10

Lew snapped back into focus at the table in the larger dining room, glanced at his hand, and realized that he had paused with his soup spoon suspended in midair while he communicated with Domenic. The noise of people eating and talking around the long table seemed like a raucous clamor after the intensity of mind-to-mind contact, an assault on his ears and senses. The room was warm, but he was chilled by the sudden wave of fear he felt for his grandson. He forced himself to shake it away, trying to think clearly and calmly. What an unexpected and undesirable development.

He sorted through the information Domenic had just given him, discovering that he was not really surprised by any of it. They had managed to keep news of Regis’ death from reaching Federation HQ for almost three days now, but it was inevitable that they would learn of it, and now they had. And the temptation to try to take advantage of the emotional turmoil and transition of leadership in Comyn Council would be difficult for Belfontaine to resist. Unless he decided not to go along with Granfell’s idea. He knew there was an unspoken rivalry between the two men, even if they were not aware of it themselves. A smile played across his mouth—sometimes there were real benefits to telepathy, although he rarely thought of them.

As he lowered his spoon, he considered the two men. They were both suspicious and ambitious, but Granfell was headstrong and had an explosive temper. Belfontaine, by contrast, was controlled, using his intelligence and cunning to best advantage. But he was frustrated, and that element would almost certainly sway him in favor of Granfell’s plan. Being posted to Darkover was a dead end in the Federation bureaucracy, and if the Federation was going to pull out, Belfontaine had to act fast or admit defeat to his superiors. Had he learned anything from his misadventure on Lein III? Lew doubted it. Men like Lyle Belfontaine rarely learned much from their mistakes. And now he would be desperate. Desperate men were always dangerous.

Lew looked up and down the long table, and found Gareth Hastur-Elhalyn staring at him; his bright blue eyes seemed to bore right into him. The boy, Dani Hastur’s son, looked away hastily, but not before Lew caught an expression of avidity on his face. It reminded Lew of old Dyan Ardais, and he felt a sudden sense of unease. Gareth seemed like a good lad, but Lew did not know him very well. He must have the wind up more than he thought, if he was being suspicious of a child of fourteen. And why was Gisela watching him? The last thing he needed was more of her mischief.

But she was smiling, and Lew could not remember the last time he had found Giz smiling at anything. There was nothing in her look that was alarming, and then he realized she was not actually looking at him, but at his dinner companion, Katherine Aldaran. Wonder of wonders, there was an expression of fondness on Gisela’s face as she looked at her sister-in-law.

Kate was just finishing her soup, and she raised her eyes from her bowl, caught Gisela’s look, and returned the smile. The tension in her shoulders slackened as her eyes met the other woman’s. He realized that his abrupt silence had perturbed Katherine, that she must have understood that he was using his laran, and had probably assumed it had something to do with her. Still, she was containing her fears wonderfully, and he was impressed again. What had he been saying to her? He could not remember . . .

Really, he was getting too old to maintain a normal conversation while he communicated telepathically. He felt a strange satisfaction in this realization—he was so very fortunate to be as old as he was! He had managed to outlive many of his foes, and had acquired a bit of real wisdom along the way. The biting grief was that he had lost so many precious friends at the same time.

Lew dipped his spoon and took another mouthful of soup. It was tepid and unappetizing now, and he pushed the bowl away. He considered Belfontaine and Granfell again, weighing what he knew of the two men from his visits to HQ. Their surface thoughts were similar, full of ambition and a longing for power. Lew had never really understood minds like theirs, no matter how many people he encountered who thought this way. He wondered if Lyle Belfontaine had the least idea of how eager his subordinate was to get ahead. Could he use this to Darkover’s advantage?

Javanne Hastur was fixing him with a basilisk glare from the other side of the table, her rather protuberant eyes bulging with suspicion. Katherine shifted uncomfortably in her chair, thinking the look was aimed at her, and he heard the creak of the wood beneath her slender body. He returned Javanne’s gaze with a bland smile, knowing this would annoy her enormously. It was a shame they had so many old scores to settle. Javanne was really an intelligent woman whose pettiness and wrong-thinking was born of her frustration and feelings of powerlessness.

Lew turned his eyes toward Katherine, and thought how very nice she looked in the white wool gown with black embroidery that he had given his daughter years before. The colors suited her perfectly, and the dress outlined the rise of her breasts in a modest way that was all the more provoking for being so subtle. He liked her, and thought that Herm was lucky to have found such a wife. Then Mikhail, at the head of the table, quirked an eyebrow at him, and the enormity of his easy promise to Nico swept through him. He should have told the lad to come back! How was he going to tell Mik, let alone Marguerida?

“Forgive me, Domna Katherine. I have no idea what we were talking about—something came into my mind and I completely lost my train of thought.”

“What are you up to now?” Javanne asked suspiciously.

Lew did not answer immediately, but instead studied the woman he had known for over six decades. Time had been kind to her, and although her red hair was now almost as white as Regis’ had been, her skin was still smooth and soft, and she did not look her age. He wondered if her combative disposition kept her youthful—certainly her personality had not mellowed with years, and he could almost forgive his eldest grandson for running off in order to avoid her. She had always been a headstrong and difficult person—a bully—even as a girl, but he had never thought her wicked or evil. Like himself, she was just quite pig-headed in favor of her own treasured opinions.

“Mother, do stop plaguing Lew, as if he been created purely to annoy you.”

For a moment it appeared that Javanne was going to lose her temper at her youngest and least loved son. Instead, she held herself in check, as if the presence of Katherine Aldaran made her hesitate. Lew let himself marvel at his daughter’s cunning in the seating arrangements. She had put Gabriel Lanart-Alton at her right, at the other end of the table, and Javanne at Mikhail’s, separating the couple by the length of the board. Then she had put Lew across from Javanne, to draw her wrath away from Mikhail, and paired him with Katherine, to guarantee at least a semblance of courtesy. Under Dio’s tutelage, during the last years of her life, Marguerida had turned from a rather awkward young academic into a capable and even masterful political hostess, able to be gracious under the most trying of circumstances. He looked down the board toward his daughter, and, aware of his regard, she gazed at him, a bit puzzled. He let his deep love for his only child hold him for a moment, then turned back to wait for Javanne’s response.

“I do not imagine that Lew was brought to life just to irritate me, although it often feels as if he were.” This admission had a ring of sincerity. “But he spent too many years away from Darkover for me to trust him completely. I believe he is too much a friend of the Federation for anyone’s good.” This had been her complaint for years, and it did not bother him in the least. More, Javanne was genuinely distraught over her brother’s sudden death, and by the fact that she had not been summoned until he was gone. That Lady Linnea had been adamant on that matter she did not know, and he hoped she never would. Undoubtedly she thought it was Lew’s fault, and that was for the best. What she really wanted was a good argument, the better to vent her churning emotions.

“Tell me, Javanne, if you had a choice, would you prefer a foe you could see, or one that was invisible?”

She blinked her large eyes once, then frowned at Lew. “One I could see, obviously. What sort of question is that?” The color rose in her cheeks, as if she suspected he was trying to trick her somehow.

“Very wise. And while the Federation maintains a presence on Darkover, we can keep an eye on them. But I fear you are about to realize your oft spoken wish to have them gone. At present, it is their intention to withdraw in a month, by their reckoning.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And when were you going to share this wonderful news?” She did not sound very pleased, but instead seemed even more wary.

“At the Council meeting, Mother, when everyone was present, and could hear it at one time, with all the details that we know thus far,” Mikhail explained patiently.

“Very proper,” she admitted grudgingly. “I suppose you are disappointed by this development,” she shot at Lew, still seeking something to dispute.

“Not in the least. The Station Chief has been a headache since he arrived, and the Planetary Administrator is nothing but a figurehead and can do nothing to control him. The political changes that have occurred in the Federation have not been to our benefit at all. And I will not miss Lyle Belfontaine for one moment. But I confess I am more than a little alarmed by the planned pullout.” He could sense Katherine listening intently to what he was saying. A servant whisked away his empty bowl, and replaced it with rabbithorn forcemeat in a tender crust, a serving of carrots surrounding it. It looked very tempting, and he hoped that Javanne would not ruin his appetite with her persistent needling.

“Alarmed?” There was a note of caution in Javanne’s voice, for however much they disagreed on almost everything concerning Darkover, she had a decent respect for his political acumen.

“Yes, Javanne, alarmed. Once they abandon the spaceport, we will not be able to watch what they are doing.”

“But, why should that matter?”

“You are not a stupid woman, cousin. Think! Without a presence on the planet, and their own people to consider, there is nothing to restrain the Federation from attempting to conquer Darkover by force.”

Her eyes bulged dangerously. “I had not . . . you are trying to frighten me, Lew Alton!”

“No, I am not!” He paused, filled with the longing to avoid a real confrontation, no matter how much Javanne wished for one. There would be enough shouting and disagreement when the Comyn Council met to satisfy everyone. He decided to take a different tack, to see if he could distract the woman. “Although if I were, it might pay you back for that ghost story you told me when I was twelve. I had nightmares for weeks afterward. Javanne is a superb storyteller,” he informed Katherine, wishing to draw her into the conversation, “and can chill your blood with a minimum of words.”

