The Shadow Matrix (58 page)

all work itself out in a few months.

That sounds pretty serious.

It is. The Federation does not like having protected planets that it cannot order about,

and there are rumors that all the Protectorates will be changed soon. It is a ploy to

force places like Darkover to give up their status and become full members, and they

can do it, too.

How?

Quite simple, really. Stop trade, ruin the economy for a generation, and then come in

and take over.

Does Regis know about this?

Not from me.
Rafe Scott made a face, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, and finished

his glass of wine in a couple of gulps. I
am stuck in the middle, because of my double

citizenship, and being half Darkovan, and my loyalties are pulling me in all directions.

To inform Regis directly would be to break my oath to the Service, and not to would be

breaking faith with Darkover. But as long as I remain in the Service . . .

You sound as if you might not be there long.

I will stay in the Service as long as I am able, because it is useful to. Darkover for me

to be there. But if it comes to betraying the planet, I will resign. It would be a relief,

actually.

Poor Uncle Rafe!

Captain Scott laughed at this, and Rafaella, who was aware that things were being

discussed from which she was being excluded, gave him a shining glance. She did not

appear to mind at all that she was the only non-telepath in the group. "Come on, old

fellow. I came to dance, not to stand around."

Old fellow?
Marguerida gave her. uncle a look.

She tells me it's a term of affection, and I think it is. I am old, compared to her, and

feeling older every day.

Then get out while you can! Don't sacrifice yourself, Uncle.

The Service has been my life,
chiya.

Well, then, it is about time you had another. Why, you and Rafi could go into business

together, running a guide business or something.

Tours of scenic Darkover our specialty?

Exactly!

Scott chuckled softly, handed his empty glass to Mikhail, and led Rafaella toward the

set that was forming up in the middle of the dance floor.

Valenta Elhalyn slipped in beside Mikhail, looked up at him with her gleaming eyes,

and said, "Will you dance with me? I've been practicing for days and days, and I don't

want to waste it. You do not mind, do you, Marguerida?"

"Of course not, Val." Then Mikhail looked at the two glasses in his hands, as if they

had just then grown out of his fingers.

"No, I don't mind a bit, Valenta. One slow dance is

about all I can manage at present. I think I will go over and stand by the windows,

where it is cool—I feel a little flushed. Here, give me those! You look foolish, Mik."

Marguerida took the glasses from him, threading the stems between her fingers. A

servant carrying a tray appeared immediately and almost snatched them out of her

hands. Mikhail caught the scene out of the corner of his eye, and tried not to laugh. As

adaptable as she was, he did not think Marguerida was ever going to become

completely accustomed to servants.

Mikhail turned his attention away, and nearly ran into Gisela Aldaran. He managed to

stop just short of knocking her down. She gave him a feral smile, as if aware that she

had discomforted him. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?"

"No, Giz, I am not!"

"What will people think, if you do not stand up with me?"

"I don't care a bit what people think, and if you keep flinging yourself in my way, they

will take you for a hussy. Go away. You bore me." He was surprised at himself, for he

knew he had not drunk enough wine to be so abrupt. But his temper was frayed, and he

realized he had been longing to say those words for weeks.

Hussy! I like that, Mik! But I prefer bitch!

Valenta!

I'm only a little girl, and I can't help myself can I?

You can, and you know it!

Yes, but I love the way your face gets when I am naughty!

And how is that?

You suck your cheeks in like you had a lemon in your mouth, and your eyeballs bulge.

You are a wicked girl, Val.

What can you expect from a crazy Elhalyn?

Mikhail could formulate no answer to this question. He moved around the stunned

Gisela, and took his place in the dance. Liriel had tested Valenta, and said she was

going to be. a very powerful telepath indeed. Nonetheless, he was surprised by the

strength of her mental voice, and also disquieted. She seemed to be coming into her

laran
almost too soon, and he felt a chill. Even with the best care in the world, a third

of children did not survive threshold sickness.

The music took off and sent the worries from his head. It was a rather boisterous piece

that demanded a lot of stamping and foot tapping, and was a favorite of his. He let

himself became absorbed in the dance itself. Valenta hefted her skirts a bit, and

matched his gestures, grinned at him impishly. Then it was over, and he was bowing

over her tiny six-fingered hand.

"That was fun. Did I do well?"

"You are an excellent dancer, Valenta."

"I'm glad. You looked so worried, and now you seem happier."

"Do I?" His moods did seem to be shifting every five minutes, and he felt the stab of

unease return again.

"Yes. Thank you very much. Now I am going to go find Danilo Ardais, and find out if

he really is the best dancer on Darkover! You didn't see me, but I stood up with

Francisco Ridenow, and he has no more idea than a cow how to dance."

Mikhail laughed in spite of himself. "Yes, but it doesn't do to say it."

"Oh, I didn't. I thanked him nicely and said I enjoyed myself. Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Gisela Aldaran is over talking to Marguerida, and she doesn't look happy. By the

window."

Mikhail swiveled his head around so fast he almost put a crick in his neck. In the

shadows of the long drapes he could just make out his beloved and Gisela, their heads

bent toward one another, like conspirators. What he could see of their expressions was

dismaying—antagonistic on Gisela's part, and remote on Marguerida's. He knew that

face too well.

He moved across the room as quickly as he could, and came up just as Gisela said,

"You cannot win, you know."

"I already have," he heard Marguerida answer, her usually pleasant voice chilly and

distant, as if she were far away. She turned her head, looking out the window.

