Sharra's Exile d-21

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Good for him, Regis thought, looking at the angry youngster, knife in hand, crouched into a stance of readiness for a fight. Merryl blinked; then whipped out his knife and backed away, giving himself room to move. He said, “It will be a pleasure, Alton bastard—”

  Lerrys tried to move toward them, laid a hand on Marius’s wrist. “Wait a minute—”

  “Keep out of this, sir,” Marius said, between gritted teeth.

  Good, the boy has courage! Good-looking, too, in his own way! Zandru’s hells, why didn’t Kennard— For a moment Regis could not identify the source of the thought, then Dyan said aloud, “Put your knife up, Merryl! Damn it, that’s an order! You too, Marius, lad. Council never acknowledged your father’s marriage, but it’s not hard to see you’re your father’s son.”

  Marius hesitated, then lowered the knife in his hand. Merryl Lindir-Aillard snarled, “Damn you, are you afraid to fight me, then, like all you coward Terrans—ready to kill with your coward’s weapons and guns from a distance, but frightened of bare steel?”

  Lerrys stepped between them, saying, “This is no place for a brawl! In Zandru’s name—”

  Regis saw that the others in the tavern had drawn back, making something like a ring of spectators. When kinsmen quarrel, enemies step in to widen the gap! Does it give them pleasure to see Comyn at odds? “Stop it, both of you! This is not a house of bandits!”

  “Get back, both of you,” said a new, authoritarian voice, and Gabriel Lanart-Hastur, Commander of the Guard, stepped forward. “If you want to fight, make it a formal challenge, and let’s not have any stupid brawls here! Are you both drunk? Lerrys, you are an officer, you know no challenge is valid unless both challengers are sober! Marius—”

  Marius said, fists clenched, “He insulted my father and mother, kinsman! For the honor of the Alton Domain—”

  Gabriel said quietly, “Leave the honor of the Domain in my hands until you are older, Marius.”

  “I am sober enough to challenge him!” Marius said, angrily, “and here I call challenge—”

  “Merryl, you damned fool—” Dyan said urgently, laying a hand on his shoulder, “this is serious—”

  “I’m damned if I’ll fight a Terran bastard with honor,” shouted Merryl, enraged, and rounded on Gabriel Lanart-Hastur. He said, “I’ll fight you, or your whole damned Domain—if I can get any of them back here on Darkover where they belong! But your Lord Alton is no better than any of his bastards, off gallivanting all over the Empire when they’re needed in Council—”

  Gabriel took a step forward, but there was a glare of blue fire and Merryl went reeling back staggering. The telepathic slap was like a thunder in the minds of everyone there.

  BRIDLE YOUR STUPID TONGUE, LACK-WIT! I HAVE LONG SUSPECTED THAT DOMNA CALLINA IS TRULY THE MAN OF YOUR HOUSEHOLD, BUT MUST YOU PROVE IT HERE IN PUBLIC LIKE THIS? ARE YOUR BRAINS ALL WHERE YOU CAN SIT UPON THEM? It was followed by an obscene image; Regis saw Merryl cringe. He felt it in Danilo’s mind too; Danilo had known what it was to be abused by Dyan, mercilessly, with sadistic strength, until Danilo had cracked and drawn a knife on him— Regis, feeling Danilo cower, felt his friend’s agony and stepped back, blindly, to stand close to him. Merryl was dead white; for a moment Regis thought he would weep, there before them all.

  Then Dyan said aloud, coldly, “Lord Regis, Danilo, I believe we have an engagement to dine. Dom Lerrys, I thank you for the drink.” He nodded to Regis, then turned away from them all. There was nothing Regis or Danilo could do but follow him. Merryl was still numbly holding the knife; he slid it into his sheath and went after them. With a swift look backward, Regis saw the tension had evaporated; Gabriel was talking in an urgent undertone to Marius, but that was all right; there was no malice, Regis knew, in his brother-in-law; and after all, in Kennard’s absence, Gabriel was Marius’s guardian.

  Outside, Dyan frowned repressively at Merryl. “I had intended to ask you to join us; I want you and Regis to know one another. But you’d better stay away until you learn how to behave in the city, boy! The first time I take you into the company of the Comyn, you get yourself into a stupid brawl!”

