They reached another square, windswept in the crimson noon. To one side, Gareth noticed a clutter of low buildings, shops of the poorer sort, a street shrine, and a little café. On the other side, dark opening mouths of streets led deeper into the town. The smell of the jaco roused an unexpected surge of homesickness.
Gareth tossed Alric one of the copper coins. “Here, go and buy yourself a treat. I’ll be waiting there.” He pointed at the shop. “I won’t get into any trouble, I promise.”
Alric looked dubious for a moment, but the temptation of an hour of freedom and the means to enjoy it won out. With a grin, he pocketed the coin and dashed out into the crowd. Gareth took a moment to drink in the sights and sounds, the rhythm of the market. He shaped his own thoughts, his posture, his facial expression to that of a person of no importance.
Just a dusty traveler, nobody of account . . .
Outside a shop, an awning cut off the worst of the sun’s glare. A carpet, worn but surprisingly clean, had been unrolled in the pool of shade. A trio of men in flowing robes and head scarves were just getting to their feet, leaving a pile of cushions arranged around a low table. To sit outside would be pleasant, and besides, he would be in plain sight, where Alric could find him.
Gareth seated himself on one of the cushions. A wizened little man with skin like sun-darkened leather shuffled out and, in a querulous voice, demanded to see his money. When Gareth was able to satisfy him, the man returned with a chipped cup and dish of shriveled, lumpy confectionery. Gareth set the dish aside without tasting the candy. The jaco, on the other hand, was surprisingly good, strong and unsweetened, flavored with an unfamiliar but pleasant spice.
Voices drifted from inside the shop. Gareth heard the scraping of wood, a chair being drawn across a bare floor.
“. . . water dispute . . . one of those little oases along the caravan route to Black Ridge,” said one man, speaking Dry Towns dialect with an accent so thick that he seemed to have pebbles in his mouth. Gareth could make out only a phrase here and there.
“. . . out beyond Shainsa . . .” said a second man, “. . . deep desert . . .” This one’s voice was higher in pitch, almost reedy, but easier to understand.
“. . . know the place . . .”
Race Cargill, Terran Special Agent, has penetrated the alien stronghold to discover a dastardly plot . . .
“. . . oudrakhi herder, says . . . been cheated,” the first man went on.
“. . . strange folk out there, fierce . . .”
“. . . the sons of fire demons, ’tis said . . .”
Little did the evil overlord know that his agents had been discovered and his schemes revealed . . .
“The waterseller . . . teach him a lesson,” the storyteller said in such a tone that the others fell silent. “. . . a scuffle . . . the desert man calls upon his gods. Nebran? No, something stronger . . . sent a fireball that . . .” The man lowered his voice.
Gareth held his breath, straining to hear what came next.
“Ate him?” yelled one of the others.
Gareth came alert. His vision sharpened. The brightness of the day stung his eyes.
“. . . burst into flames . . .” the storyteller said dramatically, “. . . disappeared . . .”
One of the listeners snorted. The other made a derisive sound, but to Gareth’s ears, the disbelief sounded hollow, tinged with fear.
“. . . mirages out there . . . heat and dust put things in a man’s eyes . . .”
“. . . didn’t believe it . . . not the first time . . . I heard another such tale. Some details changed . . . but one thing is sure . . .”
“Nebran shield us!” one of the listeners cried, and all three mumbled what might have been prayers for protection or else curses upon an enemy.
Gareth’s mouth went dry. The desert folk were said to be superstitious. Any sleight of hand, even sun glinting off a paring knife, might create an effect like magic in their minds. He knew as well as anyone how stories could become elaborated in the retelling. But . . .
He did not entirely believe his own reassuring thoughts. If what the storyteller had said was true, there was another, far more troubling explanation for the flash of light and the disappearance of the victim. An off-world weapon—a Terran blaster—could produce the effect the man had described.
Compact-forbidden weapons . . . in the hands of the Dry Towners? The prospect was too horrific to speak aloud, to even think.
