lots and lots of directives, shouldn't he? Unless they were somehow being
rerouted to Grayson.
That, at least, was something he could check out. He pushed the papers aside,
intent on finding some answers. He keyed into the comm in his desk and began a
search. No, Grayson was not sending out separate requests, nor receiving
replies, other than one two days before, when everything had stopped cold. And
that one, when he accessed it, was perfectly correct, exactly what a Planetary
Administrator should be asking from Regional HQ . . . unless it was in some
code.
Belfontaine toyed with the idea for a moment, then rejected the possibility.
Emmet Grayson was from a family that had been in Federation Service for
generations, and he took his duties seriously. He was, as far as Lyle had ever
known, a rather dull man who was honest to a fault. Worse, he actually believed
that Cottman was fine, just as it was, and had done as much as he had been able
to prevent Belfontaine from changing things. Really, the notion of him
conspiring with Granfell or anyone else was laughable.
He keyed up the records he had caused to be transferred to his unit, looking now
for any communication between Granfell and the Federation outpost in the Aldaran
Domain. There were a few things, but they were the normal sort of communication.
There was nothing alarming or even interesting in them.
This did not mean that Granfell had not met with Dom Damon while he was up in
the Hellers, though. Miles was clever enough not to leave traces of any
subversive activity.
Was it possible that nothing was going on? Could it be that Miles' plan really
was a spur of the moment thing, conjured up opportunistically when he learned
that Regis Hastur was dead. Was he being overly tortuous, or just plain
paranoid?
Perhaps the best thing would be to let Granfell go ahead, bring a few troops
down from the Hellers to attack the train, and see what happened. If it
succeeded, fine. If it did not, then he could claim he knew nothing about it,
that Granfell had acted on his own, without authorization, should it come to a
Board of Inquiry.
Of course Granfell would try to implicate him, and with Belfontaine's past
record, he might even be believed. It would be better if Granfell did not
survive, wouldn't it? He was much too eager for Belfontaine's comfort. And there
was Nailors to consider as well. He was Granfell's man, and would back him up.
A slow grin began to pull at the corners of his mouth. He could see a way out
now. Vancof wanted orders, did he? Well, he would get them, and they would solve
the entire problem. If you have an assassin, you might as well use him. And
Nailors would never have any idea that he carried his own death warrant, and
Granfell's as well.
Pleased with his own cunning, Belfontaine turned his mind to the other problem,
that of Mikhail Hastur. He had never seen the man-could have passed him in the
hall without recognition. He might be manipulable, and he might not. And wasn't
there a son of Regis' somewhere?
Annoyance replaced his good mood abruptly. He had not gathered enough
information during his years on Cottman, and now he had to work without it.
True, Granfell might manage to eliminate most of the ruling class of Cottman, or
at least those who were adults. But would that get him what he wanted?
He could not depend on that, could he? And if the members of the Comyn were away
from Thendara, bearing the body of Regis Hastur north, then the castle should be
easy pickings. And there were at least a hundred and fifty men in the HQ
Barracks, eating their heads off and whoring with the local women. They were a
match for any number of sword-carrying guards, even without high energy weapons.
What justification could he claim for attacking Comyn Castle? For several
seconds he was thwarted, and then he realized that the solution was Hermes
Aldaran. He was a wanted man, and, as far as Belfontaine knew, he was holed up
in the castle. Therefore, he would be justified in storming the blasted place-if
the Federation ever questioned his actions, they would never know that Hermes
most likely would be riding north with the rest. Yes, that was the answer.
As soon as the funeral train was out of the city, he would order an assault on
Comyn Castle. The unfilled warrant for Hermes Aldaran was all he really needed,
wasn't it? And there would be no real opposition, just a few servants and a
handful of Castle Guards. And once they occupied that great white pile on the
hill, he would be in the perfect position to make any demands he wished. With
any luck at all, it might be a bloodless coup.
Belfontaine leaned back in the too-large chair, feeling it hit his spine in all
the wrong places, and sighed. Then he leaned forward and pressed a thumb lock on
the lowest drawer of the desk. It slid open silently, and he took out a bottle
of rare Fontainian brandy and a small glass. Slowly he poured himself a tipple.
He raised the glass, toasting the air, and tried to convince himself that at
last his ambitions were going to be realized.
13
Herm felt a weight on his arm, and for a moment thought it was his Kate. Then he
opened his eyes, saw a clouded dawn sky above his head, and found that the boy
had rolled over in his sleep and pillowed his head against Herm's shoulder.
There was something very trusting in this, and he was moved by an unexpected
rush of tenderness. He barely knew Domenic, and now here they were, alone
together, involved in a covert operation.