I can believe that. She remands me of my Aunt Tansy, always so sure she knew best how to run other people’s lives. “We have a lot of such stories on Renney, but I never have acquired a taste for them. When I was five or six, we visited one of the ghost groves on the coast, and I was frightened out of my wits,” Katherine replied. She gave him one of her remarkable smiles, as if she understood what he was doing, and Lew found himself thinking again that Herm was a damn lucky man.

“Fancy you remembering that,” Javanne said, preening slightly, and looking rather fine, with a blush on her pale cheeks and a glitter of pleasure in her eyes.

“It was a formidible influence on my life,” he answered dryly.

“Do you really believe the Federation would try to . . . invade Darkover, Lew?” She was sufficiently mollified by her own memory of the ghost story to be civil instead of spiteful.

“I don’t know, but I confess to being worried.”

Javanne stared at him, her face a mirror of conflicted emotions. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

Javanne lowered her head and took a bite of her rabbithorn. She chewed and swallowed, sipped some wine, and then looked at Lew again, her face thoughtful and less angry now. “I believe I have misjudged matters somewhat, in my efforts to keep the Terranan from . . . forgive me, cousin. I see I have not respected your efforts as I should have.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he answered, startled by her uncharacteristic apology. He ignored the slight stab of conscience at the lie on his lips. There was a great deal to forgive, starting with Javanne’s rejection of Domenic. But he thought it wiser to take advantage of her good humor of the moment than to settle any old scores. She would likely be conspiring with Francisco Ridenow before the dishes were cleared, for she simply could not resist the urge to meddle. “We see things very differently, but we both want what is best for Darkover.”

Javanne nodded, then looked down the board, at Danilo Hastur, sitting next to his mother, toward the center of the gathering and well away from the most volatile of the guests. “Yes, we do,” she finally answered, casting a sudden and unloving look on Mikhail before she turned her attention to her supper.

I need to see you after dinner, Mik—it is important.

Oh, no! More alarms and excursions? By Aldones, I wish that Regis had never made me his heir! Very well—in my study. At least it will get me away from Mother.

Two hours later, Lew Alton and Mikhail Hastur were sitting in the cozy and shabby study where so many important matters had been decided over the years. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, Donal Alar, and Herm Aldaran were also in attendance. Lew looked at Mikhail and chewed his lower lip reflectively. His son-in-law looked exhausted, and he was not feeling too chipper himself. The dinner had seemed interminable despite the excellence of the food, and the pleasant company of Katherine Aldaran. He had been restless, aware that his grandson was alone in uncertain circumstances. It was unlikely that any harm would come to him with so many people around him. Still, he wondered if he should have just ordered the boy to return, instead of taking it upon himself to tell him to remain by the gate.

Javanne had recovered from her good mood, returning to her earlier one of confrontation, and it had taken all of his energy to keep from arguing with her. It had ruined his pleasure in the food, until he had thought to ask Katherine about the ghost groves she had mentioned. This had led the conversation onto less treacherous paths, and after a while, Javanne had given up the effort to berate him or Mikhail for things entirely beyond their control.

After dessert, Javanne had descended on Dani Hastur, all smiles and charm, and Lew had watched, caught between amusement and annoyance at the transparency of her actions. She had never resigned herself to Dani’s choice of the Elhalyn Domain over the Hastur one, and it was now clear that she was going to try to get the man into her clutches. Dani had shrunk away from her attentions politely, and Gareth had said something that made her laugh and ruffle his fine, golden hair with a tender hand. Lew, observing the action as Javanne returned to harrassing her nephew, Dani, had found the boy looking back at him again, with an unreadable expression on his handsome features. Dani looked haggard, and ready to lose his usually calm temper, and finally Dom Gabriel had intervened and almost dragged his tiresome wife out of the dining room and back to their suite.

That inconsequential moment came back to Lew now. There was something going on, something he was missing, and he knew he could not bring his attention to the problem at hand until he solved the puzzle of Gareth Hastur-Elhalyn to his own satisfaction. The boy had never shown any interest in Javanne on his two previous visits to Comyn Castle. So why was he hanging close to her now—he had been by her side before they started eating, too!

Looking around at the comfortable furnishings of Regis’ study, Lew remembered another gathering in that room, fifteen years before. He could recall the tension in the chamber, and the sound of Dani Hastur’s voice, anxious and fearful, as he told his father he did not wish to be the heir of Hastur. And, with this, Lew suddenly knew the answer to the puzzle. His belly knotted. How could they have been so stupid not to have anticipated that perhaps Dani’s son would feel cheated of an inheritance he would otherwise have had. The Elhalyn kingship was nothing compared to the real power which Regis had wielded, and it never would be.

If he was correct, and Lew now felt certain he was, then Gareth would regard Javanne as a natural ally. The boy had not been proclaimed as Elhalyn heir yet—he was almost a year away from that—and so he could nurture hopes for a reversal of the agreement that Regis and Mikhail had entered into! And Javanne would seize the opportunity in both her skillful hands. He held back a groan.

What a dreadful time Nico had picked to do something uncharacteristically mischievous and probably very foolish. Fortunate, in that he had discovered a plot—which still might come to nothing—but unfortunate in that his absence was certain to cause problems. He weighed the matter in his mind again, considering various possible scenarios. After several seconds, Lew decided he did not like the expression on Gareth’s face one bit. Perhaps Domenic was safer away from Comyn Castle than in it. For a moment he was aghast by the deadly direction his thoughts had taken. Gareth was only a boy! He must be more tired than he thought, to entertain such ideas. On the other hand, accidents could occur, and it was better to be safe than sorry. If he was wrong, then he was wrong, but if his suspicious mind had turned up something worth worrying about, then he must proceed cautiously.

Ruthlessly, Lew played out the possibilities. If something happened to Domenic—Aldones forbid—Mikhail still had another son. But Roderick, fine lad that he was, did not have a head for governance, and he could not imagine anyone, even Javanne, suggesting that he should be named heir. Without Nico, the logical person to follow Mikhail would be Gareth Elhalyn, which would find favor with Javanne Hastur and several others on the Council. Keeping Nico out of reach suddenly seemed a very good idea! He was probably imagining plots where none existed, and he would keep his peace on the matter for the moment, but he would keep an eye on Gareth, just in case.

Having settled the matter in his own mind, Lew went over what Domenic had told him again, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything important. The more he thought about it, the surer he became that Belfontaine would take action. Perhaps not precisely what Granfell suggested, but he could think of several things that Belfontaine might attempt, including trying to occupy Comyn Castle. Lew could not be certain what Belfontaine would do, but he was sure the little man would not be able to pass up an opportunity to further his own ambitions. It would be just too tempting. So they must proceed as if the plot that Dominic had overheard was real until they learned otherwise. Lew felt a flush of excitement—something that lessened the ever-present grief over Regis’ death for a moment. Suddenly he was glad that his grandson had gotten into mischief. Even if nothing happened, it was excellent experience for the lad.

Lew had told Nico he would handle the matter, but now that the time had come he was not sure how to begin. He had taken so much on himself, and in the past this had not always been a wise choice.

He glanced around the room. Donal Alar stood behind Mikhail, his young face solemn. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais looked dreadful, his normally pale skin was gray and drawn, and only Herm Aldaran did not look ready to fall over. The grief over the death of Regis Hastur had taken a toll on all of them, but Regis’ lifelong companion, Danilo, was probably the hardest hit.

“Why did you want to talk to me, Lew?” Mikhail sounded tired, his voice tense and a little hoarse. “I have had enough speaking to last me until Midwinter, and the end is not in sight.”

“Yes, I know. It is almost as bad as when you came back from the past, isn’t it.”

“Worse. I was twenty-eight then, not forty-three, and I recovered more quickly.”

“Well, son, I have some news.”

“What is it? I saw that something made you stop in the middle of the soup. Couldn’t it have waited for tomorrow?”

“Domenic has run away from home.” He wanted to soften the blow, but there really was not any way to do it.

Mikhail gaped at Lew, and Danilo gave a little gasp. Donal did not react except to raise his eyebrows, and Herm looked puzzled.

“What the hell do you mean, Lew,” Mikhail snapped, the color rising in his cheeks. “Nico is upstairs in bed with a cold or something.”

“I’m afraid not. He only pretended to be sick, so he could sneak out of the castle and go to watch the Travelers perform outside the North Gate.”

Mikhail was clearly outraged, at the ragged edge of control, and Lew now regretted his impulsiveness. “Domenic is off in the middle of the night with . . .”

“Hush, son! Just because Nico has never done anything on a lark before is no reason to assume he never would. He is safe enough. And he had the good sense to tell me what was going on, rather than you or his mother. He knew you would get angry.” Lew stifled his own worries about his eldest grandson, alone in a field outside the city. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize him, since Domenic was only outside Comyn Castle during his Guard duties, but there was still a chance. But he was just one in a crowd, and if he knew Nico, the boy was probably being very careful not to draw attention to himself. It would have to do for the moment.

Mikhail quelled his outrage with a visible effort. Then the start of a smile began to play across his face. He shook his head and ran his ungloved fingers through his thick, curling, and still golden hair. “Snuck off, did he? He picked a dreadful time to get into mischief, but I never expected . . . Rory yes, but not Domenic. If he got in touch with you, why didn’t you tell the little scamp to get himself back here?”

