B00CH3ARG0 EBOK (13 page)

The room was sparsely furnished, not designed for anything
but sleep, but there was a low chair against the wall to her right, another of
the pale blue robes hanging over it. Matching trousers and slippers lay on its
seat. On a nearby wall shelf, she spotted what was obviously a hairbrush. That
she grabbed, running it through her hair as she scanned the rest of the room.

The left wall was lined with closets. At the far end, a
window gave a lovely view of the gardens, and next to that was … the bathing area.
With no walls, she couldn’t see how water wouldn’t get everywhere, but she put
down the brush and played with the controls, trying to recall Marianne’s
instructions. A bathtub-sized basin slid out of the wall, already filling with
water.

Oops.
She looked again at the wall.
Clever.

Shrugging, she watched the water level rise and breathed a
sigh of relief when it stopped at half full. The temperature was not quite as
warm as she would have liked, but tolerable. She stripped and slid in to take
another bath; given how sensitive their sense of smell seemed to be, she
probably couldn’t be too clean around the Tolari. Now that she thought about
it, Addie had complained about that during the first contact mission.

Refreshed and feeling a little more human, she threw on the clean
robe and trousers, shoved her feet into the slippers, and wandered into the
next room. Marianne had called it a sitting room. It was more like a drawing
room, with several chairs, divans, and low tables arranged in a sort of
conversation pit, and a writing desk near picture windows looking out into a
garden. Exquisite paintings and small sculptures were scattered about on the
walls, shelves, and tables.

As she looked around, a black-robed Tolari woman appeared
out of thin air in front of her. Laura started with a small cry and stood panting.
The strange woman spread her arms slightly, palms forward, and bowed. Laura
patted her own chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Don’t
do
that!” she exclaimed. “I’m not a young
woman anymore!”

“Forgive me,” said the woman, in accented English. “I mean
you no harm— How do I address you?”

“How do you— oh, I see what you mean.” John had occasionally
mentioned the Tolari called each other by their titles or occupations. “Just
call me ‘ma’am,’” she said. She shrugged to herself. It was what the crew of
the
Alexander
had called her.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said. “Would you like me to show you
to the refectory now, ma’am?”

“Please.”

Laura followed the servant out of the sitting room and into
the main corridor, admiring the colorful banners that hung on the walls. The
refectory was only a short distance from the guest wing – sensible, she
thought. She spotted Marianne at a large, raised table with a massive, ornate
chair at one end.

“Is that a throne?” Laura called.

“Good morning!” Marianne said cheerfully, leaving her place
at the large table to come and meet her.

Laura stopped short. “It’s morning?”

Marianne laughed. “Yes, of course. After I left you, you
slept all night. You must have been exhausted.”

Laura opened and closed her mouth a few times, shaking her
head. “I guess I really was.”

Marianne hugged her and pressed a small device into her
hand. “You missed another meal,” she said. “You have got to be hungry.”

“A little.” Laura peered at the gadget. “That looks like a
scanner.”

“A food scanner. It’s the one I brought with me when I
arrived. Most of the foods the Tolari eat are toxic to humans, so scan
everything you put in your mouth, even the water. They like to add flavorings
to their water, and those can be toxic too.”

Laura nodded, alarm shooting through her belly.

“It’s all right,” Marianne said, patting her wrist. “There are
a few foods you can eat. I’ve lived here for eight years, and I haven’t
been poisoned yet.” She bit her lip.

Is she holding something back?
“Is there something
else I need to know?”

The young woman blinked, startled. “Probably lots of things,
but let’s start with what’s safe to eat.” They wandered over to tables laden
with bowls of fruit and trenchers of grain rolls. “Here, try this one.” It was a
round, purple fruit the size of a man’s fist. “It tastes a little like a
banana, but sweeter. And one of these grain rolls – not the ones with nuts.
This one is like the one you had yesterday. And you’d better have some of this
tea, if you’re going to eat that roll.”

Back at the table, Laura found herself ravenous as she
devoured everything, even the spicy roll. “This is really good,” she said, after
swallowing a mouthful of the purple fruit.

“It was one of my favorites,” Marianne said. “I can’t eat
much of it anymore though.”

