The Alton Gift (29 page)

"I wish you luck," Liam said.

"The same to you, with whatever you've come here for." Jeram sipped
his jaco
and sighed in appreciation.jaco lacked the rich fullness of coffee, but was a lot more satisfying than blackroot.

"I think we are alike," Liam peered at Jeram over the rim of his own mug. His blue eyes glinted, measuring. "We each have something hidden, some untold piece of our story."

Jeram snorted. "What is this, a game?
'I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours
?'

Liam did not seem to take offense, but calmly sipped his
jaco
. After a long moment, he said, "Do you think one man of arms would not recognize another? You are no ordinary Terran, no trader or seeker of adventure. You are a man who has fought. And lost… And run."

Out of old habit, Jeram's muscles tightened. He had had enough of

secret games and seemingly innocent questions that were really probing for something else. "If I am, what business is it of yours?"

Liam shrugged and reached for the pot to refill Jeram's mug. "Only this. That there is only one reason I can imagine for a
Terranan
to remain hidden when the Federation left. You fought in the Battle of Old North Road, didn't you? Now you weary of living as an outlaw? Or perhaps you have come to petition the Council to contact your superiors off-planet so that you can go home?"

Jeram shook his head. "Nothing like that. You still have not given me a reason to trust you, or why you should concern yourself with my affairs. AH right, it's your turn to come clean. You said you had something to hide, as well. What's your story? Were you one of the defending soldiers?"

Did I kill your comrades? Are you out for vengeance?

"Trust for trust, then. Truth for truth," Liam said. "I did not take part in that ambush on either side. I have no particular quarrel with the soldiers that did. Some would say that wiping out the old Council—or certain members of it—would have done us all a favor and rid the Domains of a tyrant."

Jeram blinked in surprise. Whose side was the man on, anyway?

"
Do you think one man of arms would not recognise another
?" Liam had asked. Jeram could well believe it, from the way Liam handled his knife. Liam did not behave like a deserter but a man with a mission. He certainly carried a grudge against the current Regent and had found a receptive audience here.

"My lord is not without influence, and he is sympathetic to cases such as yours," Liam said.

"Your lord? And who might that be?"

"I served
Dom
Francisco Ridenow," Liam said. "And still do, in a number of ways. He no longer holds Serrais, as is his right, or speaks for his Domain. But that is all old history. Today my lord has allies on the Council. Allies with the power to accomplish things. So you see, neither of us is entirely friendless. It may well be, if you are who I think you are, that we can help one another."

Jeram thought for a moment. What did he have to lose in speaking the truth? He had, after all, promised himself that the time of hiding was over.

"You were right," he said, nodding. "I was part of the Terran attack force. I've been living in hiding ever since, and I'm tired of it. It's time to face up to the consequences of what I did so I can make a fresh start."

"A worthy quest." Liam rubbed the golden stubble on his chin. He drained the last of
his jaco
and wiped his mug dry with a handful of grass. "Why did you wait all these years to come forward? Why did you not leave with the others of your kind?"

"That part is difficult to explain," Jeram said, cleaning and handing over his empty mug. "It wasn't until recently—this last winter, in fact— that I fully remembered the battle. My memories had been—I suppose you call it, suppressed. The
leroni
at Nevarsin Tower helped me recover them."

"Suppressed? How?"

Jeram noticed the instant leap of interest in Liam's eyes, the edge of sharpness to his question. The man was Darkovan and had served a Comyn lord. How could he not know about the Alton Gift?

"I cannot say," Jeram said warily. "My people know nothing of such things."

"No matter." Liam shrugged. "I am going into the city on business of my own. Let us walk together, and I will show you where the City Administrative building lies. Otherwise, you may be half the morning searching for it."

Liam's manner was so relaxed and friendly, and he had dropped the question of forced rapport so easily, that Jeram welcomed his companionship. Together, they headed into Thendara.

he pen fell from Marguerida's fingers, spattering ink over the concerto she had been trying to compose for the past half hour. The morning had been overcast, threatening rain, and watery gray light cast a gloom over the normally cheery office. Even the bright colors of tapestry and carpet seemed washed out, lifeless.

Without warning, pain shot through her temples. She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden nausea.

What now? Another precognitive warning?

Relax
… she told herself.
Breathe
…

After a few seconds, the throbbing lessened, although her stomach still felt queasy.

The door of her office slammed open. Alanna strode in, tracking mud across Marguerida's favorite carpet. Damp stained the hem of her gown, ruining the rich emerald velvet. Her hair was in disarray, and a high color suffused her cheeks. Clearly, she'd been outdoors, probably playing hoops and streamers with her friends, and was furious at being called away.

"You wished to see me," Alanna announced. "Here I am!"

Marguerida suppressed a frown. Ever since Domenic had left on his

tour of the Towers, the girl had been increasingly irritable, back to her old tantrums.

In an effort to maintain control of the conversation, Marguerida said, "Sit down."

Alanna did so, without any softening of her expression.