How was that possible?
As far as Gareth knew, the Federation had never dealt with the Dry Towns, and it was beyond reason that the desert folk might have stumbled upon a cache of abandoned off-world weapons. Why would the Federation have returned in such a secretive manner? If their war was over, why not renew their old relationship with the Comyn?
The street was not completely deserted, but in that moment, the few men and veiled, chained women who hurried across it, faces averted, were all Dry Towners. Something in the antiquity of the place and the faintly acrid tang of the dust struck Gareth as profoundly alien from any other place he’d ever been. He remembered the old stories, the speculations that the Dry Towns had been settled by another colony ship, not the one that gave rise to the Seven Domains. Where had they come from—Wolf IV, where men once from Terra also interbred with the native races? No chieri blood flowed in their veins, but something far stranger. They could be anything, do anything.
A few minutes later, Alric came back, bearing a cone fashioned of fibrous bark and filled with bits of fried pastry. He grinned when Gareth declined his offer to share. They headed back to Cyrillon’s compound.
Gareth was no longer eager to explore. He wondered if he’d imagined what he’d heard or had spun a perfectly innocent conversation into intimations of danger. He could return home, as Cyrillon desired, and make his report. Perhaps Mikhail would have returned by then. Certainly, no action could be taken until the Regent was consulted. Would the delay make a difference? Or would the additional time give whoever now possessed those weapons the chance to seize territory . . . perhaps even make an assault upon the Domains?
If they had blasters, what more might they have?
What if he was wrong? What if what he’d overheard were just wild tales, idle boasting? He could see it now, himself racing home to sound the alarm, then the hurried conferences, the meetings, the hasty mustering of a expedition force . . . the questions, the push into Dry Towner territory . . . The Dry Towners, quick to anger, ever jealous of their kihar, responding with contempt and suspicion . . .
Gods, he could set off a war.
“Lord Garrin?” Alric interrupted Gareth’s churning worry. “Are you ill?”
No, but I will drive myself mad very shortly if I go on in this way. Then everything they’ve said about me being just another of those unstable Elhalyns will indeed be true.
“I’m well enough, lad,” Gareth forced himself to sound casual. “I’m just not used to this heat. It’s cooler where I live. We still have snow at night this early in the summer.”
“Snow!” the boy exclaimed.
I should not be here, Gareth thought, and then, quite unexpectedly, I know where I need to be. I know what I have to do.
10
Alric, clearly disappointed when Gareth announced he had seen enough, took a circuitous route back to Cyrillon’s house, undoubtedly to prolong the holiday. Having gotten his bearings by this time, Gareth knew the lad was dawdling but did not have the heart to press him. The delay gave Gareth time to gather his thoughts. He had some assets—a little money, the lenses, two horses, and his sword. He had no allies, no friends he could trust. He didn’t know how he would manage on his own, but somehow he had to find a way.
They came to another square, empty except for a public well where women gathered in twos and threes, a few of them Dry Towns women with their fluttering, brightly colored garments. Their chains c
lashed musically, a counterpart to their quicksilver laughter. One in particular caught his attention with the strength and sureness of her movements. Like the others, she went veiled, and she carried a basket braced against one hip. Gareth slowed to a halt, watching her. He’d seen that same fabric, with its pattern of gold threads. The angle of the sun glinted off her veil, obscuring her face.
Cyrillon’s daughter?
She made her way to one of the shops on the opposite side of the square. Gareth hesitated. Part of him wanted to follow, to see whether she was indeed who he thought she was, but another part of him held back. He’d already gotten into serious trouble by speaking to a chained woman.
While Gareth pondered what to do, Alric had come to a slouching halt, imitating the half-dozen or so men loitering in the area of the well. Although none of these addressed the women directly, their mutual interest showed in the women’s lilting laughter and the occasional darkening in color of the men’s faces. A girl in blue pirouetted, her veils fluttering around her, before turning back to her friends. Her posture, the carriage of her head and movement of her hands, revealed her awareness of the keen interest she aroused. The loiterers straightened up, pulling their shoulders back and sucking their stomachs flat. Gareth felt an immediate impulse to puff out his chest. One of the men started telling a joke in a loud voice. Scowling, the few mountain women in the crowd hurried away.
