3

Mikhail Hastur stood up slowly and stretched. His spine popped audibly in the stillness of the sick room, and Lady Linnea, seated on the other side of the bed, looked up, her face drawn with exhaustion. He had been sitting absolutely still for hours, concentrating his mind on the unmoving form resting on the bed. His right hand, where the great matrix which had been passed to him by Varzil the Good was mounted in a huge ring, ached from the energy he had driven through it.

As had so often happened since he had been given the matrix, Mikhail had imagined he had heard Varzil’s calm voice, reaching through time to counsel him. He was never certain whether it was just his own fantasy, or if somehow the long dead laranzu actually spoke to him from the overworld through the matrix which had once been his. After fifteen years, it no longer mattered. Yet it remained disquieting to hear the words in his mind. This time they gave him no comfort or reassurance, but only the certain knowledge that Regis Hastur was dying, and there was not a thing he could do to prevent it. He wanted to rail against the cruelty of the fates, to weep for the beloved mentor who would speak to him no more, but he was just too tired.

The chest of the man beneath the covers still rose and fell, but very shallowly now, and he sensed that the end would not be very long in coming. Mikhail would have given a great deal to see his uncle’s eyes open, and the familiar twinkle gleam from beneath the eyelids. He wanted Regis to sit up and demand a haunch of chervine, and a butt of wine. Could Mikhail have accomplished that miracle, he was sure that Lady Linnea would have carried the meat in with her own small hands.

Mikhail had a moment of relief at this foolish vision, and then the grief rose in his throat once again. The smell of the room, thick with burning herbs and candlewax, suddenly threatened to make him gag. He swallowed convulsively and ran the fingers of his left hand through his curling hair. Then he glared at his right, at the ring, and clenched his hand into a fist. It was infuriating. He had spent most of the last fifteen years studying the arts of healing, trying to discover as much as he could about the matrix he had been given by Varzil the Good, and he had become very skilled. But what was it all worth if he was not skilled enough to save his uncle.

Had he tried everything? Mikhail racked his brains again, the futility of it mingling with his own weariness. Yes, he had, and so had Marguerida, who had her own talents in the healing arts. She had also brought in every capable healer in Thendara, and two from Arilinn. The body was still alive, but Regis was barely within it.

He did not want to accept that, and he raged silently, like a child, not a man of forty-three. He had known Regis all his life, and he suddenly found that he could not imagine Darkover without him. He had been preparing to succeed his uncle for decades, but he had not expected it to happen so unexpectedly, nor so soon. The old doubts nagged at him, fears he had thought were long gone. He was not ready to lead Darkover!

The rustle of fabric behind him made him turn. Marguerida came into the chamber, carrying a tray with several mugs on it, doing a servant’s task in spite of all that she had learned through the years. There were dark circles beneath her golden eyes, and deep creases beside her normally smiling mouth. Her fine red hair lay slackly against her skull, the curls barely visible. Without a word, she handed him a mug, and he smelled the refreshing scent of mountain mint and the distinctive odor of Hali honey. Their eyes met for a moment, hers asking an unspoken question and his answering. No change.

Lady Linnea glanced up from her study of the body of her beloved companion of more than three decades. Her shoulders drooped and she rubbed her eyes, as if they ached. They were the color of harebells, blue and pale, still as young as they had been when he was a lad. But there was no hope in them, only a sorrow that wrenched at him desperately.

Marguerida went to her with the tray, and Linnea took a mug of tea in silence. Then she went to the man standing in the shadow of the bed hangings beside the carved headboard, Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, and offered him one. Mikhail watched the six-fingered hand of his uncle’s paxman slip into the handle of a mug and saw exhaustion and despair in the familiar face.

Marguerida set the tray down on a small table and came to stand beside him. “Dani has just arrived,” she whispered. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

“Good. I think Regis is hanging on for him. You look terrible, caria.”

“Probably—but have you glanced in the mirror lately? I finally got Father to lie down for a while. Oh, yes—Herm Aldaran has arrived in Thendara—with his wife and children. Rafael met them and took them to a suite.”

“What? Why?” The world had stopped for him, four days before, and he had nearly forgotten that anything outside this room existed.

He received no answer to his incredulous question, for at that moment, Danilo Hastur, Regis’s son, came into the room. He was wearing a brown tunic and heavy trousers, and he smelled of sweat and horse, a healthy scent against the stuffy air of the chamber. He was a sturdy man of thirty now, not the slender boy that Mikhail remembered so fondly. He and his wife and children lived in the Elhalyn Domain, which stretched from the west side of Lake Hali to the Sea of Dalereuth, and it was clear that he had ridden long and hard to get to Thendara.

Linnea dropped her mug from nerveless fingers at the sight of her son, spilling tea down the front of her rumpled gown, tears welling in her blue eyes. Dani embraced her gently, as if afraid she might break in his grasp, and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. They stood together for a moment, her head resting on his shoulder. Then he released her and approached the bed.

Dani Hastur stood beside the bed, looking at the still shape of his father beneath the linens. Then he sat down and took a hand in his own, stroking it softly. Regis did not stir. Only the subtle rise and fall of his sunken chest gave evidence that he still lived.

“Father.” Dani’s voice broke over the word. “It’s me, Dani.”

The silence in the room was disturbed only by the ragged sound of Dani’s breathing, and the sobs of Lady Linnea now beside him. Mikhail watched the tableau and sensed a slight change in the man in the bed. For a moment his heart clenched with the hope that Regis was going to rouse, to wake and speak to his son. But instead he saw a faint shudder ripple along the form beneath the covers, and knew that his desperate hope was in vain. Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur y Elhalyn was no more.

A strange sensation gripped him then, a brush of warmth on his face, and a tingling in his right hand. Mikhail looked down at the gleaming matrix on his finger, and watched in wonder as it flashed brightly, coruscating in the dim light of the bedchamber. He had never seen the stone do that before, and the intensity of it was painful.

Mikhail turned his eyes away, unable to look any longer. He glanced back toward the bed, his eyes aching. In the hangings behind the headboard something flickered, a play of light and shadow. For a moment he thought he saw two women, one fair, one dark, in the folds of the textile. They seemed to be transparent, and he might have thought it was some trick of the light. But the fair face was one he had seen before, long ago, in another place and time. He drew a sharp breath of startlement and the vision vanished. His heart pounded and blood rushed through his veins, making him dizzy. Evanda, Goddess of Spring, was the fair one, and the other must be Avarra, the Dark Goddess. Even as grief began to seize him, Mikhail felt another emotion, one of otherworldly calm, arise within him.

Beside him, Marguerida wept silently, the tears coursing down her pale cheeks. Mikhail put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his chest gently, allowing himself to feel everything all at once, only for an instant. He could not really believe it was over. Somehow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had expected some miracle would occur, and all he could feel now was a vast sense of emptiness and failure that it had not. What a fool he was.

Danilo Syrtis-Ardais moved from his place in the shadow of the bedcurtains. The paxman set aside his mug and bent over the body in the bed. He put his hand around the wrist of his lifelong friend and held it in his grasp, his lean face alert and resigned at the same time. After a minute, he took Dani’s hand off of his father’s, and folded Regis’ arms carefully across his chest. Danilo stared down into the still face of the man who had been his best friend and companion for more than four decades. He touched the brow softly, stroking the white hair, his face filled with infinite tenderness. Then he bent down and kissed the pale cheek of his lifelong friend, and turned away, his shoulders shaking with grief.

Dani Hastur gazed at his father for a long time, a look of yearning on his face. He continued to sit on the side of the bed, dumbstruck, and then finally he lifted the sheet tenderly and drew it over Regis Hastur’s peaceful face. He stood shakily, then mastered himself. He took Lady Linnea into his arms again, and she seemed to collapse into his grasp, as if, at last, her legs would no longer support her. She leaned against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and wept uncontrollably.

The vivid details remained before Mikhail’s eyes for several seconds, and then began to blur, as if rain were falling. He realized that the tears he had held back while he struggled for the life of his uncle would not be denied any longer. The overwhelming power of his feelings was too much, and, abruptly, he turned and walked out.

Mikhail sat in his uncle’s shabby study, behind the large desk where Regis often worked, stared into the fireplace and wept. The carpet was rather threadbare, but Regis had refused to have it replaced, or to have anything done to the room. Servants were only permitted to come in to sweep and dust. It gave him an odd feeling to remember the rather pleasant arguments between his uncle and Lady Linnea about the state of the room—it had been such a cheerful and caring dispute.

He had come there hours before, unable to sleep or think or function, fleeing duty, fleeing life. There was no fire in the hearth, so the room was cold and the air was chill and stale. He had a bottle of firewine on the desk, and a glass beside it. The level of the wine was much diminished since he had arrived, but it had not lessened his paralyzing, aching grief at all. He was not even drunk. Such was the power of Varzil’s matrix that he could not dull his senses, no matter how he tried.

Distantly, Mikhail could sense Comyn Castle bustling around him. Even the death of Regis Hastur could not halt the steady function of the huge complex completely. He knew that his young paxman and nephew, Donal Alar, was standing outside the door of the study, to guarantee his solitude, even though poor Donal was surely ready to drop in his tracks. Fostering the young man had been Marguerida’s idea, and he was glad of it now. Prying Donal and his sister Alanna out of Ariel Lanart-Alar’s anxious grasp had been difficult, but Mikhail believed it had probably saved their sanity. Ariel had never been the same after Alanna was born, and he was deeply saddened by that.

Somewhere he knew that Marguerida was doing her best to deal with all the arrangements that must be seen to. There would have to be a funeral, but not until all the lords of the Domains arrived, and that would be several days at least. His mother and father were still at Armida, even though he knew that Javanne should have been informed as soon as Regis fell ill. But Lady Linnea, usually the most sweet-tempered of women, had been adamant. “It is all I can bear to see him like this, Mikhail. I will not have that woman in Comyn Castle until I must.” Under the circumstances, he had bowed to her wishes. And with a slight sense of guilt, he had agreed with Linnea. His mother was not an easy person at the best of times, and having her underfoot would have been intolerable.

His mind went to Marguerida, knowing she was as tired as he was himself, yet shouldering the burden of preparing for the funeral. There had not been such an event for decades, and although he knew that the coridom of Comyn Castle would do his best to help her, the man was ancient and likely so grief stricken he would be of little use. He would have preferred she was in bed, with a hot brick at her feet, but she was probably up and about, doing those things he himself should be managing. He tried to think what those duties might be, and found only sorrow and despair. He was not ready!

It was dark outside, and his belly was grumbling. How long had it been since he had eaten? Mikhail could not remember, and even though his body needed food, he had no appetite. His eyes were swollen with crying and lack of sleep, and his shoulder muscles were taut with tension. The candles were unlit, and he could not summon the energy to rise and set them aflame.

The light from the corridor made a bright band on the floor as the door of the study opened, and Lew Alton entered. He stared at his father-in-law dumbly, annoyed by being disturbed, and for a moment, furious that Donal had permitted even this special person to enter his sanctuary. Then he realized it was not his, but Regis’ place, this battered desk and worn carpet. This room was still so filled with the presence of his uncle that he ached with it. It seemed to him it was all he had left of the man, and he did not wish to share it with anyone just yet. Donal followed Lew into the room, unwilling to let even this most trusted advisor alone with his master, and closed the door. Then he leaned against the jamb, folded his arms, and tried to become invisible.