  Neither tone nor words need have been changed a fraction if he had been speaking to a boy of eight or nine who had bloodied his nose in a dispute over a game of marbles. Inexcusable as Merryl’s behavior had been, Regis felt sorry for the youngster, who stood, crimson, accepting Dyan’s tongue-lashing without a word. Well, he deserved it. Merryl said, swallowing, “Was I to stand there and be insulted by Terrans and half-Terrans, kinsman?” He used the word in the intimate mode which could mean Uncle, and Dyan did not reprove him; he reached out and slapped him very lightly on the cheek.

  “I think you did the insulting. And there’s a right way and a wrong way to do these things, kiyu. Go think about the right way. I’ll see you later.”

  Merryl went, but he no longer looked quite so much like a puppy that had been kicked. Regis, acutely uncomfortable, followed Dyan through the street. The Comyn lord turned into the doorway of what looked like a small, discreet tavern. Inside, he recognized the place for what it was, but Dyan shrugged and said, “We’ll meet no other Comyn here, and I can endure to be spared the company of any more like the last!” The flicker of unspoken thought again, if you value your privacy, lad, you might as well get used to places like this one, was so indifferent that Regis could ignore it if he chose.

  “As you wish, kinsman.”

  “The food’s quite good,” Dyan said, “and I have ordered dinner. You needn’t see anything else of the place, if you prefer not to.” He followed a bowing servant into a room hung with crimson and gilt, and talked commonplaces—about the decorations, about the soft stringed music playing—while young waiters came and brought all kinds of food.

  “The music is from the hills; they are a famous group of four brothers,” said Dyan. “I heard them while they were still in Nevarsin, and it was I who urged them to come to Thendara.”

  “A beautiful voice,” said Regis, listening to the clear treble of the youngest musician.

  “Mine was better, once,” said Dyan, and Regis, hearing the indifference of the voice, knew it covered grief. “There are many things you do not know about me; that is one. I have done no singing since my voice broke, though when I was in the monastery for a time last winter, I sang a little with the choir. It was peaceful in the monastery, though I am not a cristoforo and will never be so; their religion is too narrow for me. I hope a day will come when you will find it so, Danilo.”

  “I am not a good cristoforo,” Danilo said, “but it was my father’s faith and will be mine, I suppose, till I find a better.”

  Dyan smiled. He said, “Religion is an entertainment for idle minds, and yours is not idle enough for that. But it does a man in public life no harm to conform a little to the religion of the people, if the conformity is on the surface and does not contaminate his serious thinking. I hold with those who say, even in Nevarsin, There is no religion higher than the truth. And that is not blasphemy either, foster-son; I heard it from the lips of the Father Master. But enough of this—I had something to say to you, Danilo, and I thought to save you the trouble of running at once to pour it into Regis’s ears. In a word; I am a man of impulse, as you have known for a long time. Last year I dwelt for a time at Aillard, and Merryl’s twin sister bore me a son ten days since. Among other business of the Comyn, I am here to have him legitimated.”

  Danilo said correctly, “My congratulations, foster-father.”

  Regis said a polite phrase also, but he was puzzled.

  “You are surprised, Regis? I am a bit surprised myself. In general, even for diversion, I am no lover of women—but as I say, I am… a creature of impulse. Marilla Lindir is not a fool; the Aillard women are cleverer than the men, as I have reason to know. I think it pleased her to give Ardais a son, since sons to Aillard have no chance of inheriting that Domain. I suppose you know how these things can happen—or are you both too young for that?” he asked wit
h a lift of the eyebrows, and a touch of malice. “Well, so it went—when I found she was pregnant, I said nothing. It might have been a daughter for Aillard, rather than an Ardais son—but I took the trouble to have her monitored and to be sure the child was mine. I did not speak of it when we met at Midwinter, Danilo, because anything might have befallen; even though I knew she bore a son, she might have miscarried, the child might have been stillborn or defective—the Lindirs have Elhalyn blood. But he is healthy and well.”

  “Congratulations again, then,” said Danilo.

