Heritage and Exile (8 page)

Regis listened, weighing the words for diplomatic evasions and half-truths. But the old man's eyes were level and the word of Hastur was proverbial. Even the Terrans knew that.

At last he said, “A bargain. Three years in the cadets, for your word.” He added bitterly, “I have no choice, do I?”

“If you wanted a choice,” said Hastur, and his blue eyes flashed fire though his voice was as old and weary as ever, “you should have arranged to be born somewhere else, to other parents. I did not choose to be chief councillor to Stefan Elhalyn, nor Regent to Prince Derik. Rafael—sound may he sleep!—did not choose his own life, nor even his death. None of us has ever been free to choose, not in my lifetime.” His voice wavered, and Regis realized that the old man was on the edge of exhaustion or collapse.

Against his will, Regis was moved again. He bit his lip, knowing that if he spoke he would break down, beg his grandfather's pardon, promise unconditional obedience. Perhaps it was only the last remnant of the
kirian,
but he knew, suddenly and agonizingly, that his grandfather did not meet his eyes because the Regent of the Seven Domains could not weep, not even before his own grandson, not even for the memory of his only son's terrible and untimely death.

When Hastur finally spoke again his voice was hard and crisp, like a man accustomed to dealing with one unremitting crisis after another. “The first call-over of cadets is later this morning. I have sent word to cadet-master to expect you among them.” He rose and embraced Regis again in dismissal. “I shall see you again soon. At least we are not now separated by three days' ride and a range of mountains.”

So he'd already sent word to the cadet-master. That was how sure he was, Regis realized. He had been manipulated, neatly mouse-trapped into doing just exactly what was expected of a Hastur. And he had maneuvered himself into promising three years of it!

The room was bright with daylight. I had slept for hours on the stone seat by the fireplace, cold and cramped. Marius, barefoot and in his nightshirt, was shaking me. He said, “I heard something on the stairs. Listen!” He ran toward the door; I followed more slowly, as the door was flung open and a pair of Guards carried my father into the room. One of them caught sight of me and said, “Where can we take him, Captain?”

I said, “Bring him in here,” and helped Andres lay him on his own bed. “What happened?” I demanded, staring in dread at his pale, unconscious face.

“He fell down the stone stairs near the Guard hall,” one of the men said. “I've been trying to get those stairs fixed all winter; your father could have broken his neck. So could any of us.”

Marius came to the bedside, white and terrified. “Is he dead?”

“Nothing like it, sonny,” said the Guardsman. “I think the Commander's broken a couple of ribs and done something to his arm and shoulder, but unless he starts vomiting blood later he'll be all right. I wanted Master Raimon to attend to him down there, but he made us carry him up here.”

Between anger and relief, I bent over him. What a time for him to be hurt. The very first day of Council season! As if my tumbling thoughts could reach him—and perhaps they could—he groaned and opened his eyes. His mouth contracted in a spasm of pain.

“Lew?”

“I'm here, Father.”

“You must take call-over in my place. . . .”

“Father, no. There are a dozen others with better right.”

His face hardened. I could see, and feel, that he was struggling against the pain. “Damn you, you'll go! I've fought . . . whole Council . . . for years. You're not going to throw away all my work . . . because I take a damn silly tumble. You have a right to deputize for me and, damn you, you're going to!”

His pain tore at me; I was wide open to it. Through the clawing pain I could feel his emotions, fury and a fierce determination, thrusting his will on me. “You
will
!”

I'm not Alton for nothing. Swiftly I thrust back, fighting his attempt to
force
agreement. “There's no need for that, Father. I'm not your puppet!”

“But you're my son,” he said violently, and it was like a storm, as his will pressed hard on me. “My son and my second in command, and no one,
no one
is going to question that!”

His agitation was growing so great, that I realized I could argue no further without harming him seriously.

I had to calm him somehow. I met his enraged eyes squarely and said, “There's no reason to shout at me. I'll do what you like, for now at least. We'll argue it out later.”