Just then, the woman emerged from the shop. She strode over to Alric with none of the flirtatious grace just displayed by the girl in blue. Her chains rattled as one hand shot out to grasp Alric’s shoulder. At the same time, she shifted the basket on her hip to allow free movement of her other arm.
“What are you doing out here?” She shook him, but not roughly, only enough to emphasize her point. “Loitering around like those—” Gareth did not recognize the Dry Towns word, only its clear implication. “What would Father say?”
Alric flinched. “I was just—just showing Garrin—”
“You!” She released the boy and rounded on Gareth. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble on your own account, without corrupting this child as well?”
He found his voice. “I do know you! You’re Cyrillon’s daughter!”
“We have occupied the same room at my father’s house, you mean. But that does not constitute an introduction.”
“I might as well ask why you approached me—” He reined in his temper. “Your pardon, lady. I would not have spoken to you had I known it was inappropriate.”
“You are my father’s guest. We are both under his protection,” she said, more calmly. “This little scamp should have known better than to bring you to such a place. I can only attribute his lapse in judgment to your influence.”
This square was much like any other marketplace, but no vendors had set up their stalls here. Its only feature was the well; the women came here for the water and to be seen by the men. Despite the warmth of the day, Gareth shivered. He pushed away the subtle residue of some unpleasant emotion—despair, perhaps—that lingered in the dirt. “Will you permit me to escort you home?”
“I am not going home. You are going home and taking Alric with you! And I do not need an escort.” She held up her hands, to a gentle clashing of her chains. “I have all the protection I need.”
Gareth managed to summon enough presence of mind to deliver an abbreviated bow as she turned, a swirl of pink and gold, and strode away.
Alric disappeared as soon as they arrived back at the compound, presumably about his own business, and Gareth saw nothing of the women. Cyrillon’s affairs kept him elsewhere in the city. Gareth retired to his room, where he spent the next hours packing and repacking his possessions.
He felt the change in the air as the day drew to an end. Even without being able to see the sun lowering toward the horizon, he became aware of a scent rising from the earth, no longer the smell of dust and heat but coolness tinged with spices.
Gareth found Cyrillon just outside the central chamber. Cyrillon offered a formal greeting. Gareth, masking his impatience, returned the courtesy.
“Cyrillon, I must speak with you on a matter of importance.”
“It is not our custom to engage in serious discussion before the evening meal. We will speak over smoke afterwards.”
“I would rather say it now.”
“What topic is so grave, it cannot be considered in a civilized fashion? No, do not answer, my young friend. I see this is indeed a matter that cannot wait. If it were as warm in your Domains as it is in the desert, your people would have learned to proceed at a measured pace. But since it is not, and you have not, let us satisfy your impatience. Accompany me to my personal office, where we will not be disturbed.”
Gareth followed Cyrillon to a small chamber set well away from the shared areas of the house. High windows on two sides admitted light and a refreshing breeze. Below them stood cabinets with many small drawers, perhaps storage for scrolls. A low table bore writing implements, a beautifully wrought brass oil lamp, and several pieces of newly prepared vellum. Cyrillon dropped to one of the large cushions and gestured for Gareth to take the other.
“Now, my young friend, what has distressed you so?”
Gareth folded his legs under him and wished Cyrillon would stop calling him friend. The word was laden with mutual responsibility.
“I said I would return to the Domains as soon as a suitable escort could be arranged,” Gareth began. “I request to be released from our agreement. I hope you will grant it. Regardless, circumstances have arisen that require another course of action, even at the price of my given word.”
Cyrillon looked startled at first, then wary. “These circumstances must be dire indeed. You may be young and foolish, if you will pardon my saying so, vai dom, but you have never struck me as a man who holds his kihar in light regard.”