“Well, there’s more to the story, and the rest is not quite so innocent, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t mean he’s been kidnapped or something?” Danilo interjected.

“No, he is quite free, sitting by a fire pit and keeping warm, the last I knew. No, the bad news is that Nico stumbled into a conspiracy.”

“What!” The partial calm that had quieted Mikhail vanished. “Conspiracy? All the more reason to make him . . .”

“Mikhail, he is a man, albeit a young one. And if he had not been there, we might never have suspected that the Terrans were considering an assault on the funeral procession and an attempt on your life!” The words came out in a rush, more abruptly than Lew had intended, and they had the effect of halting any further questions. Instead, everyone just stared at Lew as if he had lost his mind. “That is why Nico did not run back here—he decided it was best if he remained in place and kept an eye on things. He knows the face of one of the conspirators, and he can describe the others. And I promised him that someone would join him at the North Gate. The only question is who.”

“Kill me . . .” Mikhail was stunned. “But, why?”

“How better to gain control of Darkover?”

“But I thought the Federation was going to leave.”

“That is our current information, yes. But it appears that Federation Intelligence may have been using the Travelers as spies, and I have to wonder how long that has been going on. It would explain a few incidents which have troubled me during recent years.”

At this, Danilo nodded in agreement, his exhausted face actually brightening, as if the news distracted him momentarily from his grief. “That does answer some questions, doesn’t it? The Travelers! What fools we were not to have thought of them before.”

“Well, why should we suspect a troup of entertainers of being anything but what they appeared? In truth, most of them likely are just that—players and jongleurs.”

“What happened, exactly?” Mikhail cut in angrily. “Start at the beginning, before I completely lose my mind!”

“Yes, of course.” Lew ordered his thoughts carefully. “It seems that this morning, while he was on duty, Nico saw a Travelers’ wagon pass by the castle—yes, yes, I know they had no business in Thendara at this season. There was a girl, and . . .”

“Oh, a girl,” Donal exclaimed, grinning. “About time.”

“Perhaps.” Lew gave the young paxman a swift glance, pleased that the interruption dissipated some of the tension in the room. “Anyhow, she seems to have told him there was a performance at the North Gate this evening, and, on a lark, Nico decided to go see it—to avoid Javanne as much as anything, I believe. He saw two men in Terranan garb, and that aroused his interest. When they left off watching the Travelers, he got curious and snuck over and tried to discover what they were up to—rather brave of him. The spy, who is a driver of one of the wagons, and the two men had a conversation in which the driver told them that Regis was no more.” Lew paused, trying to organize his words carefully.

“That news was enough for Miles Granfell . . .” he began.

“Granfell—I am not surprised!” Danilo looked grim as he spoke. “My contacts with him have not been as many as yours, Lew, but I have always thought him driven and ambitious.”

“Yes, all of that, and opportunistic as well, it seems. He knows that we take our dead leaders to the rhu fead, and he seems to have realized that it would be a fine opportunity to attempt a massacre of the Domains families, since most of us will accompany the funeral train.” Lew paused, waiting to see if anyone reacted, but everyone seemed too stunned to speak. “It seems to have been an impulsive idea, and he does not yet have the approval of Lyle Belfontaine. But knowing our Station Chief as I do, I find it hard to imagine him passing up what may be his last chance to try to get Darkover into the Federation instead of leaving in defeat in a month’s time. At the moment, it is only a plan, not yet an actual plot, but Domenic felt that Granfell was sincere in his intentions.”

“Nico knows nothing of spies and intrigues! He must come back at once!”

“Just a moment, Mikhail,” Danilo began quietly. “By the time you were Nico’s age, you had fought on the fire lines in the Kilghards, joined at least one catamount hunt that I can remember, and done any number of other dangerous things. I believe that it is good for Domenic to continue in this venture, for I, like Lew, have never really approved of Regis’ insistence on keeping all of us shut up in the Castle, getting on one another’s nerves, and looking over our shoulders for assassins. Certainly he must not be left alone, but I can see no useful purpose in dragging him back here and acting as if he were incapable of looking after himself for a night. The only question is who is the best person to go after him. I don’t believe that letting the news of his absence become common knowledge would be helpful, but I think he . . .”

Donal, looking quite self-conscious, interrupted. “Dom Danilo is right. Nico needs the experience, and he really is very clever.”

Mikhail turned and looked over his shoulder at his paxman, his expression troubled. Then he looked back, stared at Lew, and his face changed. “Perhaps, but I do not like it.” There is something more, isn’t there, Lew? Something you are holding back.

Yes, there is. It as only a suspicion, but I really thank Nico is safer out of Comyn Castle than in it, for the next few days.

What! You don’t imagine that my mother . . .

No, it is something else, Mikhail. But sparing your son from Javanne’s fury will be a kindness to them both, don’t you agree?

Damn you, old man! Very well. Keep me in the dark for a bit longer. I trust you.

Believe me, Mikhail, I will tell you if I am right or wrong as soon as I am able.

At least I don’t have to start looking at my mother as if she might be planning . . .

Murder is not Javanne’s style, son, but there will be others present who might not be so choosy.

Dom Damon?

He is one, and Dom Francisco Ridenow is another.

There is that—I hope you are being overly vigilant.

I hope so, too—but keep Donal at your back!

“I’ll go,” Herm shifted in his chair and spoke very quietly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You?” Danilo gave him a questioning look.

“Yes. My face is not well-known, and it would not be the first time I engaged in a bit of skullduggery, Danilo. And besides, if I am not in Comyn Castle, then you can’t turn me over to Belfontaine for arrest.” He gave a cockeyed grin, looking gleeful and a little uncomfortable at the same time. “Not that you would, I know, but you can now tell the fellow that I am not here, and to go to hell. You do want to do that, don’t you, Mikhail?”

“More than you can imagine.”

“But, Herm,” Danilo began, “you have been away from Darkover for so long. Don’t you think that I, or someone . . .”

“Forgive me, but you are much too well known, Danilo. Someone would almost certainly recognize you, or Lew, or just about anyone else you could trust with this. But me—I have kept my ugly face out of the mediafaxes, so the number of people who might know me is very small even in the Federation, and on Darkover, I am a nobody. Good Lord—Gisela barely recognized me! And besides, there is no one on Darkover more in touch with Federation schemes.”

“Well, there is a certain wisdom in that, I guess,” Danilo admitted grudgingly. “Yes, if you go out and find out what is going on . . .” He trailed off, his vivid eyes more lively than they had been a few minutes before.

“Zandru blast the Terranan and their filthy, vile plans!” Mikhail’s face was white with anger. “What would have become of us if Nico hadn’t been there to uncover this plot?” He lowered his head into his hands and shook all over. Then he straightened up slowly. His face was pale, the anger was gone; only despair and resignation remained. “My impulse is to find these men and arrest them—which is precisely what I must not do. Damn Regis for dying anyhow!”

“My sentiments exactly, Mikhail,” Lew said dryly. The worst was over, he knew, although he did not look forward to telling his daughter what was going on. “Herm is a good man for the job. Between his knowledge of the Federation, his native cunning, and Nico’s intelligence, we should be able to avoid any disasters. And perhaps it will all come to nothing, it is still possible that Belfontaine will not want to risk a Board of Inquiry, or that there will not be time to arrange an ambush along the road. But I don’t intend to assume that, and neither should you.”

“Very well. You go out there, Herm, and get Nico to tell you everything, and then . . .”

Danilo cleared his throat softly, and everyone looked at him. “It strikes me that it is perhaps best if Domenic remains with Hermes—a man with a boy is less likely to draw attention than a man alone. Plus let’s not forget that Nico has the Alton Gift. That is very useful under these circumstances.”

“But the danger—“

“Is minimal, Mikhail,” Danilo said very calmly, as if he had already evaluated the possibilities and found them to his liking. “He has already shown that he is clever enough to get out of Comyn Castle unnoticed, and smart enough to inform Lew when he encountered a situation he could not manage on his own. He will be safe enough with Hermes, and between the two of them, they can discover whether this plot is anything to worry about. I am sure that Herm will not allow Nico to get into harm’s way.”

“I don’t like it! But you are probably right.” Mikhail grimaced. “Which leaves me the delightful task of telling Marguerida. Go, now, before I change my mind!” He groaned dramatically, then let something like a ghostly chuckle rise in his throat. He shook his head. “The ironic part is that, under any other circumstances, I would be tickled pink by Nico’s mischief.”

“We all would, son,” Lew answered.

Herm did not move for a moment, his head lowered as if he was thinking deeply. Then he rose from his chair and nodded. “I’ll take care of the lad as if he were my own.”

11

When Herm reached his suite, he found Katherine on a couch in the sitting room, with a tablet of paper on her lap, sketching. She had removed the white gown she had worn at dinner, and replaced it with a shapeless and much-worn garment in a brown that did not become her. Her long hair was braided into a queue down her back, and there were smears of charcoal on her cheeks, like the marks of some tribeswoman preparing for a rite. She looked up at the sound of his footfalls and smiled in greeting. “Where did you get off to? You just vanished after dinner, leaving me to the mercies of Lady Javanne, who pretended she wished to know all about me. Fortunately, Gisela came to my rescue by distracting her. It must be very hard having that woman for a mother-in-law, and I pity both Marguerida and Giz.” She sounded amused by the whole incident, and more relaxed than she had been in days.