  “Do not think this will change anything for you,” said Dyan. “The lives of children are—uncertain. If he should come to misfortune before he is grown, nothing will change; and should I die before he is come to manhood, I should hope you will be married by then and be named Regent for him. Even so, when he leaves his mother’s care, I am no man to raise a child, nor would I care, at my age, to undertake it; I should prefer it if you would foster him. I will soon apply myself to finding you a suitable marriage—Linnell Lindir-Aillard is pledged to Prince Derik, but there are other Lindirs, and there is Diotima Ridenow, who is fifteen or sixteen now, and—well, there is time enough to decide; I do not suppose you are in any too great a hurry to be wedded,” he added ironically.

  “You know I am not, foster-father.”

  Dyan shrugged. “Then any girl will do, since I have saved you the trouble of providing an Heir to Ardais; we can choose one who is amiable, and content to keep your house and run your estate,” he said. “A legal fiction, if you wish.” He turned his eyes to Regis, and added, “And while I am about it, my congratulations are due to you, too; your grandfather told me about the Di Asturien girl, and your son—will he be born this tenday, do you suppose? Is there a marriage in the offing?”

  Shock and anger flooded through Regis. He had intended to tell Danilo this in his own time. He said stiffly, “I have no intention of marrying at this time, kinsman. No more than you.”

  Dyan’s eyes glinted with amused malice. He said, “Why, have I said the wrong thing? I’ll leave you to make your peace with my foster-son, then, Regis.” He rose and bowed to them with great courtesy. “Pray command anything here you wish, wine or food or—entertainment; you are my guests this evening.” He bowed again and left them, taking up his great fur-lined cloak, which flowed behind him over his arm like a living thing.

  After a minute Danilo said, and his voice sounded numb, “Don’t mind, Regis. He envies our friendship, no more than that, and he is striking out. And, I suppose, he feels foolish; to father a bastard son at his age.”

  “I swear I meant to tell you,” Regis said miserably, “I was waiting for the right time. I wanted to tell you before you heard it somewhere as gossip.”

  “Why, Regis, what is it to do with me, if you have love affairs with women?”

  “You know the answer to that,” said Regis, low and savage, “I have no love affairs with women. You know that things like this must happen, while I am Heir to Hastur. Comyn Heirs at stud in the Domains—that’s what it amounts to! Dyan doesn’t like it any better than you do, but even so, he spoke of getting you married off. And I am damned if I’ll marry someone they choose for me, as if I were a stud horse! That’s what it was, and that is all it was. Crystal di Asturien is a very nice young woman; I danced with her at half a dozen of the public dances, I found her friendly and pleasant to talk to, and—” He shrugged. “What can I say to you? She wanted to bear a Hastur son. She’s not the only one. Do I have to apologize for what I must do, or would you rather I did not enjoy it?”

  “You certainly owe me no apologies.” Danilo’s voice was cold and dead.

  “Dani—” Regis pleaded, “are we going to let Dyan’s malice drive a wedge between us, after all this time?”

  Danilo’s face softened. “Never, bredhyu. But I don’t understand. You already have an Heir—you have adopted your sister’s son.”

  “And Mikhail is still my Heir,” Regis retorted, “but the Hastur heritage has hung too long on the life of a single child. My grandfather will not force me to marry—as long as I have children for the Hastur lineage. And I don’t want to marry,” he added. The unspoken awareness hung in the air between them.

  A waiter came, bowing, and asked if the vai domyn had any other pleasure: wine, sweets, young entertainers— He weighted this last heavily, and Danilo could not conceal a grimace of distaste.

  “No, no, nothing more.” He hesitated, glancing at Regis. “Unless you—”

  Regis said wryly, “I am a libertine only with women, Dani, but no doubt I have given you cause to think otherwise.”

  “If we have to quarrel,” Dani said, with a gulp, “Let us at least do it in clean air and not in a place like this!”

  Regis felt a great surge of enormous bitterness. Dyan had done this, damn it! He said, “Oh, no doubt, this is the place for lovers’ quarrels of this kind—and I suppose if the Heir to Hastur and his favorite must quarrel, better here than in Comyn Castle, where all the Domains, sooner or later, will hear!”

  And again he felt, it is more of a burden than I can bear!

