But Betsy took no notice of this. “Would I!” No human had ever seen how veffen was made. The N’Ferrans considered it sacred.
Yet, fortunately for the humans, the N’Ferrans did share their veffen, even exporting a small amount for a ridiculously high price. Most humans believed veffen to be akin to a rich Irish stout, even though it had a taste all its own that was rich, nutty, and bitter as all dark beer, yet with a hint of entrancing sweetness.
“I have an invitation to the next veffen—making ceremony.” Asayana’s lips twitched with something that wasn’t a smile. His four-fingered hands stayed folded and his wings were quiescent, which was never a good sign. “You might say I’m ‘requested and required’ to be there. My people say it’s time.”
“I don’t understand,” Betsy said. “Does the making of veffen require a specific time?”
“Not exactly,” Asayana said. “But you’ll find out more at the ceremony. I’ve been told I can only share so much information with you prior to that time.” He looked away, as if in embarrassment. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Your people are that stiff regarding the making of veffen?” Betsy looked closely at her friend, the first N’Ferran who’d ever shown interest in learning more about the humans and their ways. But Vkandwe–Scholars–were legendary in their fearlessness, at least on this world. “Why should the making of veffen be so shrouded in secrecy, anyway?”
Something wasn’t right about all this.
“As a Fearless One, Betsy–” his voice trilled up on the “y” but otherwise pronounced her name flawlessly, unlike most other N’Ferrans, scholars or no “—I truly hate not being able to give you this knowledge in advance.”
Ah. Now Betsy understood his look away. Asa was angry. And anger was rarely shown in N’Ferran society, because it was seen as a loss of face.
She wondered how the N’Ferrans were able to deal with humans, as even the calmest humans had difficulty in keeping their feelings off their faces unless they’d had specific religious training. But the N’Ferrans refused to allow anyone deeply religious to step foot on their world, claiming a privacy violation.
And most humans weren’t all that religious anyway. So the monks went elsewhere, while the “great lumpen unwashed,” as Betsy had once delightfully told Asa, came to partake in the veffen.
Asa held up his clear mug and studied the contents. Then, thoughtfully, he took another sip. “No wonder the humans line up for this at their festival of beers–what did you call it again?”
“Oktoberfest,” Betsy said. “Though our beers are not a patch on N’Ferra’s own veffen, truly.”
Asa shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed trying the various beers over the past six boryani as we’ve wrestled with the cosmos. My favorite is the Guinness stout–but don’t tell anyone.”
“I promise,” Betsy said. She clinked her mug again with Asa’s, and took another sip. “Your secret is safe with me.”
She didn’t realize this was the last time she’d ever see her friend alive.
Three days later, Betsy received a large, elegant scroll through diplomatic channels at the Embassy addressed to “Elizabeth Carroll.” The handwriting was obviously not human and the ink was not stock.
Because of this, she walked into her back office—the one with all the safeguards. The one so rarely used, as the N’Ferrans, aside from Scholar Asa and a few others among that fearless caste, seemingly didn’t care if the humans lived or died—so long as they kept drinking their veffen.
Betsy frowned. The only N’Ferran who knew her full name was Scholar Asa, but as he couldn’t pronounce Elizabeth, he’d dispensed with writing out her full name after the equivalent of a few months. But he’d told her once when deep in his cups that if he ever had need of her, he’d write to her formally—and through diplomatic channels, as he obviously knew how to reach her at home.
She opened the scroll, written out in the N’Ferran script only she among her staff of six had truly mastered. “Asylum?” she wondered as she read. “Why does Asa want that?”
Betsy checked the various places Asa usually used to leave her a message—while the N’Ferrans didn’t use much technology as a whole, the Fearless Ones had become adept at the use of voicemail and various computer-aided devices (providing they’d been adapted for the N’Ferran four-fingered hand)—and found… nothing.
Worse yet, a quick check of Asa’s lodgings found that he’d not been there since Betsy had last seen him, even though he’d lived there for the better part of forty years. And no one knew where he had gone, either.
None of this was customary for a Fearless One, much less someone with the high status of Vkandwe Asayana. Someone who was openly a friend to the Terran Ambassador—someone who saw the benefit of peaceful commerce, trade and knowledge, even though the trade-off for the N’Ferrans was that a human spaceport had been built on N’Ferra’s outsized moon.
And not everyone on the N’Ferran Ruling Council had liked that, Betsy remembered. Even though with the spaceport, she and the other Terrans had pledged to defend N’Ferra with their lives if pirates ever attempted to attack… which was a realistic possibility considering the popularity of veffen.
She called Charlie Simmons, whom the N’Ferrans believed to be her cultural attaché, into the office and motioned him to a chair next to her desk. He actually was her spymaster, though he’d had little to do over the past five years he’d been stationed here. “What do you make of this?”
He read over the document, questioned her over the words, and then sighed. “I’ve heard that Scholar Asayana has angered the N’Ferrans in some way,” he said. “This communiqué would seem to indicate what I heard is the truth.”
“What else have you heard?” Betsy asked intently.
“Asayana’s life is said to be forfeit unless he bows down to the Ruling Council… and then shreds his wings.”
“What?” Betsy asked in astonishment. “Why would the Ruling Council want him to do that?”
“They wish to humble the Fearless Ones is my guess,” Charlie said. “And they may wish to humble us as well through his friendship with you.”
“But… you’re friends with several N’Ferrans—”
“Not with a Fearless One, though,” Charlie interrupted. “Don’t you know what they are? What they give up to obtain the knowledge they seek?”
“They’re… like monks, I thought,” Betsy said. “With a thirst for knowledge, even knowledge that would seem to be useless to them—thus the low-tech. A N’Ferran Fearless One becomes friendly with me, a spacegoing human from an obviously high-tech culture—”
“That’s not entirely it.” Charlie’s voice dropped. “You know they sever all family ties, and while they do allow friendships—especially in a situation like this one, where there’s much potential benefit for all involved—a Fearless One is expected to give up his life on a moment’s notice if it will give him, or the N’Ferrans as a whole, knowledge they’d not otherwise have.”
“But Asa has asked for asylum, Charlie! He’s done so formally, so I can’t refuse to admit that he’s done so… he must need me, or he’d not do this.”
“I’ll see what I can find out, Betsy, but I hold out no promises.” Charlie’s eyes were grave. “But you have to know that if Asayana truly wanted asylum, he’d have walked through the Embassy doors himself and told you. So this message can’t be all that it seems.”