The Marann (15 page)

“Oh,” she said.

He gestured. “You will go with my
apothecary,” he ordered as the yellow-robed woman entered the
room.

She yielded, too miserable to argue.
“Yes, high one,” she said, getting up to follow her.

<<>>

The Sural worked in his study, sorting
through reports and composing proposals to his allies. A presence
came into range and approached—Storaas, the one individual allowed
unannounced into his private apartments. The old man stopped before
the desk and waited.

“Speak,” the Sural murmured, half his
attention on a report.

“While Kyza bonded to you, I had
opportunity to read Marianne.”

He riveted his attention on the old
tutor. He straightened and put his tablet aside, lacing his fingers
together in front of him. “Tell me.”

Storaas explained the wound he had
seen. He could not identify the injury with any certainty, but the
Sural had done some research into human crimes. He thought he might
know.

“High one—the wound is deep,” Storaas
finished.

The Sural nodded and sat at the desk
for a long time, tapping his thumbs together, thinking, his
barriers shut. When he wished, he could make himself as unreadable
as a stone wall, even to one as sensitive as Storaas. He stood and
walked to the window to gaze out on his province. Sighing, he
closed his eyes and opened his empathic barriers enough to let
Storaas see what he felt.

“A human life is very short, high
one,” the old man said. “Very short indeed.”

The Sural shook his head. “That could
perhaps be remedied,” he said, in an almost inaudible murmur, as he
paced back to the desk. In a louder voice, he continued, “I have
waited, Storaas. I have been patient. I have offered her nothing
but kindness and understanding, but after ten seasons, she has not
yet begun to trust me.” He stood with his back to Storaas for a
time, gripping the desk with whitened knuckles, then loosed his
grip and turned to look at the ancient man who had once been his
tutor.

“Do you have any advice, old friend?”
he asked.

Chapter Eight

Marianne spent her fourth winter on Tolar trying
to expand Kyza’s vocabulary, while the girl embarked on a rigorous
physical conditioning program, learning to camouflage for longer
and longer periods and sparring with the Sural’s guards. Marianne
often witnessed the camouflage exercises, since those took place
daily in the library. The physical training was another matter.
That took place elsewhere in the stronghold, and she heard about it
from the Sural, who left out the details while allowing his pride
to show. Kyza, he reported, took after him, with a real talent for
physical combat and a drive for excellence at everything she
did.

A month into winter—according to the
Alexander
’s calendar
—
Marianne asked to see Kyza’s
physical training. Her interest seemed to please Storaas, and he
suggested she follow them that morning to the guard wing’s lower
level, an area of the stronghold she’d never explored.

A large arena occupied most of the
lower level. Guards exercised and sparred in twos and threes,
staying within mat-covered areas of various shapes and sizes, some
clear and others filled with obstacles. At the far end of the huge
room, a few children gathered around a sturdily-built Suralian who
carried himself with an air of easy authority. Kyza headed toward
them, Marianne and Storaas following in her wake.

“The head guard,” Storaas murmured as
they approached. “He teaches Kyza and a few of the guards’ heirs.
See—they are pairing off now.”

The guard matched Kyza with a boy a
little older and taller than she. The pairs of children spread out
and circled each other.

“Begin,” the head guard
called.

What began, Marianne thought,
resembled an acrobatic display. It bore no resemblance to the
martial arts she had expected. The children spun, flipped, and
somersaulted away from and toward each other.

“What are they trying to do?” she
asked Storaas.

“A touch to the hands, face or neck
ends the match,” he answered.

“Just a touch?”

He nodded. “As guards, they will carry
drugged needles on their fingertips. A touch imitates the needle’s
prick. The defeated child drops to the floor to acknowledge
it.”

“The Sural told me about the needles,
but I didn’t know high ones carried them as well.” She cocked her
head.

Storaas uttered a soft chuckle. “No,
she will never carry a needle. She must first learn to fight as the
guards do. Then she will learn to fight as a high one.”

“And learn to kill.” Marianne
shuddered and turned her attention back to the children. The
matches had not lasted long—a minute, perhaps two. As Marianne
refocused on them, Kyza managed to touch her opponent’s hand, and
the boy dropped to the mat. She grinned and offered him a hand
up.

“Very good, child,” Storaas
said.

Kyza turned to the old proctor with a
grin, then looked up behind him. Her face brightened. “Father!” she
called.

Marianne turned. The Sural,
winter-idle and smiling, had wandered in. She assumed he came to
observe his daughter’s training. Kyza launched herself at him. His
smile tilted as he dodged, eyes dancing. Marianne had never seen
anyone move so fast, as he kept out of Kyza’s way, his motions
blurring as he spun or somersaulted. After giving her a good
workout, he touched her face as he flipped over her head. Kyza
dropped to the mat, breathing hard but grinning. The Sural chuckled
and scooped her off the floor into a hug. His face shone with open
approval.

“You improve, daughter,” he
said.

“I will best you yet!” she
replied.

He chuckled again as he set her on the
mats. “First you must best all the guards.”

“I will, Father. You will
see!”

He smiled and propelled her back
toward the head guard with a pat between the shoulders, then headed
for an open bathing area Marianne hadn’t noticed. She glanced over
again to see the Sural pulling off his clothing as he walked. Face
heating, she turned away.

Oh my God.
She glanced over her
shoulder as he bathed. Hard muscle rippled as he rubbed soap over
skin like cinnamon caramel. His body seemed to be as free of hair
as his face, except— Her face grew hotter, and she turned back to
face the children.

Beside her, Storaas
chuckled.

