“Are you saying . . .”
Linnea smiled. “I am saying that perhaps you need not hide your own dreams of adventure, at least not from me. It is natural for young people to strike out on their own. We all have private thoughts, and if you had been able to study at a Tower, you would have learned to keep yours close without drawing quite so much attention to them.”
“I don’t know what to say.” His cheeks burned.
“Nothing is required. I only wish you to know that you are not the first young Comyn to want something more from his life than Council business, marrying for political advantage, and producing heirs. Go on, now. It is time for me to rest. If you will, we will speak more of this later.”
There was no point in arguing. Besides, Linnea was right. With a Keeper’s unerring instinct for the uncomfortable truth, she had put into words the focus of his discontent.
There had to be more to life than being polite to bootlickers like Octavien MacEwain or trying endlessly to live down his own past and escape everyone else’s.
2
Gareth emerged from the Tower into sunshine. This part of the Castle was a jumble of architectural styles, an accretion of additions and remodeling that spanned centuries, perhaps millennia, and it bustled with activity. Servants chattered to one another as they hurried along the walkways, maids carried baskets of laundry, and scullions wheeled handcarts laden with barrels of apples, pottery jars of cooking oil, and braided strings of garlic. A nursemaid hurried along with a well-wrapped infant in her arms; from her expression, both of them had been up all night. Soon the place would be filled with children as the noble Comyn families began arriving for the Midsummer season.
Just as Gareth passed beneath the arched doorway leading to a garden courtyard, he spotted two men coming toward him from the opposite end. They were dressed alike in velvet hats and robes embellished with tartan ribbons. Copper links glinted around their necks. Gareth groaned silently as he recognized Rufus DiAsturien and Lorrill Vallonde. Only a few years ago, Dom Lorrill had schemed shamelessly to match Domenic with his daughter and, when that had failed, had shifted his ambitions to Gareth. Undoubtedly, one or the other of these two lords had influenced Octavien MacEwain. Gareth had heard rumors that some on the Council believed the time for a new Golden Age of Restoration had come. They would redouble their efforts to snare him with flattering talk and promises of power or a beautiful wife, because they believed he would be a puppet in their hands.
The two lords bent toward one another, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Quickly, before either could recognize him, Gareth sidled back into the nearest doorway. His rising pulse sent a thrill through his chest. His vision sharpened. For a moment, he felt as if he were a boy again, pretending he was Special Agent Race Cargill of the Terran Secret Service, sent on a secret mission to save the Old Empire. He’d escaped his tutors on more than one occasion, prowling the back passages of Elhalyn Castle and pretending he was sneaking into Charin to root out The Lisse. Where Charin might have been and who or what The Lisse was, he had no idea, although his imagination had supplied many tantalizing possibilities. It often seemed as though he were living his life only through those adventures, and ordinary, real, daily events had nothing to do with him.
The two nobles passed through the courtyard and into the shadowed colonnade. Gareth made his way down one corridor through an older portion, once family quarters but now given over to offices, and then ascended a short flight of stairs. From here, he could stay hidden until he emerged near one of the outer gates.
At the top of the stairs, he glanced down the narrow corridor just in time to see Domenic and Danilo hurrying in the opposite direction. They both wore cloaks of the serviceable, ordinary type to be seen anywhere in the city. Gareth skidded to a halt, but with their faces hidden behind their hoods, neither noticed him. Clearly, they wished to avoid notice.
A tedious day had just gotten a whole lot more interesting. Gareth took a moment to make sure his laran barriers were secure, so that no telltale mental aura might slip through. He moved as smoothly and quietly as he imagined a catman might prowl. Following at a distance, he watched the pair slip through the same side gate he had intended to use. He marked the direction they took, then raised his own hood and hurried after them.
Domenic and Danilo kept to a moderate pace through the Old Town, passing corner food stalls and jaco sellers without pausing. If they sensed Gareth on their trail, they gave no sign.
