of course.” He took several long pulls on his tea and leaned back again, his head tilted to one side. “Kellandin spoke to me of your frustration with learning our language. Why did you not tell me?”
She shifted in her chair and set aside the tea with a shrug. “I don’t learn very fast, but I did learn not to admit it to the powers that be. If I weren’t still recovering from the trip, I wouldn’t have said anything to Kellandin, either.”
“You think yourself unintelligent.” It wasn’t a question.
“I was tested, over and o—”
“You,” he interrupted, “have few equals, and I cherish you.”
A lump formed in her throat.
He drained the last of his tea. “Come.” He stood and offered his arm. “Let us examine these sculptures you so admire.”
The lump dissipated, and she grinned like a schoolgirl as she took his arm. “Can we?”
A few camouflaged guards stayed at the door to the shop, watching the avenue. Two stationed themselves at another entrance she hadn’t noticed, another few preceded them inside, and the rest shadowed the Paran as he and Laura wandered through the door. Laura tried to memorize the position of each as they registered on her senses; before they left the stronghold, the Paran had suggested she get used to watching the guards, as well as the exits.
A man in artisan’s purple, white-haired and bent, started to rise from a cushioned chair just inside. The Paran motioned him to remain seated. He slumped back with a sigh and a grateful smile.
“He’s older than Storaas was,” Laura whispered, as they moved away from the door and in amongst the displays of… statuettes, she wanted to call some of them. Most depicted figures of people—robed Tolari, in pairs or alone, solemn or cheerful, walking, running, dancing, standing still, sitting. Some sculptures portrayed animals, insects, or flowers. One reproduced in fantastic detail a pine-like tree she had seen in Brialar.
The Paran picked up a small figure of a woman with a young child, made of a cream-colored stone, and examined it. “He has few seasons remaining to him,” he murmured, setting it back in its place with care. “Why do you whisper?”
“I don’t know.”
The ancient artisan stirred a little, and the Paran said something in Paranian, freeing him to speak. His voice quavered across the room, gentle and soothing. She blinked, longing to understand him.
“He says he is past the ability to work stone, and these are all crafted by his son and his granddaughter and her daughter,” the Paran translated. “All but one.”
The old man spoke again. The Paran’s eyebrows lifted. “He thinks his last work will call to you. If it does, it is yours.”
“M-mine?” she stammered. She stared at the old man, slouched in his well-worn wooden chair, his rheumy old eyes bright. “But… me? When the ruler of his province is here?”
The Paran chuckled. “Your heart is beautiful, my love, and he is quite taken with you. Honor the old one and accept his gift.”
Social habits kicked in. She gave the old artisan a deep bow, and he rewarded her with a contented sigh. Straightening, she glanced around the room. How she would tell if anything called to her, she couldn’t imagine. She tried adjusting the threads she’d pulled from the hevalra’s net, moving them one by one around her, until the empathic glare faded almost to nothing while her sense of the Paran and the old man remained clear.
Slowly, carefully, she extended her senses into the room, and found them heightened. Each piece of artwork held on to something of its maker, like a vibration of sorts. The sculptures echoed three different emotional signatures, except for one, hidden in a corner. With a gasp, her eyes came open and landed on an exquisite sculpture of three Tolari whales—the largest a female about the length of the Paran’s hand, the next a male three-quarters that size, and the last their young, half the male’s length. The natural shading of the gray stone mimicked the coloration of the individual animals she had seen in Suralia, darker on top, lighter on the bottom, from each figure’s body to its six flippers and long tail. They seemed to float above a base of jet black wood.
She stroked the smallest whale with a fingertip. Something of the old man resonated through it, and something of a hevalrin resonated through the old man. “Is he sure he wants me to have it?”
The ancient said something.
“He asks you to bring it to him,” the Paran translated.
She lifted it by the base, hugging the sculpture to her breast like an infant, and picked her way through the room. The old one watched her approach and sighed as she placed it in his lap. She knelt on the floor beside his knees, while he ran trembling fingers over each whale in turn, a fond smile wrinkling his face. Then he fixed his gaze on Laura and patted her cheek with one gnarled, papery hand, while the other cradled the sculpture.
After a moment, he picked it off his lap and offered it to her, his heart glowing with happiness.
“Receive it with both hands,” the Paran murmured.
She swallowed another lump in her throat and held out her hands.
The Paran stood staring out the windows of his open study, hands clasped behind his back, suppressing irritation. On his most recent visit, the Monral’s brilliant young son and heir, Farric, had made compelling arguments for opening interstellar trade relations, and campaigned tirelessly for his father’s vision of a Tolar once more under conventional rule. He had half-convinced most of the Paran’s own advisors—except Vondra.