Traitor's Sun

  me, if I had been in control of that manifestation, at least one person in this

  chamber would be dead now! I have endured your slights and suspicions without

  complaint for years, but I will not allow either you, Mother, nor you, Dom

  Francisco, to continue to spew your filth at me. You can choose to disbelieve

  that Regis Hastur shattered the trap matrices in the Crystal Chamber until all

  of Zandru's hells melt, for all I care. But that would be extremely foolish, and

  neither of you are complete fools."

  "It was Regis," Danilo said very calmly. "He reminded me of things that no one

  in this room could know except . . . my dearest friend."

  "That is true," Lady Marilla added. "My wits are slightly disordered yet, but I

  know that what touched my mind was Regis Hastur, and no other."

  "So, even you were fooled," muttered Dom Francisco, glaring at his ally.

  "What a paltry man you are," Marilla replied, with great dignity. "If Mikhail

  says there is a plot against him, and against the Comyn, why should we not

  believe him? What benefit would he derive from making up such a tale?"

  "You stupid-"

  "It is a very good thing that Regis disarmed me, Francisco," Dyan Ardais

  snarled, "or else your life would be forfeit already."

  Dani Hastur cleared his throat. "I know it was my father, and I would like to

  know more about this plot. I realize that everyone is very shocked and

  frightened-and don't pretend you aren't, Dom Francisco! But if we start

  threatening to kill one another, then we might as well hand Darkover over to the

  Federation and be done with it!"

  "At last-a voice of reason," Robert Aldaran announced. "Have you all lost your

  minds? As Lady Marilla asked, what possible purpose would be served by

  pretending that some plot existed when there was none?"

  "I can tell you the answer to that."

  "I am sure you can come up with some plausible explanation, Dom Francisco,

  because your mind is full of your own plots and schemes."

  "That from Aldaran scum!"

  "Why do you dishonor yourself this way, Dom Francisco?" Marguerida asked, her

  voice quiet but menacing at the same time. "You know in your heart that Mikhail

  has nothing but the security of Darkover in mind, and yet you continue with this

  irrational behavior."

  "I know nothing of the sort, witch!"

  "I have never done you a moment's harm, and still you hate me-why is that, Dom

  Francisco?"

  "It would have been better if you had died years ago," he answered, snarling.

  Sweat now beaded his forehead, and his hands shook with rage and some less

  obvious emotion.

  Javanne, who had sunk into a kind of stupor, roused herself with difficulty. "I

  don't believe in any plot, but I want to hear of it anyhow." The words came from

  her lips unwillingly. It seemed she was at war with herself. The pained

  expression on her face deepened, and she swallowed hard. I have wronged my own

  child, and at last I know it.

  Mikhail caught her unguarded thought and felt more compassion for his mother

  than he had in years. He knew what it must have cost her to even allow herself

  to think those words, and then, with a kind of sorrow, knew she would not choose

  to remember them. Still, he could treasure them for as long as he lived, and

  would.

  Mikhail looked across at Lew. He nodded toward the older man, gesturing him to

  begin the tale. "A few nights past, Domenic left Comyn Castle for a bit of

  mischief," Lew said solemnly.

  "I should have known the little bastard was at the bottom of this," Javanne

  spat, her moment of self-awareness gone, and all her previous furies returning.

  "I've heard enough now!"

  "One more word against my son and heir, Mother, and I will do something you will

  regret for the rest of your life."

  She glared at him, then looked at the ring on his finger and shuddered, clinging

  stubbornly to her anger and her fears of him. "You are not my son any longer!"

  "Thank you-I am greatly relieved that I need no longer give you any more respect

  than I would one of the servants. Please continue, Lew."

  Javanne had intended to provoke him, and he could see the disappointment in her

  face. Then her eyes seemed to glaze over, as if the inner torment were too great

  for her to bear, and she leaned against the back of her chair and sighed.

  "As I was saying, Domenic sneaked off to watch the Travelers perform. He

  observed some men in Federation leathers walking to the North Gate, and being a

  curious lad, he followed them. They met one of the Travelers, the driver of a

  wagon, who was, it turned out, a spy for the Federation. At that time, we had

  not let the word of Regis's sudden death reach as far as Headquarters, but this

  fellow, Dirck Vancof, told the men that he was gone. One of them, Miles

  Granfell, who is the second in command to Lyle Belfontaine, the Station Chief,

  suggested that since the Comyn accompany the body of their dead rulers to the

  rhu fead, that an attack on the funeral train might be a lovely idea. He has

  always struck me as the kind of opportunistic man who would think of such a

  thing, so I am not surprised that he did.

  "Nico thought about what he had overheard, and, sensibly, told me-you recall

  that when we were at dinner the night you arrived, Javanne, I was interrupted?

