"Rafaella, what are these people doing?"
"What? Oh, you mean the Travelers? They are only allowed in Thendara at Midsummer or Midwinter—the rest of the time they keep to the countryside or the smaller cities. You missed them at Midsummer because you were already at Arilinn. The Guilds don't like them, so they keep them away."
"I don't understand. Why do the Guilds object—I assume you mean the musicians and the actors—is there an Actors Guild? I never thought about it before."
"Oh, certainly. There is a Puppet Guild, one for dancers, and even one for the costume makers." The Renunciate made a face, as if trying to find a way to say something difficult.
Remy, one of the two Guardsmen that Regis had insisted accompany them, answered. "The musicians don't want the competition, because some of the singers in the Travelers are just as good or better than those in the Guild. But the real reason is that they are a bunch of ruffians, and they sing what they like, or do plays that are . . ." he made a face, "a bit ripe. They have a bit of fun at the expense of all and sundry. Everyone likes to laugh at other folk. So they do plays about fat merchants who cheat, or wives who beat their husbands, and everyone laughs except the merchants or the husbands. Or they sing songs that would make a comynara blush, begging your pardon, and everyone has a chuckle." . "But I never heard of them before."
"There were always wandering entertainers, Marguerida, but it wasn't until about fifteen or twenty years ago that there were very many of them. I heard that Master Everard's son Erald spends some time with them, and that is the real reason he won't become Guildmaster when Everard dies. They say he writes songs that mock the Comyn."
"I knew from Master Everard that he had written something that was banned, but not the reason." She looked at the wagons again, her scholarly curiosity aroused, and regretted that she would never again have the liberty to pursue her interests.
The other Guardsman, Helgar, a dour man of few words, added, "These players have no respect for anyone—they make fun of one and all. Even-handed of them, to be sure."
Remy grinned at his companions. "And one of their favorite targets is the Renunciates, which is why Mestra Rafaella does not really want to talk about them."
"Do they ever cause trouble—get people angry or anything?" Margaret had read about riots on a few planets which had been provoked by things as seemingly harmless as a song.
Rafaella shook her head, puzzled. "No. But their songs and japes do make the marketplaces buzz a bit."
As they rode down a narrow street. Margaret could see the roof of the castle rising above the rest of the city, and her heart felt lighter. Soon she would see her father and Mikhail, and she would be glad of that. And Ida Davidson, too. What would Ida make of Darkover?
When they entered the stableyard half an hour later, they found a large carriage blocking the way. It had six horses pulling it, and was heaped with boxes and cases on the top, so that it looked very unbalanced. Swarms of grooms and servants surrounded the carriage, shouting and getting in each other's way. It was organized chaos, but no one appeared to mind. In fact, Margaret decided, they seemed to be actively enjoying it.
Margaret was too happy to be within reach of her goal to be annoyed by this delay. She leaned back in her saddle, stretched her spine against it, and lifted her arms above her head. She felt the bones shift and move back into place all along her spine, with a few satisfying little pops.
As she lowered her arms, something struck her on the
shoulder, nearly unseating her. As she regained her balance, Margaret was aware of something clutching her left shoulder, and she turned abruptly.
Red eyes and a fearsome beak confronted her, so close she could see the fine black feathers that began at the bill and ascended along a handsome head. It cawed softly, as if trying to tell her not to be afraid, while Dorilys snorted and stamped.
Margaret drew a sharp breath in the chilly air, and smelled an oily, fishy scent which brought a flood of images, of warm seas on Thetis, and a wind that was never cold. "Good day, my pretty," she said quietly. She had seen such birds on Thetis, and she found she was not afraid, just cautious.
So this was Mik's crow. Handsome fellow. It shifted from claw to claw, fluttering a little. At last she extended her left arm, and it scooted down until it perched on her wrist.