  CHAPTER TWO

  « ^ »

  Vainwal: Terran Empire

  Fifth year of exile

  Dio Ridenow saw them first in the lobby of the luxury hotel serving humans, and humanoids, on the pleasure-world of Vainwal. They were tall, sturdy men, but it was the blaze of red hair on the elder of them that drew her eyes; Comyn red. He was past fifty and walked with a limp: his back was bent, but it was easy to see that once he had been a large and formidable man. Behind him walked a younger man in nondescript clothing, dark-haired and black-browed, sullen, with steel-gray eyes. Somehow he had the look of deformity, of suffering, which Dio had learned to associate with lifetime cripples; yet he had no visible defect except for a few ragged scars along one cheek. The scars drew up one half of his mouth into a permanent sneer, and Dio turned her eyes away with a sense of revulsion; why would a Comyn lord have such a person in his entourage?

  For it was obvious that the man was a Comyn lord. There were redheads in other worlds of the Empire, and plenty on Terra itself; but there was a strong facial stamp, an ethnic likeness; Darkovan, Comyn, unmistakable. And the older man’s hair, flame-red, now dusted with gray. But what was he doing here? For that matter, who was he? It was rare to find Darkovans anywhere but on their home world. The girl smiled; someone might have asked her that question, as well, for she was Darkovan and far from home. Her brothers came here because, basically, neither of them was interested in political intrigue; but they had had to defend and justify their absence often enough.

  The Comyn lord moved across the great lobby slowly limping, but with a kind of arrogance that drew all eyes; Dio framed it to herself, in an unfocused way; he moved as if he should have been preceded by his own drone-pipers, and worn high boots and a swirling cloak—not the drab, featureless Terran clothing he actually wore.

  And having identified his Terran clothing, suddenly Dio knew who he was. Only one Comyn lord, as far as anyone knew, had actually married, di catenas and with full ceremony, a Terran woman. He had managed to live down the scandal, which in any case had been before Dio was born. Dio herself had not seen him more than twice in her life; but she knew that he was Kennard Lanart-Alton, Lord Armida, self-exiled Head of the Alton Domain. And now she knew who the younger man must be, the one with the sullen eyes; this would be his half-caste son Lewis, who had been horribly injured in a rebellion somewhere in the Hellers a few years ago. Dio took no special interest in such things, and in any case she had still been playing with dolls when it happened. But Lew’s foster-sister Linnell Aillard had an older sister, Callina, who was Keeper in Arilinn; and from Linnell Dio had heard about Lew’s injuries, and that Kennard had taken him to Terra in the hope that Terran medical science could help him.

  The two Comyn were standing near the central computer of the main hotel desk; Kennard was giving some quietly definite order about their luggage to the
human servants who were one of the luxury touches of the hotel. Dio herself had been brought up on Darkover, where human servants were commonplace and robots were not; she could accept this kind of service without embarrassment. Many people could not overcome their shyness or dismay at being waited on by people rather than servomechs or robots. Dio’s poise about such things had given her status among the other young people on Vainwal, many of them among the new-rich in an expanding Empire, who flocked to the pleasure worlds like Vainwal, knowing little of the refinements of good living, unable to accept luxury as if they had been brought up to it. Blood, Dio thought, watching Kennard and the exactly right way he spoke to the servants, would always tell.

  The younger man turned; Dio could see now that one hand was kept concealed in a fold of his coat, and that he moved awkwardly, struggling one-handed to handle some piece of their equipment which he seemed not to want touched by anyone else. Kennard spoke to him in a low voice, but Dio could hear the impatient tone of the words, and the young man scowled, a black and angry scowl which made Dio shudder. Suddenly she realized that she did not want to see any more of that young man. But from where she stood she could not leave the lobby without crossing their path.

  She felt like lowering her head and pretending they were not there at all. After all, one of the delights of pleasure worlds like Vainwal was to be anonymous, freed of the restraints of class or caste on one’s own home world; she would not speak to them, she would give them the privacy she wanted for herself.

  But as she crossed their path, the young man, not seeing Dio, made a clumsy movement and banged full into her. Whatever he was carrying slid out of his awkward one-handed grip and fell to the floor with a metallic clatter; he muttered some angry words and stooped to retrieve it.

  It was long, narrow, closely wrapped; more than anything else it looked like a pair of dueling swords, and that alone could explain his caution; such swords were often precious heirlooms, never entrusted to anyone else to handle. Dio stepped away, but the young man fumbled with his good hand and succeeded only in sending it skidding farther away across the floor. Without thinking, she bent to retrieve it and hand it to him—it was right at her feet—but he actually reached out and shoved her away from it.