"In the last tenday, I have had a dozen complaints about your behavior. Temper tantrums are all very well for babies, but you are a young woman now. You simply cannot scream and throw things when you do not get your way. Especially not at servants. You were very lucky the pitcher hit Tomas on the forehead and did not damage his eye. Alanna, are you listening to me?"

The girl muttered under her breath, her expression sullen.

"What did you say?"

"I said," Alanna snarled, "that I am sick and tired of people telling me what to do!"

"Then behave like a responsible adult! You are old enough to control yourself. If you cannot act properly, with courtesy toward those who are trying to help you, then I—"

"Then what?" Alanna broke in. "You'll lock me in my room, the way you did when I was little?" She scrambled to her feet. "Or send me back to Arilinn? I won't go! I won't! I'll make you regret—"

"I
WILLNOTBE THREATENED." With
the headache tearing at her concentration, Marguerida unconsciously reinforced her words with the Commanding Voice.

Immediately, she broke off. What was wrong with her, to lose control at such a small provocation? Alanna was a child! Wilful and self-centered perhaps, difficult definitely, but not a real threat to her. Confrontation would only escalate the conflict. Why could they not discuss things rationally, the way Marguerida had been able to do with so many people who had once been enemies and were now her friends?

Alanna recoiled from the psychic contact as if she had been physically struck. Her hands curled into fists and her voice trembled. "Go ahead! Use your
laran
on me—you with your shadow matrix and all the power in the world except the power to make me happy! I am your prisoner, and I hate you!"

"Don't be melodramatic, Alanna. You are no one's prisoner, and you know it. Besides, where would you go?" Instantly, Marguerida regret-

ted her words, for it was needlessly cruel to remind Alanna that her own mother had given her up.

"I would go away with Domenic, of course! We—he
understands
me."

Marguerida blinked in surprise. Clearly, Alanna missed her son, but Marguerida had no idea the girl had wanted to go along on the expedition. Alanna had never been physically adventurous, always preferring the comforts of the city to the challenges of travel through rough countryside.

Alanna was going to say something more before she stopped herself. Marguerida sensed the younger woman's effort to control herself, to gather up the shreds of her dignity.

Ignoring the headache as best she could, Marguerida said, "I know you miss him, child. I miss him very much, too." She gave a deep sigh, and glanced at her left hand in its insulated glove, wishing that her shadow matrix could help.

Alanna stood straighter, lifting her chin. "I am sorry I was so temperamental. I have not been sleeping well. Ever since last summer and the attack on the Castle, I have been troubled with…" she hesitated minutely, "… bad dreams. It was ill-mannered of me to behave so disrespectfully to someone who has been—who will be—a mother to me. I know you have never meant me any harm…"

Marguerida's dizziness returned. A psychic storm cloud pressed on the horizon of her mind. The sense of oncoming danger was too nebulous for her to tell if it centered around Alanna, or something else entirely. Was Francisco Ridenow up to something? Or—her stomach clenched and the room turned icy—had something else happened to Mikhail?

"What is it, Auntie Marguerida? Are you ill?" Alanna sounded genuinely concerned.

"Nothing of the sort," Marguerida managed to answer. "I am just a little tired, that is all."

"You had the oddest expression on your face. Please, let me call one of the servants for you. You should lie down now. Come, I will help you to your chamber." Alanna came around the side of the desk, holding out her hand.

Marguerida shook her head, feeling unreasonably irritated. The last thing she wanted was to be fussed over by the young woman who, only

a few minutes ago, had behaved so rudely. Allowing Alanna to take care of her would not resolve the friction between them.

For years, I have wished her to be considerate and helpful, and now that she is, I cannot accept it from her.

"I will be quite all right," she said, doing her best not to sound unkind. "I do not need help, only a little quiet to prepare for my work today."

Alanna paused, clearly understanding that she was dismissed. "I will not trouble you any longer,
Domna
Marguerida. Please do not hesitate to call me if you change your mind."

Marguerida waited until the latch clicked shut. Alanna was dealt with for the moment. In a tenday, Domenic would return for the opening of the Council season. Alanna always behaved better in his presence. Already, a number of Comyn had arrived in Thendara, including Mar-guerida's brother-in-law, Gabriel, and that odious Francisco.

Francisco
! He seemed to have a finger in every pie and a network of spies, or worse. Although he himself never attended the Cortes or the Council office in the City Administrative Building, he always seemed to know about any trouble, particularly when it reflected badly on Mikhail's Regency.

And then there was the episode three days ago
… Only Mikhail, Donal, and she herself knew about the assassination attempt—and the dead man. Disguised as a Castle Guard, the fellow had lain in wait for Mikhail on a night when Mikhail was working late and the corridors were deserted. If Donal had not insisted on remaining at Mikhail's side…

No, don't think about that!

The assassin had died in the scuffle before he could be questioned. Nothing on his person linked him with Francisco, but Marguerida had no doubt the Ridenow lord was behind the attack. However, a hunch was not evidence, not even among the Comyn.

To clear her head, Marguerida sent for a pot of her diminishing supply of Thetan tea, for the coffee she loved was long since gone, and something to eat, pastries, cheese, nuts—she didn't care. The tea arrived and she sipped it, letting the comforting warmth spread through her. Her headache eased but did not entirely disappear.