For a moment it did not move, and then it began to touch the glove, along the back of her hand with its beak. It did not peck, but instead moved the bill in graceful lines, tracing the shadow matrix hidden beneath leather and silk. Margaret held her breath, stunned, as her companions watched with great curiosity. Apparently satisfied, the crow raised its proud head and gave a sharp call.
At that moment, the door of the carriage opened, and Lady Javanne Hastur descended onto the cobbles. She turned, saw Margaret holding the crow on her arm, and her eyes grew enormous. "What are you doing with that bird?" she almost shouted. Then she advanced across the cobblestones, ignoring everything. "Shoo, shoo," she said, when she was a little closer, flapping her arm in a very silly way.
"Greetings, Aunt Javanne." Margaret could barely contain her laughter. Behind her she was aware that the men and Rafaella were in grave danger of disgracing themselves by giggling at Lady Javanne.
"Where did you get that animal!"
"It just landed on my shoulder, Aunt. And, if I am not mistaken, it is Mikhail's bird. There is no need to get . . . your feathers ruffled."
This was too much for young Remy, and he clapped a broad hand 'across his mouth and made a" noise that might
have been coughing if one did not listen too closely. The
crow looked down at Lady Javanne, made a sound that was
indecipherable, then lifted away in a flare of great wings,
the white along the edges flashing in the torchlight of the
stableyard.-
"I might have known," Javanne muttered darkly. Then she turned and went back to the carriage without really acknowledging her niece. Piedro Alar was helping Ariel, out of the vehicle, and now Margaret could hear the voices of the children, eager to get out of confinement. A nurse, holding Kennard and little Lewis in her arms, managed to get down the steps of the carriage, and Donal and Damon Alar clambered out after her.
"Cousin Marguerida!" Donal, always irrepressible, trotted across to meet her, his young face alight with pleasure. The dark hair that set him apart from his brothers had fallen across his brow, and she thought he could have done with a haircut.
Margaret dismounted calmly. She stamped her feet, which seemed to have no circulation in them at present, and felt full of pins and needle. Then Donal reached her,. and she bent down to him. A fierce hug encircled her shoulders, and with it the rather distinct smell of little boy, a warm, thick scent of healthy flesh and vigor. She returned the hug, then held him away from her. "I do believe you have grown an inch since summer, Donal. Have you been eating tall beans?"
"I never heard of those, but I would eat 'em if I could. I am almost as tall as Damon now, and wearing his old clothes. But I am going to get a new tunic for Midwinter. Father promised." Mother is too busy with thinking of her new baby to notice my clothes, and that my toes are too long for my boots!
Politely, Margaret ignored this thought. "How nice. Perhaps you would like to come with me, when I go to see the tailors in Threadneedle Street. If it is all right with your father."
"Oh, I am sure he would be glad to let you—he has a lot on his mind just now." In a lower voice he added, "I've been practicing my Terran with Great-Uncle Jeff, and he says I am getting the hang of it." He slipped his hand into hers trustingly, beaming at her. She had questioned the
wisdom of her instruction a few times, but the little boy had been so bored at Arilinn, and, in truth, it had given her something to do besides study matrix science. He clearly thought she was a very fine person, for an adult, and she returned the sentiment. She found the lad intelligent and charming—perhaps too much so for his own good.
As far a
s Margaret was concerned, Donal and his brothers were the real future of Darkover, and she hoped that he would have the opportunity to learn to use his mind for the good of the planet. With an overanxious mother and a gloomy father, she was not at all certain that this would happen, and wished she could do something to help. But her own position was still too ambiguous, too complicated, for her to suggest that Donal might be well-served to be fostered by someone other than his parents, as was the common practice on Darkover. It was not her place, not yet.
Holding Donal's hand, she crossed the yard, stepping around servants wrestling with the luggage of the Hastur and Alar party. It struck her that she would like to foster this little lad herself, even though she was sure her aunt and the boy's mother would not like the idea at all. Ariel could barely stand to have any of her children out of her sight, and had become even more possessive since Domenic's fatal accident.