“Lew needed to discuss something with me,” he replied, falling back into the long habit of never revealing anything to anyone, even his beloved wife. Then he braced himself, realizing that his sudden decision in the study had been reached without much consideration for her needs. What had he been thinking? “And now I have to go away for a few days, dearest.”

“Away? Why? Where?” She gave him a sharp look.

“Something has come up, and I have to deal with it.”

Katherine set her tablet aside and rose, frowning now. “I do not like the sound of this.”

“I’m sorry, Kate.”

“You aren’t going to tell me what is going on, are you?”

“No, I am not.”

“Why?”

“Because the less you know, the less chance there is that you will be tricked or induced to say something to the wrong person.”

“And who might that be?” she replied dangerously, the anger welling up slowly.

“I cannot say.” He did not want to remind her that there were telepaths all around them, and that she might disclose something without ever intending to. She was far too uncomfortable with that situation as it was. Nor did he choose to reveal that he found his sister’s sudden interest in Kate very suspicious. It seemed out of character, somehow, for Gisela. The little he had seen of her since his arrival had puzzled him. She was almost frantically gay one moment, then silent and removed the next. Certainly she was nothing like the young woman he remembered, and he wanted to warn his wife against trusting her overmuch. At the same time he knew it was important for Katherine to fit into this new life, and for her to make friends, so he held his tongue. He would have to depend on the good sense that Kate had always demonstrated in the past in dealing with people. Unfortunately, this was not easy for him, since he trusted very few people beyond his wife and children, and this did not include his father or his sister.

Herm did not want to believe his sister was capable of real treachery, but she had been reared with all of Dom Damon’s thwarted fury at his lack of real power. And marrying Rafael, which he knew had not been her first choice, must have been a blow to her pride and ambition. Gisela had never in the past settled for second best, and he suspected she was quite unhappy. He sighed softly.

His thoughts turned away from Gisela, to his father, who would be arriving at Comyn Castle in the next few days. With a little start he acknowledged to himself that one reason he had jumped at the chance to go and find Domenic was that it put off for a while this dreaded encounter. Even though he had not seen Dom Damon in almost a quarter of a century, he had never lost his own sense of alienation from the old man. If the little that Lew and Danilo had let slip was any indication, time had not mellowed the head of the Aldaran Domain at all. Dom Damon had always insisted that the Hasturs were the only thing that stood in the way of his own plans, although what these might be remained something of a mystery.

There was more to it than the desire to put off encountering his father, however. While they had been on the ship, all his attention had been directed toward reaching Darkover and keeping his wife and children safe. Now this was accomplished, but he felt that nothing had turned out quite right. Comyn Castle reminded him too much of his adolescence in the Hellers. The Aldaran Keep, full of conflicting and outspoken personalities, snowed in for most of the year, had been miserable for him. Rationally, he knew it was different, but even after only two days, it felt the same.

And then there was the other problem, the one he had refused to consider for ten years—that Kate was not a telepath. He remembered their conversation earlier in the day, and wished that she had not told him her fears. There was nothing he could do to cure the problem, and he hated things over which he had no power.

He walked into the bedroom and started sorting through the closet, looking for something plain to wear. The servants had unearthed a good many garments from the cluttered attics of the castle, and he now had a decent selection of both formal tunics, like the embroidered and rather uncomfortable one he was currently wearing, and the more ordinary clothing that was the daily garb of Darkovans. Katherine followed him, and stood looking at him as he pulled out a rather shabby tunic, unadorned and a bit worn along the cuffs and hem.

He could feel her eyes on his shoulder blades, trying to penetrate him, furious and frustrated. She cleared her throat a little. “Hermes, I think it would be better for me if I took the children and left for Renney while I still can. At least it is warm there, and no one keeps secrets from me.”

He spun around, startled and deeply frightened. He stared at her, suddenly feeling helpless. He had never imagined it would come to this! Then he shook his head, refusing to take her seriously. “No, don’t—don’t threaten me, Kate. I don’t have time right now!” He could feel the anger pulsing in his blood, and beneath it the sheer terror that she might make good her threat.

“You never have time, damn you! Ever since we got to Darkover, you have been closeted with other people, plotting something I have no knowledge of. I have never seen this side of you so clearly before, and I do not like it. You may be having a wonderful time, but I am not! And you cannot keep me from leaving, if I choose to.” Her face, always pale, was chalk-white now, with her held-back fury.

Herm stood with the tunic in his big hands, twisting the old fabric between them. “Yes, I can. And I will, if you force me.” He had to control this situation, somehow.

Katherine walked across the room and slapped him across the face before he realized what she planned to do. It stung, and he could feel his skin redden. “Damn you to hell! You are treating me like a stranger.”

He raised his hand to his burning cheek and rubbed it gently. She was right, and he hated that. “If I am, I am sorry, Kate. But I have to do what I think is right. And at this moment that is to keep my secrets to myself. Ask Marguerida in the morning, and she will tell you what is going on.”

“That’s wonderful,” she sneered. “Just wonderful. My husband dashes off in the middle of the night and I am supposed to ask a woman I barely know where he has gone. If this is how wives are treated on Darkover, I do not wonder at how unpleasant your sister and Javanne Hastur are. And if you imagine I am going to put up with this sort of nonsense because you want to . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” She looked away for a moment. “Ever since we arrived, you have been different. Restless—you are often that—but something else too. Distant.” The word seemed to hang in the air between them. “Are you missing all the intrigues of the Senate?” There was a tone of supplication in her voice, as if she were begging him to explain himself to her.

He had his shirt over his head, pulling off the fancy garment to replace it with a plainer one, and he paused, face hidden in the folds of fabric, unwilling to meet her eyes. Herm stood unmoving for several seconds while he considered her words. He could not explain himself to her—nor to himself either. And he did not dare let her know that. It would leave him too vulnerable, and he had sworn never to let that happen to him. He finished removing the garment, and remained with his bare chest exposed, looking into her black eyes.

Herm let his wide shoulders sag a little. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He thought for a moment. “The reality of Darkover is not quite what I remembered, Kate.”

“You mean that it is a cozy little bunch of agoraphobes, inbred and full of itself?” The glitter in her eyes was dangerous and attractive all at once. A blush rose along her throat and ascended into the white cheeks. There was something about Kate in a temper that never failed to arouse him, and he regretted he did not have time to follow through with his impulse to clasp her about her slender waist and press his mouth against the soft skin of her neck.

“I would not go that far,” he admitted. Then he chuckled softly. “Actually, you are nearer the mark about us than you know, in several ways.” He wanted to molify her now, not argue with her. “While I was in the Federation, I was doing something useful, but here . . . here I am less so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In the Senate, I was working against the Federation, outfoxing my fellow Senators whenever possible. It was . . . fun. Now, it is different.” He could feel his own conflicted emotions, and he did not like it. It was something he had tried to avoid most of his adult life.

She looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Fun? What a strange man you are. I think you are just looking for an excuse to get away from me and the children. And wishing you had never met me!” The pain in her voice was unmistakable and completely mystifying.

“Kate, why would I want to do that?” He felt his heart lurch. He had hoped she would not bring up her feelings of inadequacy again.

“It was fine to have a non-Darkovan wife while we were still in the Federation, but now I must seem a cripple to you, because I am not a telepath. Why didn’t you just divorce me, or leave me behind? Why did you drag me halfway across the galaxy to somewhere where I am . . .”

She held back her tears, pushing away her sorrow and clinging to her fury as hard as she could. Herm put his arms around her and drew her against his chest. She was stiff and unbending now, determined to remain angry. And he did not have the time or energy to tease her out of her present mood. “I married you because I truly love you, Kate, and whether you were a telepath or not was irrelevant to me. Why can’t you believe that?”

“Because you never told me the truth,” she hissed. “Why should I believe you now, when you have been lying to me for years?”

“Does it really matter that much to you?”

“That I am blind in a room full of sighted people? Of course it matters, Herm. That my daughter might turn out to be able to read minds? Why can’t you understand?”

Herm did understand the torment which was wracking his wife, but he could not bear to confront it. He told himself she was magnifying the problem, making a fuss about it, instead of just accepting everything, the way he wanted her to. Why did she have to complicate matters? “Why can’t you just trust me, and let me do what I must?” He wanted nothing more than to escape the turmoil within him. If she would just be reasonable! But he knew, even as he thought this, that expecting Kate to be reasonable when her feelings were so troubled was asking too much.

“Trust you? Oh, Herm! I don’t believe I will ever be able to trust you again.”

He flinched—it was even worse than he thought. “Why?”

“Because every time I think that I can, you do something else that you won’t explain.”

With a sinking feeling, Herm realized she was right—again. He had kept his own counsel too much already, and he had damaged the thing he held most dear—all to preserve the control he needed to have. “I’m sorry, but there is no help for it, Kate. Just let me do this thing, and don’t ask any more questions. I’ll be back in a day or so.”

