17

Domenic was fretting with restlessness. After they had entered the inn, Herm found one of the Renunciates and told her to find Vancof and keep an eye on him. Then he had ordered Nico to change into his new clothes and stay out of sight. This had not pleased the boy, but he was so accustomed to doing what he was told that it took a while for his feelings of resentment to manifest. Herm himself had settled into the common room of the Crowing Cock with a mug of beer, relaxing before the wide hearth, and somehow managing to appear unremarkable. Nico had been able to observe him before he went up the stairs, and had wondered how the man did it. He just seemed to melt into the woodwork.

Nico felt let down, the way he often did after a celebration in Comyn Castle. The excitement of the previous evening and the ride along the Old North Road had sustained him, but now he once more felt like a child, sent off to his room and told to be quiet. There was even, he decided, hard logic in Herm’s instructions. Vancof had seen him the previous day, and might recognize him if they met in the halls of the inn, but he had never seen the Aldaran man.

Still, there was the evening’s performance to look forward to—unless Herm decided to keep him away from that as well. Nico tried to marshal a few good arguments as to why he should be allowed to attend, and decided that the Alton Gift was probably the best. He scanned the inn again, as he had done several times since he came upstairs, and noticed the Terranan who had ridden in earlier sitting in the taproom, looking uneasy and fidgety. He was probably waiting for Vancof.

Time passed, and he wished he had something to read. He closed his eyes and slipped into a light doze. After a while, he sat up, refreshed but also somewhat unnerved by his nap—had he slept too long? Domenic peered out the narrow window, facing west, and saw that the sun was sinking behind heavy clouds. Soon it would set, and twilight would creep over the town. He could not stand it a second longer! He ran a comb roughly through his hair, and then opened the door of the room.

He was just coming down the stairs from his room when he heard a familiar voice in the entry. Domenic stepped into the shadowed door of the dining room and peeked around the jamb. Yes, it was one of the older, retired Guardsmen, Fredrich MacDunald, dressed in worn and ordinary clothing. Nico had never seen him without his uniform before, and he was rather surprised by how different he appeared.

Nico hesitated. Should he expose himself and speak to his friend, or stay out of sight, as Herm had instructed him? When Aran MacIvan followed Fredrich into the inn a moment later, he decided that he had better tell Herm of this new development before he did anything else. This spying stuff was more complicated than he had imagined.

Uncle Herm!

Yes, Nico.

I think some reinforcements have arrived. A couple of retired Guardsmen from Thendara have just come into the inn, dressed lake common folk, and I cannot imagine any reason for them to be here—unless they have come to drag me back to Comyn Castle. Should I speak to them or not?

Have they seen you?

Not yet. I am sort of lurking an the shadows.

Then let them alone, for the present. We don’t want to call too much attention to ourselves, or to them. Has Vancof come back yet?

I haven’t seen him, but I was upstairs, like you told me. He could tell that even in telepathic communication his sense of ill-usage came through.

Poor Nico. I am not letting you have any fun at all, am I? Why don’t you venture into the kitchens.

Why would I want to do that?

Because growing lads are always hungry, and your being in there will not cause any comment. Then, if Vancof comes in through the back door of the inn, you will certainly see him.

What if the cook chases me out? And what if Vancof notices me?

Be creative. You’ve already shown you can be.

It was better than sitting on his hands in the room, and he was a bit hungry. At least Uncle Herm had not sent him back there! Domenic followed the smell of fresh bread into the back portion of the Crowing Cock, and found himself in a large, very clean kitchen. Two girls sat on one side of a long table, cutting vegetables and chatting quietly. On the far side of the hot room, a boy was pulling loaves from a great beehive oven, using a long wooden paddle to keep from burning his hands. The cook, a very skinny man, was standing before the stove, stirring a pot, and the wonderful smell of chervine stew with dumplings wafted out from it. His mouth watered.

One of the girls looked up from her work and gave him a friendly smile. She appeared to be a year or so younger than himself, and by her features, must be related to the innkeeper. At least she had the same small, turned-up nose as Evan MacHaworth. She gestured him toward the table with the knife in her hand. “Can’t wait for supper, huh?”

“I am a little bit hungry,” he admitted, as he sat down on the bench across from her. “Can I do something to help?” The cook turned around at the sound of his voice, gave him a look, then returned to his stirring.

She giggled, as if she had never heard anything so funny in her life. Then she got up, grabbed a loaf of bread that was already sitting at the end of the table, cut it into two pieces, and put both in a basket. She took the basket in one hand, and another with something green in it in the other, and came back.

“You ever strung snap-beans before?”

“No, but if you show me how, I can probably do it.”

“You must be really bored if you want to string beans. Here, this is how.” She demonstrated with a few quick gestures. “I hate to do it, but the way our cook fixes them makes it worth the work. He fries them with bacon and it is delicious!” She turned and grinned at the back of the skinny cook, and Nico had the impression it was some sort of joke between them.

“That sounds good.” He pulled a chunk of bread off, bit into it, and started to string the beans. It wasn’t very challenging, but it was much better than sitting in his room, waiting for something to happen. He could see how the nameless girl would grow weary of it.

The other girl glanced up from the growing pile of carrots in front of her, gave him a nod and then looked at the first girl with a calculating eye. He sensed her watchfulness, her slight unease, and sensed without the least probing that she was keeping an eye on him with her younger sister. “We will get a big crowd in here tonight, what with the Travelers being here, and all the folks in the town coming around to see the show,” she informed him.

“I saw some men come in just before I came back,” he offered, “and I think they might be wanting dinner, too.”

“Really?” She did not seem surprised or very interested in new guests. “I’m Hannah, and this is my sister Dorcas,” the older girl announced. “This time of year we are always busy, and never busier than when the Travelers stop by. There won’t be an empty room in the place, what with you and your uncle, and those women.” She gave a big sigh. “Father has gone off to the market, so I’d better go find out if the men you saw will be wanting a place to sleep.”

He watched Hannah get up and go out. Then Dorcas said, “She doesn’t think much of Renunciates, but I think they are interesting. And a while ago, one of them marched right through the kitchen and out the back. I wonder what she was about?”

So much for not drawing attention, he thought glumly. “Who knows,” he replied. “They go where they like, don’t they?”

Dorcas giggled again, a titter that was going to get on his nerves if he heard it very much longer. “You woulda thought the kitchen was a lane this afternoon, because one of the Travelers came through, too. I’ve seen him before, but I woulda known he was one of them by his clothes anywhere. Came through town just before Midsummer and got roaring drunk. Dad had to send him out before he was sick on the hearth. A real nasty piece,” she went on, giggling at the same time, for no reason he could discern. She probably did it in her sleep.

Then he sensed that she was just nervous, and knew that she wanted to impress him and make him like her. She was so different from his sister, or his cousins, that he did not really know what to make of her. But he felt a little ashamed of comparing her to Alanna, or even that Illona Rider, who was probably still sewing in the confines of the wagon. “It must be interesting living in an inn.”

Dorcas shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never lived anywheres else, or gone beyond the town even. Ma says it was good enough for her, and has to be good enough for me, but I would like to go to Thendara and see the sights.”

Domenic bit off another mouthful of bread and did not answer until he had chewed and swallowed it. Even without butter or honey, it was very good, and the smell of the stew was tempting. “What sights do you mean?”

“There’s Comyn Castle, and the spaceport, and Terranan, to be sure. I heard the Big Ships make a fearful noise when they land, and I would like to see if it is so. And they say there’s a new hall built by the Musicians Guild, as big as a barn, but with seats in it insteada stalls and hay.”

“I heard that, too, but I have never seen it.”

“Have you ever seen a Terranan?”

Before he could answer, Domenic saw Vancof slip into the open door at the back of the kitchen, looking very furtive. He bent his head over the beans so his unbound hair concealed his features, and felt a burst of success as the man passed by him without a glance. He could hear the topmost thoughts in the man’s mind, but they were disorganized, full of anger and fear, and not particularly informative. Vancof was so lost in thought, he realized, that he could have been naked and dancing on the table, and the man might not have noticed him.

A moment later he sensed another presence nearby, saw Samantha, one of the Renunciates, come to the door of the kitchen, peer inside at Vancof’s shoulders, and then fade away into the growing twilight. If he had not been expecting her, he would have missed her completely, and he wondered if he could learn to do that. He thought she was going to circle around the Crowing Cock and come in from the front door.

Domenic spent a minute trying to make some sense of the troubled thoughts of the driver, to glean any useful information from them at all. There was something about orders that was bothering him. Then he used the Alton Gift to speak to his uncle again.

Herm, the driver is back, and so is Samantha.

I know. Vancof just came into the taproom and ordered a brew. Now he has noticed the man you recognized, and he does not look very pleased. I think he resents our friend here—there—he’s sitting down at the table across from him and trying to look casual. Hmm . . . maybe resentment i’s the wrong feeling—Vancof looks very uncomfortable.

Good! From the little I know about him, he deserves to be! What about the Guardsmen I noticed?

I assume they are here, too, but since I do not know them, I can’t say for certain. The room is getting very crowded, since half the village seems to have stopped in for a drink. This entire thing is becoming more amusing by the second. What are you doing?

I’m sitting across from a very giggly girl, cleaning up snap-beans and listening to her life story.

Well, finish your task, and then come out an front. It will be dark soon, and I want to keep an eye on our friends here, and see what they do. I’ll need your help.

Domenic had almost emptied the basket by now, and there was a large pile of cleaned and broken beans on the table in front of him. He was needed—how gratifying! It occurred to him briefly that he had never felt particularly needed before, and then he wondered what they were going to do about supper. He chided himself for letting his belly get in the way of his good sense. Eating was not that important, was it?

“I’d better go see if my uncle is looking for me,” he told Dorcas.

“Take the rest of that piece of bread with you. It should hold you until we start serving.”

“Thanks. It was fun.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you have to clean beans six days out of ten during the season. I am always glad when they are done, all put up in crocks for winter.” Dorcas seemed a little disappointed at his departure. “Will I see you at the show?”

“Probably,” he replied vaguely. The last thing he needed was some girl hanging around. Now, if it were Alanna, it would be different. She might be high-strung, but she was not silly, and she never giggled!

He went through the rather dark corridor from the kitchen to the front of the inn, and was so intent on his movements that he nearly ran into the broad chest of Duncan Lindir, standing in the shadows. The old Guardsman gave him a startled look, a quick nod, and a slight grin.

“What’s going on? Has my father sent the entire barracks up here?” he hissed to the man.

Duncan shook his head. “There’s ten of us, that Dom Danilo ordered to come here. We started out right after midday, and rode much too hard for these old bones,” he grumbled. “I don’t know what is going on. All Dom Danilo said was that Dom Aldaran would tell us what to do—never thought I’d find myself answering to an Aldaran. And what are you doing here?”

“It’s too complicated to explain now. Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

“For what?”

Domenic hesitated for a moment. If Uncle Danilo had not informed the man of a plot to try to assassinate Mikhail Hastur, then he should not say anything, should he? Still, he could sense both curiosity and some bewilderment from Duncan, and it needed to be satisfied. “There are some Terranan here, and we believe they are going to cause trouble. Keep an eye on a big man with very new boots and short brown hair. He’s in the taproom just now. I think, sitting with a ratty-faced man. There may be more—I don’t know yet.”

“Dom Domenic . . .”

“Don’t call me that! I’m Tomas MacAnndra, and Hermes is Ian MacAnndra—and you never saw me before in your life! I am going into the taproom now, and I’ll sit down with Herm, so then you will know who he is.”

“Then I guess I don’t know your name,” Duncan replied, forgetting his aching bones and grumbling. His eyes startled to twinkle with great good humor. “Good thought—since I never set eyes on the man. What have you gotten yourself into, lad?”

Nico did not reply, but just left the corridor and walked toward the front of the inn. The noise from the taproom was tremendous, many male voices discussing the weather, the corn crop, the news of the death of Regis Hastur, and other matters. There were a few female voices as well, and he recognized Rafaella’s before he came to the doorway.

Herm saw him and waved him over. Then he gestured to the serving boy and signaled for a short mug for Domenic. By the time Nico reached the table, the boy had brought the beer, and he settled down on the bench beside Herm and picked it up.

I bumped into Duncan Lindir in the hall, and he told me that Danilo Ardais has sent ten men up here, without any instructions except to obey your orders. He was not exactly pleased at having to answer to an Aldaran, so do not be surprised of you are greeted with some coolness, Uncle. I don’t know why he did not tell them more, or why they were sent.

I don’t know either, but I am not sorry that they have come. Hmm. If they were not told about the plot against your father, it was likely so that they would not inadvertently reveal it to anyone else. “What have you been up to, nephew?”

Duncan was not expecting to find me here, and was surprised, so I think you are probably right. “I went to the kitchens and got something to eat,” Nico answered, holding up the remnants of the bread. “And I helped with the preparations, too.”

“Your mother would be proud of you, lending a hand.” Is there any reason for Danilo to play things close to his chest?

Umm. Well, Cisco Ridenow, the Commandant of the Barracks, is not exactly one of Father’s friends. He would have preferred it if Uncle Rafael had taken the job, when it came vacant three years ago, but Regis decided against it, because of Gisela and all. Uncle Rafael isn’t entirely trusted, which I think must hurt him dreadfully. I wasn’t really paying attention, since I was at Arilinn then, and by the time I came back, Cisco was already in charge.

What sort of man is he, Nico?

I think I would call him smooth. He is an empath, like many of the Ridenow, but he is good on military matters. I learned a lot from him, about how to look at a building and find its weak points, for instance. I have always found him to be fair, but there is just something about him that is very remote.

What do you mean by smooth?

Well, there is something about him that I don’t really like, and I can barely explain it. Nothing bad, but he is as slick as a glass ball—nothing seems to cling to him. I guess the most I can say is that I wouldn’t completely trust him to back me up in a fight. Or maybe I just don’t like him because his father was always fighting with Regis, and will probably make everything more difficult in Council. My judgment may be prejudiced, Uncle.