Rounding the obstruction of the carriage, Margaret saw that her father was standing on the steps leading from the stableyard. He was whistling under his breath, as he did when he was bored. In the flickering light of the torches, he looked tired but relaxed for a change.
Lew Alton saw her, and moved down the stairs, smiling his somewhat lopsided grin, his eyes crinkling. They reached one another in something of a rush, and just stood in silent greeting. Her heart felt gladdened by the sight of him, and if she was disappointed that Mikhail was not also present, it was only a small sorrow.
"Chiya!" He put his single hand on her shoulder and she could feel him squeeze his fingers into the cloth of her garment, putting into that gesture and the single word all the cherishing that she had longed for as a child. You look wonderful, considering that you have just ridden such a long way. I am glad to see you.
And I am glad to see you too, Father. If I do not sit on a' horse for a tenday, I will be very happy. Dorilys is a splendid mount, but even the finest horse wears thin after a time. "Hullo, Old Man." She spoke to ease the rush of emotions that threatened to undo her. "You are looking well."
"Hullo, Uncle Lew," Donal piped up, grinning. "Cousin Marguerida is going to take me to see the tailors, so I can have a new tunic for Midwinter. I want a blue one!"
"Is she, indeed. Well, blue would suit you well enough, I suppose." He smiled at the little boy. "How was the journey, daughter?"
"Hasty and quite uneventful, thank you. No lost horseshoes, broken cinches, bandits, snow storms, or anything worth talking about."
"Let's get inside." Lew slipped his arm through Marguerida's, then offered his only hand to Donal, who took it, puffing up his small chest as if aware of the honor he was receiving. They climbed the stairs, allowing for Donal's shorter legs, in quiet harmony, and entered the vestibule that led into the castle itself.
Within, there was near chaos, for it seemed that Lady Marilla and Dyan Ardais had also just arrived, and there were servants and baggage all over the small chamber. Behind them, the Alar luggage was being brought in, with grumbles and shouts.
Margaret, suddenly conscious of her position as part of Darkovan society, left her father's side, and went to greet Lady Marilla Aillaird and Dom Dyan. It was the proper thing to do, and she was "genuinely glad to see them. The little woman brightened when she saw her, left off harassing the servants, who were quite capable of ordering themselves, and embraced her in a scented clasp. "Neskaya seems to agree with you, and Isty has given me good reports of your progress."
"I am glad to hear that, for my own sense of the thing is that for every step forward I take, I take another two, or even three, to the rear. You are looking well. How is your expansion of the kilns faring? Everyone at the Tower enjoys the new dishes you sent. We eat off them every day, and I always think of you, and that first meal I ate at your
table." She was babbling and she knew it, out of weariness and her own relief at having finally arrived.
Suddenly, Margaret sensed tension in the crowded entry and looked around, trying to determine its origin. All she saw was a fresh phalanx of servants hauling Lady Javanne's impressive pile of luggage, and Piedro Alar hovering over Ariel with his usual harried expression. Ariel was not, for once, looking daggers at her, and Javanne was too busy ordering the servants. It must be her imagination.
Pregnancy agreed with Mikhail's younger sister, for although she was near her term and ungainly, her color was good, and she had not gained too much weight. Even her usually dull hair had more luster. She said something to Piedro as Margaret watched, and they started to pick their way through the throng, toward the stairs which led to the floor above. This seemed a very sensible course to Margaret, and she decided to follow it.
Turning toward the staircase herself, Margaret drew off her riding gloves and tucked them into her belt. The blue silk mitts that she wore beneath them were a little travel-stained, and she curled her nose in resigned disgust. Then she loosened the clasp at the throat of her cloak, and breathed a sigh of relief.
