Traitor's Sun

  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