At least you have the wisdom to realize that you might dislike Cisco for no other reason than that his father was an adversary of Regis. There are a lot of people three times your age who would not be able to make such a distinction. What is the general feeling about Cisco in the barracks?

I don’t know—it would have been impolite to ask, wouldn’t it? I haven’t overheard any real grumbling, though. As I said, he seems to be fair, but very . . . remote.

I see. I wish you were a little nosier, Nico. It would have been useful of you knew more. Still, the fact that Dando Ardais is sending men up here with only a minimum of instruction is very suggestive.

Of what?

Something clandestine. Wouldn’t Cisco be aware of these men being ordered to Carcosa?

No, he wouldn’t. Those I spotted are retired from active duty, and only would be called for of there was a real need for trained men.

I see. Is Cisco trusted by Danilo Ardais?

I suppose so—but Danilo is so deep and cunning that I would never guess if he weren’t. He’s never done anything that I know about that would make anyone actively mistrust him. I think it is only that Francisco Ridenow, his father, is practically in Grandmother Javanne’s pocket, and has opposed Regis for years now. I think giving Cisco the Commandant’s position was intended to mollify Dom Ridenow—but it didn’t work. He is just as bone-headed as he always was. And it’s only natural that Danilo would assume that anything Cisco found out would come to his father’s ears very quickly.

And do you believe that?

I’m not sure, Uncle. It seems to me that Cisco keeps his own counsel most of the time—that he doesn’t trust anyone too far. And he might not trust his father very much either.

Why?

When Francisco was younger, the Ridenow Domain had several men who could have claimed it—two older brothers, and an uncle. They all came to grief, and a lot of people think that Francisco had a hand in their untimely deaths. Who knows if it’s true or not.

I had almost forgotten how complex Darkovan alliances could become. They make the backroom dealing of the Federation look like a picnic in the park.

Domenic had never seen a park or been on a picnic, so he shrugged his shoulders and sipped his beer. I described the man with Vancof, and told Duncan to keep an eye on them if they leave the taproom. Was that the right thing to do?

Yes. Now, let’s go eat something, since I think this might be a very long night for us.

When Herm and Nico came out of the inn an hour later, it was already dark, and the smallest moon, Mormallor, had risen. The smell of the night air was fresh, but heavy with the threat of rain, and it did not entirely conceal the pungent scent of the nearby stables and hen runs. This, added to the powerful scent of the growing number of people crowded into the courtyard was rather overwhelming at first. Then his nose stopped protesting, and he forgot about it.

Nico looked around with interest. He saw that torches had been set in stanchions around the broad courtyard of the Crowing Cock, and the wagons of the Travelers looked much better in that light than in the glare of day. The shabby paintings on the sides of the wains seemed prettier, and the worn costumes of the performers looked finer. He watched a fire eater stuff what seemed to be burning brands into his throat, and wondered how the trick was accomplished. Overhead, a slack rope had been drawn from the stables to one outjutting portion of the roof of the inn, and a slender female was just setting her comely foot on it, testing it for her acrobatics.

Half the town had turned out for the entertainment, and there was a great deal of noise. A juggler began to toss lighted torches into the air, and the crowd cheered, then jeered when he dropped one. The man, who had a comical face, just grinned and continued to perform. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, continuing discussions begun in the taproom, and a general air of anticipation ran through the crowd. Most of the people wore cloaks and capes, although the evening was not particularly cold yet, so the hoods were pushed back. The earlier wind had died away, and it was calm and almost pleasantly cool.

Domenic spotted the rest of the men whom Danilo had sent, mingling in the crowd. In spite of their ordinary clothing, they still seemed to him to be obviously Guardsmen, from the straightness of their backs and the alert way they watched the crowd. Still, he suspected that no one else would catch on immediately. And even though he almost resented their presence, part of him was very glad they were there. He also noticed the man who had ridden in during the afternoon, standing in a corner where the stables were connected to the wall of the inn and keeping an eye on everything. The entire scene began to take on a fantastic aspect to his eyes, as if the townspeople and the Travelers were a backdrop for a play which had not yet begun.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and swept the crowd with his mind, as his mother had taught him to do a few months earlier. It was a dizzying experience, with such a large number, but he was getting better at it. He sensed Rafaella, standing about ten feet away from him, keeping an eye on him as if he were her own child, and the other Renuciates scattered through the throng. From the Guardsmen he received the impression of puzzlement and a little worry, and realized that they were feeling more than a little resentment at their lack of directions. It was a shame that none of them had laran, and that the only way he could communicate with them was by using the Alton Gift.

Nico shifted his attention back to the Terranan, who was doing a reasonable job of fading into the crowd. He, too, was puzzled and annoyed, and waiting for something as well. Why did he keep looking up at the sky? And why was he looking to the north, toward the mountains, instead of toward Thendara and the spaceport.

He leaned his head back and scanned the dark sky, seeing a few bright stars poking through the light overcast that was moving slowly in from the west. In his present heightened state of awareness, he felt the earth beneath his feet and the movement of the clouds above him. There was a strong if brief temptation to let himself fall into a light trance, to listen to the planet itself, but he resisted it. Instead, he sniffed the air and guessed how long it would be before the rain arrived. Not long, he decided. The clouds were moving faster than when he had wakened from his nap, driven by a wind high up in the atmosphere. Then he returned his attention to the nameless spy hovering at the edge of the throng, turning so as to be able to observe him without being obvious.

Uncle Herm.

What is it?

The Terran man keeps looking north, at the sky, as if he is expecting to see something fly overhead. That’s the wrong direction for Thendara and the spaceport. There is nothing that way except . . .

The Domains of the Aldaran and Ardais, as well as the estates of the Storn. And none of them have any Federation technology except my father. You need not try to spare my feelings, Nico. I’m just pleased that you are so observant, and are using your head.

Regis was always a little anxious about the number of Terranan in Aldaran territory, but since we managed to get your Domain back onto the Council, he thought it was taken care of. Your brother Robert is a good man.

My father, however, is another thing altogether. I know. It is one reason I jumped at the chance to leave Darkover when it was offered to me, to get away from him. There is no love lost between us, and I would not put anything past him.

But, Herm, surely he would not help the Federation kill my father!

I would not have thought so, but don’t forget I have not seen him in nearly a quarter of a century. He might see it as a chance to further his own ambitions. I can’t speculate, but I confess I have a very bad feeling about it. Do you have any idea how many Terranan are in the Aldaran Domain?

Several hundred, for certain.

And how many of those are soldiers and Marines?

That I could not say. I have always had the impression that most of them were technical folk.

We have been assuming that any attack would originate at the spaceport in Thendara, and we have overlooked the possibility that combat-ready men might be flown down from the Hellers. As soon as the performance is finished, you should get in touch with Lew and inform him of this possibility. This whole matter might be much more complex than we thought at first.

That is not a happy thought.

No, it isn’t.

Domenic saw the side of the puppet van lower down on strong ropes, and the crowd began to press toward it, cutting off his view. He slipped through the people, using his still relatively short stature to advantage, and managed to elbow his way into the front of the throng. An enchanting vision was painted on a sheet of canvas, a vista of turreted castles and in the center, a very tall but recognizable Tower surrounded by a field of blue kireseth flowers. After a moment, a red-clad figure on strings began to cross the small stage. It was supposed to be a Keeper, obviously, but while the face was concealed beneath a veil, the skirts of the robe were indecently brief, revealing a pair of comely limbs sewn from some soft textile. He was not sure whether to be amused or scandalized.

The Keeper began to speak, and he recognized the voice of the red-haired girl, Illona Rider. What she declared made Domenic’s ears turn red, and his cheeks burn with embarrassment. A young woman had no business saying things like that, especially one who seemed as nice as Illona! And they would never have dared perform such a play at Arilinn or any other Tower. He began to understand now why Regis had restricted the Travelers from frequent visits to Thendara.

Herm was standing just behind him now, with a hand on Domenic’s shoulder. He could sense the Aldaran man’s startlement and displeasure, and felt a little less upset. It was not that he was being a prig. What the puppet was voicing was disgraceful. Worse, the people in the crowd were laughing noisily and offering a few ripe comments of their own. He sensed a general feeling that the townspeople did not hold the Towers in great esteem, which was strange and puzzling to him.

Another puppet joined the Keeper on the stage, and they indulged in a verbal display of punning that had the crowd roaring with approval. He listened, wondering how Illona managed to create two such distinct voices, and then began to really pay attention to the wordplay. It was more than naughty, and came close to obscene. He saw a village woman nearby grab a young girl and haul her back into the throng, her face outraged. Around him others began to rustle with discomfort, and he saw that a few people were leaving the courtyard, casting glances over their shoulders as they hastened into the narrow street beyond the inn. They had clearly lost their taste for the entertainment.

Is this a typical thing, Nico?

I don’t know. I saw the Travelers twice at Arilinn, but they never did anything like this. It is bad, isn’t it? Hmm. Illona told me that a man called Mathias joined the troupe who has been writing some pieces for the players that she appeared to find . . . unseemly.

It is much worse than unseemly—it is subversive. It is one thing to make a little fun of an institution, but this goes far beyond that. If this is what the Travelers have been doing in the towns and villages, I am only surprised that they have been allowed to continue at all. All this stuff about keeping the common folk in their places, and taking their grain . . . is bound to whip up resentment. This is not my idea of amusement, and it isn’t playing well with the crowd either. Who is that supposed to be?

A third puppet had entered, a male figure in fine but tawdry garments, wearing a two-pointed fool’s hat with a wobbly crown around the it at the brow. The puppet was poorly made, and he had the impression that it had been constructed in haste, for it was not of the quality of the other two. It had a dissipated face, and legs that managed to mince in a very unmanly way. Domenic felt a rush of anger as he watched, for although the face of the figure was crudely carved and sewn, there was no mistaking the white hair beneath the hat. It could only have been intended to be Regis Hastur, and he was stunned and outraged at the same time.

Nico lowered his eyes and stared at the bare head of an urchin just in front of him, wondering what the little boy was thinking of what he saw. He probably didn’t understand half of it, because the child seemed puzzled and restless. He did not want to watch the movement of the puppets any longer, and wished he were a hundred miles away.

Around him, Domenic could feel the crowd shift back and forth. The cheerful mood that had been present a few minutes before was gone, and there were mutters. In a few seconds, these turned to cries of outrage. Apparently, making fun at the expense of an imaginary Keeper was all right, but insulting the ruler of Darkover was not.

When he looked up, he knew that the puppeteers did not realize what was happening outside their wagon. The crowd was becoming very angry. It was all happening so quickly that the manipulators did not suspect a thing. In a sudden movement, half a dozen burly men, a little the worse for drink perhaps, rushed clumsily forward. One grabbed the offensive doll and yanked it hard. The strings snapped.

This action set off the rest of the audience. In a second there were twenty furious men around the wagon, and one pulled open the door at the end of it and climbed inside. Others tore at the painted screen, or the remaining figures, and the uproar spread through the crowd. The townspeople turned on the Travelers in a fury, seizing the innocent juggler and anyone else dressed in motley, and half a dozen fist fights broke out across the courtyard.

The man hauled a screaming, red-faced Illona out of the wagon, and slapped her hard across the face. Another man tried to pull the girl away from him, and the shouting between them degenerated into yet another fight. Two village constables tried to keep order, but there were too many fights going on for them to contain the fury of the mob, which was now howling for blood, without much concern as to whose was spilled.

Domenic took advantage of his size and darted between several infuriated men. Then he grabbed Mona’s hand and yanked her toward him. She tried to snatch it back until she realized he was a rescuer, and not an enemy. “Come on,” he shouted. “You are going to get hurt.”

Illona glanced back, her eyes wide with terror, and then they dashed away, through the gates of the courtyard and into the dim light beyond it. She gave a short, sharp cry of pain, and he paused. It was then that he realized that she wore no shoes, and had stubbed her toe on a rock. All she was wearing was her undershift and drawers. He could just make out the rise and fall of small breasts beneath the thin fabric, as she gasped short, fearful breaths.

For a moment, he was too stunned to move. She just stood beside him, panting and frightened. Then Domenic whipped his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around her. A moment later Rafaella emerged from the darkness, and he realized that it had only been seconds since he dragged Mona away. He had never been so glad to see the Renunciate in his life.

The fracas began to spill out of the courtyard, and Rafaella seized both of them by the shoulders and herded them around toward the back of the building. The racket decreased as they went farther away, and the Renunciate drew them into a nest of shadows and halted. “I think it is better if we stay out of sight until things calm down a bit,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “How could you have done such a thing, girl?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Mona snapped back, her fear fading into anger as she pushed a tangle of hair off her sweating face. She eyed the Renunciate fiercely, daring her to disagree.

“I don’t call putting a puppet of Regis Hastur up for ridicule nothing. He has not been dead a tenday! And why aren’t you dressed?” Domenic asked letting his fury leak into the words.

Mona shrugged, shivered and drew the cloak more closely around her. “It gets very hot in the wagon, and close, too. I’d be a puddle if I wore all my clothes. As for the puppet—the Hasturs are a bunch of parasites.”

To his surprise, Rafaella grabbed Mona by her shoulders and shook her hard, until he heard the girl’s teeth rattle together. “How dare you speak that way! You are a stupid girl. I will have you know that Regis Hastur was a friend of mine, and one of the finest men who ever walked. Who put you up to that play? Tell me, or I will slap you silly.”

Domenic had never seen his Aunt Rafi angry before, and he was rather awed. It reminded him a bit of his mother’s infrequent rages, but there was a quality of restraint in her that Marguerida did not possess. He could sense the deep loyalty in Rafaella, a simple, steady emotion that calmed him enormously.

Illona, on the other hand, seemed to have lost both her earlier fear and her common sense. She pulled away from Rafaella’s grip and glared. “Everyone knows that the Domains are oppressing the people of Darkover, and that we need to get rid of them in order to have a better life.”