No one had ever considered him a person of honor before. In a voice gone suddenly thick, Gareth said, “My own . . . kihar . . . is of no importance compared to what might be at stake for the Domains. Perhaps for all of Darkover.”
“Dire indeed,” Cyrillon repeated. “May I know these circumstances?”
“I overheard what I first thought were just wild stories from the lands beyond Shainsa, near a place called Black Ridge.” Gareth went on to summarize what he had heard, along with his suspicion that beneath the bragging and tale-telling lay a kernel of truth. He finished by saying, “I pray to all the gods of both our lands that I am wrong. But so much is at stake, I must be certain.”
“You mean to go to Shainsa yourself?” Cyrillon’s usual equanimity dissolved. “Are you mad? Or simply suicidal?”
Gareth, remembering all the insinuations about unstable Elhalyns, winced. “I don’t know! Does it matter?”
“What matters is that the Heir to the Crown of the Seven Domains cannot go wandering about the Dry Towns on a whim!”
“I’m well aware what is at stake!” Gareth’s fingers curled into fists at his sides before he realized what he was doing. His skin crawled as if he’d fallen into a nest of scorpion-ants.
He forced himself to take a breath and lower his voice. “I could go back home and let you or someone else investigate. I could wait for news that might never come or might come too late. If someone out there is trading with the Terranan for Compact-banned weapons and I could have stopped them instead of crawling home like a wayward puppy, then on whose hands is the blood of those they might harm?”
He was talking too fast, his words and phrases jumbling over one another, probably making no sense at all. How could he expect to handle himself in Shainsa, with all its dangers, if he couldn’t even govern his tongue here, where he was comparatively safe? What was he afraid of? That Cyrillon might disbelieve him, argue, try to stop him? Or that Cyrillon might let him go?
“The responsibility is mine alone,” he said slowly, “to ascertain the truth or falsity of
these tales. And to take whatever action I must.”
So that was what it meant to be Comyn. The blood of Hastur flowed in his veins, as yet untested to be sure, but adamantine in its demands.
“I see why you do not wish to wait for further reports.” Cyrillon nodded. “So would any man of honor act.”
The words hung between them. For a long moment, Gareth dared not believe what he had heard.
“I would be—if you permit me to travel with you to Shainsa, I would be most grateful. But I will surely go there, with or without your help.”
“In this matter, I must consider more than my own wishes,” Cyrillon said after a pause, a pause in which Gareth imagined increasingly strenuous objections. “I have an obligation to Dom Danilo as my employer and as a friend of many years. Despite the formal termination of my contract with you, I bear a measure of responsibility for your welfare. I must also safeguard the means of supporting my family and must honor my other business obligations. However, as you yourself point out, some circumstances transcend law and custom.”
Gareth felt ashamed that he had ever considered Cyrillon a man of superstition, a Dry Towns barbarian who kept his wife and daughter in chains and had no care for anything beyond the walls of his own compound.
“I am sorry to have placed you in such a difficult position,” Gareth said. “It has never been my intention to cause injury to you, who have brought me nothing but good.”
Cyrillon made a dismissive gesture. “Let us reason this matter out together. If the Terranan have returned, and in such a manner as to exempt them from the laws and Compact of the Comyn . . . that is bad, very bad indeed, not only for the Domains but for the Dry Towns as well.”
The caravan master leaned forward. “These two lands are as night and day, as light and darkness, two halves balanced upon the edge of a knife. Up in your mountains and in your Lowlands, you do not see it, for the cities of Ardcarran and Daillon and, yes, Shainsa are far away. You know little of our customs, and we know even less of yours. The witchery and military strength of the Domains has kept the ambition and ruthlessness of the Dry Towns lords at bay and both lands at peace for many years now. But if that balance were to be overturned, if men whose very lives center on revenge and power were to gain access to off-world weapons, the consequences would be terrible indeed.”