As they entered the crowded Kazarin Market, Gareth almost lost them. By this hour, the market thronged with people eager to enjoy the fine weather, even if they found nothing to buy. He wove through a jumble of peddlers crying out their wares, shoppers and gawkers, street urchins and City Guards. For a time, he lost sight of them when a wagon loaded with furniture crossed in front of him, and by the time it had passed, he could no longer see them.
A moment later, he spotted them at the far end of the square. Danilo halted and glanced back, his eyes narrowed. For an instant, Gareth felt utterly exposed. What should he do? Race Cargill would not have been so easily detected.
Gareth’s muscles unfroze. He whirled around, ducking his head to hide his face in the shadows of his hood. Behind him stood a table of leather goods. He fumbled to pick up the nearest piece of merchandise.
I’m not here, he thought, hardly seeing the finely tooled belt. You don’t notice me.
So strongly did Gareth project invisibility that the owner of the stall, who had headed over the instant Gareth paused, drifted past him to greet another customer. Gareth counted under his breath, replaced the belt on the table, and turned around in as casual a manner as he could muster. He was just in time to see Domenic and Danilo leave the plaza.
Shortly, Gareth found himself in one of the city’s seedier areas, the kind of place Narsin would have forbidden him to go, had he known. The streets were crooked, their paving stones cracked and discolored. A sour smell hung in the air. Many of the structures had originally been built well but had fallen into disrepair. He noticed the powdery mortar between weathered stones, the splintered beams, the sagging eaves and flaking paint. Men with weather-reddened faces huddled around garbage fires, warming their hands. They followed Gareth’s progress with their eyes, perhaps calculating the value of his cloak and boots. He swaggered a bit, throwing out his chest and swinging his cloak back to reveal the sword at his belt. Rationally, the last thing he wanted was a fight, but he felt a twinge of disappointment at the speed with which the men hunched their shoulders and looked away.
Gareth returned his attention to the chase. What were they up to in this part of the city? This could be no morning stroll, no eccentric way of taking exercise. True, Domenic had acquired a reputation for unconventional behavior. His mother, Domna Marguerida, had been educated off-world and encouraged him to think for himself. This approach was not met with universal approval among the old Comyn families. One of the ladies attending Miralys Elhalyn, Gareth’s mother, relished any breath of a scandal about Domenic.
“I heard,” she had whispered to her friend when she thought Gareth was out of hearing, “he consorts with common traders, Zandru only knows why!”
“The Regent’s son?” her companion had exclaimed. “Shocking, positively shocking! But what do you expect from his lineage? I always say, Blood will tell . . .”
Indeed, they undoubtedly said the very same thing—or worse—about Gareth. Maybe that was why Gareth held a particular sympathy for the young Regent-heir.
Gareth flattened himself against the rough stone wall of a wine shop just as the two stepped inside a similar establishment farther down the lane. The two-story building seemed in better repair than its neighbors and, by the presence of other patrons, was open for breakfast. The aromas of sausage, fried onions, and fresh-baked bread wafted from the door.
Odd to come all this way for a morning meal . . . But perhaps the relief from prying eyes was wort
h the walk.
The front door, although battered, opened smoothly at Gareth’s touch. The interior was dark after the brightness of the street. He made out a bar running along the back wall. Three men in workers’ clothing sat around the largest table, bent over bowls of meat-laced porridge and mugs of jaco. Several solitary patrons occupied smaller tables.
As Gareth was debating what to do, a harried-looking woman burst from the kitchen, balancing a basket of nut-studded loaves, a pitcher, and two platters of lumpy gray stew. Perspiration darkened the scarf that held back her gray-streaked hair. Gareth could not take his eyes off the wart on the side of her nose.
“Another one, is it?” She threw the bread down on the large table and bustled around to the others, hardly glancing at Gareth. She sounded as if she’d been engaged in a screaming contest with the crows. “Of all the mornings, with the girl out sick and my man not yet back from the miller! You’ll be wanting breakfast as well, I suppose?”
