Mestra Adriana nodded and smiled. “They don’t seem to realize that Darkover got along just fine for centuries without a thousand clerks making pieces of nonsense called permits. Now, sit down and tell me why you want to go the Kilghards.” She paused while Margaret took a seat. “Alton?” She looked at Margaret intently for a moment. “You are not a Terran.”
“No, I am not. I was born here, but I left when I was very young.” Not so young I don’t remember the smells and colors of Darkover, she thought grimly. The House smelled good, of woodsmoke and rich stews. It smelled right, as the house on Thetis never had. Even when Dio cooked, it had never smelled quite this nice.
“I see.” Mestra Adriana studied her again, and Margaret was sure that very little escaped those penetrating green eyes.
Margaret stifled a sigh and prepared for another frustrating recital of her parentage. But Mestra Adriana asked no personal questions, thus belying her claim of tactlessness. “You speak the language well,” was all she said.
“Thank you. It seems to come back to me in great lumps. And sometimes I still don’t understand half of what people are saying.” She leaned back into the armchair.
“Now, what is your purpose in going to the Kilghards?” Alton! Is she going back to Armida? What a nosy old woman I am!
Margaret heard these unspoken thoughts quite clearly, and felt a blush rise along her throat. She felt as if she were prying. And, worse, she felt as if she had no control over it. Her stomach clenched around the dreadful meal from the cafeteria, and she wondered if she were going to be sick.
Armida. Rafe had mentioned that it was the Alton stronghold, and that she was the heir to Alton. Likely it was in the middle of some village where there were lots of Altons, and everyone spoke in riddles. Even if they had the most beautiful horses in the civilized galaxy, she had no intention of going there! She brought herself back to the task at hand.
“I was sent to Darkover by University to do research and collect music—folk songs and ballads. I came with my mentor, Professor Ivor Davidson, but he died suddenly. I intend to complete his work. We had planned to spend some time here in Thendara, then go into the back country. I decided that I want to take advantage of the season, and do the rural work first, since, if what I have been told is accurate, travel will become more difficult after the summer is over. The people at HQ tried to talk me out of it, and there was this Major Wintergreen who decided it was too dangerous. But I got the things I needed anyhow.” Thanks to Rafe! Did I remember to tell him how grateful I was?
Adriana chuckled. “Dear old Thelma! She is a prickly one. She has done everything she could to destroy the work the Bridge Society has done. A most dislikable female, to be sure.”
Margaret hesitated for a moment. “She certainly seemed quite disagreeable to me, although we were only together for a brief time.” She decided that it was a good thing Rafe had intervened when he did, because she would probably have lost her temper completely.
“She gets worse with further acquaintance, believe me. Folk music? Odd sort of reason to go tramping around the hills, Domna Alton.” There was a tone of disbelief in her voice, and beneath it, suspicion and wariness.
“Not if you are a musicologist, Mestra Adriana. To me it seems like the most logical thing in the world.”
“Have you done this before?”
“Yes. I have been on several planets with my mentor, studying the musical forms of the local people.”
“How very peculiar. I don’t think I will ever understand these things. We had a woman here, a time back, who was wanting to know all about the Renunciates for some book she was going to write. Said she was an anthropologist, but I thought she was looking for scandal. I don’t know if she ever wrote her book—she went away after a while and I never found out what happened to her. It just seems very impractical to me.”
“I am a Scholar, and collecting apparently useless facts is what I do. Besides, I love music, and I love my work.”
“You must, if you dared the dragon Wintergreen in her den and escaped to tell the tale. How did you manage it?” The green eyes glinted with intense curiousity.
“I had some help from Captain Rafael Scott, who is a kinsman of mine.”
Yes, he would be. “Very well. Let me see if I can think of someone suitable to accompany you.”
Margaret heard the thought and the spoken words at the same moment. Did everyone on Darkover walk around with genealogies rattling in their brains? She stood up, restless from too much time sitting in chairs, and returned to reading the Bridge Society history on the wall while Mestra Adriana cogitated. She was a little surprised that the woman did not consult a list, and realized that despite the printed posters on the wall, this was not a culture that relied on the written word so much as on memory.
“Ah! Rafaella is just the person!” Besides, she needs the work. Maybe going about with a sober-sides like this young woman will settle her down a bit.
Margaret heard the underthoughts as clearly as if they were spoken, and wondered why the unknown woman needed settling down. “Is she a good guide?”
“Certainly. It would not reflect well on the Guild if I gave you someone who could not do the work. But I chose her because she sings fairly well and will perhaps understand your work better than some of our other people. She was born in the Kilghards, and has kinsmen all over the hills.”
“That sounds good,” Margaret answered. “Where do I find her?”
“Go to the Horse Market tomorrow morning, and she will be waiting for you.”
“How will I know her?” Margaret felt anxious again, having no idea where the Horse Market was. Oh, well, she could probably get someone to show her the way. Maybe young Geremy would be pleased to escape for a morning.
“We have a stall in the Horse Market—just ask for the Guild booth. You won’t be able to miss her. Rafaella n’ha Liriel is unmistakable.”