“Why not?”

A flash of unease – or maybe guilt – crossed Marianne’s
face, and she patted her belly. Laura blinked. Why would she feel guilty for
the way pregnancy played havoc with her taste in food? It did that to almost every
mother she’d ever known.

“When you’re done eating, want to see my baby?” she asked. “I
visit the apothecary every day.”

See her baby?
“Sure.”

* * *

Cena, the doctor, seemed happy to show Laura the displays of
Marianne’s baby, explaining each image in careful English.

“Oh!” Laura gasped, when she saw the tiny child busily
kicking and punching. “She’s beautiful! When is she due?”

Marianne glowed at the compliment, but shrugged. “During the
first part of autumn.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Well ...” Marianne made a noise. “The Tolari aren’t overly
concerned with dating every little thing in the universe. Cena will know when
I’m about to go into labor.”

“All is well, high one,” the healer said, as she began
picking up and putting away her instruments. “Perhaps you would like to show
Mrs. Howard to the gardens?”

Marianne laughed. “All right, Cena, I understand.” She
scooted off the examination bed and got back into her robe. “Come on, let’s get
out of her hair,” she said to Laura, and guided her through a door she hadn’t
noticed and out into the stronghold gardens.

“This is beautiful,” Laura said, gazing around at the trees
and flowers. “Marianne, why did she call you ‘high one’?”

Marianne heaved a sigh and didn’t answer.

“That’s what they call their ruling caste, isn’t it?”

“Laura—”

“You can’t tell me, can you,” she said, pursing her lips.

“Not really, no,” Marianne admitted. “Laura—” She tried
again. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I wish I
could
tell you
everything you want to know.”

Laura nodded. “I was a ship’s wife for a long time,” she
said. “I know how it is. People think I’m not very smart – and maybe I’m not –
but John always said a pinch of common sense is worth a pound of smarts. You
can’t tell me, because you’re literally in bed with the enemy, and you can’t
tell me anything that I might tell Central Command if they got their hands on
me.”

Marianne started to protest, but Laura cut her off. “I don’t
mean it like that. Really, I don’t.” She paused. “If Central Command catches
me, they can make me tell them everything I know, whether I want to or not,”
she said. “They threatened my grandchildren. My beautiful, innocent grandchildren.
Right now, even I don’t know whose side I’m on, and I’ve been an Earth Fleet
wife since I was nineteen.”

 “The Sural thinks you won’t be safe in human-controlled
space,” Marianne said, her voice low and soft.

Laura nodded. “I know,” she whispered, choking back tears. She
took a deep breath and said in a stronger voice, “He’s right. After what they
did, they can’t let me live to tell about it, and they wouldn’t believe me if I
tell them I won’t talk.”

“You could stay here.”

“With the man who killed my husband?”

Marianne winced. “Do you have anywhere else to go?”

Laura bit her lower lip.
No.

“Even if you could live with – I don’t know, maybe one of
the Sural’s allies – no matter where you are, you’re a sitting duck with that
locater chip in your head. We have to get it out.”

“That’s impossible. It’ll kill me if you try.”

“Cena can do it safely. She removed mine.”

Laura was quiet for a while. Finally, she said, “I could use
some time alone to think.”

The Sural sat in his heavy, ornate chair at the high table,
eyes closed, when Marianne entered the refectory for the midday meal. Thela was
curled in his lap, shoulders hunched in misery, eyes clenched shut. He ate in
slow motion, one arm wrapped around his new daughter, while they communed. Marianne
could feel a faint trace of Thela’s grief, as well as the love the Sural was
wrapping around the girl.

Marianne took her food to the table Cena shared with Kyza’s
tutors. “Why does he continue eating like that?” she asked, as she settled into
an empty chair next to Storaas.

The apothecary glanced over at the Sural. “He is unaware
that he is.”

“That’s weird.”

Storaas gave a soft snort, and Cena lifted a corner of her
mouth. “Much is unusual about a Jorann’s grandchild,” she said. “We know little
of them.”

“Really?” Marianne asked in surprise. “Why don’t you know
more?”