At first, Nico did not react. The words the girl used were strange, and he sensed that they had not come from her own mind, but from someone else’s. She was parroting something she had heard, without any certainty or real understanding. But beneath the words, there was a core of a more personal emotion, made of fear and resentment, a puzzling mixture, focused on the subject of the Towers. He wondered why she was afraid of the Towers; it was almost as if they threatened her.

The more he thought about it, the more confusing the text of the play became. Why would anyone suggest that the Towers were dens of vice—what purpose could it serve? Then he recalled the sense of mistrust he had noticed in the crowd when the puppet play began, the feeling from the townspeople that had puzzled him at the time. What had Herm said? That the play was subversive. Was someone trying to foment a revolution on Darkover? Who, and why? Had the Travelers been performing similar things whenever they were not in Thendara?

Rafaella’s anger flared, and she lifted her hand to strike the girl, distracting him from his thoughts. Domenic caught her wrist in his hand and shook his head. “Who told you that lie, Illona?” he asked. “And who is ‘everyone?’ “ He managed to speak calmly, but his heart was pounding.

Illona looked at him, her eyes almost blank. “Well, our driver and a lot of the others, I guess. Mathias, who wrote the script for our play, says that . . . if it weren’t for Regis Hastur, we would be able to fly about in aircars, and live in fine houses and . . .” Her voice was a monotone now, and Nico could tell she was pulling back into herself, that the violence she had just experienced was finally reaching her mind and sending it into a kind of shock.

“And of course Mathias is a knowledgeable man, and has been to Comyn Castle and seen this so-called oppression for himself,” he commented. Despite his compassion for this girl, he was still very angry, and it helped to let his words release it.

“Well, no,” she admitted meekly. Then she seemed to gather her energies, to shake off some of her fear and shock. “But the fact that we aren’t allowed in Thendara except at Midsummer and Midwinter proves that the Hasturs are afraid of us, so it must be true.”

“Your logic is impeccable, but your premises are false.”

She narrowed her eyes and peered at him in the faint light from the back of the inn. Recognition dawned in her face. “I saw you in Thendara, didn’t I? You were standing guard, hiding in the shadows near the Castle. You are one of them! You just look so different with your hair loose, and not in uniform. You are a spy for the Hasturs!”

I have to get away and tell Aunt Loret and the others!

“And who are you a spy for, Illona?”

“Me?” she squeaked, astounded.

Rafaella, impatient, demanded, “Who told you all these ridiculous things? And, more to the point, when did you hear them?”

An expression of confusion came into Illona’s face. “People . . . like Mathias, I guess. When?”

“Have you been listening to this seditious nonsense all your life, or is it a recent thing?” Domenic could sense Rafi’s puzzlement at his question, but he ignored it. He was determined to get to the bottom of the matter, and the girl was his best chance for that. He did not want to use forced rapport, but discovered, to his dismay, that he was willing to if he must. All the lessons in ethics he had taken at Arilinn rang in his mind, and for the first time, he realized how dangerous a thing the Alton Gift could be in the hands of someone who could set aside any consideration except their own needs. He hoped that Illona would tell him the truth without force.

Who is this boy, and why is he asking me this? There is something wrong here, but I can’t figure out what it as. He’s right—I never heard a word against the Hasturs before this sprang, when we were in the Hellers, up in Aldaran country. Everything changed after that, didn’t it? What are they going to do to me?

Illona seemed suddenly subdued. “This spring was when I first heard it.” Why am I telling him anything at all? He seemed so nice, and I liked him right away. But that is no reason to talk to him, is at? Aunt Loret didn’t like that play, and now I see why. I wash I was somewhere else. I’m scared.

“And this Mathias fellow, who wrote the play, how long has he been with you?”

“He joined our band this spring.”

The noise from the courtyard was decreasing a little, although some shouting could still be heard. There was also the sound of wood being smashed, and Nico suspected that the Travelers’ wagons were being demolished by the angry townspeople. A moment later he saw a burst of fire rise above the wall around the inn. Someone had put a torch to one of the wagons. “Illona, you have gotten yourself into a real mess.”

“I have guessed that much,” she said, some of her earlier sauciness returning. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand up straight, and glared at Rafaella and Domenic. Even in the rather dim light, he could see she was very pale, and the freckles on her strong nose were very apparent. He marveled at her strength, at her refusal to surrender to her terrors completely. He was not sure how he would have behaved in the same situation.

“You have been in some bad company,” Rafaella said quietly. She had regained her self-control, and in the shadows she seemed stern and powerful, but less threatening than a minute before.

Illona looked up at Rafaella, defiant. “I’ve never known anything but the Travelers, so I can’t judge. My Aunt Loret thinks that Mathias and some of the others are a little crazy, but I didn’t pay her any mind.”

Herm Aldaran suddenly appeared out of the darkness, his expression invisible in the shadows. “Ah, there you are. I saw you snatch the girl from harm’s way, and a good thing, too! The constables and our friends have managed to get things under control, but most of the wains are firewood now.” He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Some people have been killed . . . including your aunt, Illona. I’m sorry.”

She did not react at once. She peered from face to face and then tears swelled in her eyes and began to trickle down her grubby cheek. Illona made no sound, just wept silently, shrinking into Domenic’s cloak, getting smaller and smaller, as if she might puddle down to the ground. Rafaella put a supporting arm around her and drew the girl into her embrace.

Who else was killed, Herm?

I’m not certain, except for the woman and the juggler, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The crowd went mad, and I was very glad for the presence of those Guardsmen, even if I fear that their intervention has destroyed their anonymity. There is still a lot of confusion, though, and perhaps they will not be too obvious. I don’t know where Vancof or the other Terran have got to. I looked around, but they seem to have vanished.

Domenic hesitated then, conscious of an inner conflict. Hermes Aldaran was the son of Damon Aldaran, the head of that Domain. True, Herm had assured him earlier that he was loyal, but all the old stories about Aldaran betrayal rose in his mind. Regis had managed to force the Council to allow Dom Damon and Robert Aldaran seats on it, but there was still a great deal of bad feeling about the entire family. He liked and trusted Hermes, and he thought well of Robert, didn’t he? It was old Dom Damon he did not like. But where would Herm’s real loyalties lie if it came to serious conflict?

Domenic struggled briefly with the problem. Then he made his choice, deciding he did not have time to consult with Lew or his father. The Terran stranger had kept looking to the north, and this band of Travelers had come from Aldaran territory in the spring—there might be no connection, but he could not assume that. The girl says that when they came down from the mountains this sprang, there was a change. I think that someone in the Hellers is up to mischief.

Domenic was rather pleased at the diplomatic way he phrased this, but he had not anticipated the quickness of his uncle’s mind. If you mean my father, I would not put anything past him. He has always resented the Hasturs, and thought that the Aldaran could do a better job of running Darkover. But, truthfully, this mess is not his style, Nico. My father is not a very subtle man, and spreading sedation would, I believe, never occur to him.

I have to agree, from the little I know about Dom Damon. But maybe he is backing them somehow.

Unless he has changed a great deal in the past twenty-three years, I doubt it.

Why?

My father is stingy to a fault, Nico. He would not spend a sekal on something unless he could be sure to see a return. No, my guess is that there is something going on in the Aldaran Domain that the old bastard knows nothing about—that the Federation complex up there is behind this.

I hope you are right, Herm.

I hope I am, too, because I would not like to see my own father, much as I dislike him, involved in a plot to destroy the Domains.

It was getting colder now, especially without his cloak, and Nico shivered, as much from the chill as from the words he had just heard. The distrust of the Aldaran went back for generations, and it had been very important to Regis Hastur to overcome it. If it were discovered that they were involved in planning the overthrow of the Hasturs, all that effort would have been for nothing. And using the Travelers to spread discontent was very clever. They went everywhere, and spread gossip as they did.

But Herm was right about one thing—it was not the sort of behavior that Dom Damon had shown in the past. He tended to bluster and bully his way around. Domenic felt very young and a little helpless for a moment, as if too much had been put on his shoulders. And, as if he sensed this, Herm put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get in out of the cold, shall we?” And let Lew know about the latest developments.

18

Domenic looked at Herm for a moment, in the flickering light from the courtyard. Then he said, “We should make sure everything is under control first.” His words surprised him, and the firm voice that came from his throat seemed to be that of another—some older, stronger person than himself.

“Yes, I suppose another few minutes will not matter,” Herm agreed. “Rafaella, take Illona with you, please. She needs a hot bath—look how she is shivering.”

“I don’t want to go with her,” Illona wailed, sounding suddenly very young and afraid. “I want my aunt!”

“I know you do,” Rafaella began gently. “But you will have to make do with me. It is going to start raining soon, and if you stay out here, you will get an inflammation of the lung and have to drink all manner of nasty-tasting things to heal you.”

“I wish I was dead, too,” the girl moaned.

“No, you don’t!” Herm was stern. “And Loret would not want you dead either—she wanted you to be safe, child.”

“I . . . can’t believe she is dead. Now I am all alone . . . what is going to happen to me?”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Illona,” Rafi told the girl almost tenderly. “Now come along.” The girl hesitated, then finally allowed the older woman to draw her away.

It was growing colder, and Nico was sorry he no longer had his cloak. He wanted to follow the girl and the Renunciate into the warmth of the inn. Instead, his sense of duty gripped him—the very thing he had run away to avoid—and he marched back into the courtyard purposefully. There was a great deal of heat from the fire, and the yard was unnaturally warm. Destruction was everywhere. He needed to introduce Herm to the old Guardsmen who were helping put out the fires and carry the dead and wounded away.

Yet, the scene within the yard was less chaotic than he might have imagined. Most of the fires were beginning to gutter out from lack of fuel. There was a terrible smell, of burned wood, paint, and probably flesh as well. There had been people in the wagons when they went up, and not all of them had escaped. His stomach gave a slight lurch.

Domenic spotted Duncan Lindir first and went over to him. The man was very pale in the light that remained. “How many dead have you found?”

“Six Travelers, vai dom, and one man from the village. There may be more in the rubble—it is still too hot to handle—but I hope not. Then there are the injured—quite a lot, but I am not sure of the number yet. Mostly broken arms and knocked heads. The Renunciate healer is seeing to them with the help of the village healer.”

“Very good, Duncan. This is Hermes Aldaran.”

Duncan sketched a brief bow, as if reluctant to show respect to an Aldaran. “I was told to ask you for orders, but I did not have the chance earlier, dom.” His tone was barely civil, as if he was forcing himself to say the words without meaning them.

“Just as well, since I had none to give you,” Herm answered, pretending he had not noticed the man’s mild rudeness. “I would like to know the rest of your company.”

“Well, they are rather . . .”

“I did not mean this instant, man! I can see they are very busy. Just point them out and tell me their names . . . if you would be so kind.”

The irony of his answer was not lost on Lindir, and Duncan’s mouth twisted in something approaching a smile. He nodded then, and Domenic could sense the old Guardsman’s barely supressed hostility toward Herm begin to diminish. He watched the two men, speaking in quieter voices now, and wondered how his uncle did it. It was the same thing as had happened with Loret that afternoon. But Herm did not seem to be trying to be charming now, just businesslike and impersonal. If there was a laran for persuasion, then Herm had it, he decided. Nico moved away, restless and uneasy. Where had Vancof and the other man gotten to? Had they been hurt or perhaps killed in the riot?

He walked toward the corner where he had last seen the Terran man standing, an inky cluster of shadows where the stables met the wall of the inn. There was a low bench there, where the grooms and stable lads waited for wayfarers or rested from their duties, almost invisible except as a deeper shadow against the wall of the inn. He stood there for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the near darkness, and then he saw a boot.

Nico squatted down and peered beneath the bench. The boot had once been shining leather, but now was scuffed and a little muddy. It led to a leg, and as his eyes were able to see more, he realized he was looking at the body of the nameless man. There was no movement, no rise and fall in the chest. He swallowed very hard several times, then reached out and put his hands around the boot.

He stood up and used his weight to try to pull the body out from beneath the bench. The man was heavy, but at last the corpse slithered out across the uneven stones of the courtyard. There was the sound of footfalls behind Domenic, and a moment later Abel MacEwan was beside him, shouldering him firmly out of the way and taking the burden of dead flesh into his larger and more capable hands.

The torso of the dead man was slumped forward, but now it fell back, and Domenic could see the hilt of a knife thrust into the chest. A stain spread around the wound, dark against the brown cloth of the tunic. Someone brought a torch, and he looked down into the face of the stranger.

The eyes were still open, and the mouth gaped a little. He seemed, in death, to be surprised. Nico could not drag his eyes away from the sight, until someone finally took the shoulders of the corpse and Abel the feet and, between them, began to carry it away.

No, not surprised—betrayed. Swaying a little from the shock of it, Domenic knew that no one from the village had killed the man. It must have been Vancof—though why was a mystery. Then he remembered that morning, seeing the dead man give the driver something. He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail. There had been something folded, a paper, and another object, something square.

As the fires went out, the chill of the evening began to make Domenic shiver. Despite his discomfort, he did not move, frozen in place with sorrow and horror. Instead, he forced himself to try to remember anything he had overheard from Vancof. Most of it was a useless muddle, but a few phrases seemed to be important. The word “orders” kept cropping up, something the driver did not like, which made him afraid. What had he been ordered to do—kill his ally? That was insane! Still, there seemed no other explanation, and he forced his mind to accept it.

Almost shaking with chill and emotion now, Domenic trudged into the inn. The warmth of the entrance seemed almost feverish for a few steps. He brushed his sleeve across his face roughly. Then, too weary to continue, he sank onto a bench near the door.

Nico felt his control slip away in a flood of unfamiliar emotions. He wanted to weep, but no tears came. He felt as if he had turned to stone, and he ached for release. People were dead, innocent folk like Illona’s Aunt Loret, whom he had known only for a few minutes. The Terran man, whose name he had never discovered, was dead also. He had not seen the others, but he had seen the unknown Terran, and knew, deep down, that he had not deserved to perish.