It took Gareth a moment to realize she meant him. “No, nothing for me,” he mumbled, imitating the common accent of the Castle servants.
“Then get yourself upstairs before I trip over you!”
By this time, Gareth’s vision had adapted to the dimmer light well enough to make out a staircase at the far end of the common room. Places like this must have a chamber or two for private meals at a small additional fee. He went up. The stairs ended in a landing with two closed doors to either side.
Step by cautious step, Special Agent Cargill advances on the entrance to the secret chamber. Evil symbols glow on the ancient wood, but he must not shrink from his quest. The fate of worlds rests on him. He reaches out . . .
Which door? Both were perfectly ordinary, cheap coarse-grained wood. Gareth lowered his laran shields minutely, searching for the distinctive mental signatures of his friends. He tried to radiate as little as possible of his own presence.
An instant later, he sensed the familiar pattern of Domenic’s mind . . . then Danilo’s . . . and someone else’s. This third man was no Comyn; his mind had no laran beyond ordinary intuition. Just about everyone in the Domains had some minor degree of sensitivity, or so Grandmother said. That was why telepaths cropped up now and again in non-Comyn families. The Comyn themselves inherited their psychic Gifts from the offspring of the earliest settlers and the ancient native race called chieri. The old families no longer held themselves apart, and over the millennia, nedestro children had spread the talent through the general population. Domenic’s consort, Illona Rider, was one such, now working as under-Keeper at Comyn Tower.
Meanwhile, the third man presented questions. What was going on? A secret meeting? For what purpose? Danilo Syrtis had spent his life in serving the Domains, and Domenic was no less dedicated. Neither would have anything to do with criminal schemes or plots against the Comyn Council. Perhaps they met to prepare for the day when the Terran Federation returned to Darkover. Or to thwart some scheme of the Dry Towns lords? Whatever it was, it must be more exciting than the approaching summer social season.
And whatever it was, they would not be happy to find that he had followed them here. A man of honor, Comyn prince or commoner, did not spy on his friends. An image flashed across his mind of the door suddenly banging open and Domenic standing there, astonishment warring with disgust on his face, and beyond him, Tío Danilo reflecting disappointment.
I believed in you, Danilo said in Gareth’s imagination. I thought you were better than this.
Cheeks flaming, Gareth scuttled backward so fast, he almost tripped on the edge of the stairs.
Idiot! Clumsy, stupid—
Hardly daring to breathe, Gareth hurried back down the stairs. Race Cargill would never have been so careless, not to mention so uncoordinated.
Gareth forced himself to slow down on the lowest stairs. It would do no good to escape notice only to attract it by suspicious haste. To his relief, none of the customers took any notice of him. The serving woman ignored him as she went about her work.
Taking a slow breath, Gareth ambled toward the door. At any moment, Danilo and the others might descend and find him here. He had not gone more than a short distance across the room when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Had he not been straining for any hint of pursuit, he might not have heard them. He dared not turn around or use his laran.
On a moment’s impulse, he headed for the darkest corner, slid onto the bench, and pulled his hood over his face. Thus concealed, he hazarded a peek.
The man who emerged from the stairwell was of middle years, Gareth guessed, for his skin was darkly weathered. His hair glinted with the straw tints of Dry Towner ancestry, but he didn’t look like one of the desert folk. His clothing was such as a trader or caravaneer might wear, a quilted jacket slightly ragged at the seams, knit cap, riding trousers, and laced boots. Without a glance, he crossed the room and pushed through the front door.
Heart pounding, Gareth sagged against the wall. He’d been lucky this time, but he dared not linger. Danilo and Domenic might appear at any moment.
Outside, the brightness of the day stung Gareth’s eyes. The burst of adrenaline had faded, leaving a sense of exhilaration. Every nerve quivered with aliveness. The air tasted more intoxicating than wine. Even the rough walls, ramshackle buildings, and the drabness of the people passing him took on a new clarity and brilliance. He could not remember feeling like this, certainly not in all the interminable seasons at court. Was this why men climbed mountains or fought duels or ventured into the depths of space?