Lew said nothing, but got a firestarter and knelt beside the cold hearth. There was a flash, then a flicker of flame in the kindling laid there. Mikhail watched the fire lick at the logs, curling around them, eating them up with light and color. He watched Lew take a small brand from the fire and start to light the candles. The comforting smell of hot wax and burning wood began to fill the room.

Lew poured himself a glass of wine and took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. His hair had turned completely gray, and his facial scars were almost invisible, buried in the wrinkles that seamed his face. He was a weathered man, his skin rough and dry, and tonight he looked his age. Mikhail saw the redness around his father-in-law’s eyes, and knew that he had been weeping.

“Marguerida sent me,” Lew said after swallowing half of the contents of his glass.

“Are you here to tell me I must put aside my grief and think of my duty to Darkover?” Mikhail snapped, startling himself with his own vehemence. He felt his face redden with embarrassment, and Donal roused from his place by the door and gave him an odd look.

“Certainly not! You can sit in the dark for the next week for all I care—although I hope you will not. But your absence is disturbing.”

Mikhail hunched his shoulders. “I just couldn’t bear to see him laid out—not yet. I am still in shock.”

“There will be plenty of time for that later, Mikhail. It will take the better part of a week for everyone to arrive, for the bier to be constructed and put in place. And I do understand. When Dio finally died, even though I knew she was going to, even though Marguerida had restored her to me for five years, it took many days before I could believe it had actually happened. There were times when I cursed my own daughter for bringing her back, because I had to lose her twice. But I had time to prepare—although I did nothing of the sort! There is, I think, something in us that denies death. We convince ourselves that it will somehow be avoided or delayed, that everyone we love will outlive us, so we won’t have to suffer the loss or perhaps admit that the ones we love are mortal. When my father died on Vainwal, I was completely stunned, and furious. And for you, as close as you were to Regis, this is probably more like the death of your father than anything else.”

Mikhail heard the words, but they did not seem to penetrate his mind. All he could feel was a vast and endless numbness. But after a few moments of consideration he realized that Regis had been like a father to him, more than an uncle. For a time this had estranged him from Dom Gabriel, his actual father. And he realized that he knew now, as he had not before, that the Old Man would die, too, and he would be bereft again. And Lew, sitting across from him, sipping firewine. He had become so close to Marguerida’s father during the past fifteen years that he was as dear to Mikhail as either Regis or Dom Gabriel.

At the same time, there was something else that troubled him. He prodded at it, trying to bring to consciousness the vagrant wisp that perturbed him. It was, he decided, guilt, though why he should feel that way he could not say immediately. Had he done enough? Was there anything he could have done to extend Regis Hastur’s life?

Mikhail glanced down at his right hand, encased in a thin glove of finest leather once more, now he was no longer doing the healing work he had performed in the sick room. The great, glittering matrix that rode on his finger was hidden, but always he could sense its presence. It was so powerful that there had been times since he received it that he had wanted to cast it away, to be relieved of the burden of it. It had made him the most powerful person on Darkover, too powerful for the comfort of some of the lords of the Domains, like Francisco Ridenow, and certainly for the peace of mind of his mother, Javanne. More, it had kept him a near prisoner in Comyn Castle for fifteen years, surrounded by Guards and watchers, always aware that anything he might do would be measured and analyzed. He was respected, but he was also feared, even by the uncle he had loved so much.

And now—what? He would succeed Regis. Hadn’t he prepared for this moment for his entire life? Why did it feel so wrong, so empty and frightening? He was no longer the boy who had dreamed of ruling Darkover, nor the man who had, for a time, given up those ambitions. He was someone else, and Mikhail wondered if he knew himself at all. He did not wish to think about it any longer. He was too weary for self-examination, and he suspected it was closer to self-indulgence in any case.

He forced himself to stop dwelling on his aching sense of loss, and searched for some topic of conversation. At last he said, “Marguerida told me that Herm Aldaran had arrived. What is going on?”

“Ah, that.” Lew gave a grim smile and reached across the desk for the wine. The bottle was nearly empty, and he poured the last drops into his glass. “Herm and his family, actually. I received word that he was coming only hours before he arrived, and it did not seem important enough to tell you immediately. You had enough on your plate, Mikhail. But it seems that the entire legislature has been dissolved, by executive order of the Premier, until new elections can be held. My best guess is that this means that there will be no more Federation Congress—ever—or that if it exists, it will be filled with those who toe the Expansionist line completely. This coup was almost inevitable, given the Expansionist mind-set, and I fear that whatever survives of the Federation will be a military dictatorship or something even worse.”

Mikhail’s mind was too fatigued to completely grasp everything Lew was saying, so he focused on what he did understand. “Elections? Half the worlds in the Federation have no more use for democratic government than a donkey for dancing shoes.” It felt like a blessing to channel his remaining energy into a mild sense of disbelief and concern over this new development, even though he was perfectly aware that it would have unimaginable ramifications for Darkover. Those fears would keep until his mind was less muddled.

“Precisely, Mikhail. Many of the Senators and the rest were appointed, just as I was, by kings and governors and oligarchs. And those hereditary or appointed positions have long been a thorn in the side of the Expansionists, one they appear to have plucked out for the moment. I think the Premier’s action was ill-considered, and likely will have consequences that she will regret later. Sandra Nagy does not realize that she has set the fox loose in the henhouse, but she has. Probably she believes she has control of the Party, and when she discovers otherwise, it will be rather too late.” Lew had been gloomily predicting all manner of dire things for the Federation for as long as Mikhail had known him, and appeared to take some grim satisfaction in what had now happened.

“Then she must be a fool! Does she think that worlds like Darkover will comply with this transparent plan?”

“Not being privy to the most recent thoughts of Sandra Nagy, I cannot say, Mik. I knew her years ago, when she was an appointee on the Trade Board. She is canny and extremely clever politically, but has little if any moral sense. I never liked her, but I had a certain respect for her cunning. I am saddened that my worst fears about the Federation seem about to be realized, but I find I am less disheartened than I expected.”

“What does it mean for Darkover?” Mikhail did not particularly care what happened to the Federation, which remained an abstract conglomeration of places he had never seen or, in many cases, even heard of. No matter how much Marguerida or Lew told him about it, it remained more imaginary than real in his mind. More to the point, after he had received the great matrix stone, he had realized that he would never be able to travel off-world, as he had longed to when he was younger. So, although he remained interested and even curious, Mikhail had discovered that it pained him to talk about faraway planets he would never see. He was envious that Marguerida had traveled so extensively, and sometimes he even resented his wife’s travels a little, enough that that feeling shamed him a good deal.

Lew shook his head. “I cannot guess. The Terranan might imagine we can be brought to our knees by the removal of their technologies, by closing the port and withdrawing.”

“That’s ridiculous—we’ve never had any use for their technology! It would probably be a blessing for us if they left.”

Lew gave a gruff chuckle, a slight growling noise in his throat, like a bear trying to laugh and failing. “Bodies politic are rarely logical, Mikhail.”

“Then how can they function?”

His father-in-law looked thoughtful for a moment. “They run on ideals and power struggles—often political movements are born of ideals, but deteriorate into power struggles, megalomania and the dissolution of the very ideals which gave birth to the political movement in question. Here, I believe, the ideal is that everyone in the Federation will be alike—without diversity—and that it is possible to achieve consensus by decree. The Expansionists believe that this can be achieved by everyone agreeing to do it their way, the Expansionist way. And since they have experienced strong opposition, they are seeking to force their ‘ideals’ down people’s throats.”

Mikhail frowned over this. His mind felt soggy, but he was glad of this distraction, this unwieldy problem to focus on, however poorly. “I am not sure I understand you. Do you mean to say that these people really believe that they can coerce entire planets to give up their customs, to be just like Terra? That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in ages.”

“I know—it sounds impossible. But I don’t think you have any idea of how powerful the effect of propaganda can be on a populace, because Darkover has never experienced the effect of constant newsfeeds, which only tell what the government wishes its citizens to know. It has happened over and over in human history, like some recurring nightmare.”

“Tell me.” Over his father-in-law’s shoulder, he watched Donal come to attention, and knew his paxman was listening intently. He felt a flutter of pleasure, the better for being completely unexpected. Donal had wisely chosen to make Danilo Syrtis-Ardais his model, and realized already that his task was much more than merely guarding the person of Mikhail Hastur. With time and experience, Donal would become a wise advisor. Oddly, this notion comforted Mikhail more than he would have thought possible.

Lew Alton made a kind of grunting noise, a familiar prelude to the conveying of information. Oddly, the ordinariness of the sound, and the anticipation of the words to follow soothed Mikhail’s frayed nerves. At least this was the same. “First, someone in power announces things are going to hell in a handcart, and that the reason is the fault of some group or tribe or opposition party. Morals are decaying, or parents are not rearing their children properly. They propose that the answer lies in reformation, in everyone behaving according to some ideal that suits their notions of a good society. They demand conformity, and anyone who does not submit is regarded as a potential enemy, if not an outright traitor. It has happened in our own times, on places like Benda V, about thirty years ago, for instance.”

“I’ve never heard of that planet.” There were several hundred members in the Federation, and Mikhail had only read extensively about twenty or thirty. But although he was quite well-informed for someone who had never left Darkover, it always made Mikhail feel terribly ignorant when a planet was mentioned he knew nothing about. It was rather silly, since there were so many planets in the Federation, and even widely traveled people like Marguerida and Lew did not know about all of them.

“I’m not surprised, since it is a pretty out-of-the-way place. Here is what happened, as well I can recall. The Orthodox high priest announced he had had a vision from God, that the only way to save the planet from utter destruction was to wage a holy war against all members of the Church of Elan, which were the rivals of the Orthodoxy, and had become very powerful on Benda. They were accused of everything from poisoning the grain to murdering Orthodox babies and drinking their blood. And since the media was controlled by the Orthodox, this resulted in a planet-wide bloodbath. About sixty million people were slaughtered in a three-month period—men, women, children.”

Mikhail was stunned. “But didn’t the Federation intervene? I mean, I thought that was something they were supposed to do in . . . such situations?”

“Yes, I know. The taxes collected from the planets of the Federation are supposed to be used to maintain the Spaceforce, so that they can keep events like this from ever happening. However the real function of the Force is to keep Terran coffers full, to see that trade is not disrupted, that taxes are collected, and that resources continue to flow to Terra. They did not intervene because it was decided that it was a planetary matter, not a Federation one. So for the past three decades, as far as I know, Benda has been a theocracy where everyone spies on everyone else, and you can be executed for belching during services. These, I understand, take up at least four hours of every day. Needless to say, this has created great economic hardship, because if you are stuck in church, you can hardly be tending your fields or selling your goods, can you? And the loss of all those poor folks who belonged to the Church of Elan did not help either, since they were productive members of the community.”

“Sixty million? That is three times more than the entire population of Darkover!” Mikhail stared at Lew, unable to quite believe what he had just heard. “And no one tried to fight back?”