The deep grief for the death of Regis Hastur, which he had held at bay for days, rose in his throat at last. He remembered incidents, pleasant moments when his great-uncle was at ease, telling tales of the Sharra Rebellion, to Grandfather Lew’s obvious discomfort, but somehow making them seem less painful than they must have been. Nico recalled Regis’ charm and swift wit, the way he ate his meals, and many other small things. It did not seem enough, somehow, for such a great man.

His chest ached, and there was a pounding pulse in his forehead. A tear rolled down his cheek and he swept it away with a trembling finger. All he had done was run away for a bit of fun, and now there were dead people and injured folk, and too much pain to endure. This was not an adventure—it was a nightmare from which he could not escape!

If only Lew or his mother could be with him, to tell him how to feel, to help him. Logically, Domenic knew that the riot would have happened whether he had been present or not, but he still felt responsible. After dwelling on this unsettling event and feeling worse by the moment his good sense tried to assert itself, and succeeded a little. He was being morbid over things he could not control! He had to get a grip on himself and inform his grandfather of the events in Carcosa. Now, if only his cold and tired body would cooperate!

Domenic forced himself to stand and half stumbled up the stairs to his room. Once there, he slammed the door shut and sank down on the edge of the bed. His breathing was ragged and he tried to control it. At last the rapid beating of his heart started to slow, and the dreadful thoughts that were racing through his mind began to subside. He closed his eyes hard, pinching the lids down almost angrily, trying in vain to squeeze the images of destruction out of his mind’s eye.

From below, he could hear voices, townspeople and Guardsmen both. The sickening smell of the burned wood and flesh lingered in the air. Then he realized that the stench was in his clothes, his hair, his skin, and he almost vomited. He pulled his tunic over his head and threw it across the room into the far corner. The movement energized him enough to shed all his garments, and to pour cold water from the ewer into the basin and wash himself. Then he put on a clean shirt from their purchases in the town market, and the trousers he had worn the previous day. The comforting smell of horse from the garment seemed to dispell the miasma of death in his discarded clothing as well as the scents that wafted through the window.

After several minutes he heard a soft rain begin to patter outside the window, a sweet sound after so much horror. He just sat and listened to it, his mind almost empty. All he wanted to do was fall into the bed and pull the covers over his head. But he still had something to do—if only he could remember what. Oh, yes, he had to contact his grandfather. Where was he going to find the strength?

His mind drifted, refusing to focus, and he found his thoughts returning to the girl, Illona. He was glad she was safe with Rafaella. If the Carcosans had discovered her and recognized her for a Traveler, she might have been hurt or killed. Domenic could not have endured that, although he wasn’t sure why he cared so much about someone he barely knew. Then it occurred to him that he liked her, even if she was just a shy uneducated girl. No . . . not silly—just very foolish and ignorant. If only she had not looked so fetching in her undershift! Why couldn’t she be ugly or at least plain? Then it would be easier to despise her, as he was sure he should. Instead, he had the same urge to protect her he always felt about Alanna. It was all very puzzling.

No, it was more than that. After a few moments of ruthless self-examination, Domenic realized that his thoughts about Illona verged on the lustful. This surprised him, and then it disgusted him. How could he be thinking such things at a time like this! What kind of unnatural man was he?

Furious with himself, Domenic dragged his mind away from the memories of Illona’s young breasts and slender body beneath her shift. Herm had told him to inform Lew of the latest developments and he had not yet done so. He was there because he had the Alton Gift and could communicate with his grandfather with much less effort than anyone without that talent. For just a moment he resented his Gift, then shut away the thought abruptly. Why couldn’t he have just one feeling at a time, instead of this morass! And why couldn’t he get the image of the dead Terran out of his mind?

At last his mind began to quiet, and while he knew it had taken only a few minutes, it felt like he had undergone hours of fruitless struggle. There was a sour taste in his mouth, and his belly was in a complete knot. Domenic had wanted to be treated like an adult, not a child, and here he was, feeling angry at having adult responsibilities. At last he admitted to himself that he was more than a little frightened by the sudden violence he had seen, and realized that he must have been crazy to have dashed over to rescue Illona. He let the sense of fear spend itself, and wondered if he were a coward, or if it was normal to be scared after the fact. There was no one at hand to ask about it, and finally he let it go. Fear was a luxury to be indulged some other time.

He got up and rinsed his mouth in the basin, then splashed cold water over his face. After he had dried it on a towel, he went back to the broad bed and forced his mind into the stillness he needed. It was hard, but the Alton Gift could span great distance, and after only a brief time, he touched the familiar mind of his grandfather.

Lew!

Hello, Nico. You seem . . . upset. Did our reinforcement arrive safely?

The mental voice sounded overly hearty, and Domenic felt his heart clench sharply. Had something terrible happened in Thendara? Was he overreacting to Lew’s concerns about him, jumping at shadows instead of acting like an adult? He made himself slow down, and tried to order his thoughts.

I am. I just saw my first riot, and I hope I never see another. The Travelers tried to put on a play that infuriated the crowd—it was disgusting and indecent. They were making fun of Regis—it was not funny at all. It was so ugly. Uncle Herm said it was subversive and that the intent was to turn people against the Comyn! What began as a pleasant evening’s entertainment turned the townsfolk into a mob in a flash. They tore apart the wagons and burned them. People got killed.

Are you all right? The tone of the question was alarmed, even if the words were commonplace.

Yes, I’m fine, but don’t tell Mother about it, please. She’d be on her horse and traveling the North Road in a minute. But there is more, and at is worse, I think. It seems that this troup of Travelers were up in the Hellers, in the Aldaran Domain, last winter, and when they came back, they had not only this Vancof I told you about, but some other people who were spreading a tale of . . . Well, I don’t quite know how to put it. It’s like they were trying to make people mad at the Hasturs, and at the Domains and the Towers in general. I don’t know if it was just this bunch, or other groups of Travelers as well.

There was a small fracas in the Horse Market involving the Travelers at Midsummer. Regis was even thinking of banning them from the city completely, because there have been incidents recently as well. So, unless it was the group you have there, it might be . . .

Grandfather, I think someone is using the Travelers to upset people. It is either the Terranan or . . . or Dom Aldaran.

I was afraid of that. Poor Dom Damon—so ambitious and so thwarted. It is funny, you know, that all of Javanne’s fears that Mikhail might hand Darkover over to the Terrans are much more likely to be fulfilled if Damon Aldaran ever gets his hands on some power.

But that could never happen, could it?

The Hasturs have been ruling Darkover for a long time, Nico, but nothing lasts forever. And yes, if something happened to your father, you and Rory, and a few other well-chosen people, then Damon Aldaran might be able to declare himself in command.

How?

Through Gisela, in her marriage to your uncle Rafael, of course. That would have the illusion of legitimacy. But we don’t need to speculate. You and your brother are very much alive and well, and so is your father. He has just arrived, by the way.

Who? Father?

No. Dom Damon and Robert Aldaran. They flew down, which was a mistake on their part. The landing field has been closed for two days, the Terrans nearly clapped them in chains. Robert was able to talk his way out of that, but Damon as in a rare temper.

It’s a pity he is a lord of the Domains, or otherwise you could put him in the cellar until after this mess is over.

A temptation, to be sure. There never seems to be a moldy dungeon available when you need one. There has been quite a bit of trouble from the Terrans here since you left, and we are going to turn the old Orphanage into a jail.

Grandfather! Be serious!

I am not joking. I wonder if Dom Damon knows about this plot . . . no, I think not. But, if the funeral train is attacked, he will be in as much danger as the rest of us. The problem in a battle is that you cannot plan who will survive and who will not, and if the Terranan think to set up Dom Damon . . .

Grandfather!

Sorry, Nico. I am feeling extremely harassed just now. Rafe Scott has found out that the Federation has cut off communication with Darkover, for reasons which remain unclear, and perhaps the plot to attack the funeral will turn out to be nothing at all. I don’t know if Belfontaine would risk taking action without approval, and I can’t pop over to HQ as I might have in the past, to see how the wind is blowing. I sincerely hope that it will all turn out to be a tempest in a chamber pot, because I don’t particularly want to go up against energy weapons with my rather rusty sword.

Herm and I were thinking about that a little while ago. So much has happened. Grandfather, and my mind seems so muddled.

Take your time, Nico.

It started because the Terranan spy from Thendara . . .

The what?

Remember I told you I saw two men last night—one was Granfell and one wasn’t? Well, the one that wasn’t rode in here late this afternoon, before the old Guardsmen arrived.

Go on.

He came out to watch the Travelers, and I noticed he kept looking up at the sky, but he wasn’t looking south, toward Thendara, but north instead. I mentioned this to Uncle Herm, and he asked me how many troops there were up in the Aldaran Domain. He suggested that perhaps the attack could come from them, rather than from HQ.

Yes, that makes a kind of sense, now you say it. Herm has the most devious mind I have ever encountered, and I have always been grateful he was on my side, and not my enemy.

Do you trust him?

I do, Nico. He has proven over and over, in his tune in the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies, that he had nothing but the best interests of Darkover in mind. He has had at least a dozen opportunities to sell us out, and he never did. There is more, isn’t there? What are you holding back?

Domenic paused, trying to control the upwelling of sorrow within him. The Terranan man is dead. I never knew his name, and now I never will, because someone—Vancof probably stuck a knife in him during the riot. I . . . found the body.

Poor Nico! The first time you look at death is always hard, and it never gets easier. Nico caught fragments, images of several bodies, and knew that his grandfather was remembering the Sharra Rebellion. No wonder you are upset.

He looked so surprised, Grandfather! And that isn’t the worst part.

Tell me everything.

It’s so awful, and I feel . . . ashamed. I found him, and I was sorry and sad. But afterwards . . . I started having these thoughts about Illona—that’s the Traveler girl I saw yesterday in Thendara—and they were . . . when the crowd attacked the puppeteer’s wagon, she got pulled out, and she was only wearing her underclothes! She was almost naked! One second I was feeling terrible, and the next, I was . . . excited.

For a moment, there was no answering thought, and Nico wondered if his grandfather were disgusted with him. Nico, I do not know why it is, but close contact with death often makes men very randy. Men going into battle often resort to the couch before, and again after. I think that love or sex or whatever we call it is about life, and when you are near to death, then you wash to . . . renew life. In a young man your age, sexual feelings run very high.

I don’t like how I was thinking!

I did not suppose you did, Domenic. And all I am telling you is that it is a perfectly natural reaction, not something to be ashamed of, or worry over, unless you pursue your instincts and force yourself upon a woman.

I wouldn’t!

I did not think so. Now, let the matter go, and stop being so hard on yourself. You will wear yourself out, and you need to save your energy for other things.

Yes, you are right. Grandfather, I am very confused. I don’t understand why the man was killed like that. I think Vancof did it, because no one here in Carcosa knew the stranger, and the others who died an the riot were hit with sticks . . . I mean . . .

I understand, Nico. If you are right, and your spy did the killing, than I think it was probably that he took advantage of the uproar. You suggested last night that this Vancof was afraid, and very reluctant to go along with Granfell’s plan. Perhaps his idea was to get rid of this fellow, and then try to vanish. Or maybe he was just evening up some old scores. Nico, one thing you will have to learn is that people sometimes kill one another for no good reason at all. It is a sad reflection on the species, but we don’t seem to outgrow it, even here on Darkover, where murders are few.

I’ll try, but it is very hard to understand. And I just hate it. Grandfather . . . Herm just came in. Wait a minute.

Herm Aldaran, his balding pate gleaming with rain, was holding a small object in his hands, a collection of metal and brightly colored wires. “Just look what I found in the remains of one of the wagons.”

“What is it?”

“A communication device, for sending messages. It is called a shortbeam and quite illegal on Darkover. I wonder where the receiver is? A pity it is ruined, since I might have been able to use it to create some trouble at the other end.”

“Was it in the puppet wagon?”

“No, in another. It was under a stack of pages that had the most incredible filth on them.”

“Then it was probably the one called Mathias, who wrote the plays. But why would he have it . . .?”

“This was nothing like a play—these were broadsheets.”

“Do you think Mathias and Vancof were working together?”

“I’ve no idea, but Duncan grabbed the man before he could hare off into the night, and we can ask him.” His usually pleasant face had an expression on it that Domenic found most disquieting. “Now, where did I put my thumbscrews?”

“Your what?”

“I have shocked you. Forgive me. I don’t really intend to torture the man, but he doesn’t need to know that, does he? I am just working myself up to scare the filth out of his bowels, Nico. It’s that, or else ask you to go into his mind and find out what we want to know.”

Domenic considered this evidence of a ruthlessness he had never suspected, and decided he would rather scare Mathias than plunder the man’s mind. “But what if he lies,” he managed to say at last.

“You would be able to tell if he did. So, come along. This is going to be very unpleasant.”

“Just a minute. Let me finish talking to Lew.”

“Of course.”

Domenic closed his eyes again, although he did not need to, and completed his interrupted conversation with his grandfather, feeling more and more uneasy as he did. He did not want to interrogate anyone, because he was afraid of what he would learn. The sense of adventure which had sustained him the night before vanished, and he was left with the reality, which was not nearly as comfortable. Odd—the people in the books he had read never seemed to have such conflicts.

There was a third floor in the inn, and Herm led him up to it. The raucous sounds of the still agitated townsfolk receded a little as they ascended. Nico discovered that he was sweating slightly, and the stink of it told him how anxious he was.

There were several small rooms along the corridor, and they went to one at the end of it, a tiny chamber that was occupied by three Guardsmen, as well as a man he had never seen before. The stranger, who must be Mathias, had pale hair and the look of the Dry Towns about him. His light blue eyes were constricted almost to pinpoints, and he looked frightened out of his wits. Six people in the small room was too many, and the heat of their bodies was almost overwhelming. It was like stepping into an oven, but instead of the nice smell of bread, there was only the stench of fear and anger.

With no spoken word of command, two of the men stepped out into the hall, leaving Duncan, Herm, and Domenic alone with the hapless man. They were standing, and he was seated on a rush chair, his hands bound with a rope. The atmosphere in the room seemed a little less stifling now, and Mathias looked from one face to another, seeking some sign of release and finding nothing to lessen his terror. Nico thought he did not look at all like a spy or a revolutionary, but was just an ordinary man. And clearly he was not a very brave one.