She stepped around a trunk with the feathers of the Ail-lard Domain painted on its side and glanced up into the shadows of the stairs. Margaret had the momentary impression that there was a mirror on the staircase, and that she was being reflected in it. She had outgrown some of her lifelong terror of looking glasses during the past few months, but still found the sight of her own features a little disconcerting! Then, with a slight start, she realized it was not her own face, just one similar enough to resemble her in the shadow of the staircase.
And behind the figure of the woman who looked rather like her, Margaret saw Mikhail Hastur, an expression of rage distorting his handsome features. In an instant she knew that the tension she had felt must be his. He seemed to be trying to free himself from the grasp of the woman, for she had his hand clutched firmly in her own. He looked ready to commit murder. The expression on the face of the unknown woman was not pleasant either. Her heart sank. This was nothing like the meeting which she had spent most
of the day imagining. Then she steeled herself to show no emotion, to keep herself remote and distant from everyone, as she had done all her life. For the first time, she was almost glad that Ashara's overshadowing had trained her to be aloof and reveal nothing of her feelings.
Lew, aware of her agitation despite her efforts to conceal it, moved across the room in her direction. He reached her side just as Mikhail and the woman got to the bottom of the stairs, and stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Mikhail dragged his hand away from the grasp of the stranger, his handsome face brightening as he glanced at Margaret. He looked harried, but there was no doubt that he was glad to see her.
Marguerida!
Mikhail—who is that woman! And why is she clinging to you like a limpet?
Later, my darling, later.
He did not greet her—or stop. Instead, he moved across the entry toward his mother and bowed deeply. Javanne did not respond at once, her sharp eyes sweeping the room with a quick glance, taking in all the unspoken tensions. They narrowed slightly when they fell on the unknown woman. Then she exhibited one of her more feral smiles. "Mikhail! How kind of you to come to greet me!" She extended one hand and swept the curls off his brow in a motherly caress that would have fooled anyone who did not know how things really stood between them.
Bravo, Javanne! She always knows how to make the best of a situation, when she sets her mind to it.
Lew's thought rang through Margaret's mind, and she found she agreed. She might not like her aunt, but she had to admit the woman had style and presence. Nothing put her out of countenance in public. It was, Margaret decided, a useful skill, and one she needed to cultivate. Who is that woman clinging to Mik's arm like a Thetan bloodworm?
That, I regret to say, is our cousin, Gisela Aldaran.. She has been in residence for some time now, much to the displeasure of Lady Linnea, who fears she is harboring a cuckoo in her nest.
Aldaran? So that is what . . . I didn't. . . what happens if I tell the bitch to take her hands off Mik?
Now, daughter! There is no need to come to
a vulgar
pulling of hair . . ·. yet. You can see how little her attentions please him.
I don't care! What the hell is going on?*
Let us just say that she nurses certain ambitions that will not be fulfilled, shall we? Yes, I know you do not like it. You do not have to like it, Marguerida. All you need do is endure it for the present.
Very well, Father, because you ask it. I will try not to embarrass you with my bad manners. But I don't know if I can be polite to her.
Marguerida, you cannot embarrass me. And I do not expect you to be polite, merely civil. Think of how Dio would handle the situation.
You mean I can look down my nose, as if something smelted bad, so long as I pretend to be pleased.
Precisely!
Even above the hubbub, Margaret could hear Mikhail's voice, continuing to talk to his mother, as if no one else was in the chamber. "I passed Ariel on the stairs. She appears to be in fine fettle, considering how advanced she is, and how ill she was this summer. Your vigilance over her seems to have had a good result, Mother."
"Thank you, Mikhail. In truth, I am weary of the whole thing, and will be very glad when the child is delivered. I am too old, I think, for this."
"Old? Mother—do stop fishing for compliments!" There was a gentleness in Mikhail's voice, a kind of soft teasing, and Javanne smiled in answer, as if she enjoyed being the focus of attention, even from her youngest son, the one she seemingly disliked and often distrusted.
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