His eyes fell shut, whether with exhaustion or pain I could not tell. Master Raimon, the hospital-officer of the Guards, came into the room, moving swiftly to his side. I made room for him. Anger, fatigue and loss of sleep made my head pound. Damn him! Father knew perfectly well how I felt! And he didn't give a damn!

Marius was still standing, frozen, watching in horror as Master Raimon began to cut away my father's shirt. I saw great, purple, blood-darkened bruises before I drew Marius firmly away. “There's nothing much wrong with him,” I said. “He couldn't shout that loud if he was dying. Go get dressed, and keep out of the way.”

The child went obediently and I stood in the outer room, rubbing my fists over my face in dismay and confusion. What time was it? How long had I slept? Where was Regis? Where had he gone? In the state he'd been in when he left me, he could have done something desperate! Conflicting loyalties and obligations held me paralyzed. Andres came out of my father's room and said, “Lew, if you're going to take call-over you'd better get moving,” and I realized I'd been standing as if my feet had been frozen to the floor.

My father had laid a task on me. Yet if Regis had run away, in a mood of suicidal despair, shouldn't I go after him, too? In any case I would have been on duty this morning. Now it seemed I was to handle it my own way. There were sure to be those who'd question it. Well, it was Father's right to choose his own deputy, but I was the one who'd have to face the hostility.

I turned to Andres. “Have someone get me something to eat,” I said, “and see if you can find where Father put the staff lists and the roll call, but don't disturb him. I should bathe and change. Have I time?”

Andres regarded me calmly. “Don't lose your head. You have what time you need. If you're in command, they can't start till you get there. Take the time to make yourself presentable. You ought to
look
ready to command, even if you don't feel it.”

He was right, of course; I knew it even while I resented his tone. Andres has a habit of being right. He had been the
coridom,
chief steward, at Armida since I could remember. He was a Terran and had once been in Spaceforce. I've never known where he met my father, or why he left the Empire. My father's servants had told me the story, that one day he came to Armida and said he was sick of space and Spaceforce, and my father had said, “Throw your blaster away and pledge me to keep the Compact, and I've work for you at Armida as long as you like.” At first he had been Father's private secretary, then his personal assistant, finally in charge of his whole household, from my father's horses and dogs to his sons and foster-daughter. There were times when I felt Andres was the only person alive who completely accepted me for what I was. Bastard, half-caste, it made no difference to Andres.

He added now, “Better for discipline to turn up late than to turn up in a mess and not knowing what you're doing. Get yourself in order, Lew, and I don't just mean your uniform. Nothing's to be gained by rushing off in several directions at once.”

I went off to bathe, eat a hasty breakfast and dress myself suitably to be stared at by a hundred or more officers and Guardsmen, each one of whom would be ready to find fault. Well, let them.

Andres found the staff lists and Guard roster among my father's belongings; I took them and went down to the Guard hall.

The main Guard hall in Comyn Castle is on one of the lowest levels; behind it lie barracks, stables, armory and parade ground, and before it a barricaded gateway leads down into Thendara. The rest of Comyn Castle leaves me unmoved, but I never looked up at the great fan-lighted windows without a curious swelling in my throat.

I had been fourteen years old, and already aware that because of what I was my life was fragmented and insecure, when my father had first brought me here. Before sending me to my peers, or what he hoped would be my peers—they'd had other ideas—he'd told me of a few of the Altons who had come before us here. For the first and almost the last time, I'd felt a sense of belonging to those old Altons whose names were a roll call of Darkovan history: My grandfather Valdir, who had organized the first fire-beacon system in the Kilghard Hills. Dom Esteban Lanart, who a hundred years ago had driven the catmen from the caves of Corresanti. Rafael Lanart-Alton, who had ruled as Regent when Stefan Hastur the Ninth was crowned in his cradle, in the days before the Elhalyn were kings in Thendara.