Do I have the strength to leave him, to take the children and just go? What of he is right about Terése? I have the credits to book passage, I think, but can I get off Darkover? We came on Herm’s diplomatic passport, didn’t we? I should have paid more attention! I should have insisted on knowing everything years ago. And now it as too late! Now I am trapped here, perhaps forever, and I don’t know if I can bear that.

“I can’t stop you,” she said bitterly. Then she turned away and left the room, her shoulders hunched.

Herm did not move after she was gone, just stood beside the bed, feeling as if he had swallowed a ton of broken glass. Why had he volunteered? He knew the answer, and he did not like it. He knew he wanted to get away from Katherine for a while, to think things through. No, that wasn’t true—the last thing he wanted to do was think! He just wanted the entire problem of a head-blind wife to magically solve itself!

Should he go back to the study and tell Mikhail that he could not go? Was his marriage more important than making sure Domenic was safe? And could their marriage survive this crisis? He could not guess, but he suddenly knew that he must leave the Castle, leave his wife and children for a while. The future was out of his control, and the present seemed very bleak. He just had to get away from everything right now.

Herm grunted. He was not going to get away from anything, and he knew it. He would take the problem with him, and perhaps he would find some solution on the way. And, with a sigh of relief, he realized that Kate could not leave Darkover at present. She would be there when he returned, and she would find it in her to forgive him. He could not bear to think otherwise.

He finished fastening the clean shirt, then tugged the tunic over it and replaced his belt and pouch around his middle. There was a cloak hanging in the closet, a brown wool garment that should keep him warm enough. He assembled a few other things he thought he needed—a knife, a firestone, a second shirt, and quite against half a dozen Federation regulations, the lumens he had smuggled in. He spent a futile moment wishing he had a blaster, even though such a device went against the Compact, and everything Darkovans held dear. He wondered if the spies had advanced weapons, and hoped they did not. Then he shrugged away the thought. He would just have to depend on his native cunning. At the present, that seemed like a poor thing to use against real firepower.

He went down the corridor and found his way, after several wrong turns, to the stables. Herm used the time to devise an identity for himself, and another for young Domenic. They would be uncle and nephew, if anyone asked, on their way to the Hellers for a wedding. That would explain the subtle differences in his accent, the occasional cahuenga words that still slipped from his tongue.

The horses peered out of their stalls, curious at this late evening arrival, and a groom who was repairing some tack by the light of a lamp jumped to his feet. “Greetings, vai dom! How may I serve you?”

“I need two horses. They should be steady and unremarkable.”

“Sir?” The groom looked confused.

“I don’t want a mount that would draw attention to me.”

“Ah, I understand now.” The man looked relieved and curious as well. “Let me think. I have a mare, about ten years old, whom I keep for the old ladies. She’s small and not very good looking, but she is a hardy beast. And there’s a gelding, too—he doesn’t have a very good gait, but he can go forever. This way.”

Herm followed the groom to the far end of the stable, and opened a stall. Several horses poked their muzzles out and pricked their ears. One was a small dun, with a straggly mane, and the groom brought it out. It was, Herm decided, the ugliest horse he had ever seen. No amount of currying would make it lovely. Then the groom took out a leggy steed, piebald in gray and white, which regarded him a bit suspiciously until he let it take his scent. Then it snorted roughly.

Between the two of them, they had the animals saddled with some rather worn equipment in short order. “I’ll want a couple of bedrolls as well.”

“Very good, dom. We have many of those.” Without being told more, the man brought out two neatly tied bundles with nothing about them to suggest either wealth or station. Clearly the groom understood that Herm was on some sort of clandestine errand, and he could tell that the man was rather enjoying the whole event.

As soon as they were attached behind the saddles, Herm mounted the gelding, took the reins of the ugly mare in one hand, and asked, “What are their names?”

“The mare is called Fortune, and your gelding is Aldar, because he comes from up in the Hellers.” What a tale this is going to be.

Herm caught the thought and frowned. “Not a word of this to anyone, you understand. You never saw me.”

“Oh. Saw who?” There was disappointment in the groom’s voice, and the hint of uneasiness in his mind. Herm knew he was weighing the value of a juicy bit of gossip against a direct order, and then wondering how he was going to explain to the stable master about the disappearance of two animals which were his responsibility.

“Speak with Danilo Syrtis-Ardais if you have any questions, and he will tell you everything you need to know.”

“Very well, Dom.” Catch me bothering Dom Syrtis-Ardais! I thank not!

Herm rode out of the stableyard, and hoped that the groom was trustworthy and loyal. The worry of it brought back Katherine’s stinging accusations, and he felt quietly miserable as he rode through the now silent streets of Thendara, heading for the North Gate. The groom had not exaggerated the poorness of the gelding’s gait. It was dreadful. It almost spoiled the pleasure Herm had in being on horseback again, until he adjusted his body to conform to it a little. The mare trotted along behind him, the sound of hooves on the cobblestones echoing between the buildings.

It took him less than an hour to reach his goal, but even in that short a time his thighs were protesting this unexpected exercise, and he was ready to regret his impulse. It was not cold, he knew, for the time of year, but after two decades in the heated confines of Federation buildings, he felt like he might freeze to death. The breath of the horses barely misted the air, and he told himself he would readjust soon.

He looked around. There were two fields, one on either side of the road. He saw the brightly painted wagons of the Travelers in one, and some food vendors and muleteers in the other. Several fire pits were blazing, and he saw a number of figures standing around them. There was a sense of quiet about the scene. Someone was telling a story to a fascinated audience beside one fire, and a deep voice carried through the stillness.

Finally he spotted a small figure sitting beside one fire, cloaked and hooded. There were a couple of old men sitting across from him, on stones that had been there for ages, arguing about some small matter, but they paid no attention to him. Herm dismounted and led the horses over.

“Well, nephew,” he began quietly, “I see you got here before me. I was delayed in the city.”

The head beneath the hood moved at the sound of his voice, stilled, and then lifted. “I was starting to think you had forgotten me, Uncle.”

“I would never do that. I hope you were not bored, waiting.”

“Oh, no. I just watched the performances, and got something to eat.”

Herm! You are not who I expected!

I know. Now, we are going to be pretending to be quite ordinary people, on our way to a wedding in the hills.

We? Does that mean you aren’t going to send me back?

Not immediately, Nico. I promised your father I would keep you safe—he was not very pleased with you. Now, I want you to be called Tomas, and I will be Ian MacAnndra. It occurred to him then that there was something he had missed earlier, during the discussion in the study. Herm wondered why Danilo and Lew wanted Domenic away from Comyn Castle. Then he decided they probably had good reasons and stopped worrying about it.

I understand. That’s a good choice—there are hundreds of MacAnndras in the hills. I’ve been keeping an eye on the wagons while I waited, and nothing has happened so far. What are we going to do?

We are going to remain here until morning—there’s a bedroll for you—and then we are going to decide our next move. Tell me everything you have learned thus far, Nico.

Tomas! Not Nico. You might forget and say the wrong name—Uncle Ian!

Damn, but the boy was quick! Herm sat down next to the young man and stretched his hands toward the fire. Then he listened intently to the voice in his mind. The tale unwound clearly, beginning with how the Travelers’ wagon had passed Comyn Castle that morning and ending with what the boy had heard later. Domenic seemed to have a good memory and an eye for detail. As he went over his story, Herm could sense that Nico was starting to relax, and even enjoying himself a bit. He asked a few questions, and discovered that Nico had never seen the men’s faces, but thought he could identify them anyhow.

At last they stood up together and got the bedrolls from the horses, spread them out beside the fire, and prepared to sleep. Herm discovered he was very tired, and that his legs ached from riding, but he was excited as well. The pleasant smells of woodsmoke and horse dung, cold air and a light breeze, refreshed him. He ignored the rocks under his bedding and thought about Katherine and the children. His spirits started to plummet, but before he could pitch himself into despair, he heard the boy again. I think something as happening over near the Travelers.

What?

There as some sort of argument between the one called Vancof and another driver. They both seem a bit drunk, and their thoughts are not very clear. But it seems as if Vancof as picking a fight on purpose. There as an undertone in his mind—he’s afraid. No, he’s drunk and torn up aside. He wants to get away from here, but he thinks he has to stay at the same time. It is all muddled up with remorse and firewine.

A moment later loud voices erupted in the other field. There were shouts from within the wagons to be quiet, and the noise of wooden doors being opened and closed. Everyone who was awake looked over with interest. A few of the muleteers began to wander across the road, abandoning the storyteller at the fire pit in favor of more lively entertainment.

Herm sat up and looked, and Domenic as well. Two shadowed figures were struggling in front of one wagon, fists flying and mostly missing the mark. Then several other people got out of the wagons and joined in the fray, trying to separate the combatants.

The fight was over quickly, though the loud voices continued. One man swore at everyone, and shuffled away. He vanished into a wain, and reemerged a few minutes later with a rather clumsy bundle. He started to trudge away from the encampment, and a woman screamed at him. He turned and shouted back at her.

That’s the man, uncle that’s Vancof I don’t know who the harridan screaming at him is. It’s not the girl I saw earlier, but someone else. I never heard a woman, even Mother, say such things!