“Mikhail, anyone who risked that was going to die.” He sighed again, seeing the incomprehension in Mikhail’s eyes. “I know—you cannot really grasp this sort of thing because it is beyond your experience. Darkover is a very special world, and one of the wisest things Regis ever did was to keep us out of the Federation except as a Protected Planet.”

“When I was younger, I always thought he did it to keep people like my mother happy, or at least quiet!” Mikhail let himself chuckle softly at the ridiculous thought of Regis making so momentous a decision just to appease Javanne Hastur. She was never quiet, and now she would come to Comyn Castle and make his life miserable. He did not feel he had the strength to stand up to her intrigues and passions just now.

Lew nodded, as if he understood what Mikhail was thinking perfectly well. “He felt it was potentially too costly, that Darkovan culture would not survive if we embraced Terranan values completely. The plain truth is that we don’t need the Federation. What do you think would happen if there was no longer a Federation presence here, Mik?”

“As far as I can see, if the Federation pulls out there would not be any more Big Ships, and the hospital at HQ would cease to exist. The Terranan would not pay us for the lease on the spaceport any longer. Not that they have been any too consistent with the payment in recent years.” After a moment’s reflection, he added, “And Marguerida would no longer be able to procure coffee at exorbitant cost for her occasional pleasure. It is a shame that we have never been able to cultivate the plant on Darkover.” Mikhail had never taken to coffee, but he knew his wife loved the strange, bitter stuff. “None of that seems too earth shattering to me.”

Lew chuckled. “That is a fairly good assessment of the impact, since the Federation controls the spaceways. There are quite a number of intersystem trading companies, but between the stars, one must have the technology of the Big Ships, and only the Terranan have that and guard it jealously. As for the other, the lease is about to end, and Belfontaine was trying to jigger Regis into concessions, as he should. It is part of his job.”

Mikhail found himself amused at the memory of the excuses for the lateness of the payments that had been offered. “Regis told me that Belfontaine had suggested that when the lease is renewed, that Darkover should pay the Federation for maintaining a base, instead of them paying us. He got a big kick out of it.” It hurt to remember that, but it touched his heart at the same time. It made him remember Regis’ smile—his smile had always been one of his greatest assets.

“That’s true enough, and I will never forget the look on Belfontaine’s face when I had the pleasure of telling him the answer was a definite no. But, Mikhail, what economic effect would the Terranan leaving have on us?”

“Well, not much, I believe. The Trade City would certainly lose considerable business, and the pleasure houses would not be happy. Lady Marilla’s pottery would not be exported any longer, but the Aillard and Ardais Domains would survive. We haven’t really developed much trade, have we? I suppose that is why the Terranan want us to be a member world instead of a protected one, so they can market their products. We don’t produce enough food to export, and we don’t have enough metal to build ships or other things. Marguerida says that the sand up in the Dry Towns would be useful for silicon-based technologies, but somehow I can’t imagine a factory in Shainsa. Besides, if I understand the process correctly, it would need a lot of water, and there isn’t any to spare in that region.

“No, there is not. And that is one major problem with adopting Terran ways—the impact on the ecology would be tremendous and devastating. You have never seen a manufacturing world, but I have. The air is thick with smoke and foul smells, and the people live in wretchedness. We don’t have slums on Darkover—you don’t even know what that means, do you? Believe me, Mik, the poorest family on Darkover lives better than many people on advanced worlds. We are a marginal world, for which we should be thankful, because if we had more obvious resources, we would be more attractive to interlopers. Our timber would be hewn, exported to places we never heard of, our crops taken to feed people on other planets, and when the land would no longer support our populace, because the rivers were full of silt, we would either be abandoned or forced to pay enormous prices for food from other planets.”

“You mean this has happened?”

“Absolutely. I know of at least two planets which have been almost destroyed by the greed of the corporations that owned them, then left to struggle along with a ruined ecosystem, where the population can hardly feed itself. And since I left the Senate, there have likely been several more.”

“I find that hard to believe. Why? I mean, it seems very short-sighted.”

“Exactly. The Federation has kept going through expansion, by finding new planets to exploit. This has been the policy for the last hundred years, give or take a decade. But in the last fifty, only a handful of habitable worlds have been discovered—the rest were places where establishing a new colony would either be prohibitively expensive, or so unattractive that the only way to get people there was to ship them out and force them to live there, which is quite costly. But the basic idea is that restraint is unnecessary. This is the foundation of the Expansionist philosophy, which is that unlimited growth is not only possible, but is also desirable. They remain blind to the actuality, which is that there are fewer and fewer habitable planets to be had in this region of space. And because the worlds they are exploiting are farther and farther away from the center of the Federation, the governing of these places becomes more and more difficult, demanding more and more resources to maintain contact, longer and longer journeys between worlds, with greater and greater cost to haul the raw materials home to Terra. So they want the member worlds to surrender everything they have, and be taxed for it as well. The home world, and a few other planets have become parasites on the rest of the Federation.”

“Taxed to send their food to Terra?” Mikhail knew he was tired, but he was not sure he had understood his father-in-law.

“Yes.”

“But, Lew, that is insane. Why would anyone pay to have their wheat sent somewhere else?”

“By using the media to convince the population that they derive some benefit from being taxed and starved at the same time.”

“But what possible benefit . . .?”

“They are persuaded that by being taxed to support the Spaceforce, they are being protected from some imaginary enemy—aliens that are destined to appear in the skies and conquer them. They do not see that the real enemy has become the Federation itself. There are, at present, weapons that can reduce a planet to molten slag in hours, things created to defend against this phantom race, which are actually being used to keep the member worlds in line. The only thing that keeps the whole situation from dissolving into chaos is that the expense of such things is enormous—sending a fleet of ships to destroy a planet costs a great deal, not to mention that it is poor policy. It is very hard to keep the knowledge of something that monumental out of the newsfaxes, and it tends to make other worlds more anxious, rather than more obedient. The Federation has become rather like a big bully, kicking smaller children around just because it can. And, until now, the existence of the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies has acted as a restraint on such insane undertakings.”

“Do you think that we will have Federation Marines invading Thendara, then?” Mikhail was only half serious.

“I hope not. And I do not really expect such an assault, although it could happen, if someone decided that Darkover had strategic importance. No, the greatest danger is that the Federation itself will crumble, and that there will be splinter groups, with their own ambitions for power and dominance. A planetary governor or some local king with a few captured dreadnoughts could be real trouble. Or worse, if some admiral in the Force decides to mutiny and go adventuring for his own profit.” There was a grim look on his father-in-law’s face now.

“Do the Terranan know that?”

“Some of them certainly do. There are people within the Federation who have likely given as much thought to this, over the years, as I have. The problem is, however, these people have no power and do not make policy. It’s probably the nightmare of the General Staff, that some planet will manage to get hold of enough armaments to be a threat to Terran security. There have been a few rebellions in the last fifteen years, planets where the populace revolted, or the governor went off on his own hook. They have been put down with force, but with enough restraint to keep things from getting completely out of hand. Again, it was the function of the Senate to keep things from getting to that point, to restrain the Premier and the General Staff from making overt war on too many worlds. But I think you must talk to Herm since his information is more recent than mine.”

“I suppose I must. I just don’t feel as if I am ready. Everyone has been telling me for years how powerful I am because of this accursed ring,” he said, making a fist of his gloved hand. “But I do not feel powerful. I don’t have Regis’ charm or cunning, nor his experience, although I have tried to learn all I could.”

“You will do very well, Mikhail. Regis believed that, and I do as well.”

“I am glad I will have you to advise me, Lew, and Herm as well. And I am even more glad I do not have the Aldaran Gift because I think that if I could foresee the future, I would be too frightened to do anything at all. I would give a great deal to have some of my youthful certainty back again, instead of all these doubts.”

“If you did not have doubts, Mikhail, I would be very concerned.”

“That is an odd thing to say, even for you.” Lew was notorious in Comyn Castle for voicing outrageous opinions as if they were the merest commonplace.

“The man who is absolutely sure of himself is much more dangerous than the one who entertains uncertainty. Robert Kadarin was such a man, and so was old Dyan Ardais. They paid a great price for their pride and vanity, and nearly ruined this world in the process. You are a thoughtful man, and that is exactly what is needed at present.”

“Thank you for your confidence. It means a great deal to me, especially now.” He was too tired to think about the future any longer. It was too big and very frightening. He need to change the subject, talk about more mundane matters. “You said Herm brought his family? Have you met them yet? Have they been seen to properly?”

“I stopped in and greeted them before I came to you. Since I did not feel I could leave the Castle myself, I let Rafael do the welcoming, which I think he was glad to do, since it got him out of Gisela’s clutches for a short time. The wife, Katherine, is a very lovely woman from Renney, with hair like night and a forceful chin. She has a son, Amaury, from her first marriage—she was a widow—and she and Herm have a daughter, Terése, as well. A pretty child, and so like Marguerida at the same age that it nearly made my heart turn over in my chest. They are all exhausted and I suspect that Katherine and the children are more than a little frightened at the prospect of being exiled on Darkover for the rest of their lives. Herm, however, seems very glad to be home—and I can certainly understand why!”

“Rennet? Why does that planet sound familiar?”

“Because one of Marguerida’s favorite composers, Korniel, was born there, long ago. It is another Protected Planet, and has a history of uprisings and rebellions, and a strong movement, called the Separatists, which caused trouble from time to time, while I was still in the Senate. It was settled by colonists from Avalon, New Caledonia, and some other places, several hundred years ago. That exhausts my entire knowledge of the place, except that I understand it is very beautiful.”

“I must make them feel welcome.” Regis would have wanted him to greet them, he was sure. Besides, he hadn’t seen Herm in years, and wanted to reacquaint himself with the fellow. Mikhail was disgusted to realize that, for all the will in the world, he could not even attempt this small courtesy.

Lew shook his head. “The first thing you should do is bathe and get some sleep, and perhaps a decent meal. Marguerida has arranged for their needs, and she is planning a small supper for them tomorrow night. Until then, you do not have to do anything except rest. Comyn Castle will run just fine without your attentions for a day or two. The world has not ended with Regis’ death.”

“Maybe not, but why does it feel as if it has?”

There were tears in both men’s eyes as they rose from either side of the desk. Lew blew out the candles and damped down the fire. They stood, shoulder to shoulder for a moment, united in their desire to guide their world through the difficult times that lay ahead, and then Donal opened the door and they left the room.

4

Lyle Belfontaine, Station Chief at Cottman IV’s HQ, leaned back in his rigid and uncomfortable chair and stared west through his large window, toward the afternoon sun, which was almost hidden behind some watery clouds. It would rain soon, or perhaps a little snow would fall. From his office he could see all the plain, square buildings that made up the headquarters complex—the power generator, the barracks, the hospital, and the rest. It was a good view, in his opinion, because from here he could see nothing of the native “city” of Thendara itself. This suited him very well. He loathed the city, its inhabitants, and, in particular, Regis Hastur and all the other recalcitrant lords of the Domains. Nothing he had done in the years he had been exiled to this godforsaken place had made any more impact on them than a gnat, and he hated being ignored.

