My lord, the sociological implications of that, Margaret thought, trying not to wince. She supposed that all parents had plans for their children, and were often disappointed. Why hadn’t humanity learned better after all these millions of years?
They turned into a broad square, where the pungent smell of horse manure, leather, and damp straw rose from the stones. There were dozens of booths made of heavy canvas ranged in ranks across the open square. Even at this hour, there was a great deal of activity—voices raised in the pleasant sound of commerce or just gossip.
In the center of the Market she noticed an open-air kitchen. As they passed it, Margaret could see a woman cooking crisp crullers in a cauldron of oil, pulling the hot pastries out with wooden tongs and spreading them on a cloth. A man in full trousers tucked into crimson boots and a brightly colored woven tunic offered her a coin, and the cook handed him two of the things. Margaret noticed the strange hat he wore, a turbanlike thing, and decided he must be a Dry Towner.
Despite having risen from the table a short while before, Margaret found her mouth watering. She remembered a pale hand offering her a pastry like that, and saw her own plump hand closing around the treat. She could taste the sweetness, and she found her throat tightening at the memory. Once she had known the name of the pastry, but now it eluded her.
Ethan led her toward a cloth stall on the other side of the Horse Market. Several women dressed in trousers and tunics were tending the horses which were stabled there. They had short hair, like the girl who had answered the door at Thendara House, and they wore belts with knives on them. Their faces were bronzed from working out of doors, and they looked both capable and formidable.
“Which one is Rafaella n’ha Liriel?” Margaret asked quietly. Not quietly enough, apparently, for a woman stood up from where she was bent over cleaning a horse’s hoof and looked at them. She had remarkably red hair, as if her head were ablaze, and looked to be younger than Margaret by a few years. She took in
Ethan and Margaret in one quick glance, a look that spoke of a headstrong nature, and stepped forward.
“Just what the devil are you doing wearing my blouse?” she snapped, pointing at Margaret’s garment.
“Your blouse?” For a moment Margaret was confused, and then she remembered that Manuella had told her that the clothes she had purchased on her first trip to Threadneedle Street had been made for someone named Rafaella. It had never occurred to her that the person who had been hired as her guide, was the same Rafaella, for she knew that it was a common name in Thendara. “I was given to understand it did not please you when it was done.”
“I have changed my mind!” She lifted her chin, making her cap of curls toss merrily, and tried to stare Margaret down. Unfortunately, she was a bit shorter than Margaret, and she had to crane her neck. “I went away, and while I was on the trail, I decided that I liked it. But when I returned, MacEwan told me he had sold it. He made some excuse about how he couldn’t afford to have things hanging around the shop—as if my mother and grandmother had not given him their custom for years and years.”
Ethan scowled, and his fair skin reddened. “Uncle can’t be expected to read minds. He don’t have laran, Mestra Stuck-Up. Domna Alton got those clothes fair and square, so don’t you go putting on your airs.” The boy spoke firmly, though his adolescent voice cracked slightly in mid-scold. Beneath the words Margaret sensed something more, an emotional quality for which she had no immediate term. No one talks to my domna like that!
Then the word fealty sprang into her mind, and she realized something important about Darkovan culture she had not really understood before. She had sensed it in Regis Hastur’s paxman, Danilo, and then again in Rafe Scott. It was not a blind, unthinking loyalty, as she had first believed, but a profound pride in the form of rule represented by the Comyn and the Domains. No wonder the Terrans had not been successful in converting Darkover into another colony of the Empire. For reasons of its own, the Terran Empire had decided that participatory democracy was the only tenable form of freedom. Margaret knew that there were many forms of government in the Federation, and that they worked as well as anything involving millions of people could. Still, the Terrans tried to impose their ideas on all their member planets, often with sorry results. Clearly, the Darkovans liked the way things were and couldn’t see any good reason to change them.
Rafaella appeared as startled by this vigorous defense as Margaret was herself. She glared down at the young man. “You keep your tongue behind your teeth, Ethan MacDoevid, or I’ll buy my clothes from old Isaac next time. Your uncle wouldn’t be pleased to lose my custom.”