The sky was very dark above the lights shining from the port, and the few clouds had

blown away. The stars gleamed above the city. The softer lights of lampions and

torches in Thendara itself gave a warm glow to everything. It was very beautiful, and

very calm.

Then Mikhail noticed that three of the moons stood in what seemed like a line, just

above the horizon, their colors blending softly. Mormallor, the smallest and whitest,

stood at one end, and mauve Idriel at the other, with Kyrrdis, blue and green, between

them. He felt himself stiffen. The dream came back, vivid and immediate!

"You can't! They are going to announce the engagement tonight!" Gisela's voice,

usually so silky, was almost shrill now.

"It does not matter," Marguerida replied, so calm she seemed made of stone. "You are

deluded, Gisela. You have backed the wrong horse."

Gisela Aldaran stamped her foot and from the movement of her jaws, was clearly

grinding her teeth. Mikhail hesitated, wanting to intervene, yet not wishing to get

between them. He could feel the anger emanating from Gisela, and a serenity from

Marguerida that surprised him. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused, as if entranced by

some inner vision.

The blue light of Liriel, the fourth moon, rose above the horizon, just the smallest

portion of it visible. And he felt something rumble along his bones, a sound like the

earth moving. A voice like a crack of thunder roared in his mind, paralyzing his will.

"TO HALI! NOW!"

23

One moment Margaret was speaking to Gisela, listening to the sullen hissing of her

voice, and the next she felt a vast weight press into her mind. It was horrible and

terrifying, but part of her remained quite calm. She had an instant of disorientation, as

if she were in two places at the same time. Whatever she had been about to say

vanished. She struggled to pull away, but whatever it was, it was too strong. Then

Margaret felt more than heard the voice from her dream quake through her body,

overwhelming all else.
TO MALI! NOW!

She turned from the window, her hands shaking. The uncertainty she had endured since

the dream was gone, replaced by an urgency that nearly overcame her. Her legs were

trembling, and she felt as if there were a collar around her throat, pulling her away

from the windows. It was not painful, just inexorable.

Margaret looked into Mikhail's eyes, and knew he felt it as well. She swallowed hard,

took his hand, and said, "Come, my dearest. We have an appointment with destiny."

It was not until they had crossed half the great chamber that Margaret noticed no one

else was moving. Musicians sat frozen above their instruments, in mid-movement.

Regis Hastur' mouth was open, as if he had been cut off in the middle of a word.

She barely had time to take it in before the weight in her mind forced her to keep

moving, clutching his hand. Margaret felt Mikhail resist her tug, looking around the

room at the immobile figures. Finally, he shook his head, as if to clear it, and matched

her strides across the room.

"Appointment with destiny? Did you have to be so melodramatic?" He sounded angry,

and she could sense his re-

luctance, in spite of the irresistible compulsion of the repeated words in their minds.

Margaret smiled a little, despite the feeling that she might shatter at any moment. All

she wanted was to get away from the dense pounding in her bones. There was no

escape, but movement seemed to ease the pressure slightly. "Dio taught me never to

waste a good exit line, Mik. Now, come on. We have to get away before they come to

their senses!"

She could feel the separation within her mind. The portion which was in the grip of the

voice was nearly mad with terror. This was the Marja part of her, the part which had

been overshadowed. The other, Margaret, had no tool to use to help her younger serf

except her warped sense of humor. It was very strange, and she dared not analyze it.

All she could do was accept each moment, and keep going. The other choice was

madness, and she refused it.

"You aren't really suggesting that we rush off to Mali in the middle of the night in our

dancing clothes, are you?" His anger was obvious now, but she knew it concealed

terror. Hardly pausing for fear for her mind, she tried to understand. Fright seemed

right, but Rage? Then she realized that the events at Halyn House must be ringing in

his mind right now, with all the powerlessness he must have felt.

Unfortunately, Margaret did not have time to explain this to Mikhail—she must keep

both of them in motion at any cost. "No. We need to change, then get to the stables as

quickly as we can."

"But!"

"Keep going and stop arguing! I had another vision!" She raced down one flight of

stairs, as fast as her skirts would let her, and heard the sound of his footsteps behind

her.

"What was it?" He nearly knocked her down, his breath warm against her hair.

"Later, you idiot!"

"Yes . . . all right." They bolted down another flight, out of earshot of the ballroom.

They finally reached the corridor leading to the Alton Suite at one end, and the Lanart

at the other, and parted. Margaret watched him go to his rooms, then hastily opened the

door to her own. She was panting with exertion, her

brow damp, and her head pounding. There was no one there, so she was forced to get

out of her finery without help. In her haste, she tore the delicate fabric, her ears

straining for sounds of pursuit. Surely someone was going to follow them soon. Her

fingers twitched over the closings, and she was clumsy. "I'm going as fast as I can," she

muttered at the booming voice in her head.

She put on thick hose, her riding clothes, and her scuffed and worn boots. Then she

paused briefly, trying to think of what else to take. A knife seemed like a wise idea, so

she grabbed the one she had used on the trail, and the little pouch with a flint in it, for

starting fires. She tugged her cloak off its hook in the closet, and dashed into the hall.

Mikhail was just emerging from his own rooms, dressed in a plain brown tunic and

trousers, with a green cloak looped over his arm. He looked taut, as if all his attention

had narrowed to a single focus. It was painful to see, and she was very glad she was

not an actual empath, because she suspected his emotions were as mixed as her own.

He was not a man to be driven, she decided, and wondered how Regis could have

believed he could be.