The events of the previous night flooded into his mind, filled with fear and
regret, but also a profound sense of relief. He was glad to be away from
Katherine for a time. Then, just as he began to enjoy the relief, guilt crept
into his consciousness, destroying the mild pleasure of having escaped the
situation for a while. He saw his choice as somewhat cowardly now, and was
ashamed. Katherine was right. Everything had changed between them since they had
come to Darkover. He had just been too stubborn and too self-involved to admit
it before. It was a bitter pill to swallow so early in the day.
The tension which had thrummed along his nerves for weeks, was still there, but
subtly altered. He had escaped one set of problems only to be saddled with
another. Herm had not anticipated how difficult it was going to be, not just for
Katherine and the children, but for himself. He loved Darkover deeply, but his
homecoming had not been what he expected. He felt sad and angry at the same
time, the very emotions he had tried his best to avoid most of his adult life.
And now he was uncertain of his decision, wracked with doubts that rarely
troubled him. He had taken the easy way out of the conflict with his wife. Why?
Ultimately it would only make things worse. Reluctantly Herm acknowledged to
himself that he had put his world before his personal life-again! There was no
other rational explanation for why he had kept Kate in the dark about the
talents that gave the Comyn much of their authority. He was the cunning man,
wasn't he? Surely, if he had really wished to, he could have found a way
to tell
her the truth, even with Federation spy eyes and ears all around him. He hated
himself for leaving Katherine the way he had. He felt drained now, bewildered,
and full of self-loathing. It was too many conflicting emotions to contain. He
would have killed for a cup of synthecaf, if he could have gotten one.
Nico stirred, interrupting Herm's dark thoughts. He opened his eyes, and then
rubbed them with a rather grubby hand. He had gray eyes, flecked with gold, the
iris rimmed in black. His black hair went back from his brow in a peak, very
like Lew Alton's, giving the boy something of the appearance of a hawk, with his
prominent nose and small mouth. Not a handsome lad, but there was a lot of
character in his face, and his eyes shone with intelligence.
"Uh, sorry." Nico shifted his head off Herm's shoulder. "Tell me, is having an
adventure always this uncomfortable? There must be a million rocks under me."
It was cold, even under the blankets, and the rocks Herm had noticed when he
slipped into sleep seemed to have indeed multiplied during the night. He sat up
and looked around, the covers falling off his chest. "I don't know, since I have
not had a great number of adventures. And thus far, this one is pretty tame,
Tomas. But I agree about the rocks. Perhaps we were lying on a migration path of
stones." It was a feeble jest, yet Herm was quite pleased that he had managed
it.
To his surprise, this bit of levity provoked a look of alarm on the boy's face.
It was gone in an instant, but for a moment he thought that Domenic had taken
him seriously. It was a troubling notion for no reason he could immediately
understand. He opened his mouth to ask about it, then silenced himself. Herm
remembered himself at fifteen, how secretive and spiky he had been, and decided
that Nico should be let alone for the present.
"What are we going to do now?"
"Now we are going to get some breakfast from one of the foodstalls. I don't
believe our friend got very far, as drunk as he was, and if my guess is correct,
he is suffering from a bad hangover and wishing he were dead. Later, I think we
might make a few cautious inquiries among the Travelers-you spoke of a pretty
girl. Maybe she can tell us something about him."
"What if she recognizes me?"
"A good question, and one I had not thought of. You might have a real talent for
subterfuge, boy."
"Thank you, Uncle. But if I do, no one has ever noticed it before. Rory is the
one . . . He is going to be furious when he finds out what I've done. And
jealous." There was a certain quiet satisfaction in the words.
"No doubt. You are the 'good' one, aren't you, like my own older brother? And I
was like Rory when I was your age, always into some trouble or other."
"Yesterday . . . it seems longer ago . . . Mother was saying that I must be
abnormal because I never gave her a minute's worry. If she had foreseen what I
was going to do, she would have bitten her tongue."
"Well, she didn't, and saved herself a pot of bother. Now, roll up the bedding
and put it back on the horse, and we will fill our bellies. The Travelers seem
to be late risers."
Among the footstalls there was a booth that offered a pail of heated water for
the refreshment of wayfarers, and they afforded themselves of its services. As
Herm splashed the warm liquid over his face, he started to feel better, and Nico
removed most of the grime that he had somehow acquired during the night. Then
they got bowls of porridge, thick stuff, rich with dried fruits, and slabs of
warmed over flatbread. They ate in silence, until the food was consumed. It was
a peaceful moment in what promised to be a tense day.
Herm you were right. That man, Vancof, only went up the road a little. Here he
comes, and he seems to be in a very bad mood.
How do you know?