“Isaac,” Ethan sneered. “He can’t cut on the straight with a rule. You will look like you were dressed by . . . by a chervine.”
The image this created in Margaret’s mind was very odd, and Rafaella seemed to find it amusing, too, for she began to laugh in spite of herself. She ran her fingers through her fiery hair, and looked, if anything, even younger than she had before. Margaret wondered if she was experienced enough to be a guide, and decided that the trip must be much less dangerous than anyone had suggested, if they would let her go off into the wild with Rafaella.
“Everything has gone amiss this past tenday,” Rafaella complained, as if to excuse her earlier rudeness. “My horse got killed on my way south, and the one I got to replace her turned out to be a sluggard. I was late in completing my contract, which cost me dear, and then I came hack to find my new outfit had been sold to a stranger. I designed the embroidery pattern myself! And I had hardly gotten here when Mestra Adriana sent word she had hired me to a Terranan.” She paused in this recital of woe and blushed slightly. “Don’t think I mind working for the Terranan, but they can be very hard to please.”
“She is no more a Terranan than you are,” muttered Ethan, still flushed with temper.
“Humph! Well, I am not sure I am better pleased to work for a comynara than a Terranan.” She said this to Ethan, and seemed not to care if she offended her employer. “Now what am I going to do for a dress for Festival?” And I didn’t even have a chance to see him! Drat Mother Adriana for being an interfering busybody.
Margaret had no idea who he might be, but clearly being a Renunciate did not preclude romantic adventures, as she had assumed it did. She was beginning to understand what Mestra Adriana had meant by “settling Rafaella down.” She was not at all sure she wanted to go out into the hills with such a quick-tempered female. Just what she needed—an emotional guide in the throes of love!
“I am sorry if it has caused trouble, but Master MacEwan acted in good faith, I am certain.” Margaret spoke peacefully, but her belly was full of flutters, sensing the strong emotions of the guide without wishing to.
Rafaella gave a pert sniff “No doubt he prefers comyn customers to mere Renunciates.” She seemed determined to hold onto her sense of ill-usage for as long as possible. “Surely he knew I would pay for it, or if anything happened to me, the Guild would.”
Margaret was suddenly weary of the whole matter. If one more person commented on her imaginary status, she thought she would scream. “I am not a member of the comyn, just a Scholar. Besides, I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” she protested, her patience wearing all too thin.
“Not comyn—I like that! You stand there in my clothes, with the very air of a leronis and you expect me to believe you! Oh, the color looks as well on you as it does on me, but I designed it for a very special occasion,” for a very special person to see me in, “and I don’t want anyone else wearing it! It isn’t fair—the merchants are greedy and . . .”
“And you are a very rude young woman. Perhaps I had better return to Thendara House and inform Mestra Adriana that I wish to have another guide.” As she spoke, she found that Captain Scott’s face came into her mind, and felt her eyes widen a little. Was it possible that Scott was the “he” this girl had not had time to see while she was in Thendara? Why, Rafe was almost old enough to be her father! It is no
ne of my business! But when he left me at Thendara House, he acted . . . lovelorn! Well, maybe he was only ill from that wretched lunch—sometimes I have a hard time telling the difference. I just don’t understand all this love nonsense, and I never will It is better to keep myself apart, to remain unentangled, to not inquire too closely into things.
The thought was unnerving, and Margaret was puzzled. It was almost as if someone in her head had just told her to be alone, no matter what. She felt cold all over, despite the warmth of the Horse Market and her comfortable clothing.
Rafaella blinked and looked wretched. “No, don’t! I really need the job. Losing that horse and . . .”
Margaret decided she had had enough whining and complaining. “If you need the job, then start behaving like a professional. I have no intention of hiring a spoiled brat!” Ethan snickered at her words, and Margaret looked down at him. “And don’t you go stirring up any more trouble.”
“She started it!”