9
When Margaret left Thendara House, she felt tired, but not as weary as she had during the previous days. She decided to visit Threadneedle Street on her way back to Master Everard’s and see if either Ethan or Geremy could take her to the Horse Market the following morning. She now knew her way around much of central Thendara fairly well and did not hesitate in finding her way to the clothiers.
Aaron MacEwan was standing in the middle of his shop supervising the cutting of a garment by one of his apprentices, and Manuella was rolling up a bolt when Margaret came in. They both greeted her eagerly, with smiles and offers of tea, and she felt warmly welcomed after the sterile corridors of HQ. She told them she was going into the Kilghards, and they exchanged a look which spoke volumes.
“You will need some warm garments for that, domna. And that dress we sent you will not do for the hills. You will want a riding skirt, and a heavy tunic.” He glanced with a measure of distain at her Terran garments.
Margaret was rather startled at this, because she had not really thought through the matter. She had planned to ride in her wretched uniform, hated though it was. So, before she knew it, she was bustled into the robing room by Manuella and offered a fine garment that covered her limbs but would allow her to ride astride. It was dark brown, very generously cut, warm, and extremely comfortable. A tunic of a paler brown slipped over her head, and once more she had the sensation of correctness she had felt when she touched the earth of Darkover at Ivor’s grave.
She concluded her transactions, and asked if one of the boys could show her the way to the Horse Market early the following morning. Manuella promised that Ethan would be at Master Everard’s at first light. She gathered her purchases and set off for Music Street, well content with a good day’s work.
The darkness of the void was broken by the swirl of the galactic wheel, a spin of stars against the night She floated between the stars effortlessly. This was the way to travel, without drugs or smelly space ships! A figure began to coalesce, first feet, then legs and torso, arms and shoulders, and, at last, a head. Lew Alton, made o
f suns, glared at her from the void. His single hand reached for her, and his mouth moved as if he were trying to speak. She felt her hands extend to him, and was caught in an icy grasp. It was so cold she could not bear the touch, and wrenched herself away. The stars winked out, and she was alone in the blackness, screaming in the night.
When the first light of morning touched Margaret’s face, she sat up, the remnants of the dream fading as she opened her eyes. She shook herself free, and climbed from the warm covers into the chill of the room. Everything except her toiletries and the clothes she was going to wear had been packed the night before. She brushed her teeth, and washed her face. Then she scrambled into her clothes, eager to be gone. She slipped the russet tunic over her head, and pulled the riding skirt on, yanking at the drawstring waist. Margaret brushed her hair until it was smooth, then coiled it into the butterfly clasp. She only gave the mirror a quick, sidelong glance, to make sure she was reasonably neat, biting her lower lip in unease. She really hated reflective surfaces.
Satisfied with her appearance, Margaret slipped her belt around her narrow waist. She grabbed her things and went downstairs with as much haste as her baggage allowed. It was not until she reached the ground floor that she realized she should have left the task for Raimon, or one of the other servants. She shook her head. She was used to helping, not being helped.
Anya was already up, and the house smelled of porridge. She found the housekeeper in the kitchen with young Ethan. He was tucking into a large helping of the cereal, his sharp features concentrated on the task at hand. Margaret suspected that it was his second breakfast, and remembered that there had been a time when she had eaten with such appetite.
Margaret sat down at the big table in the kitchen, and Anya brought her a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. There was honey and a pitcher of rich cream in the middle of the table, and Margaret shamelessly added both to her breakfast. She and Ethan smiled at each other as they ate, and she was grateful for his silence. She hated chatter first thing in the morning, and was impressed by his sensitivity. Lads his age only seemed to stop talking when they were asleep.
Master Everard came into the kitchen as they were finishing, his white locks tousled from sleep. He looked like some old tortoise, blinking in the morning light that streamed through the narrow windows. He sat down stiffly and Anya brought him a mug of tea.
“So, you are away to the hills, chiya. It has been a long time since I wandered there—years and years. My late wife was from the Kilghards. I met her when I was visiting there. She was so lovely.” He gave a small sigh. “I shall miss you—it has been a great pleasure to have you in my house. My son is up there, and perhaps you will meet him on your journey. He is a good man, but he dislikes city life, and I see him all too rarely.”
Margaret was touched by Everard’s use of the endearment chiya, but it brought back an unwanted rush of memories. The red-haired woman who was her mother had used it, but without any affection, and that haunting man with the silver hair and eyes had called her that when he had left her at the orphanage. It was the first time she had recalled that incident so clearly, and it made her feel small and frightened. And angry, too, though she suppressed the feeling as quickly as she could.
“I will miss you as well, Master Everard. I have enjoyed my stay in your home, and trust I will return before I leave Darkover.”
“Leave?”
“Well, yes. When I have completed Ivor’s work, I will go back to University, of course.” She said the words, but she did not believe them. At the same time, Margaret could not imagine remaining on this world for the rest of her life. It might be the home of her heart, but she was too much a citizen of the Federation to think of living on this almost primitive world. Not that she needed hot showers and computers, but she was used to them.