You have led a very sheltered life, Tomas. Never be surprised at what a woman can think of to say when she is angry. Can you sense anything more from him?

Not much. He really is pretty drunk. He just wants to get as far away as he can. But I can’t tell if he wants to get away from the Travelers or from the men he talked to before. He just seems disgusted with everything.

We can’t follow him without drawing attention to ourselves.

He is too drunk to get very far, I think, Uncle Ian. Sometimes Uncle Rafael gets like this, after he has had a row with Aunt Gisela. He drinks himself into a stupor, and falls asleep. Vancof seems to be in a similar state.

Good. Then let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day.

12

Lyle Belfontaine stared at the stack of sheets on his desk. They were the messages he had sent during the past two days, and all of them had been returned without any reply. This was something that had never happened before, and it left him with a knot in his belly and a raging headache. It was as if the Federation had vanished from the galaxy, leaving him stranded on Cottman IV. He had not felt so helpless since his father had dismissed him over thirty years before. And he had not felt so frustrated since just before the disastrous events on Lein III, when he had tried to overthrow a planetary government against all the rules of the Federation. It gave him an anxious feeling, a roughening of the skin at the back of his neck, an almost prescient sense that he might revisit those events, and this time make them work out to his advantage. Strange—this planet must really be getting under his skin, if he was starting to think like the superstitious natives who believed in such nonsense.

Miles Granfell walked into the office without announcement, his face sober, but his eyes gleaming with surpressed emotion. His boots were soiled, as if he had been walking on dirt, and his usually tidy hair was wind-tossed. Without a word, he took the chair on the other side of the desk and stretched his long legs forward.

“What is it?” Lyle growled the words, glaring at the stack of returned messages, aggrieved and almost eager to take it out on his underling. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, ‘walking to and fro upon the earth.’ “

Belfontaine recognized this as some sort of quotation. The last thing he wanted to do was play literature with Granfell, but he decided he had to be patient. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Granfell grinned and crossed his ankles. “I have some good news. Regis Hastur is dead.”

Belfontaine found himself angry at the man’s words rather than pleased. Surely he should have known about this before his subordinate! With an effort, he mastered his emotions and asked only, “Are you sure?”

“Vancof is, which will have to do for now.”

“I see. Well, that is news indeed,” he conceded with as much grace as he could muster. When he did not say anything further, the other man shifted in the chair, as if trying to gauge Lyle’s mood.

After a minute of silence, Granfell asked, “What’s all that clutter? I’ve never seen so much paper on your desk in all the years you have been here.”

Lyle eyed the other man with thinly masked dislike. Granfell’s tone bordered on insolence. Then he dismissed his feelings—it was just Miles’ way, after all. “It is every message I have sent out in the past thirty-six hours. Regional Headquarters seems to have . . . vanished.”

Granfell came to attention abruptly. “Is there some problem with the relay station?”

“I don’t know. Our transmitter appears to be functioning perfectly, but whatever I send out just bounces.” He did not need to add that the transmitter for Cottman IV was ancient by Federation standards, that all the equipment at Headquarters had been there for ten or even twenty years without replacement. Fortunately, most of it still worked, but recently they had had to scavenge parts from some mechanisms to keep others going—all because of the austerity measures that had spread across the Federation.

“This is serious, Lyle.”

“I am well aware of that,” he answered as icily as he could. “It makes your concerns that we might be abandoned here take on a whole new dimension.”

“Precisely. And I think we should . . .” Miles’ voice faltered, and he looked around the office slowly. “It makes planning anything very difficult,” he said at last.

Belfontaine looked at him dumbly for a moment, until he realized that Granfell had something he wanted to say that he did not want to have heard or recorded. Even the chance that they were going to be stuck on Cottman instead of removed did not relieve him of the fear of being suspected of working against the Federation. There were automatic devices in the walls of the room which heard everything, and he had no control over them, even though he was part of the Security Forces. If Lyle had been able to, he would have turned off the listeners long since. And just because the Federation was out of touch at present did not mean it would remain so. They had to proceed with caution.

“My head feels like I have been on a three-day drunk. Let’s take a walk, and consider our options,” he replied after a moment.

“The hangover without the pleasure of the booze, you mean?” The words were spoken casually as Granfell unfolded his long body from the chair, smiling without humor.

“Precisely.”

Belfontaine picked his all-weather cloak off the hook beside the door. They walked out of the office together, down the corridor, and took the lift to the ground floor without speaking again. Then they exited the building, coming into a chilly night, the sky overcast as usual, and the wind brisk. They moved across the tarmac in silence, until they were well away from everything, and had some assurance of not being overheard.

“So Regis Hastur is dead. And I never even got to meet him.”

“Yes. And if the Federation has left us behind, we have our own lives to think about. Vancof told me that Regis’ heir is Mikhail Hastur, and we know even less about him than we did about Regis. What I do know is that they are going to take the body up to some place near Lake Hali, some religious site.”

“Who is?”

“All of them, the entire Comyn Council, is my understanding, with their wives and children, and who knows how many else.”

“You mean that the Castle is going to be . . .”

“I’m not sure if it will be empty, but I suspect that it would be comparatively easy pickings. But that is just a building. The real power here is in the Domains.” After stating this obvious fact, Miles paused for several seconds, as if experiencing difficulty in continuing.

Belfontaine waited as patiently as he could, sensing the tension in his subordinate. “And?”

“What I think you should do is . . . arrange for this funeral train to be attacked along the road somewhere.” The words came in a rush, as if Granfell wanted to release them as fast as possible. When Belfontaine did not react, he went on. “I told Vancof to scout out a likely ambush site—which he did not like very much. But if a substantial part of the ruling class were removed, there would be no obstacle to Federation rule—assuming that there still is a Federation in a few weeks. I confess that this sudden silence makes me very uneasy. What do you think is going on out there?”

Belfontaine moved more quickly to keep the chill out of his bones. He thought about this sudden proposal, wary and suspicious. He did not like his underlings to have ideas of their own, and he was aware that such a plan was very dangerous. If it went awry, it was his head that was in the noose, not Granfell’s.

There was something about this sudden proposal that rang alarm bells in Belfontaine’s mind. What if Regis Hastur was still alive, and the entire thing was some plan to discredit him as Station Chief. It would not be the first time some ambitious subordinate had tried to further himself at the expense of his commander. He had never entirely trusted Granfell, had he? The whole thing seemed too good to be true, and Lyle had learned very early in life to mistrust anything he had not learned firsthand, for himself.

Still, he should be able to determine if, indeed, Hastur was dead. If he was, he knew why he had not been informed—Lew Alton was behind it, of course. It would be just like the man to keep him in the dark. He felt surrounded by enemies and incompetents, suspecting everyone, even the Planetary Administrator, Emmet Grayson, whom he had managed to neutralize effectively for the most part. The reorganization of the Federation bureaucracy had made it easy for Belfontaine to exclude Grayson from any real authority, but he still had a few loyal followers among the personnel at HQ. It seemed an unlikely prospect, but one which would bear considering when he was alone.

“I can only speculate about what is happening in Federation space, Miles. My best guess is that in order to keep things going they have simply closed down intersystem communication for the time being. That would keep any ambitious admirals or planetary governors from conspiring or causing trouble.”

“You think they have isolated all the member worlds, then?”

“Those that might be disloyal, certainly.”

“But why take us out of the loop?”

“A sound question, for which I have no answer. For all I know, some group has seized control of the relay station itself. The dissolution of the legislature may have triggered some crisis we cannot imagine—it was an ill-considered move, in my opinion. I have no doubt that Nagy’s Expansionist advisors assumed that they could control the situation, but I have never had a great deal of respect for most of them.”

“Politicians,” Granfell sneered.

“Exactly.” He weighed his next words carefully, wishing to seem neither too eager nor too reluctant. Granfell’s reaction to them would tell him a great deal. “Do you seriously think this funeral train can be attacked successfully?”

“I think it worth a try, yes.”

“I don’t want a try, Miles. I can’t risk violating Federation policy. It would have to appear as if it were a local action, not a Federation move.”

“Yes, that’s true. I thought that we might take advantage of our Aldaran friends in this.” The wind gusted and the words were muffled.

“What precisely do you have in mind?” Aldaran friends? He meant Dom Damon, who was no friend to anyone but himself. All of Belfontaine’s suspicions hardened—why bring Dom Damon into it? What was Granfell up to?

“If we fly some of the troops down from the Hellers, land them along the road, and attack the train . . .”

Lyle was shocked for a second as Granfell paused. This did not sound like a spur of the moment plan, but something that had been thought out far more completely. On the other hand, from the evidence of his boots, Miles had walked from wherever he had met Vancof, and perhaps he had used the time to think it through. He had never underestimated the intelligence of his subordinate before, and he was not going to begin now. “We have about a hundred useful men up there,” he answered reasonably, as if he were thinking about it, when instead his mind was racing with fresh suspicions. “The funeral procession will be heavily guarded, won’t it? The natives here may be backward, but they know how to fight.” He waited to hear Granfell’s reply, to measure it. The strange prickling he had had earlier on the back of his neck returned.