Hermes smiled, but there was no friendliness in it. He looked like a wolf, and a hungry one at that. Mathias shifted on his chair, squirming. “I trust you are comfortable,” Herm said very quietly, his voice menacing in spite of the pleasant words.

“Why have you dragged me up here?” Mathias half snarled, half whined. “I have done nothing wrong.”

Herm laughed. He had a deep, rumbling chuckle that Domenic was fond of, though now it seemed to take on a sinister quality. “That’s rich! Nothing wrong. You’ve been writing scandalous plays, and we found broadsheets that will have you on the gibbet.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” How am I going to get out of this?

“You are a filthy spy for the Terranan,” Herm announced.

Mathias seemed to brighten a little. “I am no such thing. I am a Son of Darkover, and I don’t have any truck with any Terranan.”

“We are all sons of Darkover here, aren’t we?” When he received no response, he asked, “What do you mean by that?” Nico, have you ever heard of these Sons?

Curse it—why did I say that? “We are people dedicated to the betterment of Darkover.”

No. From what I can gather from his mind, they are some sort of fraternal organization, dating back to the time of Danvan Hastur. Maybe Dando Syrtis-Ardais knows more about them. Their aims seem to be . . . the establishment of some government with themselves as rulers. But I am not sure of that, because unless I actually probe him, I can only get a vague sense of things.

Ah—revolutionaries! Thanks, Nico.

“And what betterment do you intend?”

“Why, to stop slaving for the lords of the Domains and be free. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?” Mathias sounded less frightened now, as if Herm’s behavior was lulling him into a false sense of calm.

“How many lords have you encountered, and how did they make you slave for them?” Herm sounded almost amused now.

“Everyone knows that the Domains exist on the hard work and sweat of the common people, who are too stupid to realize that they are being kept in servitude.”

“That is a pretty poor opinion to have of the people you would like to save, don’t you think?” Herm sounded quite disinterested now, almost as if he were inviting the man into an intellectual discussion. Then without warning, he shifted, learning forward toward the bound Mathias, and raising his voice menacingly. “Now, tell me about the broadsheets! Where were they printed, and who wrote them?”

This change in tone made Mathias cringe back in the rush chair, and it creaked almost musically under the movement. Domenic realized that he had been prepared to declare several more outrageous sentiments, and had not expected to be asked about the damning papers. “What broadsheets?” I knew those damn things were going to get me into hot water! I wish Dirck had never persuaded me to write them. I wish Dirck had been strangled by his birthing cord. I would not be an this mess of it were not for him!

“The ones we found in your wagon,” Herm answered calmly.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I am just a Traveling man, a poor scribner. You have no right to haul me around and tie me up like this. Who the hell are you, anyhow?” It was bluster, and needed no telepathy to be deciphered.

Duncan rolled onto the balls of his feet. In spite of his gray hair and slight paunch, the impression he gave was of a man who had just run out of patience, and was prepared to use his fists if necessary. “Don’t you take that tone. You are in enough trouble as it is. Answer the question. Where were those sheets printed?”

Mathias flinched and shivered, looking from Herm to Duncan and back again, seeking any hint of mercy. He cast a glance at Nico, frowned slightly, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything.” They’ll never find the press in a million years. They will never think to look in Aldaran Castle.

Domenic conveyed this fresh information to Herm, and saw his uncle’s shoulders sag a little. Then he straightened and glowered. “Tell me about the driver of the puppet wagon.”

Now Mathias looked confused, as if he had expected more questions about the papers, and worried as well. “What about him?”

“Who is he, and where did he come from?”

“He’s just a man. He came from another band of Travelers, and he joined up with us this spring.” Curse him. I always thought there was something wrong with the bastard. He said he was one of the Sons, but I should never have believed him. But he knew all the passwords! This is all his fault.

“What troupe of Travelers is he from?”

“I don’t remember.” Dirck said he used to drive for Dyan Player, but he died two years ago. What do these people want from me?

“Did he put you up to writing that puppet play tonight?”

“Yes. No.”

“Which is it?”

“Dirck said we needed something stronger, that it would get the people riled up more if we told how the Towers were full of wicked people, who lived off the backs of the poor, and . . .”

“That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any of your silly cant.” Herm shook his head dismissively. “So, this Dirck suggested you write a play that involved a Keeper and Regis Hastur, and you actually wrote it. Is that right?”

“I suppose.”

“Why did you choose Regis Hastur?”

“He’s dead and can’t squawk—and a good thing, too! Everyone knows he’s been keeping behind the walls of Comyn Castle so as no one would kill him, all these years.”

“What a truly disgusting creature you are,” Herm said quietly. “Now the only question is what do we do with you?”

“I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in,” Mathias sniveled, looking perfectly terrified. “I’ll be a hero.” The Sons will save me—if I can just get word to them.

“No one will even miss you, you sack of dirt.” Duncan growled these words, then turned away in disgust. After a moment, he turned back. “You are a disgrace to an old and respectable fellowship.”

Herm and Domenic looked at Duncan in surprise, but the man said nothing more. Instead, the old Guardsman made a gesture, suggesting that he wanted to talk out of hearing of the miserable captive. Herm nodded slightly, stepped to the door, and ordered one of the men outside to come in. Then he and Duncan left the room, and Domenic followed them.

“I take it you know something about these Sons of Darkover, Lindir.”

“Not really, dom, and it took me a few minutes to remember that I had heard of them before. But I think that Istvan has a brother who is a member—shall I fetch him?”

“Yes, that would be very useful.” Duncan walked away and went down the stairs. The second Guard remained beside the door, trying to fade into the paneling on the wall behind him, but was clearly very curious.

“Well, nephew, what do you think?”

“I think that we might learn more from Mathias, but I don’t think it would be very useful. I don’t believe he knows very much, not really.” Nico paused and thought for a moment. “What we do not know is how many other of the Travelers are involved in this. It might be that there is only Vancof, with this group, but it could be that there are Federation spies in others. So, I think that all the Travelers need to be found, wherever they are, and detained.”

“A good idea. How do we go about that?”

“I’ll tell Lew what we have learned, and he can get the Tower relays humming, and before morning, they can be located. I will leave it to someone else to decide what to do with them—I am so tired, Uncle!”

“Of course you are. You have been pulling extra duty being the message center for our little effort.”

“Little!”

“All right—that was too modest a word. Would ‘enormous’ please you more?”

“Nothing would please me except another bath, a second supper, and bed for about three days.”

Duncan returned with another man, introduced him as Istvan MacRoss, and looked very pleased with himself. He gave Nico a droll look, and Domenic smiled back at him. It felt very good to have trusted retainers around him just then.

“Tell me what you know about the Sons of Darkover, Istvan.”

Istvan grinned. He had a scar across his forehead and cheek, and the smile make him look very frightening. “Not much, vai dom. My younger brother was a member, years back, and since it is a secret fellowship, did not tell me a great deal. They call themselves the Ancient and Loyal Sons of Darkover, and they came into being during the final years of Danvan Hastur’s rule. A fine-sounding name for a rabble of discontents who have never done much that I can tell except gather together to piss and moan about how they could run things much better if they could only think of how to do it.”

“What do they want?”

“There I am not sure, except something different. They do not regard the Domains with any love—that was what made my brother leave them after a couple of years—but I never heard of them doing anything against the Comyn. I think what they really like is being secret—having passwords and all manner of nonsense.”

“Do you think there is a branch of the organization here in Carcosa?”

“Might be. See, the way they do it is like this. They never get together in groups larger than six, and only one of those six knows how to reach another. They call the divisions rhowyns, after the six-petaled flower of that tree. Pretty silly, really, for if something happens to the man who knows, they are out of luck.”

“I see. A pretty ordinary secret society setup—and no way to find them unless you know the passwords or something.”

“Just so, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Herm, it sounds to me as if Vancof just took advantage of these Sons, and they are not really a serious threat.

I agree. Which is a great relief, because I think that the Federation is all the trouble we can manage at present. I suspect that Federation Intelligence tried to infiltrate these Sons, then decided that the Travelers were a better bet. Who knows—I can think of a hundred possibilities.

I can also—and I am rather relieved that it is all nonsense, Uncle.

It is not all nonsense, Nico. There is a real plot, a dangerous one, even if the plotters are not very capable. We must count ourselves fortunate that we stumbled into it—that you were a very naughty lad with a good head on your shoulders—before at turned into a massacre. Even if the Sons and the Travelers are neutralized, there remains the Federation. Why did I imagine that returning to Darkover would be a pleasant and peaceful experience?

Yes, I know. What should we do about Vancof?

Since he seems to have vanished, there is nothing I can think of, unless you have some means to track his whereabouts, nephew. “Tell me, Istvan, do you believe these Sons are any real threat to the Comyn?”

“I could not say, dom, but from what I learned from my brother, they are more talk than action.”

“Do you imagine they might use the excuse of Regis Hastur’s death to foment some sort of uprising?”

Istvan looked horrified. “I don’t, but I might be wrong.”

Why is that important, Herm?

It is just an idea, and probably not a very useful one. If the Federation has been trying to use either the Sons or the Travelers to destablize Darkover, then they might create some sort of situation which would justify them using force here. They would not have to assassinate anyone, just say that they were keeping the peace here on Darkover. They might have been planning such a thing, but with the dissolution of the legislature and the planned pullout in a few weeks time, they would have to rush things. Under such circumstances, they would just declare a state of emergency and use force outright. Did you get any sense of such a possibility from our captive?

He thought about the passwords a little, and I had the impression there were hand signals, too. Vancof knew enough of them to convince Mathias he was one of the fellowship. But how Mathias would contact another rhowyn I don’t know. I mean, standing in the muddle of the marketplace and putting your little finger in your ear until someone came up and scratched his nose doesn’t seem like a very good system to me. I think his hope of contacting them is the wish of a desperate man. And even if he did, how would they rescue him, if they are as foolish as Istvan makes them seem?

Never underestimate your foes, Nico. If I were running a secret society, I would make sure that no one felt threatened by it until the time was ripe. I would make it appear feeble and foolish, so that no one would pay it the least mind.

Grandfather was right—he said he was glad you are on our side, and not that of our enemies. I will tell Lew what we just learned, and he can get things in motion. Nico paused, anxious and hesitant. Do you think your father is involved, or is he . . . ?

I don’t know, but secret societies are not really my father’s style—he is too impatient for that. Besides, if they really do want to overthrow the Comyn, he would hardly want them for allies, since his ambition is to lead the Comyn and run Darkover to suit himself, not a bunch of half-baked revolutionaries.

Istvan thought they were mostly tradesmen . . . I caught that impression when he was talking.

Humph! Catch my old man consorting with merchants and weavers! I think not. He’s too proud for that.

A wave of fatigue struck Domenic, and his knees trembled. He sucked in a deep gust of air, and started down the hall. As he reached the head of the stairs, he overheard the thoughts of the man tied up in the room. Who is that boy, and why is he here? I saw ham talking to that bitch Illona earlier. Where did she get to? He is probably a spy for the Hasturs. I hope I will see them in Zandru’s coldest hell before the week is out! I must find a way to reach the Sons and warn them. But how? Maybe when they feed me—if they don’t starve me to death—I can signal. Surely someone an the inn must belong to the Sons.

Herm—Mathias thinks that someone in the inn might be a contact—keep him away from everyone but our own people.

Oh, I intend to—but good thinking, Nico. Yet that presents a fresh problem, doesn’t it?

Anger flooded through Nico. It took all of his will not to use the Alton Gift in a way he had never done before, to plunder Mathias’ mind of everything it knew. He felt Herm’s mental flinch as his emotions reached the other man, and was ashamed at the loss of control. Yes, it does. It means we have to suspect everyone—I hate that, Herm.

Not necessarily—you are very tired and are forgetting our companions, the Renunciates.

Would Rafaella know about the Sons? Domenic felt incredibly stupid for not thinking of the Renunciates sooner. Well, she and her sisters know how to find things out, so I’ll ask her.

No, Nico. You deal with Lew and then try to get some rest. I will talk to Rafaella after I have a few more words with Mathias.

Domenic stood at the head of the stairs for a minute, feeling too dizzy to start down. Overhead, he could hear the rain falling on the roof tiles, a pleasant sound that seemed to clear his mind. He was sweating again, and knew he was close to the edge of his own endurance. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt wearily. There was still a great deal to do before he could rest.

As he came down the stairs, he heard the sound of boots coming from the lower floor of the inn, up the stairs. For no conscious reason, he halted in his own descent and waited to see who it was. He knew the Renunciates had taken two rooms at one end of the corridor, the one next to his, but there were other guests at the Crowing Cock that night.

Briefly he chided himself for being so jumpy. Then he saw the shoulders and head of a man appear, and then the rest of the body, illuminated by the lampions along the hall. He had never seen the face before, but as soon as the stranger turned and walked down the corridor, he knew it must be Granfell. The shape of his skull from the rear, and the way he strode were unmistakable. He was wearing Darkovan clothing now, like the dead man had, but they looked wrong. Granfell tugged at the edge of his tunic, as if he found it uncomfortable. His light-colored hair was wet, and it was clear that he had just arrived. He knocked at a door at the far end of the corridor, and Nico, wondered how he knew which room to pick. When there was no answer, he quickly opened the door and entered.

Uncle Herm, I just saw the man called Granfell go into the room on the back of the inn, at the other end of our corridor. He’s wet, so I thank he just rode in. He must be looking for the other man, the one that was knifed.

Wonderful. I told MacHaworth that if anyone came looking for the stranger, he was to tell him what room to go to. I am glad he can follow orders.

So, that’s how he knew. I was wondering about it. Are we going to grab him and use your thumb screws? Domenic was startled by the sudden change in himself, although he knew perfectly well that Herm was not going to torture anyone. His fear and grief seemed to have vanished, and in their place he found a peculiar desire to hurt someone or something. It was gone almost before he could understand it, but it revealed to him a part of his character he had never suspected he possessed.