  Yes, I see that you do remember. That was Domenic. And after the meal we

  closeted ourselves to decide what to do. Herm Aldaran offered to join Nico on

  the road, to see if there was anything other than wishful thinking in Miles

  Granfell's idea. We have now gathered enough information to believe that some

  sort of assault will likely be made against the funeral train, unless we can

  come up with some plan to prevent it."

  "Forgive me if I do not believe you, Lew. It is just too fantastic." Dom

  Francisco's face was white with fury and frustration, and his voice was thready.

  A look of desperation filled his eyes, and he looked like a man who was watching

  his favorite horse break its leg.

  "I hope it does not demand a blaster shot in the guts to change your mind, then.

  If you even have time to consider the matter," Marguerida replied as if she were

  speaking of the weather.

  The look of desperation increased. "Blasters are not allowed on Darkover."

  "That is not strictly true," Robert Aldaran put in before anyone else could

  speak. "They are not permitted to the populace of Darkover because of the

  Compact, and we ourselves would never use them. But there are a goodly number of

  weapons of various sorts in the Terran complex in our Domain, and a greater

  amount at the spaceport. Regis has known this for years. Those, plus the

  presence of combat-trained troops in both places has been a source of concern

  for a long time. If you hadn't spent so much energy disputing him, you would

  have been aware of the problem."

  "An Aldaran speaking of the Compact! When have any of you ever respected it?" No

  one responded to Dom Francisco's question, but Lady Marilla looked at him with

  enormous distaste.

  Javanne tried to rouse herself from her near stupor. "Yes, that is true-but I

  have never understood why we did not change . . ." She seem
ed too exhausted to

  continue, suddenly, and lowered her head so her jaw almost touched her collar.

  "Because we do not have command of the Federation bases on Darkover, obviously."

  Mikhail shifted in his chair. "And we can hardly expect to overcome such weapons

  with swords and horses."

  "Why should we believe you?" Francisco asked, trying once more to gain control

  of the meeting.

  "You give me too much credit for deviousness, Dom Francisco, and not enough for

  common sense! There is nothing in the world that would cause me to endanger the

  lives of any of you."

  "Mikhail is right," Lady Marilla said suddenly, "and you are wrong, Francisco.

  Everything he has said Regis also said when he brushed through me a few minutes

  ago-did he not tell you the same?"

  "Yes, but I cannot . . . cannot bear . . ." He shuddered again and tried to get

  a grip on his emotions. "It must have been some sort of trick."

  "Oh, do stop being a fool, Francisco," Lady Marilla snapped, her usually placid

  face twisted with anger. "I have known Mikhail Hastur for decades, and he is

  right when he says he is not devious. We have been waiting-you, Javanne and

  I-for him to do something with his matrix to confirm our basest suspicions, and

  he has never done so. The temptation must have been incredible." She cast

  Mikhail a fond look.

  "Not really, Lady Marilla. In fact, the greatest temptation I have endured these

  past fifteen years has been the occasional one to give my mother laryngitis

  during her visits, since the sound of her voice has long since stopped giving me

  any pleasure." At this, everyone, except Dom Francisco and Lady Javanne, began

  to chuckle. The tension broke for the moment, and an air of relief traveled

  about the chamber.

  "And just what do you intend to do about this supposed plot, Mikhail? Would you

  have us ride into the jaws of death for your sake?" Francisco's words sounded

  forced and thin.

  "You are perfectly welcome to remain in Comyn Castle, or return to the Ridenow

  Domain, Dom Francisco," Marguerida said with false sweetness, "and I am sure

  that no one will think any the less of you for trying to save your own skin. And

  then, if we all get killed by the Terranan, you will have the pleasure of trying

  to survive while they hunt you down like a dog. Which, if they take over

  Darkover, they will certainly do."

  Francisco Ridenow had the grace to blanch right down to the roots of his pale

  blond hair, and he glared fiercely at Marguerida. She had managed to imply that

  he was a coward without actually saying it, and there was nothing he could do

  about it.

  Mikhail looked around the table again. There was a different atmosphere in the

  chamber than there had been just a few minutes before. The wariness that he was

  accustomed to feeling from Lady Marilla had departed, and there were other

  changes as well. Some of the fear and suspicion they felt toward him remained in

  several minds, but it was no longer as strong. Regis had reassured them, and

  they had believed him. More, the restraint he had demonstrated for years had

  finally made an impact. He had said he had only been tempted to silence his

  difficult mother, even though he had the ability to do much more, and they had

  believed him.

  But there was more to it than a simple change of attitude. With the exception of

  his mother and Dom Francisco, he realized, these people wanted him to lead them.

  Regis' death had unsettled them, and they were intelligent enough to know that

  there must be continuity, and that he was the person to provide it. Regis' last

  gift to Darkover had been to tell the members of the Comyn Council to follow

  Mikhail Hastur, his heir. The alternative, everyone knew, was civil war of a

  kind that had not occurred on Darkover in centuries.