After several minutes spent in futile musing, Belfontaine turned around and leaned forward to pick up the skimpy sheet of messagefax that lay on his otherwise empty desk blotter. He read it again, in utter dismay and disbelief. He shifted miserably, for the chair had been constructed for a taller man than he, and was bolted to the floor. He had requisitioned a new one several times, but it never had come. The chair seemed symptomatic of everything he thought wrong with the Federation at present—it was too rigid, and the wrong size.

His features twisted with discontent, and the scar he had gotten in the disastrous mess on Lein III itched across his cheek and brow. Belfontaine could have had it removed, but he had chosen not to. He believed it made him look dangerous and commanded respect. And it was a reminder of his fall from the good graces of the Federation, his removal to this benighted planet with its miserable climate, and his complete failure to execute the plans that had danced in his mind before he arrived. He had been determined to do what no one else had managed—deliver Cottman IV to the Federation on a platter. But thus far he had not succeeded, or come even close. If only he was not forced to act through underlings, and work with stupid, obstinate people like Lew Alton. At least he had gotten rid of Captain Rafe Scott—forced him to retire. Let him run his mountaineering expeditions to the Hellers—he hoped he’d break his arrogant neck or freeze to death. In fact, if the entire population turned to icicles, he would be very pleased. The place was marginal at best, but if there were no native people, then the planet could be colonized, and he could be made Governor-General, at least.

Now everything he had hoped for was ruined! The entire Federation staff was being ordered off Cottman, in only thirty days. He shook his head, ran nervous fingers through graying hair, then crunched up the missive and tossed it toward the disposal chute. It missed, falling short and dropping to the floor. The crumpled message lay there, mocking him. His chance to redeem himself, to get back in favor, was slipping away, all because of Premier Nagy and her ruthless ambition! Maybe it was a mistake. This was not the time for the Federation to pull back!

He only needed another year—two at most—and the title of Governor-General would surely be his. Not, of course, that this was what he wanted. Being governor of a place like Cottman IV would not satisfy his ambitions, but it would have been a beginning. He was sure he could have parlayed it into a better position, one on a planet where he could wield real power and influence. Cottman was as worthless a piece of rock as he had ever seen.

God, how he hated the planet. Sometimes he dreamed of calling in a Strike Force, to slag the whole place down to radioactive magma, boiling away into the void. It seemed such a suitable fate for a damned cold place, where the filthy natives believed that Hell was a freezer. It was only a fantasy, and a wasteful one at that, but the idea kept him from going crazy. Or, failing that, Belfontaine longed for a Task Force, at least. He had done his best to create a situation to justify such an order, so he could at least get a couple of regiments of Marines to “preserve order.” That had worked very well on other worlds, even on members of the Federation itself. But the damned Protected status tied his hands, and unless he could demonstrate that the spaceport was in danger, or Headquarters was besieged by hostiles, it was pointless to request help. All he got was form refusals from some clerk on Alpha, telling him that the present economic problems made it impossible to fulfill his demands. He doubted anyone in charge even saw the reports he was at such pains to generate.

He was surrounded with incompetents! He had agents—true, not many, and not the best that the Security Services had to offer—and he had sent them out to make just the sort of trouble that should have brought him the power he wanted. They had failed him, for the riots he had managed to get started had ceased almost as quickly as they were begun, and Regis Hastur had never applied to him for help. He had used his own Guards, and kept order in a way that won him Belfontaine’s grudging respect, or would have if he had not hated the fellow quite so deeply. He had never met Hastur, and knew of him only through the eerie Danilo Syrtis-Ardais or that damned Lew Alton, who had been appointed to a position that seemed to be the equivalent of Secretary of State, except that Cottman IV didn’t use titles like that. He loathed the tall, one-handed man, and tried to avoid meeting with him whenever possible. There was something uncanny, almost unnatural, about him, something that set his nerves on edge. Alton was a wall that Belfontaine had never managed to get past.

He toyed once again with the idea of sending in a false report. His personal clerk was stupid and obedient, chosen for these qualities, actually, and would not question his orders. She likely would not even read the message, but would only type in the code. Belfontaine shuddered a little. That was exactly what had gotten him sent to Cottman in the first place, with a reduction in rank from Lieutenant General to Colonel, and a black mark on his record. His punishment was this backward, frozen hell where the populace never saw newsfeeds, and could not be influenced except by word of mouth. And Cottman had proved quite resistant to the rumors his agents had tried to spread—almost as if they knew the falseness of them.

Belfontaine’s single attempt to get around the technology restrictions directly had been a complete failure. He had installed mediafeeds in a few of the taverns in the Trade City—even though this was a direct violation of several agreements—and they had been dismantled within a day. It had been a costly mistake, and he was sure that Alton was at the bottom of it. If only he could have had direct access to Regis Hastur, he was sure he could have persuaded the man of the advantages of media screens, which would have easily led to electrification of the city of Thendara, and given the Federation a grip on the attention of the people. But despite many requests, Belfontaine had never been invited to Comyn Castle, and Regis Hastur could have been an imaginary person for all the contact he had had with the man. In a fit of spite, he had put the Medical Center off limits to any except Federation personnel, thinking that the natives would be loath to forgo the conveniences of the place. He’d shut down the John Reade Orphanage as well. That hadn’t worked out either. They were so stupid that they didn’t care about Terran medical technology and they took care of any abandoned children themselves! They didn’t even use Life Extension treatments—except that old fool up in the Hellers, Damon Aldaran—and got old and died!

This, among many other things, offended him. He intended to live for at least a hundred and fifty years—longer if possible. Hell, he’d sell his soul for immortality, if he still believed in souls or gods or any of that other claptrap. But if he did not find some way to get Cottman in his hands before the deadline, some means to destabilize the government, such as it was, he was going to find himself on another backwater world, and never have the money needed to afford the treatments at all. He was close to sixty, after thirty years in various arms of Federation Service, and he would need treatment soon. But the price had risen enormously during the past decade, which he found peculiar. Coming from a corporate family, he had a grasp of basic economics, and knew that the LE treatments should have become cheaper with the passing of time, not more expensive. Someone was clearly making a huge profit on the process. Belfontaine Industries had nothing to do with pharmaceuticals, so he could only speculate in fury.

He had been told, in a burning interview with his father, that he lacked the sort of mind that was needed for the vast empire that was Belfontaine Industries. Otherwise, he would not have been on Cottman IV, but would instead have been dragging the molten guts out of some planet, like his brother Gustav was, producing the raw materials for the Big Ships and the dreadnoughts the Federation was busily creating.

He would never forget the day his father had told him there was no place for him in BI, that the corporate psychprobes had determined he was unsuitable for any position in the company. At least he had not suffered the unspeakable insult of a plant managership. Vividly he remembered standing in front of the huge desk behind which his father was buttressed, waiting to be told he would be appointed to the Federation legislature from one of the many planets that the corporation owned. That was the usual path for those who did not go into the company.

But apparently he was not suited for that either. He could still feel the shock at his father’s words, the roughening of his skin and the shrinking of his testicles. “We can’t do a thing for you, Lyle. And we certainly won’t support you—no wastrels in this family. I think your only option is Federation Service—not the military side, obviously—too many possibilities for conflicts of interest that might embarrass the company. Belfontaine Industries has to come first, of course. I know you’ll understand. But there should be something you can find, some post or other. That’s all—I have a holoconference in thirty seconds.”

Numb, he had taken his dismissal without a word, and walked out of the office. Federation Service! That was for people who couldn’t succeed anywhere else—who were incompetent. He had been raised to regard the Service with contempt, and now he was being ordered to apply for it. He longed to turn around and go back, to smash Augustine Belfontaine’s smooth, life-extended features into a pulp. But his father was tall and strong, and Lyle was not. He had never seen the man again, and had tried to assuage his injured feelings with plots to make them all sorry for treating him so badly.

Oddly, the Service had actually suited him rather well, after he got over his initial humiliation. He discovered he had a certain skill for administration—so much for the value of the psychprobes. He had risen rapidly through the ranks, until he made his stupid mistake on Lein III. He never should have tried to unseat a planetary ruler, especially not with explosives that could be traced to his offices. And the false reports he had sent to Alpha had been revealed for the fabrications that they were. He had been lucky to get Cottman IV. If he had been less well-connected, he might have ended up running a penal colony, or worse, inhabiting one.

He was smarter now, and with his background in Information Technologies and Propaganda, he knew what he could have done on Cottman with even one media screen and the right sort of entertainment. He could have had the occupants of Thendara in a fury in less than a month, he was certain, and probably ready to storm Comyn Castle with pitchforks and truncheons. He had switched over to the security arm that administered outposts like this, after the incident on Lein III, and found it much to his liking. True, he had never used a weapon, although occasionally he fantasized about what he might do with a blaster. He would have liked to flame his father, still running Belfontaine Industries in his nineties, and Lew Alton, and a few other people. But he despised soldiers almost as much as he loathed hereditary rulers like Regis Hastur. They were just disposable men and women, like the workers in the factories of Belfontaine Industries. And he was aware, in moments of rare self-examination, that there was some flaw in this attitude, and occasionally wondered if the corporate psychprobes had known this about him, and that was why he had been denied his rightful place in the company.

But it was not his fault! It was people like Lewis Alton, who wanted to preserve their own power, who were keeping the Federation from achieving its destiny, to rule all the planets with an iron hand. That was just how things were supposed to be. But no—they insisted that their own customs suited them just fine, and they could not see that they were only delaying the inevitable. How could one small, backward planet stand up to the Terrans, in the long run? And he, Lyle Belfontaine, wanted to be the man who destroyed Cottman’s Protected status and brought them into the Federation, where their rightful masters would make them toe the line!

It troubled him deeply that they had managed to resist thus far, for it flew in the face of what little he really believed in. These were simple things—duty, loyalty and obedience—and beyond that, Belfontaine knew that the destiny of the Federation was to control completely the lives of several trillion people spread over hundreds of planets. Anything less was unacceptable and virtually unthinkable. The Federation was the best structure to keep things running smoothly and efficiently, which to him meant that the huge corporations, like Belfontaine Industries, could do as they wished, to survive and show a profit. He had learned that almost as soon as he could walk, and nothing had ever dislodged the idea from his mind.

He was aware that sometimes this caused pain and suffering. But, in the larger view, it did not matter to him if a few million backward, ignorant people starved to feed those trillions on more developed and enlightened planets. People were a disposable commodity, after all. Not, he felt, people like himself, who were born to make important decisions and shape the future. It was the farmers and merchants and soldiers—the faceless masses—who were unimportant. Even local bigwigs like Regis Hastur were disposable. If he could just get rid of that self-important little man, he could probably take out the rest of them pretty easily.

Lyle sighed. As delightful as the idea of placing an explosive device under Comyn Castle and blowing it into well-deserved smithereens was, he knew better than to attempt it. Even in its present state of disarray, the Federation was not so disordered that questions would not be asked, a Board of Inquiry seated, and probably disgrace to follow, if such an event took place. It would be impossible to blame the thing on the locals themselves—their technology was not up to the job. No one would believe that one of the natives had gotten into HQ, stolen a shaped charge and timer, and gained the knowledge to use it properly. There were a couple of them, like Captain Rafael Scott, who had had a free run of HQ for decades before he resigned, who might, but even he could not imagine anyone believing that Scott would do such a thing. He had taken that route once, and learned his lesson. There had to be another way. He just hadn’t thought of it yet.