“You’re reading me.” She could hear
the aggrieved tone in her own voice.

“Forgive me, proctor, but you are
broadcasting,” he replied. “We do not have your human nudity
taboos. If his form pleases you, you are free to admire it. He
finds a woman’s appreciation gratifying.”

She blushed again and turned her back
on Storaas, watching the children spar. The old man continued
chuckling. She sighed, trying to quell a rising
exasperation.

“If you will excuse me, proctor,” she
said through her teeth and walked away.

Back on the main floor, she strolled
into the guest wing common room and dropped into a chair facing the
windows, thinking about the Sural. His form pleased her, all right.
She gave herself a mental kick and told herself he was her
employer. Notions of anything more than casual friendship were a
fantasy she could not allow herself, but the Sural didn’t make that
any easier. He’d always treated her with kindness, but during the
past Tolari year, her fourth on Tolar, his behavior toward her had
grown even kinder, and it made him so
damned
appealing.
Professionalism, along with a conviction he couldn’t think of her
as anything more than a friend, kept her from making a fool of
herself. She talked to herself, reciting the litany of reasons why
only an idiot would look for more.

The litany calmed her enough to
consider the Sural in a more even light. When the winter set in,
he’d started to bring books from a personal collection of
manuscripts and spent hours with her in the common room, poring
over hand-written poetry and Tolari art prints in brilliant colors.
She filled her reports to the ship with descriptions of ancient
Tolari landscape art and literary genres. She had animated
conversations with Laura about the landscapes. The Admiral’s wife
was an avid patron of the arts, and the depth of her knowledge
surprised Marianne.

Then the Sural had given her a
critical introduction to Tolari music. The recordings he played for
her were, without exception, a single instrument playing complex
melodies. Marianne, whose musical taste ran to twenty-fourth
century orchestral music, found it difficult to enjoy listening to
Tolari music for extended periods, although she had begun to
develop some liking for a wind instrument called the
laerta.

Marianne pulled her thoughts back to
the present and quit her chair to stand at the windows. Ice coated
them, distorting the view of the landscape outside, where snow
blanketed the garden, the plateau, and the glacier-strewn mountains
beyond. She laid her forehead against the frigid window, hoping it
would cool her agitation. Her breath steamed. She thought about
ice, and snow, and glaciers.

Music filled the room, a Tolari laerta
playing a melancholy air. She turned to see the Sural in the
doorway, a small stack of books in his arms. He entered the room
and took a seat.

“What did you think of my daughter’s
training?” he asked.

She sat in the next chair, the heat
returning to her face. His eyes fixed on her blush. “She seems
to—to be as talented as you’ve said,” she stammered.

He nodded, lips twitching, then to her
relief, changed the subject. “This,” he waved a hand in the air,
“is a recording of a performance Corvestal gave during my
grandmother’s time. He was a great musician with a wondrous gift.
He played at the peak of his abilities when he came to give this
concert. Years later, before he walked into the dark, he entrusted
to me his laerta. It is an exquisite instrument. I hold it in trust
for the next great player.”

“Why did he go into the dark?” she
asked.

“A landslide killed his bond-partner,”
he answered. “She was a geologist on a field investigation.
Corvestal himself sustained injuries in the same accident. He would
have recovered, but he would not live without his beloved. A great
loss.”

She winced. “Forgive me.”

“It is a common response to a
bond-partner’s death.”

They listened without speaking for a
time, her face cooling.

“You know, we have an instrument with
a sound similar to the laerta,” Marianne said, breaking the
quiet.

“Tell me.”

“It’s called an oboe. The musician
blows into the instrument through a folded reed. It’s quite lovely
and difficult to play.”

“Your people write music composed of
many instruments playing at once,” he said. “I have heard some
samples. Quite interesting.”

She smiled, then pulled her mouth to
one side. “Central Command didn’t allow me to keep my music
collection on my library tablet, or I’d play some for
you.”

“A pity.”

“I could try begging and pleading to
get it back,” she offered.

He smiled. “I am a patient man,” he
said. “I will hear this music, in time.”

“Your lives are a lot longer than
ours, aren’t they?”

He nodded.

“How long?”

He shook his head. “For now, I cannot
tell you that,” he answered. “You will know, in time. Have
patience.”

“I’m a schoolteacher. I taught high
schoolers—they’re adolescents. I
had
to be patient, or I
would have lost my mind.”

He made an amused sound. “You are far
too young to have true patience, proctor.”

“And I suppose you’re an old
man?”

“That would depend upon whose
definition you use. For a Tolari, I am not old at all. For a
human?” He spread his hands. “I cannot tell you.” She grumbled, and
he chuckled. “Storaas—I can say he is truly old.”

“And sad,” Marianne added.

The Sural shot her a sharp look, then
nodded. “Very astute,” he said.

“No, I just catch him sometimes
staring out the windows toward the west—toward where all the tea
plantations are in the Kentar Valley—with the deepest, saddest look
on his face,” she explained. “Even
I
can tell, and I’m bad
at reading others, even for a human.”

One black eyebrow climbed his
forehead. “I must persuade him,” he murmured.

“What?”

He studied Marianne, considering what
to say. She glanced back, her curiosity showing on her face as well
as in her emotional landscape, long since accustomed to and no
longer perturbed by what she called ‘Tolari stares.’ “Storaas needs
to visit the Jorann,” he said, after a time. “I cannot persuade
him.”

“Who’s he?”

“She.”

“Who’s she, then?”

“Our highest one.”

Marianne straightened. “There’s
someone higher-ranked than you?” she asked, blinking.