  Mikhail experienced a moment of great relief, and also the sense that most of

  the people in the room were waiting for him to tell them how to proceed. Until

  this moment he had not realized how greatly everyone's mistrust had weighed on

  him during the past fifteen years. At last the Comyn would allow him to lead

  them, and he could only hope that he was worthy of their sudden trust. "I am

  completely open to suggestions as to how to proceed-even including canceling the

  funeral train altogether for now."

  Dom Gabriel shook his grizzled head slowly. "Not that, son. You can't hide in

  here like your uncle did. No, we must meet this foe, but make it on our own

  terms, as much as possible. Indeed, if we can expose this plot for what it is,

  and embarrass the Federation with it, we will be in a much better position all

  around, won't we?" He turned to Lew Alton as he asked his question.

  "True, and wise, Dom Gabriel, but very difficult to manage. The first thing, I

  believe, is that we must not take the youngsters along at all-that is too

  dangerous."

  At this, everyone began to speak at once, offering their ideas, except for

  Francisco and Javanne. Mikhail listened and observed, and found that he was

  staring at Dom Damon. Something rustled in his mind, like a bit of paper in the

  wind, some tidbit that Regis had imparted earlier.

  Dom Damon was innocent of plotting with the Federation-all he had intended was

  to try to place Rafael in Mikhail's position! He looked at his brother, the

  forgotten son, sitting stiffly beside him. It would not have worked, but Dom

  Damon was not clever enough to understand that. Still, it was a relief to know

  that while he could not trust the old devil too far, he was not part of the plot

  to attack the funeral train.

  "We should call for Dom Cisco Ridenow," Danilo said, breaking into Mikhail's

  thoughts. Everyone looked at him. "His expertise will be very useful, I

  believe."

  There were nods of agreement at this, and a look crossed Dom Francisco's face,

  as if he had been handed a reprieve. Mikhail caught the look as well as the

  whisper of thought behind it. Beside him, Marguerida was alert, and his brother

  Rafael, on his other side, turned his head toward the head of the Ridenow Domain

  with icy interest. Dom Francisco flinched-he had forgotten the absence of the

  dampers.

  Don't worry, Mik-I'll see to it that he doesn't try to kill you himself. As he

  heard Rafael's angry thought, a kind of clarity began to fill his mind, a

  sudden, blessed calm, which he could only hope would endure long enough to

  hammer out a plan. With Marguerida on one side, Rafael on the other, and Donal

  at his back, he could bring all of his attention toward the immediate threat.

  Then, with a sickening certainty, he knew that he had been moving toward this

  moment all his life-not as he had anticipated in his youth, nor planned in early

  adulthood. Nothing was happening according to his own imaginings-and yet, this

  was his destiny.

  22

  Her dream was filled with an eerie wailing. Katherine reached toward the other

  side of the bed in her sleep. When her hand touched the empty pillow, she

  started to wake, and found there were tears on her face. Herm wasn't there, and

  she thought for a moment her heart would break. Then she remembered that she

  would be joining him
soon, in some little town called Carcosa, and the ache

  began to subside.

  But the sound from her dream had not stopped, and she sat up and pulled her

  knees up against her chest, hugging them and shivering all over. It was not

  wailing at all, but something else, something she had never expected to hear

  again in her life-seapipes, or whatever they called that instrument on Darkover.

  It was coming from some distance, but the melody carried, and then another pipe

  took up the tune, mournful and heartbreaking. No wonder she was weeping.

  Kate rubbed her face dry on her nightgown and swallowed several times. More and

  more pipes were joining in now, until, after several minutes, it sounded as if

  there were thirty or more, playing in every quarter of the city of Thendara.

  Although she had never heard the melody before, she knew it for a dirge, and it

  made her ache for Renney. In her mind, she could hear the sea crashing near the

  old manse where she had grown up, and the sound of seapipes playing at her

  mother's death rites. She could almost smell salt in the air, so powerful was

  the evocation of memory and feeling.

  A knock on the door of the suite interrupted her before she could completely

  surrender to the upwelling of emotions. Instantly she felt anxious. Had she

  slept into the middle of the day or had some terrible thing happened during the

  night? No, she was sure it was still morning, from the way the light came

  through the narrow window of her bedroom. Her heart raced as she pushed the

  covers aside, swung her long legs out, thrust her feet into slippers. The knock

  came again, sounding urgent, so she did not bother with a robe in the chilly

  room, but only grabbed a shawl from beside the bed and hurried to answer the

  door.

  Gisela stood there, her arms filled with billows of dark fabric, her face

  chalky-white and stricken, her hair wild and half escaped from its clasp. There

  was a mark on one of her cheeks, the start of a bruise, and her eyes were puffy

  from crying. Without a word, Kate pulled her into the room and put her arms

  around her sister-in-law, so the pile of textiles was trapped between their

  chests.

  "What is it?"

  "I just brought you the clothes for the funeral," Gisela answered, her voice

  strained.

  "No," Kate said, lifting her hand to touch the mark with tender fingers. "What