Don’t be bloodthirsty—it does not become a future ruler of Darkover. No, I think not. We will let him think that their plot is undiscovered for a while yet. And see if Vancof turns up again. Go and get the Towers alerted, and then try to get some sleep. You will need all your strength tomorrow.

Yes, I will. Nico felt shamed for a moment. Herm should not have to tell him not to be bloodthirsty. Then he realized that his uncle had been teasing him gently, that it had not been meant to be the rebuke he took it for. He just was not used to being spoken to as Herm spoke to him, and he took it too seriously.

Someone—was it Danilo Ardais?—had said in his hearing “Violence begets more violence,” so perhaps his momentary lapse was something normal. But between that and his earlier thoughts about Illona’s scantily clad body, he felt as if he did not know himself any longer. Domenic hoped he was not becoming some sort of monster, as unnatural as Javanne had frequently intimated he might be.

After he had reached Lew, telling him everything that had happened since their earlier contact, he collapsed back onto the bed. His belly growled. Domenic was ravenous despite a large supper only a few hours before. It seemed like he hadn’t eaten in at least a day! Then he knew that he had not been using his laran correctly, in the manner which his mother had been teaching him, which required less energy than the method still taught at Arilinn and the other Towers. He wasn’t grounding himself right.

The air in the room seemed stifling, and he knew he had to get away from everything for a time. In spite of the temptation of the pillow, he dragged himself off the bed. His mind was filled with images of the dead stranger, and he wanted to banish these. He hadn’t even known the man, but his murder seemed to have affected his thoughts to a degree he could not seem to control.

He went down the stairs and out of the inn. The courtyard was empty of people now, except for a groom sweeping a pile of ash off the stones. He looked up at the sound of Nico’s footsteps and shook his head at the young man. “A sorry business, this.”

“Yes, it is.” One of the Guardsmen appeared from the shadows and gave Domenic a nod. Then he moved to accompany the boy, and halted at a gesture. “I’m just going to get a breath of air.”

The smell of burning was dissipating with the rain, and the sodden heaps of debris were barely visible in the gloom. Domenic walked across the scene of destruction, out through the walls around the inn, and away until he found a little stand of trees a hundred paces from the inn. He could sense that the Guardsman was dogging him at a distance, keeping an eye on him without intruding.

Domenic stood, ignoring the rain and his lack of a cloak, as well as the cold that was seeping into him, and closed his eyes. He breathed slowly and deeply and thought of nothing except the earth beneath his feet. After several minutes, a sense of restoration began to flow up his limbs and into his body. He could hear, faintly, the distant murmur of the heart of the world, burning and burning, and for once he did not doubt it.

Lost in the sounds and sense of the world beneath his boots, Domenic emptied his thoughts of everything that had happened that night. It was difficult at first, even with the calming rhythm of the planet running along his veins, but after a while he felt balanced once again—neither monster nor spy, but just himself, Domenic Gabriel-Lewis Alton-Hastur.

Despite the lightness of the rain, he was drenched by the time he turned back toward the inn, as serene as he could hope to be. The Guardsman was standing with the hood of his cloak pulled up, watching him. He smiled and nodded to him, and wondered what the man thought about his going out in the rain. Nothing, very likely.

In spite of the refreshment of his energies, Domenic was still hungry for another meal. He walked into the taproom, and found it occupied by three or four of the retired Guards from Thendara and one of the village constables, all drinking quietly together. The older girl, Hannah, was there too, and she grinned at him, shook her head at his wet clothing, and handed him a small towel. He asked for some food, and in a few minutes she brought him a bowl of stew with some bread and cheese, and a half mug of brown ale.

Just as Domenic was finishing his food, he saw Vancof passing into the inn, coming from the back and making his way to the stairs. He quickly bent his head over his bowl, but the Terran agent did not spare a look toward the taproom. He appeared preoccupied from the brief glimpse Nico had of him through the strands of his dark hair.

He scooped up a mouthful of stew with his spoon and listened to the mental static around him for a moment. Then he separated Vancof’s particular mind from those around him to try to discover new information. Unfortunately, all Vancof was thinking about was his aching feet, the fact that his belly was sour with tension, and his general displeasure with everything. If he had killed the other man, he was not thinking about it at all. And to learn more, Domenic would have had to force rapport with the man, the idea of which revolted him so much that the remnants of his appetite left him abruptly.

Domenic listened to the footfalls as they continued up the stair, then heard them move overhead, toward the end of the corridor where he had seen Granfell go. After a second there was a slight noise of a door opening and closing, then nothing more. He looked down at his bowl, saw there were only a few mouthfuls of stew left in it, and forced himself to finish eating. Then he headed for his own room.

Herm was sitting on the only chair in the room, looking weary and disgruntled. “Where were you? And why are you wet?” he growled.

“I went out to clear my head, and then I was hungry and went to get something to eat. Vancof just came back. He went down the hall. I wonder what he will do when he finds Granfell there,” Nico announced, feeling suddenly very certain of himself.

Herm gave him a hard stare, reassessing him in some fashion. Then his face twisted in something like a smile, although it was more like a hound baring its teeth. “With any luck, he will kill him, and then we will have one less enemy to worry about. Did you get to Lew about alerting the Towers.”

“Who’s being bloodthirsty now?”

Herm just shrugged. “You reached Lew?”

“Yes, Uncle, and it gave me an appetite.”

Herm gave a barking laugh, which only increased his resemblance to a snarling cur. “You should not have gone out alone. If anything happened to you . . . I forget that you are a growing boy, not a man, and need your vittles.” Then he gave a little sigh, ran his stubby fingers through his thinning hair, and grunted softly.

“I was not alone precisely, because one of the Guardsmen followed me on my walk and kept an eye on me from a discreet distance.”

“That’s better. This situation is becoming more and more dangerous, and I don’t think I can take on worrying about your safety at the moment. I don’t know which way to turn, and I realize I have gotten altogether too dependent on technology during my years in the Federation. I keep wanting to have a communicator, not to mention a blaster or two.”

“You wouldn’t use a blaster, would you?” Nico was rather startled, both at the admission of frustration, and at the ruthlessness that seemed to have emerged without any warning. The cheerful companion of the road seemed to have vanished, and he was at a loss. All the tales about the Aldarans that the servants told danced in his head for a moment, and then he came to his senses. Herm was a man, no matter what his family name might be, and he was probably no more ruthless than any other—than Grandfather Lew, for instance, or even Mikhail. It was only that Domenic had never seen them in dangerous circumstances.

“Probably not. But you can bet your life that Granfell is hiding one somewhere on his person, and will have no hesitation in using it. I suspect that the only reason that Vancof was able to knife the other fellow was that he never suspected he was in any danger.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to grab him when I told you he was down the hall?”

“That’s one reason, Nico. The Guardsmen are brave fellows, but I did not want to have them trying to use swords on people armed with blasters. And I want to see what they are up to.”

“But if we stop them here, then they won’t be able to attack the funeral train.”

“That is true in theory, but we have no idea what has been planned by now. There are too many players on the board—Belfontaine and perhaps others in Thendara, as well as whomever is involved up in the Aldaran Domain. Capturing Vancof and Granfell would not stop things if there are troops up in the Hellers preparing to descend on this little town.”

“They couldn’t get here unnoticed, could they? I mean, someone would see the flyers.” Domenic knew about the vehicle which Dom Damon owned and used to come to Thendara, although he had never actually seen it.

Herm shook his head. “They would not come in little flyers, but in machines that are much larger, capable of transporting fifty men, armed with weapons that could lay waste to this town in about three seconds. I don’t know exactly what they have here, but for decades now there have been transports that are virtually invisible to the naked eye. I have no idea if any of those are on Darkover. But, if there are such here, you can wager that those are what they will use to carry the ambush party.”

“Invisible? You mean like those cloaks that legend says we once had, only bigger?”

“Pretty much.”

Domenic chewed this idea over for a moment. “So, basically, what you are saying is that swords are no match for Federation machines, and we might as well try to throw rocks! What are we going to do?” He had a terrifying vision of great bolts of lightning blasting his father and mother to cinders as they rode toward the rhu fead with Regis’ body. It seemed very real, and the helplessness he had experienced earlier returned with a vengeance.

Herm flinched, as if aware that he had frightened Nico. “Try to outsmart them. And hope that they do not dare to use high technology weapons, but will dress themselves as brigands and meet us on equal terms. The one thing that is to our advantage is that they do not know we know they are up to something. The Federation does not have much respect for Darkover, and they do not know much about our secrets. Lew led them to believe that the Towers were religious establishments rather than anything else, and fortunately for us, the people of Darkover have not told them any different.”

“I hate them! Why are they doing this? We’ve never done any harm to the Federation, have we?”

Herm sighed gustily. “None that I am aware of, Nico. As for the whys, that is more difficult to answer. One is because they can, and the other is that the leaders of the Federation have, over the past two decades, begun to mistake power for authority.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is the difference between force and cooperation, Nico. The Domains have managed to continue on Darkover because they have been wise enough to keep a balance between themselves, through cooperative efforts, so that no one Domain became too strong and could overwhelm the others. Regis’ decision to get the Aldarans back into the Comyn is part and parcel of that idea—that we all inhabit the same planet and have to get along, in spite of our differences. My father, damn him, has never believed in such ideas, and what he would like is for Darkover to be ruled by a strong man—he always thought Regis was a lightweight—who would just make people do what he thought was best for them. And he imagines himself to be that man, probably. Or plans to set Robert up as king.”

“I don’t think your brother would agree to that.”

“That is reassuring, since I haven’t had any contact with Robert for over twenty years, other than the occasional letter.”

“This makes me so mad, Uncle Herm. I want to blast those men to bits—turn their brains to jelly.”

“Could you do that?” Herm looked alarmed.

“Yes, I could, and so could Mother and Grandfather Lew. The backwash would be terrible, and besides it would be wrong, but it is possible. I don’t think anyone has done such a thing, but I know my mother burned a man to death with her touch, years ago, before I was born. And used the command voice to turn some bandits into statues in the snow.”

Herm stared at the boy, as if he was unsure whether to believe him. “Hmm. That raises some possibilities I had not considered—I’ve been away too long.”

“And then there is Father’s matrix.”

“Mikhail’s matrix? What about it?”

“I’m not totally sure, but everyone, even Uncle Regis, is afraid of it, and what it can do. It came from Varzil the Good and . . . well, maybe I should say no more.”

Herm waited for a moment. “Varzil? That doesn’t make any sense—if you mean his matrix. All the legends in the Hellers say it was lost centuries ago.”

“It was—before it came back into our time.”

“And here I thought I was past the point of ever being amazed again. No, don’t tell me. If Lew had wanted me to know, I am sure he would have told me everything. Are you catching any useful tidbits from down the hall?”

“No. In fact, for the first time in years, I am hardly able to hear anything. I believe I am too tired to do any effective snooping, Uncle, for the moment.”

“As well you should be! I have been using your Gifts without much thought of how so much the effort might affect you. Now, let’s get some sleep. Nothing else is going to happen tonight—I hope.”

Nico knuckled his itching eyes. Then he bent down and pulled off his boots. “I wish I were not so ethical and so very tired, Uncle Herm. If I weren’t, I’d just let my mind drift down the hall, and . . .”

“Leave being immoral to me, son. I’ve had more practice. You just go on doing what is right, and I will do the dirty work. We will come out of this mess, somehow.”

19

Domenic’s eyes snapped open abruptly, and he went from deep sleep to complete wakefulness without his usual intervening muzziness. He sat up, puzzled, and peered around the darkened bedroom. Herm was snoring on the other side of the bed, a pleasant, rhythmic noise which had not disturbed his rest. The wind had risen, driving the rain against the windows, and rattling the shutters. He heard rain gunneling from the downspouts along the eaves, then splashing into the courtyard below. He knuckled his eyes and scratched his head, noticing how tired he still felt, and started to settle back again.

What had roused him? It was not a noise, but more of a feeling, a shift somewhere nearby. Ah, his mental balance had returned, and he could once again pick up the random thoughts of those nearby. Nico was almost regretful for a moment—it had been restful to be too weary to hear thoughts without effort. But he felt more like himself, and that pleased him.

Vancof and Granfell were at the other end of the corridor—were they up to some new mischief? He let his mind reach out, sweeping through the inn like a feather, briefly touching the dreams of the inhabitants.

Several people besides himself were awake—Vancof, it seemed, but not Granfell, and at least two of the Guardsmen. But there was another mind, a troubled one, and after a second he knew it was Illona. She was creeping out of the room she shared with the Renunciates, and she was not looking for the privy!

Her surface thoughts were jumbled, fear-filled and anxious. She intended to put some distance between herself and her rescuers, although he could not catch any hint of an actual plan. Ungrateful wench. For a moment, Nico was tempted to let her run away, and go back to sleep. Where could she go? The Travelers were in the village lockup and she did not know anyone else.

Then it occurred to him that he could not be sure of that. The Travelers had been through Carcosa earlier in the year, and in previous ones as well. She might have made friends he did not know about, or she might be acquainted with some of the Sons of Darkover. Unlikely, he decided, after brief consideration. From the tone of Mathias’ thoughts about that organization, he didn’t think any young girls were involved. But she might encounter Vancof, who would not hesitate to attack her.

She could come to some harm. Domenic found he was a little surprised at himself, that he cared as much as he did after only knowing her so briefly. Somewhat reluctantly, he examined his feelings about Illona. He had liked her from the first second he clapped eyes on her, and that had not changed. There was just something about the girl—her courage or maybe just her difference from the young women he knew already. She was rough and ill-mannered, but she was also quick-witted and brave.

He swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his tunic and boots, and decided to follow her. Carefully opening the door of the room, Nico peeped out into the dim corridor and saw her reach the top of the stairs. She was waiting, listening for sounds from below. He could see she had on a tunic that was too big for her, over her shabby undergown, and her feet were bare in the faint light that came up the stairs. Silly girl. She was not going to get far that way. She must be really desperate to try to escape without shoes.