The chime on the door rang softly, and he looked up, annoyed by the interruption. “Enter,” he snapped.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, leathers gleaming. He came in with an easy grace that Belfontaine envied, and his six foot frame never failed to remind him of how short he himself was. It was Miles Granfell, his second in Information, and his principal agent in fomenting discord on Cottman. He was shrewd and capable, but rather too ambitious for comfort, and Lyle did not entirely trust him. Still, he managed to smile brightly for the sake of appearances.

“So, what is going on?” Granfell was never one for chitchat and pleasantries, a trait that Belfontaine appreciated. It was a waste of time to ask how one was. And, very likely, he already knew the contents of the crumpled official communication, but wanted to pretend to ignorance for his own reasons.

“Unless we can convince Hastur to come into the Federation as a full member, we have thirty days to pull out of here.”

“Is it worth trying?”

“I don’t think so, but I will summon Lewis Alton tomorrow or the next day and give it one last attempt. I wish I could get to Hastur directly, but that seems to be impossible. And since the Federation is tied up with other problems, we can’t get much support right now.”

“Tied up?”

“It seems that the dissolution of the legislature has not been received well, and some of the member worlds are showing signs of revolt. This whole thing was ill-planned, and I can’t help wonder if Premier Nagy knows what she is doing. That’s what comes of putting a woman in charge! They are far too emotional for the job of governing.”

Granfell nodded. “If only we had been able to get a new lease on the port lands before this happened, our position here would be much better.”

“Well, we didn’t. And this iceball is hardly worth the effort. They have never really traded with the Federation, and Hastur’s resistance to accepting our technologies has not helped a bit. If someone else were in control of their Council—someone more in tune with the Federation—we might have a chance. But not this way.” That fool, Damon Aldaran, had made a lot of vague promises, but so far he had failed to deliver on them, and now he would never have the chance. Belfontaine had never really believed the old drunk anyhow.

“The problem is not that these stupid people are anti-Federation, Belfontaine, but that they insist on being pro-Cottman. They don’t give a damn about other planets, except for a few individuals, and even those still seem to love this place. I’ve been here ten years, and I have never, understood the attraction. It is hellishly cold and its people are backward—most of them can’t even read! Hardly worth the effort, in my opinion, except that it sets a bad precedent to allow any inhabited planet to be outside the control of the Federation.”

Belfontaine chuckled. “Cottman is hardly going to start building Big Ships—they don’t have the resources—and challenging us. But I hate to withdraw. It feels like a failure, and I hate that.”

“You said something about some of the other worlds rebelling.”

“It has not come to that—yet. And frankly, I can’t get much out of the head office.” Odd, how the language of his corporate upbringing lingered in his speech. “But I think that there is a very real chance that a few admirals are looking at this as an opportunity to set themselves up in power, to oppose the Federation now that things are in transition. And I have managed to find out that there are huge riots on some of the worlds with Liberal representation. It won’t be long before that is put down, of course, but it is troubling. We might find ourselves lifting off with nowhere to go.”

“Or worse—we might not be able to leave. Have you thought of that?”

“What do you mean, Miles?” He studied the larger man suspiciously, wondering if Granfell knew something that he did not. Was it possible that Granfell had his own sources of information within HQ, or worse, some contact outside that he did not know of? The idea made him uneasy, but it bore thinking about.

“If the Federation Security Forces are busy putting down riots and rebellions, they might not be able to send ships to lift us off. We could be abandoned here for several years.” Granfell spoke simply, as if the notion were a familiar one to him.

Lyle stared at the other man, aghast. He had not even considered that scenario. And it was not impossible either. In the recent past, the Federation had shown itself willing to withdraw from a few marginal planets when it could not get its way by any other means. The idea of having to remain on Cottman was distasteful, and the other was even worse. He could find himself sacrificed—unthinkable as it was! There must be some way to turn it to his advantage.

If the Federation left them behind, what would he do? He knew the answer to that almost before the thought formed in his mind. He would take out Cottman’s ruling families in short order, and declare himself Governor. Without the fear of a Board of Inquiry, he could do as he pleased. It was so tempting that he almost wished, for just a moment, to be abandoned. Not that Cottman was any prize, but he could endure that—if he had the power to run things as he wished.

Granfell was looking at him oddly, so Belfontaine schooled his narrow face to look concerned, knowing well that sometimes his avidity betrayed him. “I doubt it will come to that.”

“Did you know that Hermes Aldaran returned and got through customs sometime yesterday?”

“Yes, I heard about it. What does that matter?”

“Don’t you think it is a little odd, him returning just now? I mean, he left Terra before the announcement was made.”

Belfontaine shrugged. “He was probably lucky, that’s all. If he came through the port now, we could arrest him. But it’s too late. And the port is closed until we leave, so that’s that.” The germ of an idea began to play in the back of his mind, but Granfell’s words sent it flying.

“If we can leave. I would not put too much dependence on the Federation at the moment, myself. I was on Comus during the evac, Lyle, and it is not a pleasant memory. Just keep in mind that you and I are disposable, unless we can think of some way to turn this situation around.”

Lyle gaped at him for a second. Granfell might think himself disposable, but he refused to! Then he recovered his composure. “Do you have something specific in mind, or are you just being wishful?”

“Nothing yet, but I have been listening in the streets, and so have my agents. Something is going on. Damn. Do you know, I think that Comyn Castle is probably the only seat of government in the galaxy where we don’t have eyes and ears. We’ve tried everything, but the people are either too stupid to be bribed, or too loyal to the Comyn. I’ll try to find out more. We have a month, after all, and a lot can happen in that time.”

“A pity we can’t just take out . . .”

“I know. But there are no more than three hundred Marines on the whole damn planet, and even with our superior armament, that is not enough.”

“True. Perhaps I’ll see if I can get some reinforcements.” He knew it was a vain hope.

“You do that, and I’ll try to contact Vancof. It’s a shame that our efforts to cause a rebellion have been so spectacularly unsuccessful, isn’t it?”

“It is hard to make people who think they are content unhappy, Miles. And, frankly, these people are just too ignorant to know how much better off they would be with good technology. I thought I would bring them to their knees when I put the Medical Center off limits, but it did not work. They just don’t know enough to care.”

“Incredible, isn’t it? Half of them are illiterate, have never seen a vidram, and they look down on us as if we were . . . barbarians, I suppose.”

“Arrogant bastards! I want to bring them down!” His control left him suddenly, and his fist crashed down on the desk, startling both Belfontaine and his companion. “They don’t know what is good for them!”

“True enough,” Granfell replied mildly, as if he were amused at his superior’s outburst. “But I am not ready to try storming Comyn Castle with the men I have at my disposal—not until I have exhausted all the other possibilities. I am going to make another try to get someone into the place—not that I have much hope of succeeding. The pile appears to be entry-proof. Sometimes I think that old rumor about there being mindreaders on Cottman has more truth in it than we have believed.”

He glared at Granfell for several seconds. Where had he gotten the idea that he had the right to storm the castle? Was his second pursuing his own ambitions, or trying to usurp his authority? No, he must just be speaking generally. Unless he was up to some scheme of his own. That was a disquieting thought, much worse than imaginary telepaths or magicians.

Belfontaine shook his head, suppressing a shudder. “That is impossible. Project Telepath was a complete bust, and a waste of money. Oh, yes, there are a few mutants around, but nothing to worry about. I just think that, for primitives, the Cottman have excellent security.” He smiled grimly, knowing that it infuriated Granfell that he had never been able to penetrate the castle. Still, he could not shake off the way Miles had spoken, as if he were in command of the Marines, not Belfontaine. He would have to keep an eye on Granfell during the coming weeks—the man was too ambitious and too clever.

“We’ll see. Dirck Vancof has been almost useless, but maybe he can get us the information we need. I’ll talk to you later.”

After Granfell left, Lyle sat at the desk, staring at the empty blotter, and feeling a churning in his guts. The idea that had come into his mind returned after a few minutes, and he turned it over. Hermes Aldaran could now be considered an enemy of the Federation. Could he use that as an excuse to force Hastur to do something rash, and then bring in a Task Force?

It was unfortunate that Lew Alton knew Federation law as well as he did, but it would not hurt to demand that Aldaran be turned over, would it? It Might upset old Lord Aldaran, but he had already proved himself to be a useless ally. His son Robert, the older one, was no better. A dull fellow without an ounce of imagination. There was the sister, who lived in Comyn Castle, but she hadn’t been nearly as useful as he had hoped at first. Besides, women were not to be trusted. There had to be a way to topple the Hasturs—he just needed to find it!

5

When Mikhail escorted Marguerida and his children into the smaller dining room the following evening, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that he felt almost human. There was an ache in him that was not physical, which he recognized as grief. He had experienced it long ago, when his nephew Domenic Alar had died, and later again over Emun Elhalyn and Emun’s mother, Priscilla. He had felt it again ten years before when Diotima Ridenow, Lew’s wife, had died. Neither rest nor food would banish it, only time. And Regis would have expected him to go on, to keep things going smoothly. He only wished it were easier.

At the same time, he was looking forward to seeing Hermes Aldaran again, after so many years, and to meeting his wife and children. Lew had been right to send him to bed the previous day, and to insist on keeping him secluded for a time, but he still felt a bit guilty that he had not gone to the old Storn suite and greeted them personally. He had seen no one except his wife and children, and that had been hard enough.

Domenic, his firstborn and heir, seemed deeply affected, and somehow angry. That was puzzling, but he did not have the energy to puzzle it out right now. He knew better than to ask Nico, who had been a very quiet child, and was now an extremely private young man. Rory, his second child, insisted on making really dreadful jokes, as if he could not bear the general gloom that had settled over Comyn Castle. He had managed to annoy everyone, provoking his sister Yllana, his foster-sister Alanna, and Ida Davidson, who was usually impervious to the behavior of adolescents. Even Marguerida, who ordinarily found Rory’s antics amusing, was ready, she said, to send the thirteen-year-old to Nevarsin, where the cristoforo monks would teach him some manners. Rory just grinned, completely unafraid of this threat, as he was of almost anything. It was a shame he was not quite old enough for the Cadet Guards yet, because even Mikhail admitted his middle child was sorely lacking in discipline.

Alanna Alar was already present in the dining room, her auburn hair burnished like pure copper, her green eyes taking in everything. She had been a fretful baby, an anxious child, and now had bloomed into a vigilant and restless adolescent. He glanced at her, standing on the far side of the room and gave her a smile. To his pleasure, she returned it. Mikhail was fond of her, but he had to admit he found his niece rather eerie. He was relieved to see her in a good mood. Yllana had been completely disconsolate at Regis’ death, but Alanna behaved with something closer to indifference, which was peculiar, since she had been close to her great-uncle. He suspected that she was numb with shock, and that when this condition finally wore off, she would make up for her present calm with a double helping of the hysteria for which she was well known in Comyn Castle. There seemed, to his mind, little question that she had inherited some of the instability that blighted so many of the Elhalyn line, and he could only be grateful that she seemed merely high-strung, instead of clearly mad, as some of her cousins had been. And time might cure that. Mikhail hoped so, for he was genuinely fond of the girl.