“That is not a good reason for you to have provoked her, Ethan. If you acted like that to a commanding officer, you would end up in the brig before you knew what hit you.” Margaret was not certain of that, because most of what she knew about how starships operated was from watching the occasional vid-dram, but the lad needed to learn not to let his temper run wild if he hoped to succeed. And, suddenly, she wanted very much for young Ethan to realize his ambitions.
“Oh!” The boy subsided and clutched his clumsy package against his chest. Then he looked up at Margaret worshipfully. “I’m sorry.”
Rafaella ignored this byplay and looked at her almost rudely. “Truly, you are not comyn?”
Margaret could not imagine why it was so important to the girl, but she decided to get matters settled immediately. “If I understand it right, my father was indeed comyn. But he left Darkover years ago. I was born here, but I left Darkover before I was six years old. I was educated far away, and have lived on Empire planets for as long as I can remember. Several people have mistaken me for one of your aristocrats, but I am here only as a musical scholar from University. I was not raised here, and I have no interest in being anyone but myself. Now, if we can stop discussing my personal life and yours in a public square, perhaps we can get on the road before tomorrow!” She had spoken in a voice of authority, one she usually reserved for getting Ivor settled or when giving orientation lectures for new students. The sound of it issuing from her mouth was startling, as if she had been overpowered by a strength she had never quite realized she possessed. Disquieting as well.
Recalled to her business, Rafaella said, “I suppose Mother Adriana picked me because I am a good singer, then. Loud, anyhow.” She gave a feeble grin. “I was not good enough to be trained as a performer in the Musician’s Guild, and it wouldn’t have suited me anyhow. When I am traveling, I sometimes sing in taverns for a round of drinks.”
Margaret listened to this, and hid her dismay. A tavern songstress was hardly what she had hoped for. “You have a strong speaking voice.”
“And I love the sound of it,” Rafaella answered tartly. Ethan gave a sharp snort, then covered his mouth and turned it into a cough. “And I do know lots of people in the hills who know the old songs.”
“That is wonderful,” Margaret said with a greater warmth than she felt. “Do you play any instruments?”
“I can manage a guitar, and I always take my wooden flute when I travel. Do you play instruments?” Rafaella seemed to have forgotten her hostility for the moment.
“I play many instruments,” she said, “but none of them so well that I would wish to perform in an orchestra. I am more of a scholar than a performer.” She remembered her encounter with the haunted ryll at Master Everard’s, and how she had played it as if she had been practicing for years. She said nothing of her own singing, which she had done all during her childhood, for the sound of it had always made her father scowl. For a moment she remembered how she sang to herself in the spare cubicles at the orphanage, and could almost recall the lullaby she crooned to herself, to keep away the loneliness. She was sure that red-haired mother she hardly recalled had sung it to her, and now she knew why it must have been painful for the Senator to listen to.
With an effort she banished the memories. “It will be very useful to have someone who knows the local people, Rafaella. Shall we get started?”
“I’ll see to the horses and the mule,” the guide answered.
“Domna,” Ethan said timidly, reminding her of his presence.
“Yes, Ethan.”
“This is for you. My auntie sent it.” He thrust his bundle toward her, turning red along his cheeks. “It’s a gift.”
“Why, Ethan, how nice of her.” Margaret bent her knees and squatted so their eyes were level, ignoring the horrified expressions of several locals who had been observing them with interest.
“All the merchants are not greedy, no matter what that cat says.” He was determined to defend the honor of his family.
“I know they aren’t, Ethan. And your uncle is an artist, and everyone knows that artists don’t understand money, do they?”
The boy gave a little laugh and looked at her intently. “Do you really think I can go to the stars?”
“Since I don’t have a crystal ball, I can’t see into the future, Ethan, but I think that if you work at it, you can do whatever you wish to. But it is very difficult, and you will have to learn things you never imagined.” Where, on Darkover, Margaret wondered, could a merchant’s boy get the education needed to go into space? And did she have any business interfering in his life? His parents and his aunt and uncle probably would not like the idea one bit. They expected him to live life as they had lived it, not go off into the void.