And where did she think she was going? He waited until she started down the stairs and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. His boots made a little noise on the wood of the floor, and he realized that the girl was smarter than he had thought. It was hard to sneak around in boots or shoes.

Domenic managed to get halfway down the stairs before he heard a scuffle below. There was a feminine squeak followed by a muffled cry of pain. He scrambled down the rest of the steps and found the girl in the hands of Gregor MacEwan, one of the Guardsmen. He was swearing a blue streak, under his breath, as Illona had her teeth firmly on his forearm, as well as aiming a knee at his groin.

“You little catamount,” snarled the man, shaking Illona hard as he tried to avoid her flailing legs. She reached out her fingers and tried to scratch his face or gouge his eyes, but his greater height prevented it. As it was, she tore the top of his tunic out of its lacings, the ripping noise of fabric seeming very loud in the silence of the inn.

Somehow Illona managed to wrench herself free of Gregor’s grip for a second, and she would have been able to run if Domenic had not grasped her around the middle and held her tight. It was like holding a sack of furious ferrets, as she kicked backward, struggled to pull away, and clawed at the arms around her waist. She shoved an elbow back into his ribs as hard as she could, and Nico was shocked by how much it hurt. Then he fell backward with a thump, and Illona landed on top of him. All the air was knocked out of his chest for a second. She was heavier than she looked!

Before she could turn around and attack him, Gregor grabbed her by the front of her tunic and hauled her off, holding her at arm’s length, so she flapped her feet helplessly above the floor. She continued to claw and scratch, but held at arm’s length, the girl found nothing except Gregor’s well-protected forearms. Nico sat up slowly, rubbed his ribs where she had struck him, and then started to get up.

I have to get away from these people. I have to get back to the Travelers.

The terror and pain of this mental shout shook Domenic. He had not been prepared for the strength of it, nor the violence either. How could he or anyone convince her that she would come to no harm, when it was clear she believed herself to be in mortal danger. Well, if a strange man grabbed him in the dark, he would probably think the same thing. He wanted to calm her, to reassure her.

Illona jerked suddenly in Gregor’s grasp, and turned her head sharply around. She glared at Domenic, her eyes huge in the faint light of the lampions. “Don’t touch me,” she shrilled and stopped struggling.

For a moment, he was puzzled. Then he understood that she had sensed the touch of his mind and was outraged. How clumsy of him! He had sensed her nascent laran earlier, but had completely forgotten about it in the heat of the struggle. His previous idea that she might be the nedestra daughter of some man of the Domains, with her red hair and pale skin, returned. His father had often said there were many more telepaths on Darkover than anyone suspected, but no one, as far as he knew, had ever thought to look among the Travelers.

It was a problem that had troubled both Mikhail and Regis Hastur in recent years. They had known there were many undiscovered talents in the general population, but no one had ever come up with a method to unearth them. The number of leroni in the Towers was too small to test a population of twenty million—an estimate at best, for no real census of Darkover had ever been completed. More, most people seemed uninterested in the matter, or resented it. A farmer did not want to lose a son who was a useful laborer, and a tradesman wished his children to follow in his footsteps, not depart for a Tower. He had encountered a few sons and daughters of both these classes during his time at Arilinn. They had been uncomfortable in the company of so many scions of the Domains, eager to get their training done with and return to the lives they had been born to. Oh, one or two had been ambitious, or wished to remain, but the majority of them had not.

“Calm down, Illona,” Nico said. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“I would not go that far, vai dom,” Gregor growled.

“Put her down now,” Domenic instructed, brushing off the front of his tunic a little, and scowling at Gregor for using the honorific. Then he shrugged to himself—the girl was smart and likely she already knew he was not the person he had pretended to be. “Just where did you think you were going to run to, Illona?” The Guardsman released his grip and lowered her feet to the floor, watching the slight girl carefully.

“Back to my people,” she mumbled.

“All of your people are in the local lockup, and unlikely to be released for some time to come,” he answered, pitching his voice carefully. It was a thing he had trained himself to do, in order to keep his foster sister Alanna from her all too frequent bouts of fury, a calming use of the command voice.

“Why? We did nothing wrong.”

Domenic could sense that she was less angry now, but still intractable. What a stubborn girl! She reminded him somewhat of Alanna, except that there was nothing about her of the boiling confusion he always sensed from his cousin. Instead there was a certain single-mindedness to her, as if when she got hold of an idea, nothing could make her let go. “Come on. Let’s go sit in the taproom and talk for a while. The fire is still going in there, and we can be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” she snarled. Despite her angry words, she turned and walked into the taproom, shivering a little. It was chilly in the hall, and in bare feet, she probably felt it more than he did. Domenic followed her, and they sat down in front of the grate, where the embers of the previous night’s fire still glowed. Gregor plopped a small log onto the irons, then withdrew at Nico’s gesture.

Domenic thought for a minute while the fire started to grow, trying to decide how to approach this wary girl. She was defensive and hostile, but these were very clear emotions in her, not muddled the way they would have been in Alanna. Finally he said, “Illona, do you know anything about yourself?”

“What a strange question. Of course I know about myself. I am fifteen, a foundling, and . . . what exactly do you mean?” She was immediately alert, curious and puzzled at the same time. He could sense her trying to discern his intent, and at the same time planning to elude it. It was an interesting juxtaposition of thought and emotion, and he found himself admiring the clarity she was holding onto.

“Do you know where the Travelers found you?”

“What does that matter?”

“I am curious. Humor me, won’t you?”

“Why are you talking in that . . . peculiar way, as if you were very serious. You can’t possibly be interested in me.” Now there was an air of confusion in her words and, beneath it, a fresh prickle of alarm.

Domenic was surprised. No one, except his mother, had ever caught him using the command voice, and yet he was sure that Illona could sense that he was. He shrugged, wishing he knew better how to test for laran, or that there was someone nearby who could, and relaxed his throat. “I am interested in you. You are a very remarkable person.”

“Huh? Me, remarkable? That’s rich.” She gave a little frown. “Are you trying to seduce me, vai dom?” She spoke the last words with enormous contempt, as if she were cursing.

Nico coughed with startlement. “That idea had not crossed my mind,” he admitted. No, he hadn’t thought about anything so tame as seduction—it had been much less subtle than that. He felt himself redden slightly and hoped she would not notice it in the light from the hearth. She was pretty, in a waifish kind of way, but his present intentions were not in the least dishonorable. “Why would you think that?”

“Aunty Loret told me to watch out, that’s all. And everyone knows that the lords of the Domains can do as they please with girls, and no one can stop them.” She appeared to be nursing a grievance. And that nasty man who grabbed me called you vai dom, so even if you are young, I know you are one of them!

“I’ve never seduced anyone, Illona, and I’m not sure I’d know how to begin.” The subject was making him feel uncomfortable, putting him subtly in the wrong somehow, so he went back to his original question. “Where did the Travelers find you? Did your aunt ever say?”

Illona did not answer right away. He is such a strange boy, so old seeming, though I don’t think he can be more than sixteen. There is something about him . . . . Why does he want to know where I come from . . . ? I suppose it can’t hurt to tell him. “Yes, she did. They came on a village that was burned out by brigands, and found me screaming my lungs out in the ruins of a house. That was up in the Kilghards, toward the Ardais Domain. My mother, whoever she was, was either dead or taken off by the bandits. And that is all I know about it.”

“I see. Have you ever . . . been tested . . . ?”

“I wouldn’t go into a Tower for all the gold in Carthon,” she snapped before he could finish his question.

What has made you so fearful and hostile to the Towers?

Illona jumped a little and shivered all over. “What are you doing to me,” she whispered.

“Nothing. You heard my thought just then.” He tried to sound calm, and was tempted to use the Voice again, but remembered how sensitive she was to it and refrained. Frightening her further would not help him. Toward the Ardais Domain? That was very suggestive—was it possible that she was a child of young Dyan Ardais? According to Mikhail, Dom Dyan had been something of a rascal in his youth. And the other Dyan, the old one, dead for years now since the final battle between Sharra and Aldones had had the Alton Gift himself.

Domenic turned the idea over in his mind, and decided it would certainly explain several things about Illona that he had observed but been too tired and busy to really consider. He restrained a shudder at the idea of an untrained mind with the Alton Gift being on the loose.

“Oh, no!” Her voice was a wail of despair, breaking into his thoughts. She swallowed hard several times, and he could see she was fighting back tears. So much for not scaring her. I have laran, and I’ve known it for years. But it can’t be very much, so maybe I won’t have to be shut up in one of those places and forced to work for the Keepers. I have to get away before he drags me off and . . . he seems so nice, too. But that is just a sham, because he as one of them, and all he wants is to order me around and tell me what to do.

Nico was glad she was too agitated to notice his eavesdropping now, and tried to think of something comforting to say. “It is not the end of the world, Illona,” Nico said softly. He had heard his mother’s tales of her first experiences with laran, and how she had been afraid and angry at the same time. The emotions boiling off of Illona must be close to what Marguerida Alton had gone through, and he felt a deep empathy for her.

“I won’t go to a Tower! I won’t! You can’t make me. I don’t care who you are!”

“Why are you so afraid of the Towers?” It was genuinely puzzling to him. He had never encountered anyone who expressed such a tremendous fear and antipathy for the Towers before. Those students at Arilinn who were there less than willingly had not been afraid, only uncomfortable and out of place. Still, he did not have a lot of experience from which to work. Perhaps it was a more widespread feeling than he could imagine.

He had grown up with Istvana Ridenow, the Keeper from Neskaya, always present, and had never had a time when he was not aware of laran and its potential around him. He knew her almost as well as he knew his own mother. He had nothing but respect for her, and for the other leroni he had met during his time at Arilinn. He was particularly fond of his cousin Valenta Elhalyn, who was now Underkeeper there, even though she was only twenty-eight. She had a keen sense of mischief and was rarely serious about the matter of matrix science, even when she was teaching it. He could think of half a dozen others without straining, all sober, hard-working men and women who had given their lives to serve Darkover.

“I don’t want to slave away in a Tower.”

“Slave? You make it sound as if you would be forced to . . .”

“The Towers are even worse than the Domains! They are parasites, and they do nothing except keep people locked up.”

“That is a very strange thing to say, Illona. I trained at Arilinn, and I am not locked up, am I?” Parasites? The term startled him, and more, it disquieted him more than a little. He wondered if this was only the idea of the thin, frightened girl sitting opposite him, or if this opinion was common.

Domenic felt out of his depth and wished that there were someone he could consult at that moment. Herm could not help him. He had been away from Darkover too long. Should he ask one of the Guardsmen? They might have heard such remarks. Rafaella? No, if she had heard such talk, she would have told his mother.

“But you are some sort of lord, and can do as you please.”

The words put his questions right out of his mind, and Domenic found himself laughing. It felt good, except that it made the spot on his ribs where Illona’s elbow had struck him hurt. As far as he could see, his entire life had been planned for him, before he was even born, and he had not been allowed to stray from it until he snuck off in the night for this ill-fated adventure. He had been closeted in Comyn Castle for years, except for his time at Arilinn, and one visit to the Alton Domain years earlier. He knew that building very well, but the city around it was largely a mystery to him. He almost envied her wider experience. He also knew that there was no way he could convey this reality to her, even as he knew he had to try.

For a moment he wondered why he felt compelled to persuade her of anything. Why couldn’t he leave it to others, people more skilled than himself. Illona was only a girl, uneducated and rough, and not really any concern of his. Yet he didn’t believe that, even for a second. And if she really did have the Alton Gift, then he had a duty to help her.

Did he like her because she was unlike anyone else he knew, or was there some other reason? It made no sense, and all he had to go on was a feeling in his belly that it was important to keep her from harm. It was similar to the way he felt about Alanna, but without the feeling of despair he so often had about his difficult foster-sister.

“That is not true, Illona. I’ve never done as I pleased. I have had duties and obligations since the day I was born, and I have honored them as well as I could. But I think you have been listening to the wrong people. Have you ever actually talked to anyone who worked in a Tower?”

“No. I always stayed in the wain when we went there, because I was afraid.” If I had been noticed, then someone would have grabbed me and dragged me away from Aunty. I knew that since I was eleven. I’ve always been afraid that I would get caught.

“Caught?”

She glared at him in the flickering light from the fireplace, aware that he had overheard her thoughts once again. “Yes. I knew that I had a tiny bit of laran, even if I didn’t want it. And everyone knows that they want to keep anyone with laran locked up, or breeding for them.”

“Illona, I think if you say ‘everyone knows’ one more time, I am going to be very angry. You don’t know anything at all!”

She glared at him fiercely, the light playing across the freckles on her sharp nose in a pleasing way. “I am just an ignorant girl, huh? And you are some vai dom who knows it all. You are not much older than I am, or maybe younger, even. Who are you!”

He hesitated for a moment, caught between the need for secrecy and his enormous desire to gain her trust. Then he threw caution to the winds and used his Gift. Domenic Gabriel-Lewis Alton-Hastur.

The expression on her face would have been comical if it had not been so frightened. “How did you do that,” she whispered, shrinking back on her seat. “I didn’t do that—you did—on purpose!”

“It is something I learned at Arilinn.” The slight lie came easily to his tongue. “It is something you might learn as well, if you were not so muleheaded.”

“I am not going to listen to you! You are a nasty boy, and I hate you.” This is even worse than I thought—he’s a Hastur. He could turn my mind to dust in a second, if he wanted. What does he want from me?

“A nasty boy would not have rescued you from that mob, Illona.” Domenic refused to let himself be drawn in by her fear or anger, but it was difficult. He felt a sudden, powerful need to defend himself, to say something that would dissuade her from her odd beliefs about the Towers and his own family.

Several emotions flickered across her mobile features too quickly for him to name them. She pleated the front of her tunic between nimble fingers, weighing something in her mind. “That’s true, I guess. But it doesn’t change anything. You are still my enemy, and you want to force me into servitude.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you have your way, you will either lock me up, or marry me off to someone so I can have babies with laran.”