She really was a beautiful young woman, and aware of it as well. She had just completed the first part of her training at Arilinn, where her powerful and remarkable laran was being disciplined, he sincerely hoped, into something manageable. She was already both a teleport and a firestarter, a combination that was potentially deadly, and one which was so rare that it was difficult to limit. She had a hot temper, as well, which made her extremely dangerous. He worried more about his niece than he ever did about his own children, for her quicksilver disposition reminded him rather too much of some of the Elhalyn children, Vincent in particular. She had some of the same egotism, but none of the bullying tendencies of that now deceased man.

Mikhail watched Nico smile at Alanna, brightening as he always did around his difficult cousin and foster-sister. Eight months separated them in age, and she had lived in Comyn Castle since she was five. They were, together, more like twins than otherwise, and had an uncanny ability to either cheer one another up, or send each other into foul moods that no one else could understand. Tonight she seemed to be on her best behavior, despite the general air of sorrow that was everywhere. He thanked the gods for that favor, and turned toward the doorway of the dining room.

Herm and his family came into the room, and Mikhail put everything else out of his mind. Behind him, Donal came to attention, alert in every muscle, examining the newcomers with a very jaundiced eye, much too suspicious for such a young man. Mikhail held back a sigh, for like himself, Donal had never really had a childhood. He knew he had made the right decision for himself, taking his young relative for paxman, but he was not as sure that he had made the best choice for Donal.

Mikhail studied Hermes Aldaran, trying to fit the image of the man before him with his memories of a much younger person he had known briefly over twenty years before. He had much less hair on the top of his head, and a softness above his belt that spoke of little physical activity. There were interesting wrinkles around his eyes, and the mouth almost hidden in his curling beard was generous, made for laughter. But there was no merriment in his face now, just a sort of tension, as if he were uncertain of his welcome.

Beside him stood a very attractive woman, with black hair and, as Lew had mentioned, a square and stubborn jaw. Two children stood next to her. The boy, who looked about thirteen, had gray eyes that went immediately to Alanna with interest and admiration, and the girl, who might be nine or ten, seemed a little bashful in the presence of so many strangers. Lew was right—the girl looked like an Aldaran and could have easily been mistaken for a child of either Marguerida’s or Gisela’s.

They were dressed in Federation garb, which looked outré and exotic to Mikhail. The girl, Terése, wore a brief skirt of some shiny stuff, and her still gawky limbs were covered in stockings of a woven material with a vivid pattern in it. Her mother wore a close-fitting gown of dark red velvet, cut low over the shoulders, and clinging across her bosom. The lower portion of the dress dropped from knee length in the front to floor length at the back, showing off elegant calves and feet clad in shiny shoes. Her obviously long black hair was elaborately braided and coiled behind her head, decently concealing her nape, and long metal earrings dangled beside her graceful throat. Herm and the boy wore jackets that ended abruptly at the waist, over pleated shirts and narrow trousers that looked rather uncomfortable to Mikhail. All in all, it was a bizarre presentation, and he had to school himself not to stare at Katherine’s legs.

Katherine glanced at Marguerida, then at Alanna and Yllana. Her face clouded with dismay for a moment, and when he saw Gisela and his brother Rafael come through the door behind her, he realized that his ever mischievous sister-in-law had been up to one of her tricks. She had probably told Katherine to wear these clothes. Still, as he watched, he saw the woman’s face become composed, her spine stiffening a little in the lovely but unsuitable gown. She had been a Senator’s wife for over a decade now, and could probably handle herself in situations he could not even imagine.

Oh, dear—she is upset, Mik.

Anyone can see that, caria.

Gisela offered to look after her, and I just assumed she would tell Katherine what sort of dress was appropriate. I was so tired that 1 could not think straight! I know it doesn’t matter to you, but we women take these matters very seriously. Damn!!

My darling optimist! After all these years, you should know better than to trust Giz. Katherine has very nice legs, don’t you think?

Should I be jealous?

Never, my dearest, never.

Herm cleared his throat. “Hello, Mikhail. It has been a long time, hasn’t it? I would like to present my wife, Katherine Korniel Aldaran, and our children, Amaury and Terése.”

“Welcome to Comyn Castle. I only wish your arrival had been a little less hectic, and I apologize for not coming to meet you earlier. I was sent to bed, frankly, although thankfully not without my supper.” Mikhail exerted himself to be friendly, hoping to ease the awkwardness away.

“Korniel? Are you by chance related to the composer of that name?” Marguerida wondered.

“He was my great-uncle,” Katherine answered.

Marguerida repressed her lively interest, her eyes almost sparkling, and stepped forward with both her mitted hands outstretched in greeting. “Where are my manners! How are you, after your long journey?” She paused for a moment, waited for Herm to speak, then when he did not, went on. “Domna Katherine, this is my husband, Mikhail Hastur, and my children, Domenic, Rory, and Yllana. Yllana, why don’t you take Terése and get her a glass of berry juice? Or watered wine, if you do not mind, Katherine?”

“I think a little watered wine would not be a bad thing—not too much, Terése,” Katherine answered in a deep alto voice that was heavy with tension.

Over her shoulder, Mikhail could read the faint disappointment in Gisela’s expression. She was plumper now than when she had been a girl, her waist thickened with child-bearing as Marguerida’s had failed to do, and her face had lost some of its earlier winsomeness. He gave her a stern look, and she had the grace to redden a little. Katherine caught his expression, and her eyes widened in surprise, apparently thinking he was glaring at her. Then she looked quickly over her shoulder, saw Gisela’s blush, and turned back toward him with a splendid smile.

Yllana’s pale blue eyes twinkled, and she gave the other girl a quick grin. Terése answered with a relieved smile, as if she were very glad to remove herself from the orbit of her parents, and to be in the company of someone her own age. The two girls slipped across the room as if they had known each other for days instead of moments, and Mikhail sensed that Yllana was pleased to be out of earshot of any adults.

Roderick made a decent bow in front of Katherine, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, Amaury—the grown-ups don’t need us underfoot. Nico and I will be glad to answer your questions, and I’ll wager you have a lot of them.”

Amaury glanced at his parents, then started to follow Rory toward the fireplace. “I have one—who is that girl watching us from over there?” Mikhail heard him ask.

“Oh, that’s just Alanna,” Roderick replied. “She is our cousin and our foster-sister.” Then he passed out of earshot, and Mikhail glanced over his shoulder at his foster-daughter. She should have been beside them, to be introduced. Oh, well, the children would make their own way. Then Mikhail turned back to Herm and Katherine. There was an awkward silence for a moment.

“Have you begun to recover from your journey?” Mikhail asked.

“We have caught up on our sleep, and enjoyed eating real food.” Katherine spoke in casta easily, but her accent was unfamiliar. She rounded the vowel sounds more than was normal, and in her mouth, the language sounded unusually musical. “We offer our condolences, Dom Mikhail, on the death of your uncle.”

“Thank you, domna. It has been a great shock and a terrible loss for all of us.” He paused, feeling this formal response was a bit cold. “I cannot really believe it, yet. It all seems like a nightmare from which I cannot manage to awaken.”

“Of course it is! If I understand what Gisela told me, there was no warning, no signs of illness or anything.”

“Nothing whatever,” he answered, moved by her immediate understanding.

“That makes it all the harder to bear.”

A silence fell heavily among the four of them then, as if no one could think of what to say. Finally Marguerida stepped into the breach. “I am sorry that that I could not greet you upon your arrival, but things are in such a state. And I am sincerely happy that you are here, and hope that you find Darkover to your liking.” She paused and the shadow of a smile graced her lips. “It might take some getting used to for you,” she continued, as a servant appeared with a tray of wineglasses. She took one and offered it to Katherine, who gave her a speculative look, as if she suspected there might be some hidden meaning in the last words. Donal picked one up and handed it to Mikhail. Herm helped himself, looking more at ease now. “I can remember my own difficulties, when I came back sixteen years ago,” she added, smiling and shaking her head at the vivid memories at the same time.

Gisela and Rafael moved forward, and from the petulant expression on her face, Mikhail suspected that his brother was giving her a telepathic lecture that she was not enjoying. He had a stab of guilt, that Rafael had ended up with this difficult woman, but he knew that his steady, older sibling genuinely cared for her. At the same time, he was sincerely glad he had not been shackled to Gisela, because he was certain he would have strangled her long since. He could only admire his brother’s patience in silence, resisting any impulse to eavesdrop even a little.

“Herm tried to explain things to me,” Katherine was saying to Marguerida, “and so did Gisela, but I still feel quite disoriented.” She gave Herm a stern look, then favored Gisela with one that was openly hostile.

Mikhail could just imagine what sort of nonsense Giz had offered, and admired Katherine’s firm control on her temper. “My husband has been keeping secrets from me for years, and I am only now discovering them.” She moved restlessly and brushed her free hand across her brow, as if she was afraid of something.

“I have tried to reassure her that her thoughts are safe, but Katherine is a very stubborn woman,” Herm commented dryly. “She will probably forgive me in a few decades.”

Marguerida nodded and gave a soft laugh. “If you are fortunate, Dom Hermes. Domna, trust me. No one is going to invade your privacy.” She’s very frightened, Mik, but I must say she is concealing at very well.

“Would I know if they did?” Katherine asked with candor. Mikhail could sense her heart beating a little faster, and felt his liking for the woman increase further.

“No, you would not,” Marguerida admitted calmly. “And your uppermost thoughts are audible to me, if I focus my attention on you. Still, you are worrying yourself for no good reason. Darkovans are most scrupulous in these matters.”

“I suppose they must be, or else everyone would be quite mad.” Katherine sighed and drank off half her glass with a nervous gesture. “I will be all right as soon as I can get back to work.”

“Work?” Mikhail looked at her, watching the wine begin to ease her discomfort.

“Katherine is a very fine painter, and she left much of her clothing behind so she could bring along her paints and brushes.” Herm smiled fondly at his wife. “I met her when she was doing a portrait.” Damn Gisela for setting us wrong—I should have known she was up to something. I don’t care ahout my clothing, but I think my Kate will take my sister’s eyes out the first chance she gets. I had almost forgotten how spiteful she could be, for no good reason.

“An artist. How wonderful. Then we must give you a room in which to work,” Marguerida insisted. “Let me think. Ah, yes. There is a pleasant chamber on the second floor, with decent north light. It is very quiet, so you will not be disturbed. Will you need an easel? I don’t suppose you brought one, what with the restrictions on baggage.”

“You are right—I didn’t.” Katherine looked at Marguerida with relief. “Herm did not tell me what was going on—he could not have risked it, really—just told me to pack, and we were at the spaceport before I knew what was happening. It is a very good thing I trust my husband, for if I had not, we would probably not be here now. But it was very . . . unsettling.”

“I am sure it was,” Marguerida said with sympathy. Better than anyone in the room, she knew what it meant to be uprooted, to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night without explanation. Her memories of the Sharra Rebellion were vague, for she had only been a child at the time, but they remained disturbing, even after so many years.