“Dress the men up in local clothing and pass them off as brigands. God knows there are enough of those up in the hills. And I am sure that a couple platoons of trained soldiers could take out these paltry guards without using blasters. We might mine the road or . . .”

“And if the Federation appears, and there is a Board of Inquiry, what then?”

“If you aren’t ready to take the risk . . .”

“I did not say that, Miles. But we have to be extremely cautious. I just want to be certain that, whatever happens, nothing can be traced to us. The idea of using men from the Hellers complex is a good one, since we can blame Dom Damon if anything goes wrong. We all know that he thinks that he could run Cottman if he ever got the chance. He would make an excellent scapegoat, particularly if he were dead. But I don’t want to move precipitously. It might be possible that this Mikhail Hastur would be more agreeable than his predecessor, and we could save ourselves a lot of potential trouble by trying to deal with him first.”

“I thought you would jump at the chance to get Cottman into the hands of the Federation.” Miles sounded disappointed, and a little angry, too.

Mine the road? Use blasters? Had Miles lost his mind? “There are too many random factors for my peace of mind.” When he saw the expression on the face of the other man, the look of eagerness fading away, Belfontaine felt a certain smugness. Granfell had to learn who was in charge here. “Still, it is an excellent opportunity, and I agree we should not ignore it. Go ahead. Get Vancof to work on finding a good site for an ambush, and we will try to gather more information. I want definitive proof that Regis Hastur is dead. Vancof’s word is not enough. And if I hear from Regional Headquarters tomorrow, we might have to scrap the whole idea.”

Granfell grunted, then nodded. “I’ll send Nailors out first thing in the morning.”

“Why not go yourself?” The introduction of Miles’ next in command disturbed him, for the more people who knew of the conspiracy, the greater was the danger of failure.

“Vancof hates my guts, and would do almost anything to annoy me. He was very reluctant when I suggested the idea a few hours ago—the man is a coward and a drunk. It is a pity we don’t have a better agent in place, but he is the only one that is on the route the procession will take. And we don’t have time to get another band of Travelers into position to spy for us.”

“Can Nailors be trusted?”

Granfell did not answer immediately, and Belfontaine felt a sudden thrust of unease pierce his belly. “I believe he can be,” the other man finally said.

The reply did not reassure Belfontaine, but instead caused the faint bud of unease in his mind to bloom into a full-fledged anxiety. Granfell was holding something back. He must be! What was it? He had a yearning to grab the taller man by the throat and throttle the truth out of him. For all he knew, the entire story was a fabrication, some plot to discredit him. Lyle chewed over this, hating the wind blowing against his back, the smell of woodsmoke drifting across from the city choking his throat. He looked at the decaying surface beneath his feet, the weeds that had pushed through the ancient concrete, breaking it, and held back a sudden sense of helplessness and fury.

The dilemma before him seemed hydralike. If Granfell was telling the truth, and Regis Hastur was dead, why had he not heard of it from other sources? True, Lew Alton had stonewalled him on certain matters in the past, but it seemed out of character for him not to have informed Headquarters. The man was just a bureaucrat, full of his own position and power, wasn’t he? Was there some sort of struggle going on in Comyn Castle? Perhaps this unknown Mikhail Hastur did not trust Lew Alton—which would suit Belfontaine well enough. Alton was Regis’ advisor, but was he also a confidant of this unknown man? He needed better information, and he could think of no way to get any immediately. If only that daughter of Damon Aldaran’s had been as useful as her father had suggested she might be.

On the other hand, if Granfell were playing him false, then this whole thing might be a plot to discredit him and take his place. Belfontaine played that idea out quickly. With his personal history, it would not be difficult for Granfell to convince their superiors that he had been the instigator of an unauthorized attack on the planetary rulers of Cottman IV. That was assuming that the Federation had not abandoned them to the cold winds of Cottman forever.

Why was he suggesting using troops from the Aldaran Domain? Was Granfell in league with that old fool up in the Hellers? Miles had gone to the Hellers a few months before, ostensibly to evaluate the situation there. But what if the actual reason had been to see Dom Damon and involve him in Granfell’s personal ambitions. If Belfontaine were removed, Miles was the logical person to step into his place as Station Chief.

What if the Federation’s planned retreat had forced Granfell’s hand? With a sick feeling, Belfontaine realized that his hatred of Cottman had led him to isolate himself, to depend on Miles Granfell, whom he knew to be a discontented and ambitious man. But until now he had always believed he could trust the man not to overstep himself.

“Let us take one thing at a time, shall we?”

Miles was not satisfied, if the angry jerk of his shoulders was anything to judge by. “Why wait? I thought you would jump at the chance.”

“There are several ways to approach this situation, Miles, and not all of them involve the wholesale slaughter of a hundred or more people.”

“Very well. But I will send Nailors off in the morning to tell Vancof to scout out a possible site for an ambush.” He paused, as if something disturbed him, something he did not want to say. “Uh, there is a little problem. Vancof says he wants written orders from you before he goes ahead. And a shortbeam transmitter, too. Funny, isn’t it, how much of our current technology fails to work on Cottman, but things we abandoned hundreds of years ago still do.”

“A transmitter? I don’t much care for that idea. The locals are backward and self-absorbed, but not so much so that they would fail to notice illegal technology . . .” Written orders? Was that really Vancof’s idea, or was Miles trying to create trouble for him? One thing the disaster on Lein III had taught him was to never leave any evidence behind, and here was Granfell suggesting that he do exactly that. The whole thing smelled. No, it stank!

“I don’t think there is much real danger that it will be discovered and recognized as prohibited technology, do you?” Granfell brushed aside Lyle’s mild objection with an abrupt gesture, his face animated in the yellow glow from a nearby light. “And perhaps we might see about creating a bit of havoc in Thendara itself—something to keep those stupid City Guards busy.”

Belfontaine gave the taller man a hard look. On the surface he seemed just as he always had, a ruthless, restless man with grand ambitions. But underneath—Lyle sensed a tension that he could not quite read. Granfell was too eager for Belfontaine’s comfort, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Granfell could not have come up with such a plan on the spur of the moment. He didn’t believe Granfell was that clever. And suggesting sending a piece of off-world technology to a man who was a poor spy, although an efficient assassin when he was not drinking too heavily, made no sense and roused a finger of unease in his already unsettled belly.

Yes, it was clear now. Granfell could not be trusted, and he was probably in league with either the Planetary Administrator, Grayson, or with Lord Aldaran. Hmm . . . for all he knew, Miles was in league with Lew Alton, and this was why the news of Hastur’s death had not reached him. Stranger things had happened. He drew a breath, forcing himself to keep his imagination in check.

“Do what you can,” he answered with as much outward indifference as he could manage, while inwardly seething. “And have Nailors see me before he leaves—I’ll think about the shortbeam.”

Granfell turned and walked away without a word, leaving Belfontaine alone in the cold. After a minute, he turned and walked toward his own quarters, deep in thought. Surely he had neutralized Grayson sufficiently. Besides, the man was not much of a schemer. So it must be Aldaran. Unless Alton was part of the plot, too. No, this seemed unlikely in the extreme. It had to be Dom Damon, didn’t it, with his desire to become the real power on Cottman.

Abruptly, Belfontaine turned and went back into the HQ Building. He had to find out if Granfell had been in secret communication with Dom Damon—the idea had never occurred to him until now. What an idiot he was! He had such contempt for the old man that he had not seen the danger at all. And there were those sons of his, too. Why had Hermes Aldaran returned so suddenly? Or perhaps it was the older one, Robert, who was conspiring with Granfell. Just because he appeared the soul of probity did not mean he had no desire to succeed to his father’s place.

They must all be in this together! There was no other reasonable explanation for Herm Aldaran to have come back so conveniently. Somehow the old man or Robert must have sent for him—his return had nothing to do with the dissolution of the legislature! That had been a mere coincidence. He must find a way to get Hermes away from Comyn Castle. He knew ways to get information out of a man!

Frustration welled up in his throat, leaving his mouth sour and dry. Lew Alton had not even bothered to reply to his demand for the return of Herm Aldaran. He felt ignored—no, worse—dismissed as unimportant. Well, he would just have to do something—perhaps send a message to this Mikhail Hastur instead. Or go to Comyn Castle himself and demand a meeting. He shuddered all over. He would not risk his dignity by going—no, he would make someone come to him! And if it was Lew Alton, the man would never leave HQ alive.

For a moment, he dwelt on this satisfying idea, enjoying the images that danced in his mind. Then Lyle scolded himself. Alton was too smart to risk it, and he knew it. And he was being hasty, jumping to conclusions without enough real evidence, wasn’t he? No! On the contrary, he knew in his gut that he was right—that his constant fear and paranoia had some foundation.

As his chilled feet hit the floor of the corridor leading toward the Communications Office, Belfontaine felt the enormity of the plot swell in his mind. The heat of the building was almost stifling after the cold outside, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his narrow brow. He pulled off his cloak with an angry yank, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The water-resistant fabric of his uniform refused to absorb the moisture, and he was forced to use his hand, which he loathed doing.

The Communications Office was empty except for one sleepy-eyed clerk who stared at him with a gaping jaw before leaping up hastily and saluting gracelessly. Belfontaine ignored him until he found a tissue and wiped his hands. “Has there been any word from Regional?”