He is practically shouting his thoughts. I think he is afraid of something. He
was frightened last night as well-of the other man, Granfell, but mostly of
getting killed. He is cursing the day he ever came to Darkover, or joined
Intelligence.
Good. Angry men make stupid mistakes.
They went to the horses and got them fed and watered. After a few minutes, the
skinny driver came down the road, muttering to himself, and went to the wagon
with the puppets painted on its sides. A female voice from within began to abuse
him roundly.
"Is that the girl you mentioned?"
"I don't know, Uncle. It doesn't sound like her voice. And she didn't look like
she could swear like that. She seemed rather nice."
The driver backed away from the wain, and a plump woman emerged. Her voice was
lower now, so they could not overhear the words, but it was obvious that she was
berating the man. After a minute another figure came out of the wagon, the
slender redhead Nico had seen the previous day. She was knuckling sleep from her
eyes, and looked very cross.
"Auntie, leave off!" Her voice carried across the field, as she tugged at the
older woman's sleeve. Then, suddenly, she dropped her hand and looked around,
scanning the booths and stalls, as if she was looking for something. The
expression on her face seemed puzzled and a little frightened.
At her movement, Nico ducked behind his horse and looked alarmed. Herm watched
and saw the girl shake her head, and turn back to the now sullen combatants. The
driver was red-faced with fury, and the older woman seemed about to shake him by
his slight shoulders.
She sensed me!
Were you probing her, Nico?
No, just sort of . . . hovering around. It is something Mother taught me. But
she noticed it. She must have some laran, otherwise she wouldn't have. And if
she sees me, she is going to wonder why I was standing guard yesterday. What's
she doing here, and why isn't she in a Tower?
That's a very good question, Nico. Another is who is she? She does not have the
appearance of a commoner, does she?
I don't know. I mean, she looks ordinary, like other people, to me, except for
her red hair. And even though I know that red hair often goes along with laran,
it i's not always so. My Aunt Rafaella has pretty red hair, and not a lick of
laran-although her sister was in a Tower for a time. And my hair is dark, yet my
gifts are strong. That girl certainly is pretty, and she has a really sharp
tongue. He gave the mental equivalent of a sigh. I don't have much experience
with anyone except the people in the castle and at Arilinn. I feel totally
ignorant about a lot of things.
No, I suppose not. Very likely she is some nedestra child of the Comyn, but I
agree that her presence among the Travelers is a little peculiar. When I left
Darkover, there were only two or three groups of them, and they were more an
amusing source of light entertainment than anything else. Still, I suppose that
some randy sprig of the Domains might have fathered her and given her that fiery
head of hair and a bit of laran, and never known he had done it.
You mean her mother was likely a Traveler?
It is a reasonable idea-in light of our total lack of real information!
By now both sides of the r
oad were abustle with activity. The muleteers were
loading their animals, and a wagon was pulling through the gates, loaded with
barrels of beer or wine. Then several women with cropped hair and weathered
faces rode out.
"Oh, hell!"
"What's the matter, Tomas?"
"It's Aunt Rafi!"
"Who?" Herm looked back at the troup of Renunciates whose appearance had so
clearly alarmed the boy.
"That woman in the lead, that's Rafaella n'ha Liriel, my aunt of sorts. She is
freemated to Great-Uncle Rafe Scott. I'll just bet Mother has sent her to drag
me back and lock me in the Castle!" There was no mistaking the bitterness in his
voice.
"They might be on another errand, lad." He agreed that the appearance of the
woman was suspicious, but he was less ready than Nico to leap to any
conclusions. During the dinner where he had sat beside Marguerida Alton, he had
taken her measure, and thought her a sensible if somewhat forceful person. He
had liked her a great deal, and he hoped that she and Kate would talk when
Marguerida had the time. He suspected that once they knew one another, they
would get along well. Herm did not want his sister to be the only confidant his
wife had.
He wondered again if he should have told Katherine what he was doing, but after
a few moment's reflection he decided he had made the safest decision. Although
only those with the Alton Gift, like Nico or Lew, could force information out of
the minds of the unsuspecting, he was acutely aware that any telepath could
overhear the topmost thoughts of another. And, for no reason he could put a
finger to, he did not want his sister Gisela knowing what he was about.
Herm watched the Renunciate woman stand up in her stirrups and scan the fields.
She had very curly hair, red but starting to gray, and a cheerful expression.
Then she urged her horse forward and rode over to them. She dismounted and
walked up to Herm, her callused hand extended in a friendly way. He allowed
himself a silent curse at this confirmation of Nico's suggestion. He did not
really want a pack of women, however capable, tagging along. But he clasped the
offered hand and made his mouth smile.
"We are your escort," the woman said quietly. "Sorry we are a bit late." Her
blue eyes were twinkling as she spoke, and she ignored Nico completely after