The Guard hall was an enormous stone-floored, stone-arched room, cobblestones half worn away by the feet of centuries of Guardsmen. The light came curiously, multicolored and splintered, through windows set in before the art of rolling glass was known.

I drew the lists Andres had given me from a pocket and studied them. On the topmost sheet were names of the first-year cadets. The name of Regis Hastur was at the bottom, evidently added somewhat later than the rest. Damn it, where
was
Regis? I checked the list of second-year cadets. The name of Octavien Vallonde had been dropped from the rolls. I hadn't expected to see his name, but it would have relieved my mind.

On the staff list Father had crossed out his own name as commander and written in mine, evidently with his right hand, and with great difficulty. I wished he had saved himself the trouble. Gabriel Lanart-Hastur, Javanne's husband and my cousin, had replaced me as second-in-command. He should have had the command post. I was no soldier, only a matrix technician, and I fully intended to return to Arilinn at the end of the three-year interval required now by law. Gabriel, though, was a career Guardsman, liked it and was competent. He was Alton too, and seated on Council. Most Comyn felt he should have been designated Kennard's heir. Yet we were friends, after a fashion, and I wished he were here today, instead of at Edelweiss waiting for the birth of Javanne's child.

Father evidently saw no discrepancy. He had been psi technician in Arilinn for over ten years, back in the old days of tower isolation, yet he had been able afterward to return and take command of the Guards without any terrible sense of dissonance. My own inner conflicts evidently were not important, or even comprehensible, to him.

Arms-master again was old Domenic di Asturien, who had been a captain when my father was a cadet of fourteen. He had been my own cadet-master, my first year and was almost the only officer in the Guard who had ever been fair to me.

Cadet-master—I rubbed my eyes and stared at the lists; I must have read it wrong. The words obstinately stayed the same.
Cadet-master: Dyan-Gabriel, Lord Ardais
.

I groaned aloud. Oh, hell, this had to be one of Father's perverse jokes. He's no fool, only a fool would put a man like Dyan in charge of half-grown boys. Not after the scandal last year. We had managed to keep the scandal from reaching Lord Hastur, and I had believed that even Dyan knew he had gone too far.

Let me be clear about one thing: I don't like Dyan and he doesn't approve of me, but he is a brave man and a good soldier, probably the best and most competent officer in the Guards. As for his personal life, no one dares comment on a Comyn lord's private amusements.

I learned, long ago, not to listen to gossip. My own birth had been a major scandal for years. But this had been more than gossip. Personally, I think Father had been unwise to hustle the Vallonde boy away home without question or investigation. Part of what he said was true. Octavien
was
disturbed, unstable, he'd never belonged in the Guards and it was our mistake for ever accepting him as a cadet. But Father had said that the sooner it was hushed up, the quicker the unsavory story would die down. The rumors had never died of course, probably never would.

The room was beginning to fill up with uniformed men. Dyan came to the dais where the officers were collecting, gave me an unfriendly scowl. No doubt
he
had expected to be named as Father's deputy. Even that would have been better than making him cadet-master. Damn it, I
couldn't
go along with that. Father's choice or not.

Dyan's private life was no one's affair but his own and I wouldn't care if he chose to love men, women, or goats. He could have as many concubines as a Dry-Towner, and most people would gossip no more or less. But more scandal in the Guards? Damn it, no! This touched the honor of the Guards, and of the Altons who were in charge of it.

Father had put me in command. This was going to be my first command decision, then.

I signaled for Assembly. One or two late-comers dashed into their places. The seasoned men took their ranks. The cadets, as they had been briefed, stayed in a corner.

Regis wasn't among the cadets. I resented bitterly that I was tied here, but there was no help for it.

I looked them all over and felt them returning the favor. I shut down my telepathic sensitivity as much as I could—it wasn't easy in this crowd—but I was aware of their surprise, curiosity, disgust, annoyance. It all added up, more or less, to
Where the hell is the Commander?
Or, worse,
What's old Kennard's bastard doing up there with the staff?