“No, sir. It has been quiet all during my shift.” The clerk looked uneasy, as if he wanted to ask questions but dared not.

“No news is good news, perhaps. Why don’t you take a break—have some synthecaf or something. Bring me some, too.”

The clerk didn’t react at first, just looked mildly surprised. He was not supposed to leave his post unless he was relieved. Then comprehension stole over his face. “Yes, sir. That would be very pleasant.”

Belfontaine watched him leave, and realized that it had been a mistake to come there. Too late. He knew the clerk would talk unless he could find a way to stop him, and he did not want his visit to be the gossip of HQ by dawn. He would worry about that later.

He sat down in the still warm chair vacated a minute before and tapped a few commands into the keyboard. The thing was old, the keys soiled with use, and some of them were sluggish to respond. Another economy—the keyboard should have been replaced long since.

It had been several years since Belfontaine had actually used a communications array, but he had not forgotten how. This pleased him. It took only a few strokes to call up the records he had in mind, then transfer them to the display in his office. There was no way to remove the traces of his use, however, if anyone wished to discover what he had been up to. He could only hope that the clerk’s evident boredom and sleepiness would prevent him searching for what had occurred.

When the faint tattoo of approaching footsteps came to his ears, he cleared the board, rose, and returned to the spot where he had been standing before. He whistled tunelessly, a nervous habit he had never quite managed to break. When the clerk came in with two disposable containers a moment later, Belfontaine took one calmly.

“It must be rather boring sitting here all night,” he commented.

“Yes, sir, but I am used to it now.”

“Still, I have been a little lax about rotating the shifts, I think. How long have you had the night shift?”

“Eight months or so, sir. Ever since I was posted to Cottman.”

Ah, good—he was a recent transfer. And from his nervousness, probably easily intimidated. “That is much too long! I’ll see about having you transferred to days for a while.”

“But, sir . . . aren’t we . . . I mean?”

Lyle gave him a coy look, trying to appear amused. “I think you deserve to be put on days for the foreseable future,” he announced. “If that would suit you.”

The disconcerted clerk looked down into his cup. “It does rather interfere with my social life, always being awake at night and asleep most of the day,” he admitted. “And I don’t have the seniority to get a better shift, so I didn’t even ask.”

“Got a lady friend in the Trade City, do you?”

“I wouldn’t call her a lady, sir.”

Belfontaine laughed as lewdly as he could manage, and the clerk smiled timidly. “Well, tomorrow I’ll change your shift. I am glad I came in tonight. I have had so much on my mind that I haven’t been giving as much attention to my men as I should.” The words were as sour in his mouth as the revolting liquid in his cup. He hated synthecaf.

“Was there something you wanted, or were you just . . . restless, sir?”

“I could not sleep, so I went for a walk, and then I just found myself here. Habit, I suppose. I began my career at a message array, and a room like this seems very homey to me. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no particular reason, sir, except I’ve never seen you around at night. But I think we are all a little restless, with things being so unsettled.”

Belfontaine nodded, as if he accepted this explanation. “Unsettled. That’s a good word for it.” Then a worm of suspicion uncoiled in his mind. “I suppose I am not the only one wandering around in the corridors.”

“No, sir. Clerk Gretrian said that Captain Granfell stopped in during her shift, and then he came back again a while ago. Just looked in and gave me a hello.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, sir. And two nights ago, or maybe three—they all start to run together after a while—I saw Administrator Grayson’s assistant, too. Hmm. It seems to me that she’s been here other times as well, even before the order to get the indigines off the complex came through.”

“My goodness! I had no idea.” Belfontaine wanted very much to ask if Grayson’s assistant, a half-Cottman woman who had been raised in the John Reade Orphanage, had tried to access anything. No, he decided, it would be foolish to display any real interest. Perhaps Granfell and Grayson were indeed up to something. The suspicion he had discarded only a short time before returned with a vengeance. “Well, good night. And thanks for the synthecaf. After the outdoors, it was very welcome. Beastly climate, isn’t it.”

“You can say that again, sir.”

“Good night, then.” Belfontaine walked out of the CommCenter before he realized that he had no idea what the name of the clerk was, and that he did not really care. But he would find out, and put the man in for a transfer to days. Perhaps that favor would keep him from talking, or defuse his interest in why the Station Chief had stopped in so suddenly.

A wave of weariness washed through him, followed by a mild nausea. He dropped the now tepid synthecaf cup into the closest disposal chute and made a face. There were too many variables, suddenly, after years of things being stable, and he did not like it. No, that was too mild a reaction. He hated this situation. He hated not knowing who his foes were, and he hated not being able to predict what would happen in the near future.

Belfontaine’s small hands curled into fists, and he wished there were something nearby that he could hit. But the walls of the corridor were unforgiving, and he was not of a mind to injure himself out of sheer frustration. He needed to have a plan of his own. The problem was he had no clear idea where to begin.

His office was silent, and the stack of papers on the desk did not improve his mood. Why was the Regional Relay Station returning his messages unanswered? If the Federation was really going to pull out of Cottman, he should be receiving lots and lots of directives, shouldn’t he? Unless they were somehow being rerouted to Grayson.

That, at least, was something he could check out. He pushed the papers aside, intent on finding some answers. He keyed into the comm in his desk and began a search. No, Grayson was not sending out separate requests, nor receiving replies, other than one two days before, when everything had stopped cold. And that one, when he accessed it, was perfectly correct, exactly what a Planetary Administrator should be asking from Regional HQ . . . unless it was in some code.

Belfontaine toyed with the idea for a moment, then rejected the possibility. Emmet Grayson was from a family that had been in Federation Service for generations, and he took his duties seriously. He was, as far as Lyle had ever known, a rather dull man who was honest to a fault. Worse, he actually believed that Cottman was fine, just as it was, and had done as much as he had been able to prevent Belfontaine from changing things. Really, the notion of him conspiring with Granfell or anyone else was laughable.

He keyed up the records he had caused to be transferred to his unit, looking now for any communication between Granfell and the Federation outpost in the Aldaran Domain. There were a few things, but they were the normal sort of communication. There was nothing alarming or even interesting in them.

This did not mean that Granfell had not met with Dom Damon while he was up in the Hellers, though. Miles was clever enough not to leave traces of any subversive activity.

Was it possible that nothing was going on? Could it be that Miles’ plan really was a spur of the moment thing, conjured up opportunistically when he learned that Regis Hastur was dead. Was he being overly tortuous, or just plain paranoid?

Perhaps the best thing would be to let Granfell go ahead, bring a few troops down from the Hellers to attack the train, and see what happened. If it succeeded, fine. If it did not, then he could claim he knew nothing about it, that Granfell had acted on his own, without authorization, should it come to a Board of Inquiry.

Of course Granfell would try to implicate him, and with Belfontaine’s past record, he might even be believed. It would be better if Granfell did not survive, wouldn’t it? He was much too eager for Belfontaine’s comfort. And there was Nailors to consider as well. He was Granfell’s man, and would back him up.

A slow grin began to pull at the corners of his mouth. He could see a way out now. Vancof wanted orders, did he? Well, he would get them, and they would solve the entire problem. If you have an assassin, you might as well use him. And Nailors would never have any idea that he carried his own death warrant, and Granfell’s as well.

Pleased with his own cunning, Belfontaine turned his mind to the other problem, that of Mikhail Hastur. He had never seen the man—could have passed him in the hall without recognition. He might be manipulable, and he might not. And wasn’t there a son of Regis’ somewhere?

Annoyance replaced his good mood abruptly. He had not gathered enough information during his years on Cottman, and now he had to work without it. True, Granfell might manage to eliminate most of the ruling class of Cottman, or at least those who were adults. But would that get him what he wanted?

He could not depend on that, could he? And if the members of the Comyn were away from Thendara, bearing the body of Regis Hastur north, then the castle should be easy pickings. And there were at least a hundred and fifty men in the HQ Barracks, eating their heads off and whoring with the local women. They were a match for any number of sword-carrying guards, even without high energy weapons.

What justification could he claim for attacking Comyn Castle? For several seconds he was thwarted, and then he realized that the solution was Hermes Aldaran. He was a wanted man, and, as far as Belfontaine knew, he was holed up in the castle. Therefore, he would be justified in storming the blasted place—if the Federation ever questioned his actions, they would never know that Hermes most likely would be riding north with the rest. Yes, that was the answer.

As soon as the funeral train was out of the city, he would order an assault on Comyn Castle. The unfilled warrant for Hermes Aldaran was all he really needed, wasn’t it? And there would be no real opposition, just a few servants and a handful of Castle Guards. And once they occupied that great white pile on the hill, he would be in the perfect position to make any demands he wished. With any luck at all, it might be a bloodless coup.

Belfontaine leaned back in the too-large chair, feeling it hit his spine in all the wrong places, and sighed. Then he leaned forward and pressed a thumb lock on the lowest drawer of the desk. It slid open silently, and he took out a bottle of rare Fontainian brandy and a small glass. Slowly he poured himself a tipple. He raised the glass, toasting the air, and tried to convince himself that at last his ambitions were going to be realized.