“But, I thought . . . well, I confess I assumed after your visit to Comyn Castle that . . .” Everard trailed off, confused and embarrassed.
Margaret looked at him for a long, silent moment. Did everyone in Thendara know about her meeting with Lord Hastur? It seemed an intolerable invasion of her cherished privacy for a second. Then she realized what a small community it was, really, compared to cities on other worlds. Thendara was more like a small town than a city, despite having a spaceport and a Terran sector.
“I am going to the Kilghards to complete Ivor’s work—he would have wanted me to, I am certain—not to make any claims to the Alton Domain, no matter who tries to convince me otherwise.” The crispness of her reply bordered on rudeness, and she felt dreadful as soon as the words were out of her mouth. At the same time it seemed terribly important to distance herself from the seductive whispers of Darkover, lest she find herself embroiled with matters she was certain had nothing to do with her. The sense of suffocation she had experienced in the castle garden returned, and she tried to breathe deeply. To conceal her discomfort she tried to think of something pleasant to say.
“I see.” Master Everard looked sad. “Well, no man can make another’s destiny, and all the wishing in the world will not make it so. You must follow your heart—though I think that perhaps you are running away from something, instead of running toward it.”
“You may be right.” Margaret had the feeling he had seen through her, and knew that she had been running away from things for most of her life. She had run away from Thetis to escape her father’s sorrow, not knowing what it was, and she had become Ivor’s musical assistant to avoid becoming close to anyone her own age. The thought of marriage made her skin crawl, and the idea of children was simply too dreadful to contemplate. There was some memory, deeply buried but powerful, that made her shrink from intimacy or physical contact.
She did not know why this was, but she knew it to be true.
“What shall I do with your master’s instrument?” Everard asked.
“Ivor’s guitar?” She had all but forgotten about it since she had let Master Everard carry it home after the funeral. Should she arrange to ship it back to Ida? That did not feel quite right. “Will you keep it for the present? I think Ivor would like that. And if his wife is able to come and claim his body, then she can take it home with her. I don’t want to entrust it to the spaceways without an actual person going with it—silly of me.” Her mind, she realized, was not really on the matter, and she didn’t have time to go over to the com center and send a message, then wait for a reply. She wanted to get out of Thendara and away from people mistaking her for someone she never wanted to be, and she wasn’t going to let anything prevent that.
The old man looked pleased. “I will be honored to keep it for as long as is needful, for it is a wonderful instrument. Do you think that the Mestra Doevidson will come here?”
“I don’t know. She might, but it would be very expensive. Thank you for everything. I have loved staying here so much.” She could barely manage to contain her impatience now.
“We have enjoyed having you—and, frankly, I will miss you. This house needs young people in it, and Erald is so rarely at home.” He seemed a little sad, but he cheered up so quickly she could not be sure.
A few minutes later, she bade Anya and Master Everard farewell, and set out, with a stuffed and rather subdued Ethan. The lad carried one of her bags, and she carried her harp and the other. They were three streets away when Margaret noticed he was carrying a clumsy bundle in his free hand.
“What have you got there—your lunch?” Margaret asked with more humor than she felt.
“Naw.” He gave her his friendly grin and hefted the lumpy object. “This would be too much for even my belly. Mother says I eat enough for three, and that I will beggar her before I grow up. She said the same to my older brother Jacob, so I don’t mind much. If mothers cannot scold you for something real, they invent something, don’t they?”
Margaret thought about this, and found no answering experience. Dio had never commented on her eating, her dress, or even the state of her room, which often appeared to have been the scene of one of Thetis’
more violent hurricanes. The only scolding she had ever received was for pulling her hair up on top of her head and exposing her neck, or for looking directly—rudely, Dio said—into the eyes of others. “I suppose they do,” she replied indifferently. “But you still haven’t told me what you are carrying. Of course, if it is a secret, that is a different matter. I always keep other people’s secrets.”
“I know. You didn’t say a word to Uncle Aaron about me wanting to be a spaceman.”
“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t any of my business, and I thought he would not be pleased to hear of your ambitions from a stranger. I suspect he would not approve if he knew.”
“Too right, domna! Aaron thinks the world begins and ends in Threadneedle Street. Do you know, he has never been out of Thendara in his whole life?”
“No, I didn’t know, but I am not surprised. He loves his work, as I love mine, and I can see that he can’t imagine doing anything else. It is often that way.”
“Does it get better when you get older?”
Margaret thought about that as they trudged along streets so narrow that the morning sun had not yet warmed them. The little harp slung over one shoulder bumped against her hip with each step she took, and her bag was becoming heavy. She wondered how much farther it was to the Horse Market. She thought about her Uncle Rafe and Lord Hastur and their expectations that she would instantly become the holder of the Alton Domain. She thought about Lew Alton, who, she believed, had never really approved of her musical career. He had never spoken of it, but she knew he had hoped she would pursue politics or journalism instead.
“I don’t think so, not really. No matter how old you get, there are always older people who think they know better.”
“I thought so. My grannie is always after my father for being in trade instead of bettering himself.”