Finally, she could delay no longer. Darkovans did not keep to the strict time schedules of the Federation, but there were only so many

hours in a day, even if each contained 28 hours instead of the Terran Standard 24. Some responsibilities could not be postponed with the approach of another Comyn Council season. It was time to get going.

As Marguerida stepped out into the streets beyond Comyn Castle, she shivered despite her thick woolen jacket, a deep inky blue stitched around the high collar and cuffs with snowflakes in lighter shades, and the rather irregular scarf Yllana had knitted for her last birthday. Although she was Darkover-born, she had lived most of her young life on much warmer planets. Even a fine spring day sometimes felt like winter.

Marguerida walked briskly, relishing the sounds and smells of the living city. People passed her, some well-dressed, others in faded, patched cloaks. Pedestrians mingled with riders, carts, and even a brightly painted wagon that surely must belong to a troupe of performing Travelers.

She thought of wandering down to Threadneedle Street to see her old friends, the MacDoevid family, or to the Escalia flower market, but the days when she could indulge such whims were as long gone as lazy afternoons swimming in the crystalline waters of Thetis.

Today, she had committed herself for a shift at the City Administrative building, which also housed a courtroom for commoner business, a subsidiary station for the City? Guards, and various offices. She was not looking forward to sorting out those few cases the Council should hear and making sure the others got attended to. Unfortunately, the work turned out to be exasperating and tedious. She believed in doing her fair share; the system was her idea, and, although far from perfect, it was still better than having the Comyn Council inundated with trivial business or, worse yet, turning everyone away unheard.

Things had been quiet since the riot last year, but with the thawing of winter, each day brought new refugees to the city gates. Where they were all coming from, or how they would all be fed and housed, she couldn't imagine. Likely, today's roster of complaints related to these wanderers. Her head ached just thinking about the logistics of sanitation and food distribution for them all, and by the time she neared the Administrative building, her headache had returned.

Dating from the first days of Terran contact, the building struck Marguerida as the worst of both worlds. It was squat and square, a block of unadorned fawn-colored stone, unimaginative and, unfortunately, extremely durable. In all likelihood, her great-grandchildren would have to endure looking at it, too.

A small crowd had gathered on the street outside, mostly men in tattered fur shirts and mountain-style boots, a sprinkling of city dwellers, and the sort of patchwork beggars who had appeared recently. Marguerida pushed her way through them. One or two glared at her, but most made way, pointing at her red hair, bobbing their heads respectfully

"What's going on?" she asked the Guard at the door, a second-year cadet. She couldn't remember his name, but she thought she had seen him at the Midwinter Festival ball.

He bowed, recognizing her. "Just the usual,
vat domna
. Riffraff and rabble with nothing better to do."

"What do they want?"

He shrugged. "Work, mostly, but there's none here for them. They should have stayed at home."

"
Domna
, can you help me?" one of the men shuffled forward. He looked to be well past his prime, whitened stubble covering his weathered cheeks. "I don't ask for charity, just an honest day's work. I can mend harness, muck out stalls, tend horses. Please—my wife's not well—we come here from Rainsford in the Kilghard Hills."

"I'm sorry," Marguerida said, unexpectedly moved.

"Get back!" The Guard stepped between them, lifting his staff. The man hurried away before Marguerida could say more.

She went inside, her thoughts churning. Surely, something ought to be done for such people. Thendara, like any city, had its share of sorrows, but poverty and homelessness, such as existed on Vainwal or Terra or Sandoz Three, were unknown. Darkovans had always taken care of their own. Something had broken down in the social network.

Or maybe, she reflected, it was a combination of attrition, reducing the ranks of the Comyn; the diversions of one crisis after another, culminating in the death of Regis Hastur; the withdrawal of the Federation's trade and technology; and the too-slow evolution of new social structures to fill the gaps.

She passed through the narrow entry hall into the reception room outside the main office. A half dozen men, a few beggars but also some clearly well-to-do city folk, sat on the long bench, waiting to be seen.

The door to the inner office opened and a man strode out. He hurried away down the hallway, shadowed so that she could not see his face. By his clothing, he was indistinguishable from the men outside, with his worn, travel-stained jacket and boots, and long dusty hair tied back with a loop of leather.

Marguerida was not as skilled as Mikhail or Danilo in the nuances of Darkovan gestures and body language, but she thought this man did not hold himself like a peasant. In fact, he looked more like a trained swordsman than a poor mountain farmer.

And yet… She frowned as she continued on her way. She had seen Darkovan sword masters. There was something different in this man's bearing. She could not see him reaching for a blade, but for some other weapon… And, for the briefest moment, she felt the quiver of
laran
.

"
Domna
Marguerida!" Bowing, the clerk scrambled to his feet.

She smiled gently as he shuffled from one foot to another and stammered out a response to her greeting. He was Danilo's protege, from a poor but intensely proud old family. Instead of the humiliation of charity, he earned every
reis
of his small stipend.