“The Sural is the first to permit himself to be studied. I
know a great deal about his physiology, but I cannot tell you how much is
unique to him and how much is common to any Jorann’s grandchild.”

“He told me he’s only the eighth one born in the ruling
caste.”

Cena nodded. “It is probable that a few of them exist among
us at any time, but if they are not members of the ruling caste, they are
unlikely to be triggered.”

“Because...?” Marianne prompted.

“Because for their full abilities to be triggered,” Storaas answered,
“they must face a life or death situation.”

“Oh. I see.” Marianne glanced at the Sural. “I’m sure he has
plenty of strength to spare for Thela.”

“Yes,” Cena replied, “but nevertheless, this is exhausting
for him. Do not be surprised if he seeks you out as often as he can, simply to
share a peaceful moment.”

Marianne glanced at the Sural again to find him talking
softly with Thela. He seemed to be coaxing her to eat a little. Marianne shook
her head in sympathy and resolved to be as supportive as she could manage.

“All the adults caring for Thela are affected by her
distress,” Cena continued. “And you have the additional task of helping your
friend Laura. If you need to talk, or if you need to simply share a quiet cup
of tea, ask a servant to send for me. It would help the Sural if you allowed
another to provide some of the emotional support you need. I will do what I can
to ease the burden on both of you.”

Marianne nodded.

“I must go now,” Cena said, rising from her chair. “I have
work to do that cannot be delayed indefinitely. Will you be well?”

On impulse, Marianne reached out and pulled Cena into a warm
hug. “My gratitude, Cena,” she said. “You’re a good friend.”

“It is my honor, high one.”

* * *

Marianne lay half-clothed on the examination bed the next
morning, Cena’s medical tablet in hand, watching her tiny daughter vigorously
punch and kick. She would have liked Laura to see this, but her friend was
brooding in her quarters, avoiding sight and sound of the Sural.

At one particularly pronounced kick, Marianne gasped. Cena
looked up from her instruments.

“I felt her!” Marianne exclaimed, a smile taking over her
face. “I felt her kick! I think I’ve been feeling her move for a few days – I
just didn’t realize what it was.”

“This is the right time for a first increase,” Cena said.

Marianne leaned back, letting her smile turn to a goofy grin.
She had something joyful to tell the Sural the next time they were alone – if
they could get some time alone.

Cena seemed to read her. “The Sural is somewhat busier than
is usual. Finding himself with a distressed new daughter in the middle of a
busy season puts a heavy demand on him.” She lowered her voice and put a
reassuring hand on Marianne’s wrist. “He has always, since the day you arrived
in the stronghold, made as much time for you as he could without neglecting his
duties. He will come to you as often as he can.”

Marianne looked away and blushed a little. She was
never
going to get used to the idea of the Sural’s daughter knowing about her ...
intimacy ... with him, even if neither of them considered the healer his
daughter. She squirmed.

Cena smiled the Sural’s crooked smile and said nothing for a
long moment. “You may dress now,” she said. “Your child is healthy and content.”

Marianne avoided her eyes and scooted off the bed. “My
gratitude, Cena.”

Then she fled.

* * *

Sitting on a cora branch in the garden, Marianne searched
her library tablet. There had to be Russian poetry on it somewhere. A brief
quote ran through her mind, over and over, despite her best efforts to think of
something else. She was sure it was from a poem by Khalimonova, the
twenty-third century poet-laureate.

The Sural chuckled and slid onto the branch. “Beloved,” he said,
wrapping his arms around her.

Marianne put the tablet down beside her and returned the embrace.
“I didn’t sense you coming.”

“Apparently not.” His eyes danced with amusement.

“Shouldn’t you be in a meeting or something?”

“There is a short period of refreshment.”

“And I’m your refreshment?”

He gave her a squeeze. “I can think of none better.”

She smiled, turned to put her back against him, and pulled
his arms around her waist. She felt him cock his head.

“What are you concealing from me?” he asked.

“I started to feel my baby move today.” She took one of his
hands and pressed it to her swelling abdomen. “Here – she’s moving now.” For a
moment, there was nothing. Then she felt a tiny poke and a quick thrumming. “Feel
that?” She swiveled her head to watch his face.