She set aside these thoughts firmly and concentrated on making Katherine feel more comfortable. “We must have an easel built for you immediately. The Castle carpenters can probably manage that in a day, although they will complain that they have been rushed and that it is not a good job, that the wood is not of the proper sort, then stand around and mutter darkly. They will tell you that it would have been better if they had had oak, but that only pine was available, most likely.”

Katherine laughed at last. “I know. Craftsmen are such perfectionists. I don’t suppose I can get any canvases?”

“We have canvas, but it is not of a quality for painting, only for making awnings and tents. Can you manage with board? Wood we have in plenty, and our painters here use panels of it.”

“Perhaps Master Gilhooly can provide some,” Mikhail offered. “He is head of the Painters Guild, which I confess is a very small company. They can probably supply you with panels and anything else you need, including pigments.”

“That would be wonderful, since my supplies are limited, and it does not seem that I am going to be able to get more when these are exhausted. I confess that I am very spoiled, since all I needed to do was sit down at the console of my computer and order what I needed, and it would be delivered in a few hours.” I cannot believe I am standing here discussing paints with these complete strangers, as if nothing were more important. Why is Mikhail wearing a glove indoors—maybe his hand is scarred or something? And Marguerida has mitts, but Gisela does not. It is not cold in here, but perhaps she has poor circulation. Will I ever understand these people? It is all too confusing. I wish I were somewhere else!

“There are no computers here since that is a restricted technology, forbidden except to the people at HQ,” said Mikhail. “And we have nothing resembling a depot of art supplies on Darkover. The Painters Guild grinds and mixes their own colors, and the Brushmakers supply the tools. I believe the Woodworkers Guild is charged with creating the panels. And that entirely exhausts my store of knowledge on the matter.”

“Then you have never visited the Painters Guild yourself?” Katherine seemed surprised by his knowledge and then by his ignorance.

“No, I have not.” Mikhail shrugged his shoulders. Like Regis before him, he had been a virtual prisoner in Comyn Castle for years, except for a few trips to Arilinn, and one to Armida, ten years before. Now he would be even more restricted, he knew, and the prospect did not delight him. “I would know nothing at all, except that I was a very curious boy, and I absorbed tidbits whenever I could. I know who is head of the Guild, because it is part of my duty to know, but I have never actually met Master Gilhooly. I met his predecessor long ago, when he came to arrange for a portrait of Lady Linnea, and I asked him a great many questions, the answers to which have long since faded from memory.” Mikhail shook his head and laughed softly.

“I think we are about to sit down, Mikhail. Will you show Domna Katherine to her place.” And keep charming her, cario. It’s working. She is starting to relax a little, which should improve her digestion.

That will not be any burden. I like her. Do you?

Oh, yes. And it is taking all my discipline not to ask her more about Amedi Korniel right now. His official biography is rather dry and she probably never actually met him, but maybe she knows some family stories about him. But it gives us some common ground for further conversation.

It is good to hear you sounding excited, my dearest. These last few days have been so hard on you.

On both of us, Mikhail.

Mikhail offered Katherine his arm, and she took it cautiously, acutely aware of the young man just behind him, watching her suspiciously. Who was he, and why had no one introduced him? Katherine let herself be guided toward the table as her husband fell in beside Marguerida with conscious grace, as if this were no more than a state dinner of the sort they had attended hundreds of times before.

There was a quiet scraping of chairs, as everyone got settled. Mikhail saw Nico get Alanna seated, while Roderick helped Terése. Amaury, taking a cue from the boys, helped Yllana, and then sat between her and Alanna, casting an admiring glance at the Alar girl. Mikhail seated Katherine to his right, in the place of honor, while Marguerida did the same with Hermes.

Gisela started to take the place at Mikhail’s left, but just then Lew Alton appeared with Ida Davidson, the widow of Marguerida’s mentor, on his arm. He seated Ida next to Herm, then subtly shifted Gisela one place down, getting a very dirty look for his pains. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais trailed behind them, and took the empty place on Gisela’s other side. She did not look as if being buttressed by the two men pleased her, but she shrugged and seemed to choose to make the best of it. Mikhail observed her green eyes as they flashed toward the other side of the table, where Rafael was taking his place on Marguerida’s left, with the children ranged beside him.

The servants went around, filling glasses, and the soup course was brought. Except for the children, there was very little conversation around the table. Roderick was telling Herm’s daughter about his horse, and she was round-eyed. Horses were almost extinct in much of the Federation, and it was clear the girl had only seen one in the Menagerie.

Lew gave Mikhail a quick look, his eyes troubled. What is it, Lew?

I just received a most interesting message from Belfontaine—addressed to Regis, of course. Thus far I have managed to keep word of his death from getting to HQ, but I won’t be able to keep it from them for much longer.

Why bother, they’ll find out eventually?

Because I do not wish us to be perceived as being vulnerable, Mikhail. The Federation has a history of using events like Regis’ death to try to further their own interests. I am especially glad that Dani as here, and not at Elhalyn Castle. And Gareth Elhalyn showed up an hour ago, so he is safe, too.

I don’t understand.

It is not beyond imagination that they might kidnap him and try to have him put into power. They have done such things on other worlds. I believe that the situation in the Federation is too chaotic at present for anyone to attempt such a coup, but the sooner Domna Miralys and her daughter get here, the happier I wall be. Gareth is with his father and Lady Linnea for the evening. I am probably jumping at shadows, and giving Belfontaine more credit for imagination than he deserves.

So, what was in the message?

It was closer to a demand—he wants me to hand over Herm, as an enemy of the Federation. He made a few veiled threats about what would result if we did not, but since 1 know that the Federation is going to be leaving Darkover in the very near future, 1 don’t think he can really act on them.

Pull out? Did Belfontaine say that?

Hardly. That I learned in a note from Ethan MacDoevid just ten minutes ago—our intelligence as still better than Belfontaine’s! He seems to have charmed the information out of Belfontaine’s personal clerk, immediately before he was ordered out of Headquarters for good. He said he will come around tomorrow, and tell me everything he has managed to pick up. I praise the day Marguerida decided to send him to Rafe Scott, for he has been invaluable since Rafe was forced to retire, even though he has no laran and cannot eavesdrop that way. But it does mean we now have no one actually in HQ and any information we get will have to be acquired unscrupulously. There was a kind of merriment in this last remark, and Mikhail knew what his father-in-law meant.

Mikhail realized that Katherine was watching him intently, and that she must suspect something was being said that she could not hear. Her earlier discomfort had returned, and he cursed himself silently for letting his attention wander. She was an intelligent woman, and for all he knew, might be a Federation spy. No, he was being overcautious. She was just a woman in an unfamiliar setting, yanked out of her familiar world without warning and dropped down in the middle of a political crisis.

“Lew mentioned that you were from Renney, Domna Katherine. I confess I know nothing about it, except that your ancestor, the composer, came from there. He is a favorite of my wife’s, and she is yearning to interrogate you about him, but that will keep. Please, tell me about your home world.”

Katherine set down her spoon, her bowl empty, looking quite relieved to be asked about so ordinary a subject. “Well, there is not a great deal to tell. It is a small place, at the edge of the Pollux sector. We are farmers and dairymen and seafarers, much as our ancestors were when they were still on Terra. We speak a tongue very similar to your own—it astonished me when Herm demonstrated the likenesses. I lived there until I was sixteen, and then I won a scholarship to the Fine Arts Academy on Coronis. I studied painting with Donaldo dePaul, and then met my first husband, Amaury’s father. He was killed in an accident when Amaury was a baby, and two years later, I met Herm. My life, until the past few days, has been extremely uneventful.”

“I am sorry that you did not come to Darkover under better circumstances, domna.”

“When I married Herm, I took a vow to be with him at all times, good and bad, but I confess I never expected that to mean I would be dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night and end up on the other side of the Federation, far away from everything I know, and with very little chance of ever seeing Renney again.” There was no mistaking the sadness in her voice now, and the undertone of worry as well. “Except for the children, and my cousin Cara, who was in the Chamber of Deputies, my entire family is still there, for we are not a world that produces very many travelers. We have everything we need on Renney, or almost. When I left, my Nana just shook her head and said she hoped I would not rue the day. I can imagine what she would say now.”

“I hope you will not miss it too much, and we must both pray that things do not get completely out of hand.”

She shook her head, and the coil at her nape shifted, so Mikhail got a glimpse of the soft flesh at the back of her neck. “I overheard Lew Alton and Herm talking, and they did not sound very cheerful. I can barely believe that the Premier has disbanded the Legislature. It seems so . . . extreme. And, for all that I am the wife of politician, I have managed to keep myself in relative ignorance, because worrying about political strife interferes with my work.” She looked faintly embarrased at this admission, and glanced at the now empty glass in front of her, as if she wanted something to focus on. A servant started to refill it almost immediately.

Domenic, who was seated beside Katherine, spoke for the first time. “It was a crazy thing to do, domna.” A puzzled look came into his face, as if he was surprised by his own outburst. He glanced at his father, and when he found no look of disapproval, he relaxed.

Mikhail looked fondly at his oldest child, the most mysterious of his offspring. He did not know if it was because the child had been conceived in the distant past, or because he had spent several weeks of time suspended in his mother’s womb while both she and Mikhail were in the misty waters of Lake Hali, but he was much more mature than his years suggested, and he was a remote boy. No . . . not remote, but just having a hard time making the transition from childhood to adulthood. Sometimes he was shy and other times he was outspoken, although he was never bold in the way his brother Roderick was.

Istvana Ridenow, who had first tested him, said he had a unique laran, one she was unable to define to her own satisfaction. True, he had the Alton Gift of forced rapport, as strongly as his mother, but there was something else as well. Mikhail wondered from time to time if Nico had the living matrix of the Hasturs, but Istvana said it was not that. Whatever it was, it was developing in its own way, slowly and almost painfully. He had a kind of shyness around everyone except his cousin Alana that made him quiet and reserved.

Katherine looked at Nico with interest. “I agree, but I would like to know your thoughts.” What am I saying? I can’t know his thoughts, because I am not a telepath, but he can probably know mine, even though Marguerida said that . . . damn Herm for not warning me! And what about Terése? Is my little girl going to be a mindreader or some other sort of witch, like Great-grandmother Lila was supposed to have been? Nana’s stories about her always gave me the creeps, and here I am on a planet where some of the people have the ability to look into my mind whenever they choose, and I can’t tell who can and who cannot. Even though I have nothing to hide, it as still intolerable! Well, I would not be disappointed to give that Gisela a piece of my mind, except she probably has just enough scruples not to snoop when I very much wish she would! I really must try to be more consistent—one second feeling naked in this room, and the next expecting these odd folks to hear my thoughts. I wonder what that man next to Gisela is saying. Whatever it is, she doesn’t look very happy about it—serves her right, the cat! She deliberately tried to embarrass us!

Nico considered her question without speaking, as if trying to find the best approach. These days he often appeared very sullen, alternating without reason toward sudden bursts of pungent observation that surprised his elders. Remembering his own adolescence, Mikhail knew it was normal for his age. At least he thought about his words first, unlike Rory who said the first thing that came into his head, without any thought of the consequences. Mikhail loved them both, but he knew he favored Roderick, just a little, because Domenic was so very opaque and distant.