As if he followed her train of thought, Ethan nodded. “I am not afraid of hard work—I’ve done it all my life. But where can I learn the things I need to know?”
Margaret chewed her lower lip for a moment, then stood up. Her writing materials were all packed away in her bags, but across the Horse Market she saw a booth where a public scribe sat surrounded by the tools of his trade. “Come along,” she told the boy, and walked toward it.
“I wish to have a letter written,” she informed the scribe.
“To whom will it be directed, domna?”
She held back a flinch—there was that honorific again!
She could not seem to escape it. “To Captain Rafael Scott, Terran Headquarters.”
The scribe perked up, looking curious now. He took a sheet of paper from a fine wooden box, and she could see that it was of a better quality than the stuff on his table. He picked up his pen, dipped it into ink, and wrote the name in the curling letters of Darkover.
“Greetings,” Margaret began dictating, glad her command of casta had improved enough during the past days to allow her to write a letter. “The bearer of this letter is my friend Ethan MacDoevid. It is his earnest wish to travel between the stars. I will be grateful if you will aid him in this ambition, and help him to get the education he needs.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she should add more, then decided not to. “I remain, your respectful niece, Marguerida Alton.” Having not the faintest idea as to the proper form of such a document on Darkover, she used what she had learned at University, and decided that Rafe would understand. What good was it to have well-connected relatives if you did not take advantage of them? With this bit of sophistry Margaret persuaded herself that she was doing the right thing and felt rather pleased.
The scribe appeared nearly beside himself with interest, casting a glance at both Margaret and the boy. He dusted the ink with fine sand while she dug into her pouch for some coins. “How much,” she asked.
“Three sekals, domna.” Ethan was stunned into silence for once, but his eyes were large and the start of a grin was playing around the edges of his mouth.
“I will give you five if you do not share the contents with the entire bazaar.”
The scribe turned an unlovely red and nodded. “To be
sure, domna. I hope I can have your custom in the future.”
“You can, if you can keep your nose out of my business.” She gave the man the coins, took the letter, folded it, and reached for the scribe’s pen. “May I?”
He looked astonished, and Margaret realized that most women, even those in the aristocracy, were not lettered. But he nodded. She wrote Rafe’s name and rank across the folded letter, then added “personal” and wrote her name, Margaret Alton, below it in Terran script. She dipped her thumb into the inkpot and put her print beside her name, so that if there were any questions asked, Terran records would know it was authentic.
“Now, Ethan, take this to one of the guards at the port—one that knows you—and show it to them. They will find Captain Scott for you, and he will see if you are clever enough to do the work.”
The boy was blinking back unmanly tears. “Thank you, vai domna.” He rubbed a rather grubby hand against his jacket and took the letter as if it were made of gold. Then he handed her his bundle. “Can you open it, so I can tell Aunt Manuella if you like it?”
“Certainly.” She wiped the ink off her thumb with a cloth from the scribe, and untied the strings that bound the oiled paper. What appeared to be a wad of dark brown wool emerged from the fold. Margaret lifted it up, and the folds of a heavy cloak fell against her arms. Something else slipped out, almost falling to the cobblestones of the market. Ethan caught it, grinning. It was the blue-green spider silk, made up into a soft gown, which Aaron had tried to persuade her to take on the first visit. Silver leaves had been embroidered around the neck and sleeves. “Oh, Ethan! It is absolutely beautiful—but I will never have occasion to wear it!”
“Auntie said you might need it, next time you go to the Castle.”
Margaret could not help laughing. “Well, if I go to the Castle, I’ll wear it.” Everyone on Darkover seemed to be conspiring to make her into that other Margaret, the one called Marguerida who was heiress to a Domain, whether she wished it or not. She gathered her finery into her arms. It was too great an effort to resist the kindness of the MacEwans, and, besides, she had always had a secret yearning for the sort of garments Dio wore for state dinners and other formal occasions.