He shook his head. “No, that is not true. I wish you could meet my mother. She and I have had any number of interesting discussions about that subject, and she does not approve of breeding for laran any more than you do.”

“So, why did she submit and have children, then?”

“I believe that she was in love with my father—and, truthfully, submit is not a word I would ever use to describe her! She kicked and screamed about going to Arilinn, or so I have been told. And I am glad she had children, or else we would not be having this fascinating conversation, because I would not exist.”

“That would suit me just fine.” She chewed on her lower lip and thought for a few seconds. “Look, why don’t you just pretend to look the other way, and I will leave, and you can forget about me?”

“And then what would happen?”

“I’ll go find another troupe of Travelers. I am a good puppeteer, even if I don’t like it very much.”

“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“Because letting a wild telepath just wander off into the night would be wrong, that’s all. And that is what you are, right now. Your talent isn’t going to go away, Illona. You need to know how to use it properly, or else you are going to be a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”

“No! I want to go back to the Travelers!” She paused and peered at him intently. “You know something about them, don’t you? Damn, damn, damn! I can almost hear your thoughts, which is the most revolting thing in the world. It is like you are nearly whispering in my head. I don’t want this’!” She whimpered slightly and clenched her teeth to hold back the sound.

Nico swallowed hard and thought about this piece of information. His own mind, he knew, was well-shielded and he was not forcing rapport with her. Without training and a matrix stone, she should not be able to hear him, unless his earlier suspicion was correct. And if he informed her of the nature of her Gift, she was going to collapse. She was too near the ragged edge of her own endurance as it was. After giving her some time to think, he asked “Wouldn’t you rather be able to control your Gift than be at its mercy all the time?”

“Gift!” She spat the word out, as if it was foul on her lips. “I’m not at the mercy of anything! I just keep my concentration on something, and then I don’t hear anything hardly at all.”

“That sounds very tiring, Illona.” Domenic felt a tremendous sympathy for her now, and a regret that she was so conflicted.

Illona’s shoulders slumped forward a little. “Yes, I guess it is,” she admitted grudgingly. Then a little of her normal defiant attitude returned. “But it is better than sneaking around listening to things that are none of my business, or making people do things they don’t want to do, like the leroni.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“Everyone knows . . . oops, I did it again, didn’t I?” She shrank back, afraid of his earlier threat. When he made no move to strike her, she relaxed slightly, wriggling her bare toes over the lower rung of her chair. Fear and curiosity warred in her sharp features, and he caught wisps of memory, of beatings and hunger, cold and constant fear of those around her. Only Loret seemed to have treated her with any real kindness.

Nico felt sick and ashamed of himself. He had no idea until that instant of how really hard her life had been. No one had ever struck him for no better reason than that they were angry or drunk. He had been frightened, but only of the strange things within himself, never of his parents. Even his grandmother had never done him any more injury than to hate him.

Domenic wondered what words would reassure her. Perhaps silence was the best answer, that and not making any move that would threaten the girl. She was very quick, and perhaps she would work it out for herself.

After several minutes of quiet, Nico saw her relax slightly, and sensed that her curiosity might be the victor for the moment. “But how else does a Keeper work? I mean, no one would really want to live in a Tower unless they were forced to, would they?”

“Have you ever gone to Nevarsin?”

“What a strange thing to ask. Yes, I have. We went there once, about three years back. Why?”

“Did you see the cristoforos?”

“Certainly.”

“Was anyone making them stay there?”

“That’s different. They don’t have anything anyone wants. They are just a bunch of crazy old men who believe in some weird god.”

“The biggest difference between a Tower and a monastery is that a Tower is not concerned with religion, Illona. But both are communities of people who have things in common.”

“You will never convince me of that. The Towers take the best people and make them into slaves, and then expect the rest of Darkover to support them. They don’t do anything!”

“You don’t know that since you have never been in a Tower.”

“Then tell me what good they are, except to keep the Domains in power?”

This novel idea had never occurred to him, but he could see now how someone living on the edges of Darkovan society might believe it. “They are schools for people like yourself, Illona, who would go mad if they did not receive training.”

“I’ve done fine so far.”

“Then you have been very fortunate.”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up!”

“Lots and lots of people take training in the Towers and then leave.”

“I don’t believe you.” She was absolutely determined to hold to her own fears.

“Fine. Ask Rafaella. She has a sister who spent some time at Neskaya, then left and married and is very happily living her own life, up in the Kilghards.”

“She would say anything you told her to.”

This was too much for him, in his tiredness, and he found himself laughing while the girl glared at him, outraged and furious. When he finally managed to get himself under control, he said, “I am sorry. I was not laughing at you, though you probably don’t believe me. It is just that the very thought of me telling my Aunt Rafi what to do struck me as very funny.”

“Your aunt? You have an aunt who is a Renunciate?” Illona seemed to be having a great deal of trouble taking in this relationship.

“She is my mother’s best friend, and she is freemated to a great-uncle of mine, Rafe Scott.”

“The same Rafe Scott who runs expeditions?”

“You know of him, then?”

“Sort of. I . . . have heard of him.”

“How?”

“Dirck thought about him sometimes, and I kept catching the name when we were still up in the Hellers.” She seemed troubled now, as if something about Vancof’s thoughts unsettled her.

Nico waited for her to continue, but Illona became quiet and thoughtful instead. He forced himself not to even brush her mind, letting her sort things out for herself. At last he said, “Tell me about Dirck’s thoughts, why don’t you?”

“He drinks, you know.”

“I had that impression.”

“Well, when he does, it is like he is throwing his thoughts all over the room. Nasty things. I tried not to hear anything, because it made me want to throw up. And it was all muddled, with a lot of things I didn’t understand. But I do know he was afraid of Rafe Scott for some reason, and often thought about trying to kill him, when he was really in his cups. He thought about killing people a lot, and I think he has done it, too.” Illona shivered. “He is a very bad man, but after our regular driver left, we didn’t have a lot of choice.”

“Your driver left?”

“I guess. He just didn’t show up one morning, and the next day Dirck showed up and said he was from Dyan Player’s troupe, and Aunty—you think that Dirck . . .”

“It does seem very convenient, doesn’t it?”

Illona pulled her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, as if trying to make herself as small as possible. She seemed very small and afraid, but her fear was no longer of Nico. He looked beyond her, toward the wall, staring at the paneling and refused to let his mind catch even the slightest thought that ran in her brain. “Yes, I suppose it was,” she said softly. “I never liked him, and neither did Aunty—and just look where it got her! But I told myself that I was being silly, because, you know, he looked at me so . . . strangely. Like he wanted to do something bad to me, only he dared not because of Loret.” She paused, swallowed hard, reliving those moments, he was sure. “And I never took the things I heard him think seriously.”

“Why not?”

“It was too scary.” She trembled all over for a moment, then forced herself to stop. “What would you do if you were riding around the countryside with a man who seemed to be a . . . murderer? And who thought about—“

Domenic received a clear and unwelcome impression of rape, and it was all he could do not to march up the stairs, enter the room where he knew Vancof was at that moment, and kill the man. He controlled his own feelings with an effort. Aware that he did not want to frighten her again, that he was beginning to gain her trust, he only said, “You couldn’t very well tell a village constable, I suppose.”

Illona gave a feeble laugh. “We Travelers stay as far away from them as we can, because they are always looking for a way to make trouble for us. It is bad enough that we have to bribe them half the time, to let us perform. Not the ones near the Towers, though. But the ones in the smaller towns are greedy bullies as often as not. Except to smile and say good day, I have never spoken to a constable in my life!”

Nico chewed on this for a minute. It gave him a perspective on life outside the walls of Comyn Castle that was strange and uncomfortable. Had it always been like this, or had the withdrawal of Regis Hastur during the final years of his life allowed these actions to occur? He had never experienced any situation where he could not have asked for help, and he knew that this was not true for the girl, and for others like her as well. He could not even start to imagine what her life had been like, and the little he had learned so far only made him feel sick and sad. Domenic had never really thought about common life on Darkover, had merely assumed it was pleasant—certainly better than his life of endless duty. Now he realized how really ignorant he was.

If only his mother were there! She would reassure him—or would she? Marguerida Alton-Hastur was, in private, blunt and forthright. If she perceived a problem, she tried to remedy it, not tidy it away under the nearest carpet. Then, suddenly, he understood more of why Lew Alton had been so unhappy about Regis Hastur’s last years—the way he had withdrawn and become wary and anxious. His grandfather probably knew that things on Darkover were not perfect, nor even very good for some people. And he knew now that Regis’ refusal to actively rule the Domains, his insistance on hiding within Comyn Castle, had led to resentment in the common people. In another few years, or a decade, it might have even gone far enough to turn into the revolution that Vancof was attempting to foment.

Domenic was too tired to sort it out completely, and too confused. He felt as if a great weight were bearing down on him, grinding him to dust, and snatched himself back from that downward spiral with a sharp mental jerk. The girl was watching him now, her face a study in curiosity.

“You are a very strange boy, Domenic.”

“How so?”

“Well, you are about my age, but you feel years older, like some ancient trapped in a boy’s body. I think you know a lot of things, but I also think you don’t know anything about the real world.”

“You might be right about that.” He grinned stiffly. “I will gladly bow to your greater experience.”

“You will?” Her eyes got round as she considered this seriously. “But, why? I am just a nobody—an orphan girl.”

He rubbed his chest reflectively. “With very sharp elbows. For no reason I can say, I like you, Illona. True, you have a bunch of foolish ideas in your head about the Towers, but I just like you. And I want to help you.”

You do! I know it, and at scares me nearly to death. Her eyes widened as she sensed her own touch against his mind. Did I do that?

Yes.

I’m doomed.

Domenic could not help the bubble of laughter that rose in his throat at her horrified expression, even though he tried to stifle it. No, not doomed Illona, Just overly dramatic. I suppose that comes from doing all those plays with the puppets.

She balled a fist, started to punch at him, then paused. Aunty said something like that, too. I can’t believe she is really dead. What is going to happen to me? Wait! It’s that damn Dirck, and he is up to no good!

What? Ah, yes. I almost missed him. Illona had distracted him, but now he could sense the driver leaving the room overhead, and he was not alone, from the sound of more than one pair of faint footfalls. “Gregor,” he hissed.

“Yes, vai dom.”

“Get out of sight and let the men who are coming down the stairs do whatever they wish.”

“But . . .”

“That’s an order.”

An order, but it is going to be my skin that gets racked up for not following Dom Aldaran’s. Still, he’s a good lad, and probably knows what he is doing.

Domenic took Illona’s arm and drew her away from the fire, and to his surprise she did not resist. He could feel her fear of the driver, and he realized that without the protection of Loret, the man represented a real danger to her. He pulled her behind the long curtains that hung over the windows at the front of the inn, and hoped that Vancof and Granfell were not going to come into the taproom at all. It was cold next to the glass, and the girl pressed against him, pushing her knuckles into her generous mouth to keep from making the slightest sound.

Illona huddled against him, shivering from more than cold. He could smell the warm woolen tunic and the scent of balsam and lavender on her skin. Rafi must have made her take a hot bath before bed. His senses were so heightened now that it seemed he could feel her blood surging through her veins, and if he had not been quite so alarmed, he would have thoroughly enjoyed her nearness.

“I stashed a couple of horses behind the inn earlier,” a voice murmured. Domenic twitched the curtains slightly, so he could peek through a gap in the fabric. He could see the bottom of the stairs, and part of the hall that led to both the front door and the kitchens at the back. There was a small circle of light, then two, moving eerily across the polished floorboards. After a second he could see the shine of a pair of Terranan leather boots in the strange light.

“It’s raining, Vancof! I still don’t see why we can’t stay in until morning,” another answered.

“We don’t have far to go—just a few miles. There is an abandoned croft where we can hide. I don’t think we dare remain here. After the riot they might start looking for me.”

“That’s your problem, Vancof.”

“No, it is our problem. Now, be quiet. We don’t want to wake up the innkeeper and have to explain to him why we are sneaking out in the middle of . . .”

“A knife will . . .”

“Shut up! Do you want to draw attention to us?”

A gusty sigh followed. “Where the hell is Nailors?”

“He must have run off during the riot. This way. And try to be quiet!”

The noise of their footfalls faded away, and the strange lights with them. Both Illona and Nico let out aching breaths as they emerged from the curtains. The girl noticed she had her hand clutched around his upper arm and snatched it away as if it burned. I am glad he as gone away! But I am still here.

Illona, I promise you nothing is going to happen to you.

Stop that! I don’t want to talk to you! I wish I was dead!

No, you don’t. You only think that because you are afraid!

She shuddered all over, the color draining from her cheeks. Nico felt a whirlpool of blackness begin to rise in her mind and caught her slender body firmly, holding it against him, supporting her head against his shoulder and speaking softly into her ear. Grief and fear and rage poured into him, an overwhelming rush of emotions that had been held in check for hours. It touched the same feelings in his own mind, releasing them abruptly.

They clung to one another for comfort, drowning in a sea of emotions, so close that it seemed to Domenic that there was no separation between them except their flesh. It was a shocking experience, one greater even than the intimacy of working in a Tower circle, and when it began to abate as suddenly as it had begun, he had a pang of loss as well as another of great relief.

“It will be all right, Illona, I promise,” he whispered feebly.

She snuffled, and he realized she was crying softly. Illona pulled away, a little reluctantly he thought, and gave him a bleary gaze. “Well, if you promise, that will make it fine, won’t it!” Even in tears, she was tart as a green apple.

I am your friend, whether you like it or not, Illona Rider. And you are going to be a fantastic telepath.

Whether I like it or not! I wish I had never waved at you and told you about going to the North Gate!

But, then, who would have saved you from those men?

There as that. My friend? Aunty always said you can’t have too many friends or too few enemies. Are you really my friend?

Word of a Hastur!

She gave a fluttering sigh, too tired to go on arguing. “That will have to do for now, I suppose.”