“I have been listening to Grandfather Lew. And thinking. It seems to me that the Terranan have leaped before they looked.” Nico frowned and hesitated. Then he continued. “Granddad says that most of his mistakes came from acting before he considered what might happen, and that the Federation has done that now.” He glanced across the table at Lew, to see if he had said anything untoward, but Lew just continued consuming his soup in pleasant silence.

“Aren’t you a little young to be thinking about political ramifications?” Katherine sounded both amused and genuinely interested. It was clear she was at ease with the boy. Mikhail could tell that Domenic was starting to respond to her friendliness, to abandon his normal reserve and actually enjoy himself.

“I am fifteen, and I have been thinking of politics all my life, or so it seems to me.” He gave Katherine one of his rare and charming smiles, then ran his fingers through his hair, unconsciously imitating Mikhail. His hair was a little long, touching the collar of his green tunic, because Nico loathed the barber. “You see, with our long winters, with the snow up to the window sills for months, we are all devoted to intrigue here. Just ask Aunt Giz sometime, and you will get an earful.” He cast a look across the table at Gisela, and to Mikhail’s surprise, there was something like real malice in his son’s gaze.

“Aunt?” She looked slightly confused for a moment. “Of course. Do you know, I believe that makes me your in-law as well. I had not thought of that before. I have lots of sisters, and nieces and nephews by the bushel, but it hadn’t really penetrated my brain that I would have instant relations on Darkover.” She turned her head gracefully and looked Gisela up and down, managing to convey without a word that her new sister-in-law was a mere country girl, and something of a dowd into the bargain. Mikhail dabbed his napkin to his mouth to conceal the broad grin on his lips, while Gisela simmered with fury. Then Katherine turned back to Mikhail, her dark eyes flashing in a very attractive way, as if she had paid off a score and was quite pleased with herself. “Indeed, I believe Amaury and I are the only people at the table who are not some sort of relation to you by blood. Is that right?”

Mikhail nodded. She was as intelligent as Lew had suggested. “Almost correct. The elderly woman seated next to Hermes is not a native of Darkover, but the widow of Marguerida’s musical mentor. But everyone else is a relative, yes. Young Donal here,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, “is both my nephew and my paxman, and Alanna is his sister. You could say that most gatherings of the Domain families are family gatherings, and not be too far off the mark.” It seemed like a safe topic, and he decided to pursue it further, just to keep Katherine from dwelling on her fears. “And since the arrival of the Terranan over a century ago, we have intermarried with them as well. For instance, Lew’s mother, Elaine, was a daughter of Mariel Aldaran and a Terran man, Wade Montray. Lew’s first wife, Marjorie, was also an Aldaran, on her mother’s side, and her father was Zeb Scott, a Terran. So, my Marguerida is a cousin of your husband through her grandmother.”

Katherine frowned over this. “But not an Aldaran through her father’s first wife, I take it.”

She was quick! “No—Marguerida’s mother was Marjorie’s half sister, Thyra.”

“Mother does not like to talk about her,” Nico said very quietly, the remnants of his usual shyness vanishing in the warmth of Katherine’s attention. “She was a very strange person, and wicked, too.”

“Thank you for telling me—I can see that it would be easy to make a mistake and mention something that would offend her. Now I finally understand why she and Gisela look so similar—they are cousins as well as sisters-in-law. I thought that Renney kinships were convoluted, but I think that Darkover might just have us beaten, fair and square.”

“Father was almost forced to marry Gisela, but he went away instead,” Nico answered, his tongue loosened with wine and his dark eyes glittering with something like his brother’s devilment. He knew that the subject still made Mikhail squirm. Then he glanced at Katherine’s face and grinned. “Father and Mother ran away together in the middle of the night and got married by . . .”

“Domenic!”

“Oh, Father, she is sure to hear the tale from someone, and you would not want the servants telling her, would you?”

“I am sure Domna Katherine does not wish to be bored with events in the past.”

Domenic laughed aloud, and everyone stared at him for a moment. “The past! That is a good one, Father.”

For a moment, Mikhail had the wish to strangle his firstborn. Katherine was not yet easy in their company, and he was sure that hearing a tale about a trip into the Ages of Chaos, in Darkover’s distant past, would only increase her discomfort. Accepting telepaths was surely enough for the present. At the same time, he realized, Nico was right. If she did not hear the story from him, she would find out from another source, likely embellished with details that were more fancy than truth. He could just imagine Gisela’s version of their adventures.

Katherine looked from son to father and raised her eyebrows. She really was a handsome woman. “Now I am very intrigued. My Nana always said that I was as curious as a bag of cats. And, in truth, I would rather hear about anything except the follies of the Federation. I am throughly sick of that subject.”

A servant removed her soup bowl and replaced it with a plate of fritters and broiled fish. Mikhail had already been served his portion, and picked up his fork with his gloved hand. He cut off a bite of fritter, lightly flavored with herbs, and speared a piece of fish.

When he had swallowed and sipped some wine, Mikhail spoke. “Domenic means that Marguerida and I were drawn into the past—about seven hundred years—and were married by an ancient laranzu called Varzil the Good, who was of the Ridenow Domain. It all seems quite fantastic to me, and I was there!” Then he cursed himself for the clumsiness of his choice of words, and knew how very weary he still was.

Katherine choked, and Domenic gave her a few firm pats between her bare shoulders. She gasped for air and her eyes bulged. Then she recovered her breath, emptied her refilled glass in a few gulps, and stared at Mikhail. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Very. But I do not expect you to believe me, when my own mother very much doubts the truth of it. I can only say that I was there, and I know what happened. You do not have to believe me.” He glanced at the heavy di catenas bracelet that encircled his wrist, made for another man whose name was a variant of Mikhail, then looked down the long table toward his wife, remembering that strange, magical time.

“You traveled in time?” She was both amazed and disbelieving, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

Mikhail was rather taken aback by her question, for it was not the reaction he had anticipated. “It was very uncomfortable.”

Katherine began to laugh, and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. After a few moments, they began to trickle down her cheeks, and she dabbed at them with the corner of her napkin. Finally she regained control of herself and turned to Domenic. “Is he always this terse?”

“Almost, unless he is lecturing Rory.” Domenic gave his father a fond look, which took most of the sting out of the words. But not all. Mikhail could remember vividly the day Dani Hastur had told him that his father never seemed to have time to talk to him. Was this how Nico felt? Mikhail had promised himself he would be a great parent, that he would not neglect his children that way. Now he felt that he had failed.

It is all right, Father. You listen more than you talk, that is all. And you worry too much.

Thank you, Nico. You do know that you can always come to me, don’t you?

Yes, but I don’t have much to say.

Are you happy, son?

No, but there is nothing you can do about it. And I don’t want to discuss it, either now or any other time.

Very well. Mikhail returned to eating glumly. Then he remembered himself at fifteen, and how prickly he had been. He forced himself to relax and let the matter go, for it was likely just the normal problem of being an adolescent, and would take care of itself in time. Was any teenager happy? Probably not.

Mikhail looked up from his plate and found Marguerida looking at him from the other end of the table. She gave him one of her wonderful smiles, a look that never failed to reassure him and comfort him, then turned her attention back to Herm Aldaran. The deep pain of his uncle’s sudden death, and the actuality that he was now the real ruler of Darkover seemed to lessen a little with her look. With Marguerida beside him, he knew he could face anything, no matter how impossible it seemed at the moment. He turned his attention to the food on his plate, while his son and Katherine talked, and let himself think of nothing in particular.

At the other end of the table, Marguerida observed her son and husband, and sighed softly. She wondered what had provoked Katherine’s outburst of merriment. The woman struck her as very serious, but she seemed less angry now, and Marguerida was glad of that.

“I don’t know what Mikhail said, but it is good to hear Kate laugh like that again. I was beginning to think . . . well, no matter.” Herm smiled at Marguerida as he spoke.

“She must be beside herself.”

“Do you know, I have never understood that phrase. How can one be beside themselves? But, yes, she has been very troubled, for which I cannot blame her. When I first met her, she was a young widow, and very sad. From all I can gather, Amaury’s father was a very good fellow, and his sudden death was a great blow. I have often wished I had known him, although if he had still been alive, I would never have had the opportunity to marry Katherine, and that would have been intolerable for me!” He chuckled to himself. “I might have had to challenge him to a duel, or something equally preposterous.”

“You do not strike me as a marrying sort of man,” Marguerida commented.

“You are right on that, though how you could have discerned it after such a brief acquaintance I do not know. I was quite happy in my bachelorhood, until I encountered Katherine, and then the only thing I could think of was to marry her as quickly as possible, before someone else snatched her away.”

“Were there other suitors, then?”

“No, not at all. But I kept imagining hordes of them, lurking in the corners of the ballrooms and drawing rooms. She is so beautiful that I could not help it. And why she agreed to marry me remains a mystery. I know I am not a handsome man.” He gestured at his shining pate. “Whatever good looks I had, Robert damaged in a fist fight when we were lads.” He rubbed his nose, which had clearly been broken at least once.

“Robert in a fist fight? Now, that is a remarkable notion, for he has always seemed to me to be the best-tempered of men.”

“He is, but I was a very provoking boy. Not unlike your Rory, I suspect. But, tell me, how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was not the marrying type? My curiosity demands satisfaction.”

“Gisela suggested to me, long ago, that you were a confirmed bachelor. Indeed, I did not even know you had married, let alone were a father, until you arrived. Somehow you never mentioned it in your messages to my father, or in your infrequent letters to your sister. Why did you keep it such a secret? Didn’t you want your father to know he had another granddaughter?”

Herm grunted. “My father and I parted on poor terms, Domna Marguerida, and one reason I took the position in the Chamber of Deputies was to escape him. And because it was the chance of a lifetime for me. I had wanted to travel to the stars since I was a boy, all full of the tales told by the spacemen who frequented our home. But, I never wanted to be a spacer at all—the idea of being cooped up in a ship for long periods of time made me cringe. Besides having no talent for the mathematics and other disciplines that are needed. And it seemed that this was the only way to leave Darkover, until Regis decided to appoint me. I jumped at the chance, and, frankly, my father was furious with me.”

“But, why?”

“I suspect it was because he never liked Regis, but I cannot say for certain. All I know is that he went into one of his rages, a drunken fury that had the servants scrambling for cover, and called me a number of things I cannot repeat in polite company.”

Marguerida grinned. “There is nothing you can say that would shock me, and Mikhail can tell you that occasionally my language would shame a drayman. But I appreciate your restraint, since I do not particularly want Rory learning any more choice phrases than he already knows. Do not be fooled by his pleasant demeanor—he was born to mischief.” She glanced at her red-haired son fondly, and Roderick blushed deeply.

“All boys his age are like that, even Amaury.”

Marguerida shook her head. “Not my Domenic. He has always been the best child, so much so that I worry about him. I know it sounds silly, but I have often wished he would get into trouble of some sort. He is just too good sometimes.”

“Do not borrow trouble, domna. It is a very dangerous thing.”

“I know. But sometimes I cannot help myself.” She cast a fond look at Lew Alton. “I am, after all, my father’s child.”

To her delight, Hermes Aldaran roared with laughter, making everyone at the table stare at him. “Born to trouble. Yes, I know that one very well,” he chortled.