As he went on, the neighborhood changed, becoming even less familiar. The spasm of elation dimmed. He found himself headed in no particular direction . . . just like his life.
What a pathetic fool he’d been to derive such pleasure from a childish escapade. Only by luck had he managed to not be found out and his irresponsible behavior exposed.
His feet slowed to a halt. Around him, the brightness of the street faded and the sounds of the passers-by, the riders and carts, the children at play, a pair of itinerant musicians strumming an old ballad, seemed to mock him.
I can’t face them, Tío Danilo and Domenic. One look, one moment in my presence, and they’ll know I’ve done something disgraceful, even if they don’t know what it is. They’re telepaths, both of them, and I don’t have the strength to block my every thought.
A man in sheep’s-hide clothing, bent under a sack slung across his shoulders, bumped into Gareth and mumbled what might have been an apology but sounded more like a curse.
How could he go back? And how could he not go back?
The consequences of returning would be humiliating and degrading, but would they be any worse than what he’d already endured? He had no good name to destroy and no honor to preserve. And absolutely no reason to indulge in this disgusting spate of self-pity. Whatever he had created of his life, whatever he had done, was his responsibility. He would simply have to live with the results.
But if, oh, if only he could run away from it all! Join the Terran Secret Service, if there really was such a thing outside the tri-vids. Hop on a freighter bound for the stars, if the Federation ever came back to Darkover. Join a caravan headed for the farthest reaches of the Hellers, venture beyond the Wall Around the World or the sands of Ardcarran or Daillon . . .
Gareth came to a halt. Instead of heading back the way he’d come, toward the Castle, he’d wandered to the outskirts of the Old Town. The place felt vaguely familiar, so he must have visited it before. He moved out of the flow of traffic, his back against a rough-sided building, and studied his surroundings. In one direction, he saw stables and fenced yards, in the other, blocks of warehouses. The mingled smells of animal dung and fodder hung in the air. He noticed many more horses and other beasts of burden than in the more populated city areas.
He must be somewhere near the Traders’ Gate, then. From where he stood, he caught sight of a string of laden ponies, alt
hough surely it was too late in the day for any caravan to be setting out. A trio of women in the mannish garb of Renunciates stood outside a saddle shop, two speaking with a man in a leather apron and the third surveying the street, one hand on the hilt of her long knife. Her gaze paused on Gareth and her face tightened. He pushed himself away from the wall and, with as nonchalant an air as he could muster, strode off in the opposite direction.
There was always the chance he might be recognized, for he was a public figure. People saw what they expected to see, however, and who would expect Prince Gareth to frequent a livestock yard?
Gareth made his way past the pens and stables to an open square crowded with picket lines. Pack and riding animals of every description crowded together, everything from cart horses with thick shoulders and densely feathered feet to antlered chervines, young horses, and shaggy ponies. Everywhere men were talking, bargaining, examining the animals, and arguing with one another. Here and there, a man trotted out a horse on a leading rein to show off its paces.
Gareth wandered up one lane and down another, taking in the sights and sounds of the horse market. He’d never imagined such a place existed, although he supposed people must buy and keep their mounts somewhere. His horses had always been provided for him, most of them bred especially for his House and then cared for by servants. They’d all been superbly trained, of the finest bloodlines. No expense was spared in their grooming or feed.
Some of these animals appeared to be in decent condition, but most were far inferior to those he was used to. He saw many with old whitened sores on their withers, others with dull eyes and staring coats, bowed tendons, crooked hocks, and ribs like slats. A few appeared to be on the brink of collapse.
“Looking for a nice piece of horseflesh?” a voice drawled from behind Gareth’s shoulder. Turning, he looked down on a hunched little man who might have been thirty or sixty. Layers of ragged, grime-darkened clothing obscured the contours of his body. Gray stubble covered an unshaven jaw, and the next words revealed several gaps in the man’s teeth.
The Children of Kings Page 3
